The crimson glow of dusk poured over the cobblestone paths of Orwyn Academy, painting the sky like a canvas of fire and blood.
A thin, weary boy leaned against the trunk of an ancient oak, his chest heaving, every breath rasping like the bellows of a forge.
"Damn it… even the Goddess of Fate stands against me? Am I truly meant to endure eighteen years of torment?"
The boy muttered bitterly, his voice laced with self-mockery and scorn. Forcing his exhausted body forward once more, he dragged himself along the path.
His name was Ethan Cross. In his previous life, he had been the undefeated champion of the dark gladiatorial pits—until flames consumed him in a raging inferno. When he opened his eyes again, he was greeted not by victory or freedom, but by the wail of a newborn in a world not his own.
For eighteen long years, something dreadful had lurked within him—like chains forged by a demon, gnawing ceaselessly at his flesh and spirit. Over time, he came to understand the truth: this was no rebirth. This was soul transmigration.
On the surface, this world appeared orderly, bound by the laws of kings and academies. Yet beneath the veneer pulsed a greater reality—one where sorcerers and warriors wielded forces far beyond mortal reach. But for the common man, those powers remained as distant as the stars.
"Hey, Ethan, where do you think you're going?"
A mocking voice cut through the silence. Three figures stepped from the far end of the path, blocking his way.
At their head loomed Winton Vega, a mountain of flesh and muscle, heir to the Vega family—one of Orwyn City's wealthiest merchant dynasties. Behind him trailed two lackeys, smirking with the arrogance of men who thrived in another's shadow.
"Winton, don't go too far."
Ethan raised his head, fury simmering in his eyes. His face darkened, like a volcano moments from eruption.
He and his mother had once lived in quiet peace, bound by warmth and simplicity. That ended three years ago, when she revealed a bitter truth: his long-vanished father was none other than the Vega patriarch himself. From that day onward, the Vega family's scorn and cruelty descended upon him like a storm.
"Trash should know their place!" one of the lackeys sneered, his eyes filled with contempt.
"Why don't you bark like a dog? If you amuse Winton, he might toss you a Blood-Nurturing Crystal Pill." The second lackey drove his boot into Ethan's stomach, grinning with disdain. "One pill costs thirty gold coins. A beggar like you couldn't earn that even if you groveled for a lifetime."
The two laughed as they mocked and struck him, reveling in his pain. Winton, meanwhile, looked down upon Ethan as though from a throne, lips curled in a cruel, satisfied smile. What he savored most was that expression—rage blazing in Ethan's eyes, yet powerless to resist.
Ethan had endured three years of humiliation—not out of cowardice, but out of filial piety. He feared that if he resisted, his mother would be dragged into the storm with him.
"Damn it… one day, I'll make you taste every ounce of shame you've forced on me!"
The roar echoed in his heart. At that moment, he felt his vitality being savagely drained once again.
Then—suddenly—a cold, alien voice rang through his mind:
"Energy reserves full. Infinite Plunder System activating… Host life force critical. Emergency protocol initiated. Temporary authorization—Power of an Apprentice Warrior."
In the next heartbeat, strength erupted from Ethan's body like a volcano unleashed. His flesh quivered, his soul trembled.
This… this is the power of a warrior. The strength to shatter stone and rend steel!
The terrifying energy coursed through him, igniting exhilaration and a seething hunger for vengeance. Eighteen years of suppressed rage, smothered by his mother's love, now awakened like a beast unchained.
Ethan's eyes gleamed with a savage, bloodthirsty light.
"Well, well… still daring to glare at me?" Winton sneered, waving to his lackeys. "String him up, spread him out like a cross. Let's have ourselves some fun."
A mocking grin twisted Winton's lips, the smile of a tyrant who believed the game was his to command. But Ethan felt the surging power boiling inside him. His lips curled into a grim, humorless smile as he muttered under his breath:
"Winton… don't push me."
"Push you?" Winton barked a laugh, spreading his arms arrogantly. "I want to push you. I want to see you broken. What can you possibly do to me? Go on then—hit me if you dare!"
"Alright."
Ethan's reply was cold, clipped, final.
In the next instant, his right leg blurred into motion—a whipcrack shadow flashing through the air. Three vicious strikes landed in rapid succession. Fast. Precise. Merciless.
"Arghhh—!!"
Three screams tore through the courtyard as Winton and his lackeys collapsed, faces twisted in agony, bodies curled like shrimps on the cold stone ground.
Ethan had finally struck back.
And against his unleashed fury, they were as fragile as helpless infants.
"Weren't you so fond of humiliating me?"
Ethan's eyes gleamed with a murderous chill as his fists crashed down again and again, each strike slick with blood. His smile was cold, cruel—like a beast that had finally tasted blood.
"Whip kick! Crushing fist! Should we keep going, or are you already finished?!"
His voice rasped with a twisted exhilaration, the release of hatred suppressed for years now pouring out in violent waves.
Clutching his stomach, Winton howled in disbelief, his face pale with pain. "Ethan… you actually dared to hit me?!"
He was the legitimate son of the Vega family's second master. Ethan was nothing more than a bastard, a nameless stain on their lineage—he was supposed to cower, not rebel.
But the only answer he received was the sharp crack of a slap across his face.
"And what if I did?" Ethan sneered, his voice low and cutting like a blade through midnight. "Didn't you like barking like a dog? Then bark for me—until I say stop."
"You—! You wouldn't dare!" Winton roared, but there was fear bleeding through his voice.
Ethan's grin twisted, feral and merciless. "Dare? Try me."
His strikes came vicious and practiced—the kind honed not in noble duels but in the blood-soaked pits of his past life. Bone-shattering punches. Rib-cracking palms. Groin-snatching claws. Every move went for the kill, ruthless and unrelenting.
"My father is Frank! I—please, stop! Don't hit me… w-w-woof! Woof!"
At last, the proud heir of one of Orwyn City's great merchant clans was driven to a dog's whimper, humiliation dripping from every trembling word.
"Pathetic. Even your bark is ugly."
Ethan chuckled coldly, snapping a thick branch from the oak beside them. With a casual flick of his wrist, he leveled it like a weapon, eyes colder than ice.
…
Ten minutes later.
The branch in Ethan's hand was split and broken, his breath ragged as he crouched low, chest heaving like a storm-tossed sea.
Before him lay Winton and his lackeys, battered beyond recognition. Their faces were swollen and bloodied, caked with dust, their cries of agony filling the air.
And then, as swiftly as it had come, the torrent of strength within Ethan's body ebbed away. His limbs grew weak, his vision dimmed. The sudden fall from overwhelming might to fragile mortality carved a gnawing hunger into his heart—an insatiable craving he had never known before.
"If I don't want to kneel, if I refuse to be trampled beneath another's feet… then I must seize enough strength!"
His heartbeat thundered like a war drum.
"I won't endure it anymore! I will become a warrior! I will seize my own fate! I'll make every enemy look up at me—with fear, with trembling, with despair!"
His hands never stopped moving. From the battered bodies at his feet, he pulled a coin pouch and a small vial of potion. At that same moment, cold, ancient script suddenly scrolled across his mind:
"Defeated three enemies. Resource Points +1.
Reward: Blood-Nurturing Crystal Pills ×10, Resource Points +10.
Before entering the Body-Refining Realm:
1 Resource Point = Restore Vital Energy or Spirit.
10 Resource Points = Increase maximum capacity.
Host Attribute Panel has been generated. Only the host may summon and view."
Ethan's heart pounded with elation. He instantly willed the panel into existence—light flared before his eyes:
Name: Ethan Cross
Vital Energy: 1535
Spirit: 30
Resource Points: 11
Rank: None
Battle Arts: None
[Warning: Host's Vital Energy critically low. Immediate replenishment required.]
"At last… the years of drained life force finally have an explanation."
Ethan's gaze darkened, his emotions a storm of exhilaration and doubt.
"But… this so-called 'Plunder System'—where did it come from? Why was it bound to me?"
And in that instant, unseen to the world, the gears of fate began to turn.