The library of Frosthold was hushed, the kind of silence that pressed on the ears. Dusty light filtered through tall, narrow windows, settling on rows of books bound in cracked leather. Some were new enough to gleam faintly under the firelight, others so worn that their spines leaned like tired soldiers.
Aric ran his fingers across the shelves, half-wondering why he had never spent more time here. His father's voice always spoke of duty and steel, of the land and its defense. His tutors hammered manners, politics, history. But here—here was something different.
Knowledge that waited for whoever reached for it.
[Ooooh. Look at you. Browsing like a scholar instead of moping like a failed altar-boy. I'm touched.]
Aric rolled his eyes and whispered under his breath, "Can you not announce yourself so dramatically?"
[I'll try. But no promises. After all, I am the only reason you're here thinking you can climb higher. Might as well remind you.]
He pulled down a thick tome titled An Introduction to Martial Classes. The leather smelled of ink and time. Carrying it to a table, he flipped it open and read.
"Knights," the text began, "are the bulwark of armies. Their strength lies in resilience and discipline. They form the shield of kingdoms, stalwart defenders against tide and terror."
Aric imagined his brother Edrin's face, his earnest swing of the training sword, and thought, That suits him.
"Duelists," the book continued, "specialize in precision and speed. Their blades cut quicker than thought, their battles short and decisive. But they burn fast—their strength lies in the first strike."
[Not you. You're stubborn as a mule. You'd collapse halfway into the first duel, then refuse to die out of sheer spite.]
Aric smirked despite himself. You're not entirely wrong.
He flipped the page.
"Swordmages: rare warriors who weave magic into their blade, marrying spell and steel. Their power comes at a cost, as mana burns through their bodies like oil through flame."
Aric traced the ink with his finger. Swordmages. His heart quickened.
[Ah, now you're staring. Don't drool on the page. That's basically you already. Arcane Slash? Baby's first Swordmage trick. Stick with it and you'll be rewriting these books one day.]
"I don't just want to copy tricks," Aric muttered. "I want to understand them."
[Then study. Train. Don't be another brat swinging sparks without knowing why. Understanding—that's how you make skills yours, not just mine.]
The words struck deeper than Aric wanted to admit. He read slower now, eyes drinking in every line about mana channels, about balance between speed and endurance.
When the book turned to "limitations," he frowned.
"Many Swordmages exhaust themselves young. Overuse of mana through blades corrodes the body, scars the spirit, and can lead to death in battle before the prime of age."
[Charming, isn't it? Burn bright, die fast. Like cheap candles. But hey—you've got me. Which means if you're clever, you won't burn out. You'll burn through.]
Aric closed the tome gently, setting it aside. His chest was tight with a strange mix of fear and excitement.
Another book caught his eye—Bloodlines and Inheritance. The cover was dark, embossed with silver lettering.
Inside, he found diagrams of family trees and ancient sigils, notes on how blood carried not just heritage but strength.
"Human bloodlines," one passage read, "are common, unremarkable, but adaptable. Elves carry magic as easily as breath. Dwarves hold endurance like stone. Vampires command blood itself. Werewolves channel the wild hunt."
Aric read on, fascinated, until he found a passage on tiers: common, noble, royal, ancient, mythic. His finger paused on the last.
"Those with mythic bloodlines," the text explained, "are said to move the world simply by existing. Their power bends fate, their presence alters history."
He leaned back, lips tightening. And me? Just human. No great gift. No special blood.
[Aw, don't pout. Bloodlines are just shiny packaging. Useful, sure, but not everything. And remember, Host—you've got me. I literally let you copy skills. Who's to say bloodlines can't be copied, too?]
Aric blinked, heart thudding. "You mean—"
[Yes, exactly what you're thinking. Find the right partner, ally, enemy—whatever—and bam, bloodline copied. With enough training, you could make their gifts your own. Safe. Controlled. Better than those altar-scams at shrines.]
The thought burned bright. For the first time, bloodlines didn't feel like an unscalable wall. They felt like stepping stones.
Aric closed the book with more force than intended. Dust scattered into the light. He pressed a hand against the cover and whispered, "Then I'll carve my own path."
[Now you're speaking my language.]
He wasn't finished. He pulled down another book, this one slimmer: Guilds and Their Influence. Its pages smelled faintly of smoke.
"The Adventurers' Guild," it said, "regulates contracts for exploration, monster hunts, and dungeon dives. It is politically neutral, but wields economic power."
"The Merchant Guild sets prices and rates across regions, their ledgers rivaling royal treasuries."
"The Mage Guild hoards arcane knowledge, renting it out as though it were coin."
Aric skimmed faster. So much of this is bigger than Frosthold. Bigger than my family. All of it… connected.
[And all of it waiting for you to poke your nose in. Carefully, of course. Stick your head in the wrong guild and you'll come out missing an ear. Or worse, your coin purse.]
Aric laughed under his breath.
He spent the rest of the afternoon wandering through the shelves, stopping wherever a title caught his eye—The Ethics of Class Trials,Monsters of the Midland Forests,Runes and Minor Enchantments. Each gave him glimpses of a world so much larger than he'd ever touched.
When the light outside dimmed into the orange of late day, he finally sat back, rubbing tired eyes. His head felt stuffed with words, but his chest felt lighter.
[So, Host. What did we learn?]
Aric thought for a moment. That classes aren't everything. That bloodlines aren't walls. That there's more power in knowledge than I realized.
[Correct! Gold star. And most importantly—that you're not trapped. You're not the boy who failed in the shrine. You're the one with options. Lots of them.]
Aric smiled faintly. The System's banter was sharp, mocking even—but beneath it, there was truth.
He looked back once at the shelves before leaving, memorizing the titles, promising himself he'd return.
Because this—this was a different kind of training. One just as sharp as any blade.