Kael stood at the base of the stairs long after Anna had gone, still staring at the wooden box.
He didn't open it.
Not yet.
Instead, he turned and headed back upstairs—moving on instinct, following the strange familiarity this body gave him. Lister Merrick. Baron. Level 17. Duelist. Or, more accurately… dead man walking.
He needed information. And time.
But first—he needed context.
Back in the bedchamber, a gentle knock came almost immediately. The same maid who had addressed him earlier—nervous eyes, youthful face—pushed the door open.
"Will you be dining or training this morning, my lord?"
Kael shook his head. "Neither. I'll stay in for now. What's your name?"
The maid's face lit up with surprise. "L-Lilian, my lord."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're new?"
"Three months, sir. I—I serve you personally."
There was a gleam of hope in her eyes. Kael recognized it. In the slums, it was the same look people gave lottery tickets.
"Lilian," he said carefully, "do you know where the house keeps its books?"
"The library, of course. But…" She hesitated. "The steward keeps the keys. I've only seen it once."
"That's fine. Go ask the steward for books. Anything on our city's history. The name of the kingdom. Old maps, maybe."
She blinked. "Yes, my lord. Right away."
Twenty minutes later, the knock returned—but it wasn't Lilian.
It was someone older. Shorter. Slower.
A man entered dressed in formal black livery, white hair slicked back, eyes sharp and unimpressed.
"Ancor," Kael said, the name slipping out naturally.
The steward nodded, placing two thick volumes on the desk by the window. "Lilian is illiterate, my lord. I assumed you'd prefer accuracy."
Kael gave a half-smile. "Smart guess."
"This one," Ancor tapped the top volume, "is the official history of the Principality of Veyre. The other—of Lucien, our sovereign kingdom."
Lucien.
Kael's heart stopped. He opened the second book with careful fingers, flipping through entries and illustrations. His eyes locked on a familiar crest: a crowned phoenix surrounded by four broken stars.
Lucien II. Reigning monarch.
But that didn't make sense. In Divine Wake, Lucien IV ruled during the game's second major expansion—"The Rise of the Empire." That was where the Western continent storyline began. This wasn't just the game world. It was the game world before it began.
He was in the prologue.
And he remembered what happened next.
"Let me know if you need anything further," Ancor said. "I will leave you in peace."
The door closed with a soft click.
Kael leaned back, mind racing.
This was the Lucien Kingdom. The second expansion's starting point.
He'd grinded through it seventeen years ago. Back when the servers were young and the second arc was a brutal nightmare of resource management and political assassinations. He hadn't remembered the names right away—Veyre, Lucien—but now they burned with familiarity.
Then it hit him.
Quentin.
Quentin Weyland.
Future Duke of Veyre. PvP boss. Mid-game antagonist. Known for dueling and executing mid-ranked players in his capital city. Kael had died to him more than once.
And now?
He had a duel set against him in thirty days.
Great.
Kael closed the book and reached for the second.
Veyre's nobility. Lineages. Martial houses.
It wasn't until page 117 that the name leapt off the page like a thrown dagger.
Merrick, Lister. Baron. House of the Ashen Sun. Known practitioner of blade arts. Accused of public misconduct in youth.
Descendant of Merrick the Red — Founder of the Merrick School of Swordsmanship. Status: declining.
Notable mentions: Lister's duel against Quentin Weyland at age 29, where he lost his left arm.
Kael's fingers froze.
His left arm?
He stared down at both hands, flexing them. Perfect. Healthy.
It hasn't happened yet.
The duel in a month wasn't just some minor side event—it was the moment Merrick lost his arm.
In the game, Merrick was the legendary swordmaster NPC who trained players in the Western kingdom. A tragic figure. A former noble turned hermit. Known for his missing arm and unmatched one-handed blade style.
But before he became a legend—he was just this: an arrogant, mid-level noble with a duel and a death sentence.
Which meant…
Kael slowly exhaled.
"I'm him," he whispered. "I'm the one-armed blade master."
He looked back at the system panel and reread his skills.
[Merrick Blade Style] – Rare – Lv. 3 (21/30,000)
→ Precise melee strikes based on STR.
[Merrick Breathing Technique] – Passive – Lv. 2 (0/20,000)
→ STR +2 (permanent)
Only Level 3. No unique actives. Just a single passive.
Back then, players ignored these early passive techniques. They were considered beginner fluff. Everyone chased A-rank class skills and shiny spells. Passives were boring.
But in the late game?
Passives became everything.
Kael remembered the day it clicked for the community. When the highest-ranked player on the star server beat a Level 80 boss using just four maxed-out passives and one basic sword style.
The forums exploded.
True damage. Immunity stacks. Efficiency loops.
Passives ignored soft caps.
While active skills hit ceilings, passives scaled endlessly—if you leveled them. If you found them. If you had time.
Which meant…
Kael's eyes gleamed.
He was in the second expansion. The old world. Before the system removed most passive acquisition paths. Before the rebalancing patches. Before the nerfs.
This was the golden age.
And nobody else knew it.
Not Anna. Not Quentin. Not the system itself.
He alone had the future knowledge. He alone had the interface.
And he had thirty days to make sure he didn't lose that arm.
He stood, pushed open the wardrobe, and pulled out the sheathed longsword hanging on a rack.
It was heavy. Functional. Nothing fancy.
Kael stepped onto the training platform at the edge of the room and breathed deep. The interface pulsed faintly behind his eyes.
[Weapon Equipped: Basic Noble Blade]
[Combat Mode Activated]
[Passive Trait: Merrick Breathing Technique – Lv. 2: Active]
He drew the sword slowly. The blade hummed against the sheath.
Then he stepped forward and began to move.
It was clumsy at first—he wasn't a swordsman, not in the real world. But his body remembered. This body remembered. The stance. The angle. The pressure.
Strike. Breathe. Step. Breathe.
The breathing technique engaged.
Strength surged into his arms. Fluidity returned. Balance corrected.
He felt alive.
And he saw it now—saw the potential. If he could raise the breathing technique… If he could find more passive skills before the duel…
He wouldn't just survive Quentin.
He'd kill him.
No injury.
No lost arm.
And when the future unfolded—when the world fell into fire and empire—he wouldn't be the swordmaster in hiding.
He'd be the storm that broke the stars.