Alistair blinked, still unsettled. The end of the first chapter of his new life had left him with the lingering echo of the void's eyes. Now, before him, hovered an option: Open Status. He clicked it without hesitation.
-
[Status]
[Name: Alistair Vale]
[Age: 15]
[Realm: Unawakened]
[Traits: Sword God's Disposition | Hunger of the Void]
Sword God's Disposition: A natural connection to blades that sharpens combat instinct and sense.Hunger of the Void: Born from staring into the abyss and glimpsing truths of the universe. It planted in him an endless hunger for strength, as if power alone could unlock that lost knowledge.
[Attributes: Unawakened]
[Talent: SSS]
[Soul Vassals: 0 / 7]
-
His brows furrowed. The layout looked simple, almost barebones, yet the words carved into light carried weight beyond imagining. He sat still, taking it all in.
In his previous life, he had read manga and watched anime that used similar systems. But standing here, seeing his soul laid bare, was baffling in a way fiction never prepared him for.
He started from the top. Age: 15.
His lips tightened. He still had the thoughts of a twenty-seven-year-old man, and yet he was once again barely older than a boy. Realm: Unawakened. He only knew of the next step—Initiate. Beyond that, the names of realms were guarded secrets, shared only among awakened nobles, powerful merchants, and high-ranking officials. He remembered Thalia's advancement a year ago, the only reason he even knew of Initiates at all. To the common world, the path of realms was hidden.
And then there was the cruel law of this world: no one could access mana before turning sixteen. Six more days.
His eyes moved lower. Traits. A faint grin tugged at his mouth. Sword God's Disposition. A trait that promised a natural connection to the sword. He could feel the instinct already stirring, a promise of battle sense and deadly edge. It was thrilling—satisfying in a way that didn't show on his cool expression but stirred inside like fire.
The second trait, Hunger of the Void. His eyes narrowed. He knew immediately what it meant. When he had stared into that abyss, when those eyes swallowed him, he had felt like a god—just for a moment. The knowledge had been there, all of it, but slipped away like water through a sieve. That yearning, that burning craving to reclaim what he glimpsed, had carved itself into his soul. Now it was given a name.
Attributes: Unawakened. Attributes were powers that manifested when one reached Initiate. But not everyone awakened them—only about forty percent of mana users did. Some gained weak attributes, like Thorn-Blessed, which allowed small bursts of thorny growth, while others gained powerful ones, capable of shaking nations. Attributes could evolve with each new realm, but mastery mattered. Early, Intermediate, High, Perfect—without proper mastery before advancing, the next attribute would often weaken. A mistake that crippled many. He stored that lesson carefully.
Talent: SSS. His eyes lingered. He had never heard of talent being graded like this. Normally, nobles measured talent by speed of advancement, not symbols. Still, SSS sounded impossibly high. Perhaps the highest. Perhaps not. Either way, it was his.
Finally, Soul Vassals. The section that mattered most.
Next to the number 0 was a faint plus sign. He pressed it.
[Ding! Soul Vassal Function.]
Description:
To bind another as a Soul Vassal was no simple blessing. It was the rewriting of fate itself. Their meager spark of talent would be reforged into brilliance, elevated to the rank of SS. A second trait would awaken within them—Soul Vassal—a mark branding them as both weapon and shadow, inseparable from their master. Their old nature would not vanish but transform, their traits and attributes bending and evolving under the weight of the bond. Even the speed at which they could grasp and master their awakened powers would accelerate, as if the strings of destiny were tightened in their favor. They would surrender their body, soul, and mana to him, making it impossible for either to do him harm. Above all, their loyalty would be absolute, for betrayal was severed from their very soul; their lives bound inseparably to his.
(The system will notify the host when a potential Soul Vassal candidate is found.)
Alistair exhaled slowly. Out of everything, this was the sharpest blade in his hand. His Soul Vassals would be his edge against the world.
His stomach growled. He blinked, realizing he hadn't eaten in days. Gregor's pack still held coin. He rose, lifting the knight's fine sword—then paused. The blade was exquisite, its sheath fit for a noble house. Too eye-catching for the slums. He left it behind.
Stepping outside, he glanced back at the shack. It was well hidden, tucked on the outskirts of Grey Terminal. How had Gregor known of this place? Perhaps the old knight had history here.
—
The slums were filth and hunger given form. Lean bodies shuffled through alleys, eyes empty and searching. Barrel fires smoldered. Smells of rot and smoke clung to the air. Alistair moved deeper, coins in hand, and purchased stale bread and water that tasted of rust. But eyes followed him. Too many eyes.
It didn't take long to understand. He was too handsome, too composed. His noble bearing shone even here. Attention was a danger he couldn't afford.
He hurried back to the shack, finishing his meal in silence. Then came five days of training. With every swing of Gregor's spare blade, his Sword God's Disposition sharpened him. His footwork grew steady, his cuts precise. His battle instincts blossomed at a speed that made him smirk in quiet satisfaction.
On the fifth day, he returned to Grey Terminal—this time cloaked and hooded. He bought more food, water, and clothing, but he also watched. The slums were ruled by a gang known as the Ash Serpents. Their members prowled the alleys with arrogance, extorting coin and spilling blood without care. They owned the streets.
Alistair decided to head back, but fate caught him first. Two Ash Serpents stepped into his path. Their eyes went to the heavy bag in his hands.
"Nice haul," one sneered. "Hand it over."
Alistair's gaze cut into them like a blade. Noble disdain filled his violet eyes. To him, they were worms daring to bare fangs at a predator.
Alistair's violet gaze was cold. "Move."
Anger twisted one man's face. He lunged. Alistair caught his wrist mid-strike, and before the man knew what was happening, he was spun into the air and slammed onto his back. A fist followed, cracking into his jaw and knocking him unconscious. The other froze, trembling.
Alistair dusted his cloak, voice cold. "Pathetic."
He walked away, leaving them broken but alive. Killing them would only bring the awakened boss of the Ash Serpents down on him. For now, anonymity mattered.
Back at the shack, he dropped the supplies and lay down, willing himself to sleep. Tomorrow, he would turn sixteen. The day he could finally touch mana.
But excitement burned too hot for rest. He rose again, blade in hand, and trained until his muscles screamed. Hours passed unnoticed.
Then midnight came.
His chest clenched. Something inside him cracked open. A current brushed against his skin, slipped into his veins.
Mana.
He froze, sword mid-swing, violet eyes burning with hunger.
At last, the path had opened.
—