Steam still clung to my skin as I stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung around my shoulders. The bath had done its job, washed away the dirt, the blood… and about half my will to stay awake.
My room greeted me like an old friend. The bed's frame groaned in protest as I dropped onto it, sinking into the mattress like it was trying to eat me alive. One spring jabbed me in the ribs, another in my thigh. I ignored both.
The ceiling above me had a crack shaped vaguely like a dragon if you squinted and tilted your head. I stared at it for a while, letting my thoughts drift, the faint smell of soap mixing with the city air drifting in through the window.
For the first time in days, I was in my own space, half-ruined as it was, but it was enough.
The quiet didn't last long. My brain refused to just… shut up. There were just so many damn problems that I had to solve.
The biggest problem: I wasn't even supposed to be here. One stupid accident in my old world, and now I'm Zane Blessborne, in a city full of magic and monsters.
Second problem, my soul. That little oath I made to balance my stats almost killed me. And because my soul took so much damage, there's this never-ending headache. Pain like this doesn't just vanish; it festers, lingering in the background. It'll heal, sure, but only with time… and I don't have a lot of that to spare.
Third problem, I'm weak. Not useless, but far from the level cadets at Ironwill are expected to be. The cult incident proved that. If I want to survive the entrance exam, I need to train my body, reflexes, and awareness, all of it. If I don't, the next lunatic with a knife and a god complex might actually finish the job.
And then… money. The eternal parasite. We barely scrape by as it is. Lyra works herself half to death at that garbage job, and I haven't exactly been bringing home gold bars. Training, gear, maybe better food, all of it costs money we don't have.
I sighed and rubbed my face. No plan was ever perfect, but I needed something. Because sitting here waiting for fate to give me another beating? Not on the menu.
Still, it's not all doom and gloom. I've got one thing going for me, a cheat.
Yeah, sounds like the kind of thing some wannabe hero screams in a tournament arc right before getting folded in half, but this one's real. Oathsmith. My personal, reality-bending, blessing-and-curse–dispensing cheat from hell.
And as a little side bonus, I can see my status window before actually awakening.
I sat up, exhaled slowly, and thought, "Status."
A faint shimmer rippled through my vision, and glowing text appeared before me:
[Status Window]
Name: Zane Blessborne
Age: 16
Rank: F (Novice)(87%)
Soul Integrity: 63% --> 64%
Oath Capacity: Two Lesser Oaths
Active Oaths: None
Passive Oaths: Equilibrium Eternal
Soul Forge Access: [Unlocked]
Attributes
Strength: 87
Agility: 87
Endurance: 87
Perception: 87
Willpower: 87
Luck: changes from time to time
—
Unique Skill:Oathsmith's Authority
Titles:
-Anomaly
Oaths
-Equilibrium Eternal
Yeah, as impressive as that may seem, almost all noble heirs have balanced stats before awakening.
In this world, ranking up isn't about vague ideas of "getting stronger"; it's all about numbers.
To reach the next rank, at least one attribute has to hit a specific threshold. One attribute at one hundred points makes you E-rank. Two hundred points puts you at D-rank, and it keeps going up from there.
It sounds simple, but there's a catch: you can't go beyond F-rank until you awaken. No matter how much you train before seventeen, the system puts a hard limit in place.
Right now, my stats are nothing special. I've got six months to push them to a 100, and then two more months after that to train before the Ironwill Academy entrance exam.
"But I'll think about this in the morning," Zane muttered before drifting to sleep.
---
I woke up feeling… not exactly rested, but functional.
The sun was barely peeking through the cracked blinds, the air in the room sharp and cool against my skin as I dragged myself out of bed.
A cold bath sounded perfect. The moment the water hit me, it was like being punched awake — icy enough to sting, but in a way that made my thoughts snap into focus. I stood there for a while, letting it run down my back, until my breath came out in little white puffs.
When I finally stepped out, I caught my reflection in the cracked mirror propped on the shelf.
And… okay, I'm not saying I'd date myself, but damn.
Shoulder-length black hair clung to my neck, glistening in the dim light. My violet eyes same as Lyra's, caught the morning light in a way that made them look almost like polished gems. My jawline was sharper than I remembered, and there was this faint definition in my shoulders and arms that definitely hadn't been there before.
For a second, I tilted my head just to see how the light caught on my cheekbones. Not bad. Not bad at all.
I had the kind of face people would spend good money just to catch a glimpse of. Well, that's enough narcissistic thoughts for one day.
Shaking my head, I got out of the washroom and got dressed in a black T-shirt, a black jacket, and black pants, and damn, do I look good.
The smell of frying eggs and toasting bread pulled me into the kitchen. Lyra was already there, hair tied back, moving around like she owned the place, which, technically, she did, since she was the one who kept it running while I was gone. Anakin sat at the table, shoveling food into his mouth like it was his last meal, his messy black hair sticking up in every possible direction.
We ate together, the three of us, in a rare moment of quiet. No cultists, no talk about awakenings or ranks, just the sound of cutlery against cheap plates and the occasional sarcastic jab between bites. Lyra gave me a side-eye every time I took too long chewing, like she was making sure I wouldn't suddenly vanish again. Anakin kept grinning, like having me back meant the world.
When breakfast was over, we cleared the table together. Lyra grabbed her worn satchel, and I pulled on my equally battered jacket. Neither of us had glamorous jobs, her's barely paid enough to keep the lights on, mine was just as bad, but it was money. And right now, money meant survival.
We stepped outside into the bustling streets of Solara, the cool morning air carrying the scent of mana-fueled street vendors and the distant hum of hover cars. I glanced at Lyra, and she met my gaze with the smallest smile. Whatever the day threw at us, at least we were walking into it together.
---
We moved through the streets, dodging the morning rush. Our jobs were both in the central area of Solara, one of the better parts of the city, but not the kind of "better" that made you feel safe. Here, the buildings were clean enough, the shops well-stocked, and the streets patrolled just enough to keep the real trouble on the outskirts.
The further out you went, the worse it got. The outermost area was the slums, a tangled mess of collapsing buildings, illegal mana markets, and people who'd kill you for looking at them the wrong way. And if you went the opposite direction, deeper into the city, you hit the innermost area, the heart of the empire. That's where the Imperial Palace stood, alongside the elite districts.
Me? I lived right on the edge of the central area. Close enough to avoid the constant chaos of the slums, but far enough from the inner city that the crowd looked at you like you didn't belong. Which, to be fair, I didn't.
---
The bell above the door chimed as Lyra and I stepped into the little restaurant we called our second home. The smell of sizzling monster meat and fresh bread hit me instantly, warm and comforting in a way I didn't realize I'd missed these past few days.
The place wasn't big, just a dozen tables, a counter, and a kitchen you could see into if you leaned over far enough. The walls were a soft, faded yellow, with mismatched picture frames that looked like they'd been hung there decades ago and never moved.
"Morning, you two," came a cheerful voice from behind the counter.
Mr. Rowan, the owner, was wiping down glasses with a clean cloth, his apron already smeared with flour. He was a sturdy man in his fifties, with a beard that seemed determined to conquer his entire face.
"Morning," Lyra answered, her voice soft but carrying a note of warmth reserved only for people she actually liked.
"Morning, boss," I added, giving him a lazy salute as I passed.
Mr. Rowan chuckled. "You look less dead than the last time I saw you, Zane. I'll take that as a win."
I smirked, sliding behind the counter to start prepping the tables for the early rush. "Stick around, old man. You might even see me looking alive someday."
"Now that," he said with a grin, "would be a miracle."