The air stank of sweat, blood, and old stone.
Jericho scrubbed the polished floors until his knuckles bled. The rag in his hand was already stained dark, yet the overseer's whip cracked against the wall just inches from his ear.
"Faster, slave!" the man barked. "The nobles arrive soon. If there's a speck of dust, I'll flay your hide."
Jericho didn't look up. He never did. His hands moved automatically, his back bent low, and his body obeyed as it had for years. That was life as property—obedience, pain, and silence. He had been born to a family already in chains, his parents sold off when he was barely old enough to remember their faces. For him, the word slave wasn't just a title—it was his entire identity.
He knew he had a name. He remembered it in the quiet moments when he closed his eyes, whispering it to himself so he wouldn't forget. But in this world, names were privileges. A slave had no need for one. The overseers called him nothing but "Slave." The other slaves didn't dare speak to him by any other word.
Years of it had hollowed him out. His back was covered in scars, his wrists toughened by chains, his spirit beaten into bitter silence. He wasn't defiant, not anymore. That had been carved out of him long ago. What remained was routine: survive the day, obey orders, hope the whip cracked against someone else's skin.
Today, however, was different.
The Awakening Tower loomed above the city like a giant needle piercing the sky. Unlike the old palaces and stone castles of other kingdoms, the tower was built of steel and glass, its surface gleaming under the sun. Lights pulsed faintly across its surface—mana conduits humming with power. It was modern, sharp, and intimidating. Every kingdom had its own version of the tower, each slightly different in design, but all with the same purpose: to awaken classes.
Classes decided everything. A child of nobility could awaken as a Fireblade Knight or a Stormcall Mage, destined for prestige. The unlucky awakened only as Warriors or Priests—still respected, but unremarkable. Some rare geniuses even awakened with multiple affinities, securing their path to greatness.
Slaves, though? Slaves didn't awaken. They weren't even allowed to step foot inside the towers unless it was to scrub the floors or carry burdens.
Yet here Jericho was, rag in hand, crawling across the polished black tiles of the Awakening Tower's grand hall.
The hall buzzed with excitement. Nobles in flowing silks and armored knights gathered, their voices echoing. Priests with jeweled staffs whispered blessings. Ordinary townsfolk crowded the balconies above, craning their necks for a glimpse of the day's ceremonies.
Today, sons and daughters of nobles would awaken their classes. For the wealthy, it was more than a rite of passage—it was a festival, a display of bloodline and power. The future of Kingdom 7's elite would be shaped here.
Jericho kept his eyes low, his rag scrubbing faster whenever footsteps neared. He was nothing here—just a shadow beneath the grandeur.
But fate doesn't care about rules.
It began as a hum in the air, almost imperceptible at first. Jericho froze, the rag slipping from his hand. His chest tightened as if something inside him recognized the vibration.
"Slave, what are you doing? Move!" an overseer hissed, raising the whip.
Jericho didn't hear him. The hum grew louder, vibrating through his bones. His vision blurred, the polished floor rippling like water. He clutched his chest, gasping as heat spread through him—heat and something darker, like a void trying to swallow his insides.
Then light flared around him.
Gasps filled the hall. Nobles turned. Knights reached for weapons. Even the priests faltered in their chants.
"What—what is this?!" a voice cried.
Jericho collapsed to his knees, choking as golden glyphs swirled into existence above him. It was unmistakable—the signs of awakening.
But slaves didn't awaken. Slaves weren't supposed to.
The overseer stumbled back in shock. "This is… impossible!"
Jericho's chest burned as the glyphs condensed, the energy slamming into his body. His vision went black for a moment before words seared themselves into his mind.
[Class Awakened: Cowboy]
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then laughter erupted.
"Cowboy?" one noble jeered. "That ancient trash class?"
"Of all things to awaken—worthless!" another sneered.
"I thought for a moment it was dangerous. But a Cowboy? Hah!"
Even some of the knights chuckled, lowering their weapons. The priests shook their heads, muttering about wasted mana.
Cowboy. A relic of the past. A class once common after Doomsday but long abandoned, discarded for its weakness. No one trained toward it anymore. No one wanted it.
Jericho's heart sank. He hadn't asked for this, hadn't sought it, yet now the entire hall stared at him as if he were both a joke and an abomination.
The overseer spat at his feet. "See? Even fate mocks you, slave."
The laughter rang in his ears, burning worse than any whip. His body trembled—not from shame, but something else. Something deeper.
Because as the nobles mocked, another voice whispered.
Cold. Mechanical. Endless.
[System Activated…]
[Binding with host: Jericho Black.]
His eyes widened.
No one had spoken his name in years. No one dared.
But the voice knew.
[Integration complete. Cowboy Class synchronized. Demon Body Physique detected. Evolution path unlocked.]
The hall continued to laugh, their scorn drowning in echoes. But Jericho barely heard them. His name—his true name—hung in his mind like fire.
Jericho Black.
The System's voice whispered again, soft and final:
[Welcome, Void Cowboy Dictator.]