Chapter 52 – Decurion Steelweaver
Ding!
The sudden chime of the system split the stillness, its cold, mechanical tone reverberating like a hammer striking steel.
> "Host has attempted his class trial… and reached the threshold his abilities allowed him to."
"Host has been assigned his class."
"Designation: Decurion Steelweaver."
Ethan's breath caught. The words unfurled inside his mind, heavy and absolute, yet carrying with them a weight that was neither kind nor merciful.
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Class – Decurion Steelweaver
One who stands at the forefront of chaos, his blade carving a path through carnage while the warriors under his command follow in unbreakable formation. The Decurion Steelweaver is not merely a leader—he is the spearhead of battle, a commander who binds the living and the dead alike, weaving steel and spirit into a singular will to conquer.
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Class Talents: Tactical Reverie
The Steelweaver's mind sharpens like forged iron, instinctively seizing the flow of war. Strategies, bladework, swordplay and battle formations no longer need to be studied—they are felt, absorbed and lived. Every clash, every swing, every footstep on the battlefield threads itself into the tapestry of his mastery.
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Class Effect:
All stats increased by 25%.
Additionally Strength and Mana increased by by 50%.
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The system's voice deepened, its tone brushing against the edge of something almost alive.
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Class Skills:
[Soldier Summons – 10]
The fallen rise when the Decurion calls. Ten foot soldiers of the long-forgotten Empire, men who cast aside the peace of reincarnation and shackled their souls to eternal warfare, march once more. They fight with silent, unyielding loyalty, their armor dented but their resolve unbreakable. These are not puppets. They are warriors who chose to stand in death as they once did in life—unyielding shields of the Empire's will.
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[Undead Revive]
Death itself bends to the Steelweaver's call. With permission of the fallen—or the force of emotions so consuming that the soul refuses to fade—he can wrench them back into form. Monsters. Men. Beasts. If their hatred, sorrow, or desire burns strong enough, they can barter their eternity for his command and their irrevocable and absolute loyalty(Condition: Their wish need to be fulfilled).
(Maximum Slots: 20)
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[Netherworld Pocket Dimension (Soul-Bound)]
A fragment of the underworld tethered to individual Ethan Cross's very soul. Within its bleak expanse, the restless undead roam in silence beneath a crimson twilight sky. Here, his soldiers find solace and strength, their wounds knitting under the oppressive embrace of the netherworld's sanctuary air.
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The system's voice faded, but the air itself seemed to vibrate with lingering echoes. Ethan's hand clenched the hilt of his longblade. He could almost hear the faint shuffle of boots behind him—the phantasmal soldiers aligning themselves in disciplined silence, waiting for his command.
Another chime rang in his skull, softer this time.
> "Class assignment quest award: 10 Unassigned Stat Points. 10,000 SP."
The silence returned, but it was no longer empty. It pressed in, thick with unseen presences. Ethan exhaled slowly, every breath misting in the unnatural chill.
His lips curled into a wry smile.
"So… Decurion Steelweaver, huh? To be honest...it sound kind of cool..."
The words tasted like iron and inevitability.
Ethan slumped back against the rough stone.
"Heh… figures. The system really is hell-bent on killing me. Trials or real life—it doesn't matter." His lips twisted into a wry smirk, though the blood caked along his jaw made it look more like a grimace. "A class that deals with the dead? Hah. Doesn't that sound like some kind of heresy? I'll be branded a monster, a heretic… every fool with a blade or a priest's blessing will be lining up for my head."
The bitterness lingered in the air like smoke—until—
Ding!
The system's voice resonated again, this time heavier.
> "Host is mistaken. There are no such things as good or evil in this world. Only knowledge and ignorance. Ignorance of the essence that lies beneath truth. Ignorance of the right methods to bring forth one's will. Ignorance of the opportunities hidden behind the veil of what mortals label as 'evil.' Cast aside these shackles, and you will see—not damnation, but freedom. Not heresy, but power. Not corruption, but the unveiling of paths yet unseen. Its evil only because people take shortcuts and have no patience."
The words sank into his bones like molten iron cooling into shape, carrying with them a weight that was neither cruel nor kind, but something vast, as though the universe itself had just scoffed at human morality.
Ethan lowered his eyes, shadows cutting across his bloodstained face. His voice came out low.
"…Ignorance, huh?"
His chuckle this time was softer, weary but edged with reluctant acceptance. "If I think about it… yeah. Ignorance. And laziness. And impatience. That's what it is, isn't it? My skill doesn't bring back anyone—it only calls those who choose to return. Those with emotions strong enough to tether them past death itself. Permission, will, conviction… That's hardly evil. Its like Earth...when people allow medical students to use their body to study anatomy..."
He rubbed at the dried blood on his neck, wincing as his muscles protested. "What amazes me isn't the skill. It's the Empire. To have been able to set aside the fear and superstition… to convince people of something so far beyond their time…"
His eyes narrowed, gleaming in the dim light, sharp even through exhaustion. "Just how advanced must they have been to reach a level of thought like that in an age where others still cowered before the word 'heresy'?"
The silence pressed close again, but it no longer felt suffocating. Instead, it felt… expectant, as though unseen eyes in the dark were watching Ethan not with judgment, but with recognition.
Ethan blinked. Then blinked again.
The haze of pain in his body receded for a moment as a spark of realization surged through him. His heartbeat quickened, thudding in his ears, and his lips stretched into a grin so wide it made the blood on his face crack.
"W–wait… doesn't this mean—" his voice broke into a shaky laugh, "I can have my own private unit?"
The thought lit a fire in his chest. His eyes gleamed, feverish with excitement. "Hold on, hold on… That knight—the one who appeared before I blacked out—he said he'd wait until I got stronger. And the system too… it said I only attempted the trial. Meaning it's not complete… meaning this class can evolve!"
He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, trying to contain the rush but failing miserably. "Right now I can summon ten… but in the future? Fifty? A hundred? A thousand?" His laugh cracked into the silence, wild and boyish, like someone staring at the edge of destiny. "How insane is that?! And the undead revival too… that'll grow stronger. I—"
Ethan shot upright in a burst of excitement—only for a violent cough to tear through his chest, doubling him over. Blood spattered the ground as he wheezed.
"…I should probably… patch myself up first," he muttered, grimacing.
With a thought, a vial of potion appeared in his hand, the liquid glowing faintly in the dim light. He uncorked it and downed it in one motion, the sharp tang burning down his throat. Warmth spread through his body, knitting torn flesh, calming the screaming of his muscles.
"Fhew…" he exhaled, leaning back with relief as the pain dulled. "Much better."
The peace lasted only a heartbeat before the system's voice intruded again, cold and final.
> "Host class has been assigned. Host will be transported back in 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… 0."
The world lurched. His surroundings warped and bled into formless light, his body weightless, like he was falling through liquid glass. Then, with a sudden snap, solidity returned.
Ethan staggered, catching himself against a wall. The cool stone was familiar beneath his palm. Blinking rapidly, he realized where he was—back behind the secluded corner of the shop, the very spot he had vanished from.
The night air wrapped around him, quiet and indifferent, as if nothing had happened. Only the faint metallic tang on his tongue and the whisper of unseen soldiers at his back reminded him of the truth.
Ethan steadied himself against the wall, his breath still uneven from the jump between worlds. The alley was quiet, wrapped in the hush of the night.
He glanced up instinctively—and froze. The moon hung high and pale above him, no longer climbing but sitting heavy in its zenith. Midnight.
"Shit…" the word slipped from his lips. His eyes widened as the realization slammed into him. "I told Lirael we'd meet at Amelia's place by evening."
His chest tightened—not from pain, but from something else entirely. In both of his lives, this had never happened. Not once as a CEO had he arrived late to a meeting, not once had he failed to keep time. Discipline had been his crown, punctuality his blade. And yet here he was… late.
"Damn it!" His voice cracked with frustration, echoing faintly in the empty street.
Without hesitation, he surged forward. The world blurred at the edges, cobblestones flashing past in streaks of gray. To call it running would be an insult; this was something else—his body flickered in and out, like the space between footsteps barely existed. Each stride felt like a blink, a teleport, his surroundings tearing and reforming around him in dizzying speed.
His lips drew into a grim line, the weight of failure at war with the rush of newfound power.
"Hold on, Amelia… Lirael… I'm coming."
Shit! They would be very worried
The night swallowed him whole, leaving only the faint ripple of disturbed air in his wake.