Ren hit the ground hard.
His knees buckled on impact, years of training turning the fall into a controlled roll before his conscious mind caught up. He came up in a crouch, hand already on his sword, eyes scanning for threats.
Forest. Dense, old-growth trees with trunks thick as houses. Filtered sunlight through a canopy so high it might as well be sky. The air tasted wrong—too clean, too rich, like breathing pure oxygen after a lifetime of recycled atmosphere.
No immediate threats.
Ren stood slowly, listening. Birds. Wind through leaves. Somewhere distant, running water. His heart hammered against his ribs, adrenaline spike from the transfer still flooding his system.
A chime in his mind made him flinch.
---
WELCOME TO ARATHEL
WORLD 1 OF THE CONVERGENCE SEQUENCE
CURRENT PARAMETERS:
- World Type: High Mana Environment, Medieval-Renaissance Civilization Level
- Dominant Species: Human (Variant), Elven Derivatives, Dwarven Clades, Others
- Threat Level: Moderate (Localized Rift Incursions)
- Essence Concentration: 4.7x Earth Standard
OBJECTIVES:
- Establish Influence within local power structures
- Harvest Essence through monster elimination
- Survive until recall conditions are met
PROHIBITIONS:
- Indiscriminate slaughter of sentient natives (World Wrath penalty: DEATH)
- Destruction of critical world infrastructure (Essence penalty applied)
- Interference with World Core (Immediate termination)
CURRENT REGIONAL RANKING: N/A (Insufficient data)
INTEGRATION PERIOD: 72 hours before regional tracking activates
Good luck, Invader.
---
Ren read through it twice. Arathel. High mana environment. Medieval-renaissance civilization. Three days before the System started tracking and ranking everyone.
Three days to get his bearings before the competition really started.
He dismissed the notification and took stock. His spatial rings were intact, gear accounted for. The sword at his hip felt solid, real. His body responded normally—no transfer sickness, no disorientation beyond the initial impact.
Foundation Establishment cultivation holding steady. Mana circulation active.
He was operational.
First priority: information. Where exactly in this world had he landed? What were the local power structures? What counted as "influence" in the System's eyes?
Second priority: don't die.
Ren picked a direction—the sound of running water seemed like a reasonable starting point—and started walking. The forest floor was surprisingly clear of undergrowth, just moss and scattered ferns between the massive trees. Peaceful, almost.
Takumi's memories supplied the word: primordial.
Ten minutes of careful movement brought him to the stream. Clear water running over smooth stones, maybe three meters wide. He knelt at the bank, filled one of his spare containers, and ran a basic contamination check.
The mana in the water practically glowed under his inspection. Four point seven times Earth standard wasn't just a number—he could feel it in every breath, every motion. His mana circulation was running faster than normal, drawing in ambient energy without conscious effort.
This world was saturated.
Ren drank. The water tasted like mountains and starlight, if that made any sense. Takumi's practical side noted the complete absence of industrial pollutants. Original Ren's instincts just appreciated that it wasn't poisoned.
A scream cut through the forest.
Human. Female. Young. Followed by inhuman shrieking that raised every hair on Ren's neck.
He was moving before conscious thought kicked in, hand on his sword, body flowing through the trees toward the source. Not heroism—tactical opportunity. If there were humans, there was civilization. If there were monsters, there was essence to harvest.
And if he was very lucky, he could accomplish both objectives simultaneously.
The screaming got louder.
Ren burst through a line of ferns into a small clearing and took in the situation in a heartbeat.
Girl, maybe sixteen, backed against a fallen log. Torn dress, blonde hair matted with dirt and blood. Not local—or rather, definitely local, but clearly not a fighter.
Between her and escape: three creatures that made Ren's hand tighten on his sword.
Riftspawn. He didn't know how he knew the word, but it surfaced from original Ren's training. Corruption-born monsters, twisted amalgamations of flesh and mana that spawned from dimensional tears.
These looked like wolves bred with insects and nightmares. Six legs each, chitinous plating over lupine frames, mandibles dripping something that hissed when it hit the ground. Eyes like cracked glass, glowing with sickly purple light.
The girl saw Ren and her scream cut off into desperate hope. "Please—"
The nearest riftspawn turned its head, multifaceted eyes fixing on him.
Threat assessment: fast, probably venomous, armor on the head and shoulders. Three of them. Girl unable to run.
Acceptable odds.
Ren drew his sword in one smooth motion and triggered his mana circulation to combat mode. The Ashveil style specialized in single-target elimination through overwhelming force applied to structural weak points. Against multiple enemies, that meant rapid sequential kills before they could coordinate.
The first riftspawn lunged.
Ren sidestepped, blade already moving in the Third Form—Rising Moon Severs Darkness. The name was pretentious as hell, but the technique worked. His sword caught the creature mid-leap, slicing up through the unarmored joint where its front legs met its torso. Mana-reinforced steel parted chitin like paper.
The riftspawn's momentum carried it past him in two pieces. Purple ichor splattered across moss.
The other two shrieked and charged together.
Smarter than animals. Worse.
Ren shifted his grip and went low, Fourth Form—Autumn Wind Through Empty Halls. Horizontal slash, mana-focused on the cutting edge, timed to meet the left-hand creature's leading legs. The blade sheared through two limbs and kept going, catching the thing's unprotected throat on the return stroke.
It collapsed in a thrashing heap.
The third one was already on him.
No time for forms. Ren brought his sword up in a brutal vertical block, catching its mandibles before they could close on his throat. Chitin screeched against steel. The thing's weight drove him back a step, six legs scrabbling for purchase on his chest.
Point-blank range. Couldn't get leverage for a proper cut.
Fine.
Ren channeled mana directly into his sword and released it in a concentrated burst. The blade flared white-hot for half a second—nowhere near the sustained output of a proper fire technique, but enough.
The riftspawn's head exploded.
Ren shoved the corpse away and stood there breathing hard, sword still raised, scanning for additional threats.
Nothing moved except the girl, who was staring at him like he'd descended from the heavens wreathed in holy light.
Ren lowered his sword and checked himself for injuries. Scratches on his forearm where the third one's legs had scrabbled. No venom, no serious damage. His mana reserves were down maybe fifteen percent from the burst.
Acceptable losses.
He turned to the girl. "Are you injured?"
She blinked at him. Up close, she looked even younger than he'd first estimated. Fifteen, maybe. Definitely noble-born if the quality of her torn dress was any indication. Her eyes were very blue and very wide.
"You—you saved me," she stammered. "The riftspawn came from nowhere, and Father's guards were—there was so much blood—"
Ren held up a hand. "Breathe. Are you injured?"
She shook her head quickly. "No. No, I ran when—when they—" Her voice cracked.
Dead guards, then. Probably an ambush during a patrol or hunting trip. The girl had fled and gotten separated.
Ren sheathed his sword and offered her a hand up. She took it with trembling fingers.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Lyra," she said. "Lyra Graeme. My father is—was—" She stopped, swallowed hard. "Baron Graeme of Hollow's End."
Baron. Minor nobility, probably. Enough to be worth knowing.
"Ren Ashveil," he said. "I'm... new to the area."
That was technically true.
Lyra's eyes widened further. "Ashveil? I've never heard that house name. Are you from the eastern provinces?"
"Something like that."
She looked at the dead riftspawn, then back at him. "You fight like a swordmaster. Are you mercenary? Knight-errant?"
Ren considered his options. He needed local information and an introduction to whatever power structures existed in this region. A grateful noble's daughter was about as good an opportunity as he could ask for.
"Independent cultivator," he said, borrowing terminology from original Ren's world. "I'm looking for work, actually. Monster suppression, guard duty, that sort of thing."
Lyra's expression shifted from shocked gratitude to something more calculating. The tears dried up fast. Interesting.
"Hollow's End has a rift problem," she said carefully. "The spawns have been increasing for months. Father hired guards, but they're not..." She gestured at the corpses. "Not like you."
"And your father is?"
"Dead." Her voice went flat. "The riftspawn killed him an hour ago. Along with six guards. I'm the only one who escaped."
Ren studied her. Fifteen years old, just watched her father die, and already thinking about hiring replacement security.
Either she was in shock and running on autopilot, or she was significantly more pragmatic than she looked.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he said, meaning it about as much as any polite condolence ever meant.
Lyra waved it away. "Father was... not a good man. But he was Baron, and now I am. If I can make it back to Hollow's End alive and claim the title before my uncle hears about this."
Ah. Succession crisis. Of course.
"Your uncle," Ren said.
"Bastard who's been waiting for Father to die for twenty years. He's got his own guards, his own coin, and absolutely no legal claim to the barony as long as I'm alive."
She looked at Ren with eyes that were suddenly much older than fifteen.
"I need to get back to Hollow's End within two days, claim my inheritance in front of witnesses, and hire enough swords to make sure my uncle doesn't arrange an accident. You need work."
Ren smiled slightly. "Sounds like we can help each other."
"Can you fight more of those things?" She pointed at the riftspawn.
"Yes."
"Good." Lyra straightened, brushing dirt from her ruined dress with hands that only trembled a little. "Standard rate for master-class blade work is five gold marks per week plus room and board. I'll double it for the first month and grant you a retainer position if you get me home alive. Deal?"
Ren had no idea if that was a good rate or a terrible one. Didn't matter.
A barony having a rift problem meant monsters to kill. A grateful baron meant influence in local power structures. A succession dispute meant opportunities to prove value.
The System wanted him to establish influence and harvest essence.
Lyra Graeme had just offered him both on a silver platter.
"Deal," Ren said.
Lyra extended her hand. Ren shook it, noting the calluses. Not as soft as she looked, then.
"Hollow's End is two days west on foot," Lyra said. "Three if we run into more spawns. I can navigate, but I'll need to borrow a weapon."
Ren pulled a long knife from his spatial ring and handed it over. Lyra took it with practiced ease, testing the weight.
Definitely not as soft as she looked.
"Let's move," she said. "Uncle Garrett will hear about the attack by tomorrow at the latest. I want to be sitting in my father's chair with a swordmaster at my back before he arrives."
Ren nodded and fell into step beside her as she started walking west.
Behind them, the riftspawn corpses slowly dissolved into purple mist, leaving behind three small crystalline cores that pulsed with captured mana.
Ren collected them without comment, feeling the System register each one.
Essence harvested: 150 points.
Current total: 150.
It wasn't much. But it was a start.
And he had two days to figure out how to turn a baroness's gratitude into real power.
The game had begun.