My name doesn't matter. But still I will say it. Bigin.
In this world, names only start to matter after you awaken a trait worth remembering. Before that, you are just another body that eats, works, and eventually disappears. I was born a farmer's son in a village that didn't even appear on most maps. We grew grain for martial sects that would never look at us twice. Strong people passed through our land. Weak people were born and buried here.
I was weak from the day I was born.
My mother used to say I cried less than other children. Not because I was calm—because I was tired. Even breathing felt heavy sometimes. My body often went numb for no reason. My hands shook when I tried to hold tools for too long. The village healer said my nerves were "knotted wrong," whatever that meant. There was no cure we could afford. So we lived with it.
In this world, weakness is not a tragedy. It's a statistic.
†
"Hey Bigin! Let's go to the charch? The trail will start soon!" I heard a voice and as I looked at him, I found my rival standing before. Ash hair. Long body.
My buddy, my rival. Unknowingly a smile came on my face. He is surely excited. Aska. My only friend.
"Yeah! Aska. Let's go." I said.
At fourteen, every child in the village went to the old church for trait identification. It was the one day people believed could change their fate. Some cried on the way there. Some prayed. Some pretended not to care. I didn't do any of that. I just walked.
The church smelled of dust and dried incense. The priest placed his hand on my chest, closed his eyes, and waited. I felt something stir inside me—something sharp, restless, like a blade scraping bone.
Then the words appeared.
FFF Rank Trait: Swinger.
The room went quiet.
Someone laughed. Not loudly—just enough.
Before the priest could say anything else, blood rushed into my mouth. I dropped to my knees and vomited red onto the stone floor. It felt like my body was tearing itself apart from the inside. My vision blurred. My ears rang.
The priest examined me again, his expression changing. He told my parents the truth: my nerves were tangled, my body unstable. The trait didn't cause it. It only exposed it. If I pushed myself, my body would fail faster.
Treatment existed. Pills, elixirs, body-forging baths.
They cost more than my family would earn in several lifetimes.
On the same day, my friend awakened his trait.
SSS Rank Trait: Phoenix Flame.
A flame that could not die. A flame that strengthened the body, accelerated learning, and revived its bearer once from death. The duke's envoy arrived before sunset. My friend left the village before dawn.
Before he left, he promised me something.
"I'll become strong," Aska said. "Strong enough for both of us."
I smiled and nodded.
But when he hugged me tightly I felt my eyes are hazzy with tears.
He left.
"Alright! Should we start our training?" I encouraged myself.
"I can't give up. Opportunity will come to me one day. I know. Until then I won't give up."
After that day, nothing improved.
I trained anyway.
I swung a wooden sword behind the house until my arms trembled and my chest burned. I practiced footwork in the fields at night, when no one could see me collapse. I learned to ignore pain, then learned that ignoring pain didn't stop it from killing me.
Then after 2 years I heard the news. Aska have become. Aska Vonstrom. The adopted son of the Duke Vonstrom. I was happy for him. He got something. But what about me? He was a orphan. But what about me?
Are my struggles nothing?
What is in it for me?
Will something will change?
Some nights I couldn't feel my fingers. Some mornings I woke up coughing blood. My body betrayed me over and over again, but I didn't stop. Not because I believed I would succeed.
Because stopping meant admitting the world was right.
Five years passed like that.
Five years of watching others advance while I remained the same. Five years of asking myself why I was still trying. Five years of thinking about giving up—and not doing it.
Not once.
At nineteen, my body finally gave up first.
I collapsed in a field outside the village, the sky dark and empty above me. The grain stalks swayed gently, indifferent. My breathing came in short, shallow gasps. Every nerve screamed. I couldn't move my fingers anymore. I couldn't even close my eyes properly.
So this is it, I thought.
I didn't feel fear.
Just disappointment.
I had wanted more time. Not for glory. Not for revenge. Just… one chance to stand on equal ground. One chance to see how far I could go if my body didn't break first.
My vision dimmed.
Then something fell from the sky.
It landed beside me with a dull thud, kicking up dirt. A book. Old. Black. Its surface looked like stone, but felt warm. No title on the cover. No aura. No presence.
It was just there.
I laughed weakly. "Too late," I whispered. "You missed your timing."
The book opened on its own.
The pages were blank—then words began to write themselves.
Record of Avatars.
This book records lives.
It creates stories from souls.
You may die before this book.
You may awaken inside it.
You will be allowed one rewrite.
Rewrite carefully.
My heart beat faster.
"Is this a cure?" I asked, not expecting an answer.
The next line appeared.
Power may be obtained.
That was enough.
I didn't ask about the cost. I didn't ask about the rules. I didn't ask why it chose me.
If there was even a chance—no matter how small—I would take it.
I placed my bloodstained hand on the page.
"I accept."
The book closed.
Pain vanished.
So did the world.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then I felt something being pulled.
Not my body.
Something deeper.
The last thing I thought before everything went dark was this:
If I wake up… I won't waste it.
And then I died.