Uncle Ben slumped into his favorite armchair, the springs groaning in protest. "Three years," he muttered, staring at the unpaid bills tacked to the corkboard. "Three years of watching the Mayor's kid ride a lion while Simon... while our boy tries to teach a bag of bones how to fetch."
He didn't need to finish the thought. A Skeleton was a dead end.
There were no evolution paths for a pile of calcium. You couldn't feed it elemental crystals to make it breathe fire. You couldn't teach it martial arts because its joints would snap.
Dozens of low-tier tamers had tried. The wealthy merchants who pulled Skeletons usually kept them as eccentric house servants to dust high shelves.
Simon would spend three years at the Blackwood Academy learning siege tactics and beast physiology, surrounded by peers who could summon typhoons.
Three years of being the "tactical dummy" for the combat classes. Three years of humiliation.
Sadness led Uncle Ben to reminisce about the past, a past that was simpler before they had aimed for the stars.
"Remember when we enrolled him?" Ben asked suddenly, his gaze lost in the flickering candle flame. "We were so sure. His father was a Sergeant. His mother was a Medic. It was in his blood."
Aunt May nodded, wiping a table that was already clean. How could she forget?
They had taken Simon in when he was four, a traumatized boy clutching a toy soldier. They had raised him on bread and love. They had seen his obsession with maps, with strategy, with order. They had pooled their savings the "New Oven Fund," the "Retirement Fund," the "Fix the Leaky Roof Fund" to buy that admission ticket.
Almost fifty thousand credits. An astronomical amount for a bakery.
"We thought we were giving him a sword," Ben whispered, rubbing his bad knee. "Instead, we gave him a target on his back."
"He's strong," May said, though her voice wavered. "He didn't cry. Did you see him? He went straight to his room."
"That's worse, May," Ben sighed. "He's bottling it up. He's probably up there right now, staring at the ceiling, wondering why the world hates him."
"Maybe... maybe we can pull him out?"
"And forfeit the tuition? We signed the contract this morning. If he drops out, we lose the money and he gets blacklisted from the Trade Guilds."
They fell silent, listening to the creaking of the floorboards above.
Their little soldier, the boy who saluted the mailman every morning, now faced a cruel destiny.
"It's as if the System is laughing at us," May murmured. "We wanted him to be a hero."
"Now, he'll just be a victim," Ben completed, squeezing her hand.
The candles, burned low, cast long shadows over the kitchen.
In the room directly above them, they imagined their nephew lay weeping, his fragile skeleton rattling in the corner like a grim reminder of their failure.
The extra muffins May had baked for comfort cooled on the counter, untouched. Simon was currently duct-taping a thick phone book to his left forearm.
"Check," he muttered, flexing his arm. The makeshift bracer held firm.
Unit-01 (the Skeleton) stood by the wardrobe, holding its bone club with perfect discipline. Unit-02 (the Undead Rat) was doing laps around the room, its movement speed visibly faster than a living rat thanks to the [Shadow Scurry] passive.
He could already see the next three years unfolding like a bad simulation. While the rich kids power-leveled their Griffins and Lions with expensive mana-treats, he would be stuck with base stats.
He turned to the map taped to his wall. It was a tactical overlay he had drawn himself, marked with red X's and green circles.
His finger traced the line to the North Gate.
According to the official Academy handbook, the Waste Forest was a "Tier 1 Danger Zone." It was populated by Slimes, Horned Rabbits, and the occasional feral Wild Dog. It was strictly forbidden for students without a licensed instructor.
He looked through his window toward the dark tree line stretching beyond the city outskirts. The handbook said it was dangerous.
Simon checked his System interface.
[Skill: Raise Least Undead]
[Mana Cost: 5]
[Current Mana: 45/50]
He had a regenerating army!
If he went out there and things went south, he could sacrifice his units to cover his retreat. A Flame-Mane Lion tamer wouldn't dare risk their precious pet getting scratched by a rusty trap. Simon could just raise another rat.
He looked at Unit-01.
"Why you?" he asked the skeleton.
The skeleton clacked its jaw.
"Because you are disposable," Simon answered for it. "And that makes you dangerous."
Downstairs, he could hear his aunt and uncle murmuring. He couldn't bear the thought of their pity. He couldn't let their investment turn into ash.
He had one week before orientation. If he showed up at Blackwood Academy as an Iron Rank 1, he was dead meat. But if he showed up as an Iron Rank 5? With a squad?
What was worse? Risking a few bruises in the forest, or letting Uncle Ben think he had wasted his life savings?
Simon grabbed his backpack. Inside: three bottles of water, a flashlight, a roll of bandages, and a rusted kitchen knife he had sharpened on a brick.
He opened his worn copy of "The Beast Tamer's Field Guide" one last time.
Beasts gain experience through combat bonds. The Tamer shares 10% of the experience. But Simon's System had a different footnote.
[Necromancer Class Trait: Soul Harvest.]
[You gain 50% of experience from kills made by your minions.]
Standard Tamers leveled up slowly because they had to protect their beasts. Simon could farm at 5x efficiency because he didn't care if his "beast" broke a leg.
He opened the window. It was a two-story drop.
"Unit-01," Simon whispered. "Catch me."
He ordered the Skeleton to jump first.
Unit-01 leaped out the window without hesitation. It landed in the alleyway with a loud clatter of bones, collapsing into a heap.
Slowly, jerkily, Unit-01 reassembled itself. It stood up and looked at the window. It had taken 10 damage. It was fine.
Simon climbed down the trellis, landing softly beside his minion. Unit-02, the rat, simply ran down the vertical wall, defying gravity.
"Move out," Simon whispered.
They stuck to the shadows.
The city gates were guarded, but the drainage grate near the old flour mill wasn't. It was tight, smelly, and infested with spiders. Perfect for a Necromancer.
As he crawled through the tunnel, the smell of damp earth and rotting vegetation filled his nose. Most kids his age were asleep, dreaming of being heroes.
He emerged on the other side of the wall. The Waste Forest loomed ahead, a mass of tangled roots and ominous noises.
A normal Iron Rank tamer would be terrified. The mana density here was wild; a single mistake could lead to being swarmed.
[Enemy Detected: Horned Rabbit (Level 2)]
It was the size of a corgi, with a single, spiraling horn on its forehead that looked sharp enough to puncture a tire. Its red eyes locked onto Simon.
"Unit-01," Simon commanded, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Frontal assault. Draw aggro."
"Unit-02. Flank left. Go for the hamstring."
The rabbit charged.
The Skeleton stepped forward, raising its cow-bone club.