The day she turned seventeen, he woke her at 0500.
No breakfast. No rooftop run. No training drill.
Just a sealed brown envelope and a one-way ticket to a military induction centre in Pirbright.
"What's this?" she asked, squinting at the ticket, heartbeat already climbing.
"Your next step," he said flatly, arms crossed. "Time to stop training and start fighting for real."
She looked at him then—really looked. He wasn't angry. Wasn't even cold. Just distant. Like he'd made peace with something she hadn't caught up to yet.
"I'm not leaving."
"You are."
"What the hell, Reeve—"
He raised a hand. That was all it took.
"You want to disappear for real? Want to be more than a shadow? You need tools. Resources. Protection. The army will give you all that. And they'll teach you how to turn everything I gave you into something useful."
She stared at him, jaw clenched.
"And if I say no?"
"You won't."
And damn him, he was right.
Basic training was supposed to break people and her Bergen probably would.
It didn't break her.
She outpaced, outfought, and outlasted every recruit in her unit. She didn't shout. She didn't strut. She performed—quietly, relentlessly, with the kind of precision that made instructors raise eyebrows and clipboard notes started getting passed around.
Discipline wasn't punishment to her. It was familiar. Predictable. Reassuring. An old coat that kept her warm.
When the others whined about rations or weather, she just smirked. She'd slept under leaking scaffolding in Brixton with a broken rib once. The army was luxury. Like being at the Savoy every day.
They called her "Ice Queen." "Ghost." and "Nonya," when she gave them permission.
She never gave her birth name. Not once. It belonged to another life. Another girl. One who died the night she picked up a coal poker and rewrote her fate.
After basic training, they fast-tracked her into advanced weapons and recon. She didn't blink.
Her scores in OBUA and threat assessment pushed her into an elite path. Language proficiency got flagged immediately—she was fluent in three, passable in two more. Reeve's influence of course. She even caught an instructor muttering "Where the hell did this one come from?" during a sparring session where she dropped two men twice her size.
Within a year, she was wearing the insignia of a Special Forces Support Group.
By nineteen, she was on operational deployments in Africa, the Caucasus, and Eastern Europe.
In a hot zone north of Mali, she dragged her injured team leader back through forty klicks of hostile terrain without losing a single member of her squad. That got her a commendation. She turned it down.
In Romania, she posed as a local translator and exposed a double agent embedded in NATO logistics.
In Berlin, during a covert domestic containment op, she disarmed a rogue ex-MI6 operative without drawing her weapon.
Her file thickened.
Her superiors used phrases like "exceptional" and "off the scale" and "problematic if uncontained."
But she always kept a low profile. Never volunteered. Never smiled too much.
And always—always—checked rooftops before stepping out of any room.
Then, as her fifth year came to an end, she requested demob.
No one expected it.
"You're a perfect fit," her commanding officer told her. "Why throw that away?"
She gave no reason. She just said, "I'm done," and handed over her kit.
What she didn't say was Her birthday had come and gone. She was twenty-two now. And for the first time in five years, she was free.
No chains.
No shadows.
And no more waiting.
Because she had unfinished business in London.
Death's Door
So this is what dying feels like, she thought.
It didn't hurt as much as she expected.
Just cold. Distant. Like her body was something she'd stepped out of, and now she was watching the credits roll on a film she hadn't agreed to star in.
Her life played behind her eyes in fragments—blood-streaked rooftops, steel-grey drill yards, the soot and silence of a hearth that had never known warmth.
She tried to move, but her limbs didn't respond.
She was laying on something hard—stone? Metal? Her back ached, ribs throbbed, and yet… she was still thinking. Still aware.
That wasn't how death was supposed to work.
Then the space around her shifted.
Like a veil being pulled back.
The world didn't brighten so much as deepen. Every sound faded, every sensation dulled—except one.
Presence.
Someone was here.
She opened her eyes—no longer her real eyes, but eyes of thought, of spirit—and saw him. An old man stood before her, regal despite the tattered robes and wild, wind-tossed hair. His beard was long and silver, eyes dark and knowing. There was weight in his gaze. Authority. Sorrow. Power.
She tensed instinctively, ready to run even in this disembodied form.
Then he spoke.
"Cara."
She blinked. "What?"
"That is your true name. Cara Virelli-Solace. Heiress of the Solace Line, Keeper of the Bloodmark."
"I think you've got the wrong—"
"No," he interrupted gently. "The world did. The ones who raised you. The ones who stole you. But the blood never lies. You were born to power."
She stared at him.
"This is a dream," she said. "A hallucination. I'm in shock."
"You were shot," he said calmly. "And you died. At least just for a moment. Long enough for the seal to break."
"What seal?"
He stepped forward and held out his hand.
In it—her necklace.
Except not as she knew it.
The pendant now pulsed with red light, faint but steady, like a second heartbeat. It vanishes from his hand.
"This is your inheritance. Hidden in the necklace you have worn since birth. It contains the essence of the Solace line's founder—me. My name is Vorian Solace, and I've been waiting for you a long time."
She said nothing. Just stared at him. Her mind tried to make connections, but none of them held.
"A system," he continued, "exists within the blood of one Solace heir per generation. It activates after the heir's first death. A failsafe. Only those who've tasted mortality may carry the burden of greatness."
He reached out and touched her chest.
She looked down. It was with her again.
Where the bullet had struck her… a faint glow shimmered through ghostly fabric. Her blood had soaked the pendant. Had awakened it.
"You are that heir, Cara. Your task is to restore the Solace name. Make the family the greatest in the world—economically, politically, spiritually, or by fire and steel. The path is yours to choose."
"And if I don't?" she asked, her voice hardening.
"Then the system will die with you. And the line ends."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're saying I've been engineered for this? Raised in hell, abandoned, nearly killed—and it's all because of some family project?"
Vorian didn't flinch. "You were stolen. Taken by a traitor in your infancy. The woman you knew as your nanny. Your parents died searching for you. Their love a constant."
Silence settled between them.
Then a soft ding sounded, ethereal and clear—like a bell made of starlight.
A glowing window appeared in the air beside her.
[SYSTEM INITIALISING…]
Welcome, Cara Solace.
You have died once. Activation confirmed.
[Legacy System] Online.
Primary Mission: Restore the Solace Family to Global Prominence
Reward: ???
Sub-Mission #1: Survive your awakening.
Reward: Full body restoration, +1 Stat Point, and System Core Access.
She stared at it.
Then at the old man.
"Is this real?"
"You'll know soon enough," he said.
"Why me?"
"Because you lived," he said simply. "Because you survived everything meant to break you. That was the test, Cara. And you passed. Now you must survive."
She looked at the glowing system window again.
Then nodded once.
"Alright. Let's play."
The space around her began to glow.
At first, a pale shimmer. Then brighter. Blinding. As if someone had ripped open the sky and poured daylight into her eyes. She covered her face instinctively, but the light was everywhere—inside her, around her, through her.
"What the hell is—"
Then it hit her.
Heat. Weightless pressure. Like the moment before a storm breaks. She could feel the static.
And then—
Silence.
She opened her eyes.
The forest surrounded her.
Towering trees rose into a golden sky, their leaves whispering in a language older than time. The air smelled like pine and earth and distant lightning. Shafts of amber light spilled through the canopy, dappling the moss beneath her boots.
Boots?
She looked down.
She was dressed in sleek black combat gear. Lightweight. Fitted perfectly. A utility belt. Gloves. She flexed her fingers—everything moved like it belonged to her.
Except she had nothing. No gun. No weapon. No food. No clue.
Then the old man's voice echoed all around her—not spoken aloud, but felt inside her mind.
"First, you must become familiar with your birthright. The hereditary sword. Survive here for twenty-four hours."
"What sword?" she muttered aloud.
Pain flared suddenly on her forearm—sharp and searing, like hot wire against flesh.
She gasped, clutching it—
She watched in stunned silence as a tattoo burned its way to the surface of her skin. A black inked blade appeared, etched just below the elbow, ancient and elegant, its hilt inscribed with unfamiliar runes.
It shimmered faintly, like it was more than just ink.
She stared at it, heart pounding.
"What the hell kind of game is this?"
As if in answer, the tattoo pulsed once.
And a real sword appeared in her hand.
Not conjured. Not summoned.
Pulled—from her blood, her will, her lineage.
It was long, curved slightly like a cavalry blade, light as air and yet solid as bone. The metal was dark silver, the edge flawless. No gleam or ornamentation. Just purpose.
She turned slowly in place, blade raised.
The forest had gone quiet.
Too quiet.
Then, far off, something screamed—not human.
And another voice joined the old man's. This one smooth. Cold. Mechanical.
[System Notification]
Trial Initiated: Blood of the First Blade
Objective: Survive for 24 Hours
Environment: Summoned Realm – Level I
Hostile Entities Detected: 17
Time Remaining: 23:59:47
She gripped the sword tighter.
"Of course there's a countdown," she muttered.
Another scream echoed. Closer this time. Leaves rustled overhead, and a gust of wind carried the smell of something wrong—like rotting meat and gunpowder.
She set her stance. Low. Balanced.
Feral calm settled over her, the way it always had before battle.
She smirked.
"Alright then."
The first shadow moved between the trees.
She raised the sword.
"Let's see what makes me special."
The first creature came from the trees like smoke.
Fast. Low to the ground. A blur of black limbs and gleaming fangs.
It didn't hesitate. Just charged—silent and direct, the way a predator moves when it's done stalking. Like her cat after a mouse.
She didn't flinch.
The sword in her hand moved before she thought to swing it.
Her stance adjusted automatically, a perfect half-step pivot that brought her blade up in a fluid arc. It met the creature's throat mid-lunge with a sound like tearing silk and wet rope.
Whfffk.
Blood sprayed. The thing crashed to the forest floor in two twitching pieces.
She stared, heart hammering.
Then—
[Hostile Entity Eliminated – 1/17]
+5 XP
System Response: Neural-sword sync confirmed. Latency: 0.03s. Efficiency: 91%.
Hint: Trust the blade. It knows.
She exhaled slowly.
Another growl. This time from behind.
She turned, fast—brought the sword down across the next creature's snout in a clean, vertical cut. A flash of white bone. A gurgling snarl. She spun and slashed again before it even hit the ground.
[2/17]
Three more burst from the brush.
She moved through them like smoke with weight—fluid but unstoppable. Her blade carved arcs in the air, precise and brutal, guided not just by training but by something deeper. Muscle memory she'd never learned.
Every movement the sword demanded, her body delivered. Ducking under a claw swipe, sliding through the muck, bringing the blade up through a monster's ribcage and out the back in a shower of dark ichor. Gross.
[5/17]
She didn't register how many cuts she made.
Only that she was breathing harder now. Sweating. The blade warm in her grip, like it was alive. Like it liked the killing.
She paused, back to a tree, scanning the perimeter.
The trees rustled again. Two more, moving cautiously this time—flanking. It was like they were learning from the experience of the earlier beasts..
"Good," she whispered, crouching. "I was getting bored."
One lunged.
She met it mid-air, sliding low and bringing the sword up in a diagonal slash that split the creature from hip to shoulder. Her momentum carried her into the next, a tight inward spiral that put the edge through its spine with a satisfying crunch.
[7/17]
The sword pulsed once in her hand.
And she felt it—a rush of heat down her spine, like the system itself was feeding her. Her reaction time sharpened. Her muscles tightened in anticipation. She wasn't just surviving now.
She was thriving.
They came at her in waves after that. Fast, vicious, but sloppy—too wild to land clean hits.
She danced between them, blade flashing like lightning through leaves. Cut. Step. Turn. Slash. One fell with its throat missing. Another lost a leg before she impaled it through the chest and kicked it off her blade.
When one caught her side with a grazing claw, she didn't scream—just twisted into it, grabbed the creature's arm, broke it at the elbow, and drove her sword through its skull.
[13/17]
The final four circled her like wolves. But now she wasn't afraid. They were.
She smiled.
She dashed forward before they did—blitzed into the closest with a brutal thrust, then feinted right and cut left, severing a head clean from its shoulders. The others hesitated—too slow.
She lunged into them, low and fast.
Two more fell.
One remained.
It turned to run.
She let it go five paces.
Then she raised the sword over her shoulder—just like Reeve had taught her with a thrown knife.
She threw it.
The sword spun through the air once.
Twice.
And hit the last beast between the shoulder blades, sinking hilt-deep with a crunch.
[17/17 – Trial Complete]
XP Gained: 85
Stat Point Unlocked: +1 STR
System Core Access: Unlocked
New Feature Available: Inventory | Stat Screen | Legacy Log
She exhaled. Blood on her arms. Sweat on her brow. Her chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths.
The sword reappeared in her hand with a shimmer of light, pulled back from the fallen corpse like memory.
She looked at it.
Then looked up at the forest sky.
"Alright," she said aloud. "Let's see what else you've got."