PREVIOUSLY
No one had heard him arrive. No one had summoned him. And yet there he stood
"rcenary King, who is this man?" A rcenary asked the copper haired man.
"Just know that his rcenary code was- rcenary Machiavelli."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Gazes of awe and admiration flocked to the figure.
rcenary Machiavelli.
A na spoken more in riddles and legends than in records. A man who moved nobles like chess pieces and buried armies for coin.
rcenary? Perhaps once.
But now?
He was a myth wearing a smile.
-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-**-*
TI- 11:58 P.M.
The fog peeled back from the bones of the ruined city like gauze from a wound, revealing its desolation. Beneath a grey, low-hung sky, silence reigned over shattered buildings and collapsed archways. The town square sat hollow at the heart of it all—a scarred stone plaza circled by cracked colonnades and ghostly lamp-posts long since extinguished.
There, upon the rim of a weatherworn fountain—once a centerpiece of joy, now an urn of frozen mory—a lone figure sat motionless. Snow crowned his shoulders like ash on a gravestone, undisturbed by ti or breath. The fountain no longer sang with water. It held only ice and brittle snow, packed into its basin like forgotten sorrow.
The streets were grave-quiet.
Ruined establishnts lood around him, their timbers blackened with old fire, their signage faded to illegibility. Snow carpeted the roads, muting every footfall that might once have passed. There was no wind, no birdcall, not even the whisper of vermin in the eaves. A city that had long since exhaled its last breath.
Yet on that day—on that singular, unspeakable day—the city pulsed with a terrible vitality.
The silence had been ruptured. The stillness defiled. Eight roads bled from the square like veins from a heart. And every one of them now ran red.
Snow turned to slush as blood soaked into it, spreading like ink across parchnt. Crimson blood in irregular bursts—arterial splashes, drag marks, burst organs. The roads were filled not with travelers, but with corpses. Not one or two. Hundreds. Thousands. So whole, most not.
To the north, great trolls lay dismbered, their enormous torsos split open with surgical precision. Their viscera stead in the cold, bones shattered like ivory branches. One still clutched a broken lamppost in its death-grip, impaled through the jaw.
To the northeast, trollkin—a lesser breed, thick-skinned and boulder-limbed—were strewn like gravel. Their sheer numbers had offered false strength, for they had been carved down with casual contempt. Their bodies had piled high, then tumbled like dominoes into frozen alleys.
To the northwest, the streets ran thick with the corpses of orcs—tusked warriors with cracked skulls and split breastplates. They had died in clusters, caught in bottlenecks and slaughtered like cattle. So still stood against walls, eyes open, frozen mid-snarl.
To the west, kobolds had fared no better. The little reptilian scavengers lay in heaps—claws snapped, tails severed, throats crushed under heel. Their crude spears littered the ground, snapped like twigs. In their bloodied eyes was disbelief, as if they'd never truly expected to die in battle.
To the southwest, the wind had already begun to claim the corpses of the skinwights—ghastly, pallid creatures with stitched mouths and hollow sockets. Their bodies broke apart like ash in the breeze, leaving only scraps of thread and fragnts of bone behind, vanishing into dust.
To the south, the remains of harpies lay draped over roofs and balconies, their wings snapped and featherless, their talons twisted. The air still carried a faint trace of their wailing—cut off mid-scream. Blood dripped from balconies. One body hung impaled upon an old weathervane.
To the southeast, the butchered husks of ogres had been left to rot—great, bloated brutes with their chests caved in and jaws unhinged. They had died trying to shield their kin, but now their corpses blocked entire avenues, their guts strewn across market stalls like rotting garlands.
And to the east, serpent-n—slithering marauders of scale and spell—lay burnt and broken, their spines bent backward, jaws shattered from within. Charred sigils marked the stone around them, runes lted into slag. So had died mid-casting, fingers locked in silent gestures of forgotten spells.
Eight roads. Eight graveyards. Eight legions extinguished.
And at the center of it all, the man sat still.
Not wounded. Not weary.
Waiting.
STEP!
TAP.
A soft, almost sheepish sound echoed in the frozen quiet—the kind of sound that would be lost in any other place. But here, in this city of blood and silence, it struck like a pin-drop in a cathedral.
A cloaked figure erged from the fog, stepping lightly over the butchered remains of what once dared to call itself an army. His boots made no sound against the snow. Only the faint shift of fabric and the distant groan of ice accompanied his approach. With a gloved hand, he tapped the seated man's shoulder.
"The rcenary King sends you this," the figure said, voice muffled beneath a veil of cloth and hood. He held out a single piece of folded parchnt, sealed with a dark crimson wax sigil—the kind reserved for ssages ant never to be lost or ignored.
The man on the fountain turned.
Hair white as glacier frost swept to one side, windswept and slightly matted with streaks of dried blood. His eyes—unnatural, gleaming athyst—t the ssenger's gaze with cold indifference. One eye covered. Yet behind those eyes, sothing vast and dangerous coiled. Not rage. Not cruelty. Sothing worse—intent.
"From Cassian, heh?" he said, his tone quiet, but dry as flint.
The figure nodded once, then glanced around—at the carnage, the mass grave the city had beco.
'The rumours don't do justice,' he thought. His gaze returned to the man.
'rcenary Machiavelli... he is far more dangerous than the stories say.'
Machiavelli unfolded the letter briefly, eyes scanning the runes inked in looping black script. He said nothing. Simply folded it once more and slipped it into the inner pocket of his long, snow-white overcoat. The coat was no longer pristine. Blood, thick and dark, had soaked into the hem and sleeve. It clung to the fabric like ivy, giving the impression of red vines climbing a tombstone.
"You may go," Machiavelli murmured, voice low and final.
The cloaked figure gave a respectful bow, his silhouette vanishing into the mist the way a shadow retreats from fla. A mont later, he was gone.
GLOW.
Without warning, a glyph flared into existence before Machiavelli. A rectangular window—shimring in soft, otherworldly violet—hovered just above the fountain's rim. Geotric sigils spun slowly in its corners, and faint text glimred across the glass-like surface.
CLICK.
CLICK–CLOCK.
The sound was chanical. Machiavelli reached into his deep, violet-lined coat and withdrew a silver pocket watch. Intricate carvings danced along its fra—dragons, thorned roses, celestial constellations in miniature. A relic from a ti long gone.
He flipped it open. The dial glowed faintly in the dark.
A few seconds to midnight.
The two needles ticked closer. Closer.
CLICK.
The instant both hands aligned over the silver nural XII, the air shifted. The fog pulsed faintly, as if exhaling.
Machiavelli lifted his hand and tapped the glowing screen.
A single whisper escaped his lips. Soft. Intimate.
"I hope their exam goes well."
The words vanished into the cold.
Not ant for the dead. Nor for the divine.
But for soone far away—young, perhaps, and oblivious to the blood-soaked legend watching from afar.
And as the glyph dissolved, and the watch clicked shut in his palm, rcenary Machiavelli sat still upon the crimson-streaked fountain, surrounded by the silence he had carved.
Waiting.
anwhile, sowhere in the Verdantcrag Wood, four boys were imrsed among themselves.
Oblivious to the trials ahead.
BANG!
POP-POP-POP!
FIZZLE-HISS!
CRACK-POP!
SKREE-BOOM!
The air snapped and flared as firecrackers erupted overhead—ribbons of color flashing across the smoky sky like the breath of dying stars. Their echoes rolled through the clearing, scattering birds from nearby trees and forcing every boy's gaze upward.
A similar phenonon echoed across the fifty portals and realms the academy prepared.
A massive screen shimred into being above them, pixels crawling into place with a faint bzzt–click. The air buzzed. Static humd at the edges.
"Hello, students."
The voice was smooth, precise, and unmistakable. As it echoed over the field, the flickering image resolved into the face of Headmaster Thalorin—silver-bearded and sharp-eyed, frad in green, silver-trimd robes that glead like moonlit ink.
Thalorin stroked his beard absently, fingers dragging through wiry strands as though contemplating whether he should bother pretending to be rciful.
"Many of you are wondering what the test is. And how exactly you'll be judged," he said, voice light, like a kindly uncle about to drop bad news.
A grin pulled at the corners of his lips.
"The academy's system is now bonded to yours—for the full duration of this evaluation. Three days. That's your ti limit."
His grin widened, the kind that didn't quite reach the eyes.
"And as of this very mont... more than half of you have already been eliminated."
Gasps rippled through the dinsions. A few boys looked around, counting heads. Others went pale.
Thalorin gave a theatrical nod, his tone dripping with false sympathy.
"I know what you're thinking. What does eliminated an?" he said, lifting his hand.
Three fingers.
"First," he said, curling one finger down, "Forfeiting. Simply say, 'I forfeit,' and you'll be transported to the waiting zone. No sha in survival, they say."
Two fingers.
"Second—Damage Limit. The system tracks the damage you receive. If it crosses a critical threshold—enough to kill—you'll be auto-transferred to the infirmary. No permanent scars. No glory either."
One finger.
"Third—Death."
The word landed like a hamr.
"If you die," Thalorin said, all humor draining from his face, "the system will resurrect you. But everything you earned—every beast you tad, every relic uncovered, every inch of power gained—will be lost. Reset. Your body returned to the exact state it was in... three days ago, when you first stepped through the portal."
Theo and Sigmund both stiffened, a chill running through their spines. It wasn't the fear of dying that made them flinch—it was the cost of starting over.
Thalorin blinked once. Then the grin returned, bright and unnerving.
"Now then," he said cheerfully, clapping his hands once—CLAP!—as if summoning attention at a carnival.
"Let's break down the fun."
"Day One—Survival."
"You will be scored for everything. Every kill. Every potion brewed. Every enhancent made to your body. Survive, and the system will tally your worth."
"Day Two—The Hunt."
"The academy has released labyrinths across the testing zones. Clear them. Each has its own difficulty rating, and points will scale accordingly. Don't get cocky. Or do. I like entertainnt."
He leaned closer to the screen now, and his smile curved like a sickle.
"Day Three... Battle Royale."
"Only one survives 'til the end. That student receives a vast reservoir of points. The rest of you? You'll get a smaller portion for wounding, killing, or forcing others to forfeit. So by all ans—break each other. Just not too early. We do like a good show."
Thalorin clapped again, a sharp CRACK! like a spell being cast.
"But before I say goodbye, one last announcent—for all those bonded to the Blessed System."
"Check your windows."
A brief pause.
"Each of you will receive a different Skill Book—crafted specifically for your system. Don't bother trading them. It won't work."
He gave his beard another thoughtful stroke.
"Oh, and using one is easy. Just open it. The skill will brand itself into your soul. Or your muscles. Or your spine. Depends on the book. Either way—enjoy."
ZSHHHHHT!
The screen fizzled at the edges before fading into motes of blue light. Silence crept in once more.
But not for long.
Sowhere in the woods, another firework screeched into the sky—
SKRAAAAAA-BOOM!
And the second day hadn't even begun.
The boy looked at each other. Confusion in their eyes.
SHING!
They summoned their interfaces in unison.
The purple window floated before them.
Theo stared at his window-
-------[ ⟪ PRIMORDIAL SYSTEM ⟫]--------
─────────────── ◆ ───────────────
[Na]: Theobald Umbra
[Race]: Human
[Class]: Novice Culinian
[Health]: 100%
[Mana]: 480 / 480
[Strength]: 19
[Agility]: 26
[Endurance]: 20
[Intelligence]: 18
─────────────── ◆ ───────────────
[System Modules Unlocked]
– ▣ [TITLES]
– ▣ [SKILL TREE]
– ▣ [INBOX](1)!
– ▣ [QUEST]
─────────────── ◆ ───────────────
Duration Remaining: 2 Years
⚠ Note: This system is not recognized by Imperial Standard Protocols. Classification: EXOGENOUS
-------[ ⟪⨉⟫]--------
His gaze pondered on-
[– ▣ [INBOX](1)!]
"Guys," he pointed to it, "Do you also see a 'one' after 'inbox'?"
Raphael nodded.
"Yes," Sig spoke.
"So, we all will be getting a 'skill book'?" Leon shrugged.
Theo turned to Gorvax,
"Mr. Gorvax are we getting a skill book?"
Gorvax looked at his fellow ntors- Drelgor, Threxil and Skaleg.
"Haha," Threxil laughed, "Yes little boy, it's a skill book."
Drelgor nudged Threxil,
"Do we say it or not?"
Skaleg raised his hand,
"Let them discover themselves."
All of them nodded.
TAP!
The boys tapped the icon.
A window appeared before them.
------[INBOX]-----
◈ Skill book received.
Do you wish to accept?
(Y/N)
-----[⨉]------
The boys tapped- 'Y'.
A purple light glowed before them.
THUMP!
A ragged notebook materialized in each of their hands.
"Wow!" Leon shrieked, "We are getting a skill book!"
Sharing the sa energy, Theo shouted.
"Let's open it!"
A purple hologram flickered before Theo.
---x----
⚜️ SKILL BOOK OBTAINED ⚜️
[Basic Energy Circulation]
Type: Skill Book
Rank: C-
Appearance: A thin leathered notebook written by Vincent Duskrane.
Effect:
Learn about circulating ether and digesting materials.
Best Suited For:
Those with the ability to digest all types of substances.
---x----
Similar screens appeared before others.
---x----
⚜️ SKILL BOOK OBTAINED ⚜️
[Basics of Leonhart Sword]
Type: Skill Book
Rank: C
Appearance: A thin leathered notebook written by Vincent Duskrane.
Effect:
Learn about the basics of Leonhart sword style.
Best Suited For:
Those who carry the Leonhart blood.
---x----
A screen appeared before Leon.
---x----
⚜️ SKILL BOOK OBTAINED ⚜️
[Basics of Monster Anatomy]
Type: Skill Book
Rank: D
Appearance: A thin leathered notebook written by Vincent Duskrane.
Effect:
Study the anatomical structure, circulatory systems, and vital pressure points of commonly encountered monster species.
Best Suited For:
Those who want to learn about monsters.
---x----
Raphael's screen shimred.
Sigmund gazed at his window-
---x----
⚜️ SKILL BOOK OBTAINED ⚜️
[Wirecraft: Fundantals of Steel Line Warfare]
Type: Skill Book
Rank: C
Appearance: A thin leathered notebook written by Vincent Duskrane.
Effect:
Teaches the use of steel wire for combat, traps, hunting, and other basic tactical applications—sothing you'd expect from a special forces field guide.
Best Suited For:
Those who want to learn uses of steel wires.
---x----
"What did you all get?" Leon asked.
A cold hush followed, broken only by the wind rustling against the trees beyond. The purple glow still lingered on their fingertips from the earlier tap.
"Umm..." Theo blinked, his voice barely above a whisper. "A book on Basic Energy Circulation." He turned it over in his hands like it might dissolve at any mont.
Raphael didn't even look up from his own copy. "Basics of Monster Anatomy," he said, his voice flat, unreadable.
Sigmund gave a resigned exhale, thumbing the spine of his book. "Sothing about steel wires. Combat usage, traps. Like a hunter's field manual." He offered a brief shrug, lips drawn in a thin line.
Leon scratched the back of his head, tousling his wild brown hair with a sheepish grin. "Mine's... Basics of the Leonhart Sword. Honestly, sothing I already know."
"At least you got sothing useful," Raphael muttered, giving him a sideways glance. "Foundational or not, it's still tailored to you."
Theo squinted at the text floating above his screen. A flicker of curiosity touched his brow.
"...Are your books also written by Vayren?"
The others exchanged puzzled glances.
"Yes," Raphael said slowly.
Leon narrowed his eyes. "How'd you know?"
Theo tilted the cover toward them, revealing a penned na burned faintly into the leather.
"Mine says 'Vincent Duskrane'—but he signed it, see?"
"Huh..." Sigmund furrowed his brow. "Sa here. So he wrote all of them, then."
A short silence followed. The weight of that realization sank in—each of their books had co from the sa man.
Leon blew out an impatient breath. "Whatever. Let's snatch those skills already."
He cracked his book open dramatically, expecting a flare of light or a glowing inscription to leap forth.
Nothing happened.
The pages stared back at him—inked diagrams of sword stances, scribbled prose on breath discipline, scribbles about weight transference, and a diagram of what looked like... footwork?
"...Haah?" Leon muttered, brow arching.
FLAP! PLOP!
He shut the book, then opened it again.
Still nothing.
"No shine, no surge, no... whoosh," he gestured wildly. "Why is there no reaction?!"
The others followed suit, flipping their books open. Each of them wore the sa confused expression, mouths slightly ajar as they stared at silent pages filled with handwritten theory, sketches, notes, and in Sigmund's case—wire tension charts and knot diagrams.
It felt less like magic and more like school.
"Ahem."
Threxil cleared his throat, a dry rasp in his voice. He covered his mouth with a scaled fist, then gave Skaleg a subtle nod.
The skeletal ntor sighed as if he'd been waiting for this mont.
"Master Vincent," Skaleg began, tone dry and flat, "prefers to do things... differently."
Gorvax crossed his arms, his massive fra looming. "You're expected to read those books," he said bluntly, "and learn."
Drelgor stepped forward, his wings buzzing lazily. "If sothing confuses you—or you want to try it out—we're here. Ask."
A silence fell.
"...What?" Leon finally muttered.
"WHAT!?" they all echoed in dismay, voices rising in overlapping protest.
Threxil only laughed, deep and wheezing, like it was the best punchline he'd heard in weeks.
Skaleg was already walking away.
CLAP!
"Okay," Sigmund broke the tension,
"Let's use what we are given."
"That's good," Raphael nodded.
"There must be a reason why Vayren gave this." Leon opened the book again.
"Let's see what he has written for us." Theo carefully opened his book.
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