"My head… hurts."
Don opened his eyes slowly—and found himself back in the white dimension.
He looked around, disoriented.
This time, The Source was not visible.
"Source?" he called out weakly. "Are you here? And… why are we in this place?"
[Yes. I am here.]
The voice resonated through the void, calm and steady.
[We are here because you are weak right now.]
A pause.
[Your physical body is being rebuilt to withstand the Immortality skill. Every atom, every cell, every element in your body is being reconstructed to handle the power.]
Another pause.
[Your body—and your house—are currently surrounded by an energy cocoon. So don't worry. Nothing will happen to you.]
The voice softened slightly.
[You are here so that I may complete your choice. I don't want you passing out after every selection.]
Then, with unmistakable sarcasm:
[You truly haven't bothered to train yourself, have you?]
Don's face flushed red with shame.
Then it flared with anger.
"I am not weak!" he shouted defensively. "I can swing a metal sword for hours and only break a sweat!"
His voice cracked with frustration.
"I didn't have the energy to be like the castle swordsmen with their strange auras! Or like the sorcerers, focusing on learning spells!"
He clenched his fists.
"I wasn't even like the rest of the townsfolk! Everyone uses magic—children use it, mothers use wind magic to clean floors, workers use earth magic to build houses, even merchants use sound magic to be heard by everyone!"
His voice rose, raw and bitter.
"I possessed none of that!"
He took a shaky breath.
"So stop your accursed talking… and let's finish choosing my skills!"
Don vented the anger that had been buried deep in his chest for years.
He stood there, breathing hard, trembling slightly.
Then, finally, he steadied himself.
"Now," he said quietly. "I want my second skill."
[As you wish.]
The Source's voice was calm again.
[What kind of skill do you desire?]
Don didn't hesitate.
"Learning and Adaptation. That is what I want."
Silence.
The Source did not reply.
Minutes passed.
Don felt like hours had gone by. His nerves began to fray.
Is it impossible to ask for a two-word skill? Or does such a thing not exist?
Then, finally, The Source spoke:
[As you wish.]
[Skill: Learning and Adaptation.]
[Skill synthesis in progress…]
[Integrating #&#&#…]
[80% of energy drained…]
[Skill formation complete.]
SKILL ACQUIRED:
• Learning and Adaptation
Effect:You are the master of all knowledge and crafts. Anything you begin to learn or practice will eventually become yours. Furthermore, any absorption of a Source of Existence allows you to take its attributes, abilities, and essence.
Warning:You can take everything. But if Madness controls you in the end… it will take your life.
Don took a moment to breathe.
He hadn't expected this.
He only wanted to compensate for the lost time between himself and others his age. He wanted to read faster. Learn quicker. Catch up.
But this… this was something else entirely.
And absorbing Sources from others? Isn't that forbidden? Isn't it usually fatal?
And what is this… Madness?
"O Source," he said carefully. "Explain Madness and Sources to me."
[Madness is the contamination percentage of your mind, soul, and body.]
The voice was matter-of-fact.
[Usually, absorbing Sources is forbidden. But your first skill—Immortality—and the talent of the Child of Luck made it acceptable… provided you do not become Mad.]
A pause.
[Sources are anything. They could be the gems of monsters. Their hearts. Even their flesh. Anything connected to energy is a secondary source for it.]
"Okay. Okay."
Don spoke quickly now, unable to contain his excitement.
"So I can learn anything. What is the speed at which I learn? What are my limits?"
He was still a twelve-year-old boy—and excitement was overwhelming him.
But his physical body was no longer a child's body.
He was now taller. His muscles were sculpted like a work of art—lean, powerful, perfect.
He stood at 1.9 meters tall. His red hair now reached his shoulders, flowing like silk.
And if you looked closely at his hair, you would find a very few strands of silver mixed in.
This was Don's Immortal body.
Don looked down at himself, still processing.
Then he asked, "Will all the level information appear once I have all three skills?"
[Yes.]
The Source replied simply.
[When you choose your last skill, the three skills will be synthesized to support one another.]
Don nodded.
Then, another question struck him.
"Can I prevent Madness? Or prevent visiting the so-called Underworld?"
The Source replied—this time with clear annoyance:
[Nothing is free, boy.]
Its tone sharpened.
[Don't forget. Everything has a price.]
Don sighed and accepted the situation.
Then, he began to think about his third skill.
His final skill.
Don's wish in life was simple.
He wanted to feel important.
He wanted others to make him feel that way. And he wanted to feel it himself.
But all he ever received was nothing.
No hate. No love.
Nothing.
A memory surfaced.
A conversation with the old man.
Don was seven years old, playing with his friends in the market square.
Suddenly, before his eyes, he saw two adults quarreling. Shouting. Pushing.
Then one pulled out a knife—and stabbed the other.
Everyone began to run.
Except Don.
He watched.
He watched the knife sink into flesh. The sound of the scream. The drops of blood falling onto the mud. The look of fear on the face of the man who had done it. The look on the face of the uncle who fell to the ground.
His eyes were beautiful. Full of life one second.
And the next… all life vanished from them.
Don, however, had a wide, ear-to-ear smile plastered on his face.
He was happy with what he saw.
It was like watching a work of art.
He didn't know when—but suddenly, Alfred was standing next to him.
Looking at him with a strange expression that Don didn't understand even to this day.
Don looked up at his father.
"Father," he asked softly. "Why am I happy about the uncle's death?"
He hesitated.
"Is something… wrong with me?"
Alfred laughed.
Then he asked, amused:
"Which uncle?"
Don looked ahead.
And found nothing.
No blood. No corpse.
Everyone was moving normally. Even his friends were playing and calling to him.
"Hey, Don! Why did you stop suddenly?"
Then they saw Alfred—and greeted him cheerfully.
"Uncle Alfred! How are you? Good morning!"
Alfred smiled at them warmly.
Then he looked down at Don—and said calmly:
"This was all your imagination, my son."
He ruffled Don's hair.
"There is nothing wrong with you. It is only your imagination."
In the present, Don remembered this incident.
He closed his eyes.
Then he spoke clearly, firmly:
"My third skill."
He opened his eyes.
"I want Imagination as my last skill."
The Source replied.
And for the first time… there was joy in its voice.
[As you wish.]