The scent of blood hit the old man before the doors even opened.
Ancor, steward of House Merrick for nearly four decades, flinched as the heavy oaken doors groaned apart and revealed the young baron. Listern staggered into the hall with torn sleeves, bruised ribs, and clothes soaked in the dried brown of battle. His boots left faint smudges on the stone floor—mud, blood, something worse.
"My lord!" Ancor rushed forward. "You're wounded—I'll summon Blythe at once!"
Listern waved him off with a half-limp arm. "I'm fine. Nothing broken."
The old man did not look convinced. "You're bleeding."
"I've bled worse shaving."
Ancor frowned. "Blythe will come anyway."
Listern didn't argue. He made his way to the grand chair at the head of the dining table and sat heavily, grimacing as he leaned back. Every rib screamed in protest. The bruising from the Cerberic charge was deeper than he thought. It had been foolish to take that beast head-on, even if he had killed it in the end.
Moments later, a knock at the door announced the arrival of Blythe—bent, balding, and not a healer by trade, but with more practical knowledge than half the charlatans the Church called "Divines."
The old man shuffled in with a leather satchel and a glass flask. He offered no greetings, just a grumble as he examined Listern's chest with careful hands.
"Bruised, not broken," he muttered. "You'll live."
"That's what I told Ancor."
"Mm. Did you listen to the part where I said not broken?"
"No."
Blythe reached into his satchel and produced a stoppered vial of cloudy liquid. "Holy water," he said with an air of sarcasm. "Blessed by a journeyman from the western cloister. Or at least, that's what the label says."
Listern scanned the bottle with his interface.
[Item Acquired: Minor Healing Water]
Effect: Slowly restores HP and stamina over time.
He pocketed the vial. "I'll save it. Doesn't make sense to drink it now."
Blythe raised a bushy brow. "It does make sense. But you won't listen."
Ancor hovered near the door, hands folded tightly. "Will you be resting, my lord?"
Listern shook his head. "Soon. But not yet."
He dismissed them both with a gesture and turned to his desk, where the same history tome on Lucien's Rise had been sitting for two days. Its pages remained unturned, gathering dust. There was no time for reading.
Listern brought up his interface.
[EXP Remaining: 41,210]
Without hesitation, he allocated it.
[Skill Upgraded: Merrick Blade Style Lv3 → Lv4]
Precise attacks now deal 417–525 damage (scaled by STR).
He wanted to spend it on breathing techniques—on the deeper foundations of power. But breathing didn't kill monsters. Not fast enough, anyway. His priority was survival. More importantly, he needed to win.
The moment he closed the interface, exhaustion surged like a tidal wave. He barely made it to his bed before darkness took him.
He awoke nearly twenty hours later, muscles sore but healing, his breath steadier than before. His HP bar had recovered enough. He rose, dressed, and found a saddlebag already packed. Ancor was waiting with a bundle of dried meat and springwater.
"My lord…" The steward hesitated. "Are you sure this is necessary?"
Listern adjusted his sword belt. "You're worried about the duel."
"I am. You'll face Quent in under a month. Shouldn't you be training here, in safety? Within the manor's walls?"
Listern looked out the window. "You think sparring with dummies is enough?"
Ancor didn't answer.
Listern turned back, voice sharper now. "You think I'll lose."
The old man drew back slightly. "Never, my lord. You carry the blood of the Merricks. You'll not lose."
But the lie hung between them like smoke.
Listern didn't call it out. He just smiled.
"I appreciate your concern," he said. "Now—do as I asked. I want eyes on Quent. And Anna."
Ancor bowed. "Yes, my lord."
The fields outside the city had changed since his last visit. Crows circled overhead in lazy spirals. The carcasses of dead Cerberic knights still rotted in the grass, untouched by scavengers. The smell of iron and rot clung to the hills.
No respawns.
In the game, the creatures here would've reset by now—cleansed and re-generated with clean loot tables and predictable routes.
But this world didn't reset.
Dead was dead. Blood dried and stayed. Corpses decomposed. The Cerberic caves he'd cleared hadn't re-populated. That meant the creatures were real. Finite.
And that meant farming was no longer a grind—it was a risk.
He approached the nearest cave entrance carefully. It reeked of death. He slipped inside, blade drawn low, every muscle alert.
The sound came first.
Wet. Heavy.
Listern ducked behind a rock as two more of the dog-headed warriors patrolled the tunnel. He waited, silent. Then—
Slice.
A single clean stroke severed one of their spines. The other turned, too slow.
CRIT: 582 Damage.
The second dropped. Blood pooled around their feet.
He spent the next hours clearing the adjacent tunnels. His movements were cleaner now. Sharper. The upgraded Blade Style let him exploit openings with brutal efficiency. Each kill brought more XP, though the monsters were fewer now.
[Remaining EXP: 62,643]
[Merrick Breathing Technique Lv2 → Lv3]
+3 Strength bonus applied.
[Merrick Blade Style Lv4 → Lv5]
Damage increased to 537–635 (STR-scaled).
New Skill Unlocked: Merrick Drawcut Slash
A sweeping circular strike that damages all nearby enemies. Cannot be manually upgraded. Improves every 5 levels of Merrick Blade Style.
Listern dropped to one knee, panting. His shirt was soaked, torn at the seams. Blood—not all of it his—ran down his arms in thin streams.
But the moment he saw the notification, he smiled.
There it was.
Drawcut Slash.
A technique only unlockable through pure dedication to the Merrick line's swordcraft. Most players had dismissed it—too weak early on, too grind-heavy. But Listern knew better. This wasn't about numbers.
This was legacy.
And in the midst of rot and death, surrounded by monsters and the silence of a world that refused to reset, legacy was the only thing he had left.