The sky above Liberia Academy was painted in fractured colors that afternoon—streaks of gray and molten gold warring through the clouds like the heavens themselves were undecided. Wind swept across the high rooftops, whistling over the railings and the wide stone tiles that glimmered faintly under the artificial sun shield.
Mark Francis sat alone on the edge of the rooftop, his legs dangling into open air. The cityscape of the capital stretched below him like a mechanical garden—iron towers and mana-reactors breathing clouds of silver smoke, the distant hum of engines mingling with the faint calls of distant drakes that circled the towers like carrion birds.
He unwrapped his packed lunch slowly—two cold sandwiches wrapped in reused parchment and a bottle of mana-infused water that flickered faintly with light blue hues. His stomach wasn't exactly demanding food, but routine was an anchor. And after last night—after the System, the poem, the awakening—routine felt like the only thing holding him together.
He bit into the bread, the taste flat and stale. The wind tugged at his hair, whispering things that could have been the echoes of memory, or just tricks of exhaustion.
His eyes were distant, unfocused, staring past the horizon where the dome of Liberia ended and the untamed wilderness began. Beyond that shimmering barrier, ruins of the old world lay scattered under skies torn by mana storms—craters that burned blue even at night, remnants of an age where mortals challenged gods and lost.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry. And as silence stretched, the memories returned.
He could still hear her voice, clear as glass cutting through him.
"You're boring, Mark. You talk about poems and stars and dreams—but dreams don't pay rent."
He'd laughed then, softly, even as his chest tightened.
"It's not about money, it's about expression. About truth."
"Truth?" She had scoffed. "The truth is you're poor, uninteresting, and you'll never be anything. I can't waste my life on someone like you."
He remembered standing there under that broken lamppost, the drizzle turning his cheap coat heavy. Remembered how she walked away without looking back. How the sound of her heels against the pavement was louder than his heartbeat.
Her perfume lingered for days in his mind—sweet, poisonous nostalgia.
He chewed in silence, the crust of the sandwich turning to dust in his mouth.
"No one will stay anyway," he muttered to the empty air, his voice trembling between weariness and defiance. "That's the truth, isn't it?"
The wind didn't answer. But something else did.
A faint chime echoed—not from his phone, not from the world outside—but from within.
The System.
Its presence was no longer shocking; it lived inside him now, quiet, breathing in the rhythm of his thoughts. The transparent blue window appeared, lines of ancient script bending softly into digital text.
[SYSTEM:]"Do you hate them?"
Mark blinked. The question floated in the air like a thought he had tried to bury.
He sighed, shaking his head.
"No," he said softly, voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "I don't hate them."
He stared at the skyline—the way light fractured against the barrier, how the world beyond seemed always out of reach.
"I vowed to myself that I'm better than anyone who's ever laughed at me, left me, or looked down on me."
His tone hardened, each word like a nail hammered into the void.
"Not because I want revenge. No… not anymore. I want to make them insignificant. So irrelevant that even the gods who write our stories will have to acknowledge me."
A pause. The wind howled against the railing.
Then, the System responded again—its tone softer this time, almost reverent.
[SYSTEM:]"Hidden Quest Complete: 'Curse to a God' — Emotional Resonance: Extreme Nihilism detected."
Rewards Granted:• Passive Skill: Intellect Drop — Stabilizes cognitive pathways to prevent total insanity during high existential strain. Mental loss proportionate to survival instinct increase.• Passive Skill: Reality Absorption — Upon slaying any living or metaphysical being, absorb fragments of their Reality Essence.• Passive Skill: Photographic Memory — All visual and written information permanently stored. Recall at will.
Mark froze mid-breath. His pulse quickened, and his vision flared briefly with bursts of white light as if reality itself approved of his defiance.
He exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of the rooftop tighter.
"Intellect Drop… Reality Absorption…" he murmured. "So my mind will shatter slower, but I'll survive longer."
He chuckled bitterly. "That's poetic."
Then another chime. The window pulsed, and a new notification unfolded, its words swirling like ink spilled in water.
[SYSTEM:]"Reward 2: Passive Skill — Poet Verses"Description: Enables silent composition of Verses—mental poetry capable of manifesting physical or metaphysical phenomena.Type: Offensive / DefensiveMana Cost: NonePrice:Sanity.Note:Your imagination is the only limit. Your mind is the battlefield.
The air around him thickened, pressure building in his temples. For a moment, the world trembled faintly. He saw the air ripple in front of him as though his thoughts were pushing at the fabric of space itself.
He whispered softly, experimentally:
"If pain could bleed into the sky…"
The clouds above responded—subtle at first, then violently. A crimson streak tore through the gray, painting the heavens with what looked disturbingly like a wound.
Mark's eyes widened. He gasped, clutching his head as pain seared behind his eyes—like knives of light digging into his mind.
"Stop—stop!" he shouted.
The sky flickered. The wound closed. Silence reclaimed the world.
He was breathing hard now, knuckles white. Sweat rolled down his face.
"So that's what sanity as a price means," he muttered. "The world listens to what I say."
He laughed quietly, almost hysterically, then leaned back against the cold metal of the rooftop door. The System's glow dimmed, floating beside him like a loyal ghost.
After a while, he whispered, voice barely audible:
"You… you're not just a system, are you?"
For the first time, the silence replied—not as text, but as a voice.
It was faint, female, and carried a tone that was neither human nor machine. Each syllable seemed written in light.
"I am what you create, Poet. A reflection of your will. The world rewrites itself when you speak truth. But truth always demands blood."
Mark blinked. "So you're… my muse?"
A pause. Then—
"If you wish. But muses are born from madness. Be careful what you dream aloud."
He didn't answer. He sat there, listening to the sound of the city below—the distant laughter of students, the faint hum of mana engines.
After a long silence, he asked softly:
"Do you think I'll lose myself?"
The voice lingered like a whisper against his ear.
"Every poet does. The question is—what will remain when you do?"
Mark smiled faintly, a tired, hollow smile.
"Then I'll make sure what remains is enough to be remembered."
The System pulsed gently, almost approvingly. Then it receded, fading into a faint outline before vanishing completely.
The rooftop fell silent once more, save for the wind and the hum of invisible energy surrounding him.
He pulled his notebook from his coat pocket—its pages trembling slightly as if aware of the power they now carried. He flipped to the last page and began to write, though his hand shook.
They called me weak, but weakness is the soil where monsters bloom.They called me mad, but madness is the song the stars forgot.And if a god must fall for me to be heard,Then let heaven learn the weight of my silence.
When he finished, the ink shimmered faintly, and his System window reopened, confirming the impossible.
[LEVEL UP!]Current Level: 1Class: PoetSubclass: The Nihil Versebearer
Attributes Unlocked:• Sanity Gauge – 93%• Reality Sync – 12%• Emotional Echo – Active
The world tilted again for a second, then stabilized. His vision sharpened—the colors richer, the air clearer. He could see the flow of mana between things now: the faint strings connecting thought and matter, the vibrations of words unspoken.
He sat there for a long time, just breathing, his mind caught between awe and exhaustion.
Then, the door creaked behind him.
A student's voice—hesitant, curious—cut through the quiet.
"Hey… uh, are you okay up here?"
Mark turned. A girl stood in the doorway—short brown hair, amber eyes, wearing the standard blue-and-white Liberia uniform. Her name tag read Claira Esten.
He blinked at her, still caught between realities. "Yeah. Just… thinking."
She stepped closer, holding her lunch tray. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Something like that," he said, forcing a half-smile.
Claira hesitated, then sat a few feet away, setting her tray down. "Mind if I sit here? The cafeteria's full, and everyone's gossiping about the failed Abyss raid again."
He shrugged. "Sure."
They ate in silence for a while, the sound of wind filling the space between them. Then she said quietly:
"You're the new transfer, right? The Meta Psychology student?"
"Yeah. Mark Francis."
"Claira," she said, smiling faintly. "Nice to meet you. So… what do you think of Liberia so far?"
He stared into the distance. "It's… bigger than I imagined. And stranger."
"You'll get used to it. The System lectures alone drive half the students insane."
He chuckled softly, under his breath. Half the students? Try all.
Claira tilted her head. "You write, don't you?"
He blinked. "How did you—"
"You've got that look. The kind of person who watches the world like it's one long poem waiting to be finished."
Her tone was light, but her eyes were perceptive.
"Something like that," he said quietly.
She nodded, looking up at the sky. "I like people who see things differently. It's the only way anything changes."
Her words lingered. See things differently.
The wind picked up again. He looked at her, about to speak—then the System flickered faintly at the edge of his vision, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"Reality Essence detected," it whispered. "Potential connection: Claira Esten."
He blinked hard. Connection?
But before he could respond, Claira stood, brushing crumbs from her skirt.
"Well, I'll see you around, Poet," she said with a grin. "Don't fall off the roof, alright?"
He watched her leave, the word Poet echoing strangely in his mind—like it had been more than just a guess.
When she was gone, he looked back at the horizon, whispering to himself:
"Even strangers see it now."
The System pulsed softly in response.
"Your verse bleeds into reality, Mark Francis. You are no longer merely a writer."
He closed his eyes.
"Then what am I?"
The System paused. Then, softly:
"A living metaphor."
Mark smiled faintly at the absurdity of it all—the boy once called boring, freak, worthless, now bound to a system that turned thought into power, pain into strength, and poetry into weaponry.
He looked down at the city once more. The mana lines pulsed faintly below like veins of a sleeping god.
"Let them mock," he whispered. "Let them forget. I'll rewrite the world until even gods kneel to my verses."
The wind rose, scattering the last crumbs of his lunch into the air like fading ink on parchment.
And somewhere far below, the barrier shimmered as if the world itself had heard his vow.
The System chimed softly one last time.
[QUEST LOG UPDATED]Main Quest Unlocked: "The Spiral of Truth"Objective: Awaken three other Versebearers within Liberia Academy.Reward:Unknown.Warning: Reality instability may increase.
Mark Francis leaned back, eyes on the horizon where heaven met ruin. His voice was calm, quiet, yet carried through the wind like prophecy.
The sky was bruised with twilight. The sun bled into the horizon, staining the clouds with molten red and violet hues, as if the heavens themselves had been wounded by something ancient and unseen. The rooftop was quieter now, the wind softer, but the silence was alive — trembling with energy that wasn't there moments ago.
Mark Francis remained seated where he had been, half between exhaustion and anticipation. His eyes, dark as still ink, watched the skyline flicker beneath the translucent mana dome of Liberia City.
His phone lay beside him, dim and forgotten. The air shimmered faintly as the familiar crystalline tone of his System chimed into existence.
A window appeared, words burning into the air like carved neon scripture.
[SYSTEM:]"Main Quest: Spiral of Truth"Objective: Awaken three Versebearers within Liberia Academy.
Mark exhaled sharply, wiping the sweat from his temple. "I remember," he muttered, his voice low. "The Versebearers. Those like me."
But before he could dwell further, the System's tone shifted. The words blurred, rearranging into something new.
[SYSTEM:]"User Inquiry Detected: Clarifying Quest Objective.""To awaken other Versebearers is to guide dormant poetic souls — individuals capable of shaping reality through emotion and verse — into their awakening."
Mark frowned. "Awaken… others?"
He leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. The wind pushed his hair back as he stared at the glowing interface.
"What do you mean about the quest?"
The System's chime echoed like a bell struck under water, the sound both mechanical and ethereal.
[SYSTEM:]"Objective Simplified: Awaken other Poets. Their awakening is necessary for stability of metaphysical equilibrium. Versebearers are fragments of a single origin. You are one fragment."
Mark's brows furrowed. "Fragments? No."
He rose slowly, his shadow stretching long across the concrete rooftop.
"No!" he said louder this time, voice trembling with conviction. "I won't. This is mine and mine alone."
The System did not reply. The silence between him and the floating window was suffocating.
He took a step closer, as if confronting a person rather than a construct.
"You don't understand," Mark continued, his breath shallow. "I worked for this. I bled for this. Every rejection, every night awake writing things no one understood — it was all mine. Mine. I'll be the three Versebearers myself if I have to!"
His voice cracked, half fury, half desperation.
For a moment, the world seemed to pause. Then, the System flared bright — so bright that it illuminated the rooftop like a god descending.
The wind stilled. Time trembled.
[SYSTEM:]"Notice: Forceful alteration of Main Quest detected.""User has rejected shared Versebearer awakening. Adapting to individual delusion of omnipotence."
"Quest Updated."
[NEW QUEST:]'Ego Spiral: The Self-Awakening.'Objective: Awaken additional Versebearers unto yourself.Note:Extreme difficulty.Time Limit: 7 Days.Recommendation: Solo a dungeon of any type.
Mark's heart skipped. "Extreme difficulty? One week?"
But the words didn't stop there. The light from the System grew darker, its color shifting from blue to deep crimson — an omen more than a feature.
[SYSTEM:]"Due to selfishness and defiance, user shall be bestowed with a Soul Weapon.""Warning: The Soul Weapon's abilities depend entirely upon your imagination. Once defined, it cannot be undone."
Mark's pulse quickened. The concept — the phrase itself — Soul Weapon — stirred something primal in his blood.
"Soul Weapon…" he whispered, the words lingering on his tongue like a taste of destiny.
His eyes narrowed, mind spinning.
"So it depends on my imagination, huh? Then I'll create one that even gods will fear to name."
He clenched his fists, feeling the energy rise through him. His breath came out like smoke, visible against the cooling air.
"It will be…"
He paused, closing his eyes. Visions began to unfurl behind his eyelids — of stars folding, of infinite reflections, of a core darker than night itself.
"Multiplication and morphing," he said slowly, voice heavy with authority. "My Soul Weapon shall divide infinitely — a weapon that can become anything I need. A sword, a shield, a swarm. A manifestation of will itself."
His heart pounded louder, echoing with the rhythm of creation.
"And its form… will be a black diamond orb. A perfect sphere of darkness. The Black Diamond Orb — capable of transforming and multiplying at my command."
The System pulsed once, resonating with his declaration.
[SYSTEM:]"Confirmed. Concept recognized.""Commencing Soul Weapon Awakening Protocol."
The rooftop began to shake. Mana lines across the academy flared like veins of light beneath the city. The air became thick, unbreathable.
Mark staggered, the world spinning around him as if he stood at the center of a collapsing star.
Then he heard it — the hum. Deep, resonant, endless. Like a note sung by the void.
From within his chest, a light began to glow — not bright, but dense. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, black and purple energy swirling like smoke in reverse, devouring light rather than reflecting it.
His breath hitched.
"It's… burning…"
The pain was immense — sharp, molten, and yet… cleansing. It was like every poem he had ever written was being rewritten inside him, ink and blood mixing into new scripture.
His knees buckled, but he didn't fall.
The light in his chest burst outward, spiraling into the air, forming a hovering sphere no larger than a marble. It was pure darkness — and yet it shimmered, refracting light like obsidian oil.
The System's voice became layered, almost reverent.
[SYSTEM:]"Soul Weapon Manifestation Complete."Name:Black Diamond OrbType:Adaptive, Multiplicative, Metaphysical.Core Ability:'Infinite Reflection' — replicates itself based on the user's emotional output and cognitive imagery.Secondary Ability:'Morph Genesis' — allows transformation of form and purpose based on linguistic or poetic constructs.
Mark stared, entranced. The small orb hovered in front of him, spinning slowly, humming with unearthly rhythm. He reached out.
When his fingertips brushed the surface, it was neither cold nor warm. It was alive.
It pulsed, and suddenly there were two. Then four. Then eight.
The air around him shimmered, countless tiny orbs floating like dark stars in a miniature constellation.
Mark's eyes widened. His reflection appeared in every one — hundreds of him, staring back, each one slightly different.
"Incredible…" he breathed.
The System's voice, now calm and clear again, spoke softly:
[SYSTEM:]"User's Soul Weapon synchronizing with consciousness.""Warning: Overuse may destabilize neural integrity. Sanity drain will increase exponentially with each simultaneous copy."
Mark smirked faintly. "Figures. Sanity is always the price."
He lifted his hand, and the orbs responded instantly, merging and reshaping. In seconds, one elongated into a blade — sleek, black, alive. Another spread into a shield of interlocking facets, like crystal armor born of night.
"It listens to my thoughts," he whispered.
Then a thought struck him.
"If it multiplies…"
He focused, imagining a thousand versions of himself standing across the city — poets with pens like daggers, words like storms.
The orbs pulsed. For a split second, reality flickered — and his vision fractured. He saw himself reflected through countless mirrors, each existing in another space, another possibility.
His head snapped back. The pain was immediate and brutal — like glass shards tearing through his brain.
"Agh—!"
He collapsed onto one knee, gasping. Blood trickled from his nose.
The System blared warnings, red lights filling his vision.
[SYSTEM:]"Cognitive Overload Detected!""Reality Sync Unstable. Reduce imaginative strain immediately."
He slammed his fist against the ground, forcing the images away. The orbs dimmed, fading back into one.
He exhaled raggedly.
"Lesson learned…" he muttered through clenched teeth. "Even imagination has a limit."
Silence followed. Only the sound of the evening breeze returned, gentle but heavy.
After a long while, he stood. The orb floated obediently at his side, like a loyal companion.
He could feel it — the connection between them. Every heartbeat resonated through the orb. Every thought echoed in its form. It was both weapon and reflection — his soul externalized.
"So this is the Black Diamond Orb…" he murmured. "My soul made manifest."
Night crept over Liberia Academy. The lights from the lower towers shimmered like constellations. Below, the streets were alive — students leaving lectures, sky trams humming along rails of mana.
Mark walked down from the rooftop, the orb following silently, shifting shapes in rhythm with his thoughts.
He reached the hallway. The corridors were dimly lit, each step echoing softly.
And then, from behind him, a familiar voice:
"Mark!"
He turned. Claira stood there again, holding a small crystal datapad. Her face was flushed from running.
"You— you disappeared right after class," she said, panting slightly. "I've been looking for you. Are you okay?"
Mark blinked, forcing a calm expression. "Yeah. Just needed some air."
Claira looked skeptical. "You look pale. And your eyes… they're glowing."
Mark froze. "Glowing?"
She nodded. "Like ink mixed with starlight."
He turned slightly away. "Must be the lighting."
But the orb at his side pulsed faintly — visible only for a second before vanishing. Claira's eyes widened.
"What was that?"
"Nothing," Mark said quickly. "Probably a mana fluctuation."
She frowned. "You're a terrible liar, you know."
He smiled faintly. "I've been told that before."
Claira hesitated, then sighed. "Fine. But whatever you're doing, be careful. I heard about the Abyss raids. Two teams wiped trying to reach the 21st floor."
That caught his attention. "The 21st floor?"
"Yeah," she said. "Apparently something's changing inside the dungeons. The professors won't say what, but rumors say even A-class Pioneers are refusing to go back."
Mark's gaze drifted to the far end of the hallway, where the distant hum of mana engines filled the air.
A thought began to form in his mind — reckless, dangerous, inevitable.
The System whispered quietly, almost as if reading him.
"Quest suggestion acknowledged. Dungeon solo run approved."
He clenched his fists.
"Then that's where I start," he muttered.
"What?" Claira asked.
He looked at her — eyes burning with strange determination. "Nothing. Just… thinking about my next poem."
She laughed softly. "You really are weird."
He didn't answer.
When she left, Mark stood alone again in the empty hallway. The orb emerged once more from his shadow, floating silently before him.
He reached out, touching it lightly.
"One week," he whispered. "To awaken three souls within me. To become not a poet, but the Versebearer."
The orb pulsed in agreement.
Outside, thunder rolled. The mana storm above the dome began to spark faintly — distant but growing.
The world seemed to listen once again.
[SYSTEM:]"Soul Weapon Synchronization: 100%.""User Identity Updated."Name:Mark Francis, The Black Poet.Level: 2Class Evolution:Versebearer (Singular)Status:Stable / Cursed / Ascending
He smiled faintly, stepping into the darkness of the corridor.
"Then let's begin the descent."
As he walked, the orb followed, fracturing once more into countless reflections — tiny shards of living shadow swirling around him.
Each pulse echoed with words unspoken, each flicker a fragment of the verse to come.
And deep within the academy's underground — somewhere beyond sealed gates and ancient machinery — a dungeon stirred awake, as if called by his ambition.
The poet had written his next stanza into fate.
And fate was listening.