The morning sun spilled across Frosthold's courtyard, chasing away the last of the night's chill. Aric moved among the servants and guards like a ghost, ignored when he was quiet, overheard when he wasn't meant to be. The whispers about his failed awakening hadn't slowed. They trailed him like smoke.
He clenched his jaw and pushed past the stares, heading for the old training yard where Captain Bran's men left practice dummies standing. The wooden soldiers waited, scarred by years of drills, but they were steady company.
You're sulking, Host.
Aric winced. I'm not sulking.
[Sure. You're just "brooding dramatically." Very dignified. Want me to fetch you a cape so you can flap it around while you pout?]
Aric glared at the empty air. Do you ever shut up?
[Nope. And lucky for you, I've actually got useful advice today. Unless you'd rather mope until the servants start calling you "Lord Pity."]
Aric took a deep breath. Fine. I'm listening.
[Good. First lesson: you've got a cheat button, and you're not pressing it. You can copy skills. That's your edge. Why waste time sulking when you could be grabbing tricks left and right?]
Aric blinked. Copy… skills?
[Yes, Host. Watch closely. When someone performs a skill — combat, craft, magic, whatever — the System flags it. You'll see a prompt. Two slots for now. Pick wisely.]
As if to prove the point, one of Bran's men was drilling at the far end of the yard. His boots struck sharp pivots across the dirt, fast and fluid. A faint shimmer flickered in Aric's vision.
[Skill detected: Quickstep (Basic Agility Technique). Copy? Yes/No]
Aric's breath caught. That's real?
[Try it. What's the worst that happens, you trip harder than usual?]
He willed the word: Yes.
[Skill acquired: Quickstep Lv. 1 (Efficiency: 40%). Slot 1 filled.]
Heat surged through his legs, not pain, but a strange memory of movement grafted onto his body. He stepped forward, mimicking the guard's stance. His first dash was clumsy, stumbling wide, sword nearly slipping from his hand.
[Graceful. Like a baby deer on ice.]
Aric reset, teeth gritted. Again. This time his feet snapped tighter under him, momentum sharper, if not clean.
[Better. Efficiency starts low, but you'll grow it. Train, polish, sweat, and soon you'll outpace the man you stole it from.]
Aric's chest burned with something unfamiliar. Not shame. Something sharper.
Resolve.
The system's hum deepened.[Now for your second slot. Think bigger. A blade wrapped in magic. You've seen Bran's swing—steel cutting with spellfire. That's Arcane Slash. Flashy, deadly, and definitely not useless.]
Aric swallowed. That's… real power.
[Exactly. And remember the rules, Host: two skills at a time. Copy a new one, overwrite an old one. Weak source, weak start. Strong source, harder climb. But every skill can grow. Train it, and it might even surpass the original.]
Aric stared at the dummies, seeing them differently now. Not wood. Not straw. Obstacles. Steps on a mountain only he could climb.
He tightened his grip on the wooden sword, heart pounding with something dangerously close to excitement.
[That's the look. Finally. One step closer, Host. One step closer.]
And for the first time since the ceremony, Aric didn't feel like he was failing.
Aric's legs ached by the time he finally managed a halfway decent Quickstep. The motion was still clumsy, but sharper than before, his body catching little flashes of rhythm he hadn't known he could summon. Sweat ran down his neck, soaking the collar of his tunic, but the sting in his muscles felt… good.
[See? Not useless after all. One slot filled. One step faster. One step closer.]
Aric smirked faintly, rolling his shoulders. He almost looked forward to trying again. Almost.
That was when a sharp crack split the yard. Aric froze, head turning.
Across the training ground, Captain Bran stood with two senior guards. His blade hummed faintly, light shimmering along the edge as he raised it high. The practice dummy before him had already lost an arm, the wood charred black at the cut.
"Focus," Bran's voice carried, stern but steady. "The sword is an extension of the will. Magic does not replace it. Magic sharpens it."
Aric's breath caught. He stepped closer, hardly daring to blink.
Bran drew in a breath, channeling again. The air seemed to shiver around the steel, a faint arcane glow coiling along the blade. Then—swift, controlled—he brought it down.
The dummy split cleanly in two. Sparks of blue-white energy crackled through the straw before fading into smoke.
Aric's heart hammered. That—that was it. Not just a strike. A weapon made alive with magic. His fingers tightened on the wooden hilt at his side.
The System stirred.
[Skill detected: Arcane Slash (Magic-Sword Technique). Copy? Yes / No]
Aric's pulse thudded in his ears. Yes. Yes, a thousand times—
Yes.
[Skill acquired: Arcane Slash Lv. 1 (Efficiency: 40%). Slot filled.]
A rush of alien sensation flickered through him — the memory of weight, the surge of will aligning with steel, the snap of arcane energy at the edge of the blade. His wooden practice sword trembled in his grip, as if it knew it wasn't enough.
He gasped softly, steadying himself. His arms tingled, his chest felt alight.
[Two slots. Quickstep and Arcane Slash. Not bad for a kid everyone thinks is a failure.]
Aric exhaled, half-dizzy, half-thrilled. For the first time since the ceremony, he felt like his path wasn't just shadowed. There were sparks in the dark now.
And he intended to follow them.