Episode 1: "The Bastard Who Remembered Death"
ACT 1: THE AWAKENING
SCENE 1: Wrong Morning
The humming stopped.
That's what woke Caelan—not the sound, but the absence of it. His mother always hummed while making breakfast. Some tuneless melody she'd invented, probably the only song she knew. It was as much a part of their mornings as the smell of cheap tea and the creak of floorboards under her feet.
Except this morning: silence.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling was wrong.
Not the water-stained drywall of his studio apartment in Seattle. Not the boring beige he'd stared at for three years while lying in bed, phone in hand, scrolling through webnovels until his eyes burned. This ceiling was wooden beams, rough-cut and dark with age, held together with pegs instead of nails. Spider webs in the corners. A small hole where rain had gotten through.
The air was wrong too. Cold. Really cold. No central heating, no electric hum, just the smell of woodsmoke and early morning dampness.
And his body felt wrong. Too light. Too small. Joints that didn't ache the way twenty-eight-year-old joints ached after sitting at a desk for sixty hours a week.
Oh fuck.
It crashed over him again—the memories that weren't his but also were, layered over each other like a bad photoshop.
Marcus Reeves, age twenty-eight, IT professional, died three weeks ago. Looking at his phone. Crossing the street. Not paying attention. The truck's grill filling his vision and then—
Nothing.
Darkness.
Then—
—this.
Caelan Ashborne, age fifteen, bastard son number forty-seven of Duke Valorian Ashborne, waking up in a world from a webnovel Marcus had read during lunch breaks.
"The Stormblade Chronicles." Second-rate cultivation fantasy. Overpowered protagonist, beautiful harem members, evil nobles getting their comeuppance. He'd read maybe two hundred chapters before dropping it because the plot got repetitive.
But he'd read enough.
He knew this world. Knew the magic system. Knew the political structure. Knew the major plot points that were coming.
And he knew—knew with absolute certainty—that in the original story, Caelan Ashborne died at age fifteen in a training "accident."
That would be in about three months.
Right before his mother Elara died of a wasting sickness at age thirty-five.
Two years from now.
The novel had dedicated exactly one line to them: The forgotten concubine and her bastard son perished from illness and accident. Unmourned, unremarked, the world moved on.
One. Fucking. Line.
"Caelan?" His mother's voice drifted from the other room, warm and worried. "Are you awake, my little star?"
The humming started again.
Caelan pressed his hands against his face—these hands, these wrong hands that were too small and too smooth—and tried not to have a breakdown.
Three weeks. He'd been here three weeks. Three weeks of pretending everything was normal while his brain screamed that nothing was normal. Three weeks of looking at this woman who called him "my little star" and loved him with such fierce, uncomplicated devotion that it made his chest physically hurt.
This woman who was going to die in two years.
Unless he changed the story.
"I'm up, Ma," he called back, and his voice cracked halfway through. Fifteen. His body was fifteen. Going through puberty for the second time was its own special kind of hell.
He sat up on his sleeping mat—not a bed, they couldn't afford a bed, just a thin pad on the wooden floor with a blanket that had been mended so many times it was more patches than original fabric.
The room was tiny. Maybe eight by eight feet. His sleeping mat in one corner, his mother's in the other. A small chest between them that held their combined worldly possessions: three changes of clothes, a few basic supplies, his mother's sewing kit. That was it.
This was the Lotus Bower. The place the First Wife had exiled them to seventeen years ago, after Caelan's birth. "For privacy and peace," she'd said, which was noble-speak for "get out of my sight and die quietly where I don't have to look at you."
Two and a half rooms on the forgotten eastern edge of a fifty-square-mile estate. So far from the main palace you could barely see it even on clear days.
Their corner of the world. Their cage.
Their home.
Caelan stood, his knees popping—even fifteen-year-old knees popped, apparently—and splashed water on his face from the basin by the door. Cold water. Always cold. They couldn't afford essence-heated plumbing like the main houses had.
He looked at his reflection in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall.
Dark hair, messy from sleep. Dark eyes with shadows underneath from not sleeping well—nightmares about trucks and dying and failing to save people. Sharp jawline that would probably be handsome once he finished growing into it. Thin—too thin, because they never quite had enough food.
He looked like the Duke, people said. Caelan had never been close enough to the man to confirm it himself. Duke Valorian Ashborne didn't acknowledge his existence. Had probably forgotten Caelan existed within days of that night seventeen years ago when he'd stumbled drunk into a hallway and seen a pretty sixteen-year-old maid.
One night. One drunk mistake.
And Elara had paid for it every day since.
"Breakfast!" his mother called. "Come eat before it gets cold, my precious!"
Caelan took a breath. Pushed down the existential dread. Put on the smile that said everything was normal and fine and he definitely wasn't a twenty-eight-year-old man trapped in a teenager's body trying not to have a mental breakdown.
He stepped through the doorway into their main room—the "two" of their two-and-a-half rooms.
And there she was.
SCENE 2: Breakfast and Beautiful Women
Elara was kneeling by their low table, arranging breakfast with the kind of care someone might use displaying crown jewels.
Two chipped ceramic plates. Two cups that didn't match. A small pot of tea that smelled like someone had boiled tree bark and hoped for the best.
And eggs.
Three eggs, cooked in their battered pan over the small cooking fire, split between two plates.
She looked up as he entered, and her face transformed. That's the only word for it—transformed. From tired and worn to bright and warm, like someone had lit a candle behind her eyes.
"Good morning, my little star!"
She said it every morning. Same words, same warm tone, same smile that made Caelan's chest tight.
Because she meant it. She was genuinely happy to see him. Every single morning. Like each day was a gift just because he was in it.
Marcus Reeves' mother had remarried when he was eighteen and moved to Florida with her new husband. She sent birthday cards that got more generic each year. "Hope you're doing well. Love, Mom." They'd talked maybe twice a year for the last decade.
This woman—Elara—looked at him like he was the most important thing in the universe.
And she was beautiful.
That thought came with its usual spike of guilt. Don't be a creep. She's your mother. Don't be that guy.
Except she wasn't his mother. Not really. She was Elara, thirty-three-year-old woman, mother to the original Caelan whose body he was wearing. And the mind currently piloting this body had never had a mom who braided her hair while humming, or saved her food to give to him, or called him affectionate names that should've been embarrassing but somehow weren't.
She was wearing the same dress she always wore—rough-spun fabric, brown, mended in at least a dozen places he could see. Her honey-brown hair was pulled back in a braid that was already coming loose. She had flour on her cheek from something. Her hands were red and rough from washing clothes in cold water.
She was thin. Too thin. He could see her collarbones jutting out, the slight hollow of her cheeks.
She was starving herself to feed him, and she smiled like it was a privilege.
"Come sit," she said, patting the cushion next to her—they couldn't afford chairs, just cushions on the floor. "Look! We have eggs today!"
The way she said it. Like eggs were a festival. Like this was cause for celebration.
They had eggs because three days ago Caelan had snuck into the forest behind the estate and found a wild bird's nest. The System had helped with that—little floating markers in his vision showing him exactly where to look.
The fucking System.
That was the other thing Marcus Reeves was still trying to wrap his head around. Three weeks ago, right after waking up as Caelan, a glowing interface had appeared in his vision:
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ APEX SOVEREIGN SYSTEM v1.0 ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ Welcome, User ║
║ You have been selected ║
║ Grow Stronger. Change Fate. ║
║ Survive. ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
Like a video game HUD. Stats, quests, notifications. A cultivation accelerator that let him see his progress, offered guidance, and supposedly would help him get strong enough to survive.
It was insane.
All of this was insane.
And yet here he was, sitting on a cushion, accepting a cup of tea from a woman who thought he was her fifteen-year-old son, trying not to think about how he had seven hundred and twenty-nine days to get strong enough to save her life.
"You're staring again," Elara said, smiling as she pushed a plate toward him. "Do I have something on my face?"
"Yeah, actually. Flour. Right here." He reached over and gently brushed it off her cheek.
She laughed—soft and warm. "I was trying to make bread earlier. Didn't quite work out. The flour fought back."
"Did you win?"
"The flour always wins, my little star. I've accepted this."
She split the eggs between their plates with careful precision. Two eggs on his plate. One on hers.
Caelan's hand shot out before she could pull away. "Ma, no."
"What?"
"Equal portions."
"Oh, but you're growing! You need—"
"I need you to eat properly." He took one egg from his plate and put it on hers. "There. Now it's fair."
Her expression did something complicated. Happy and sad at the same time. "When did you get so bossy?"
"I've always been bossy. You just didn't notice because I used to be shorter than you."
"You're still not that tall."
"Give me time. I'm working on it."
She looked at him for a long moment, and something flickered in her eyes. Something he couldn't quite read. Then she smiled and shook her head. "Eat your breakfast, my stubborn boy."
They ate in comfortable silence. The eggs were good—she was a better cook than she gave herself credit for. The tea was terrible, but he'd gotten used to it. This was their routine. Every morning for three weeks since he'd woken up in this world. Probably every morning for the fifteen years before that, for the original Caelan.
Small moments. Quiet moments.
Moments he knew were numbered.
"Ma," he said suddenly, setting down his chopsticks. "Do you ever think about leaving?"
She paused mid-bite. "Leaving?"
"The estate. This." He gestured at their two-and-a-half rooms, their poverty, their entire forgotten existence. "We could go to town. Find work. Start over somewhere nobody knows we're the Duke's trash."
Something flickered across her face. Hope? Fear? She set down her own chopsticks, and her hands were shaking slightly.
"Oh, my little star." She reached across the table and cupped his face in both hands—rough hands, callused and work-worn. "Where would we go? What would I do?"
"Anything. You could—"
"I'm a concubine, Caelan. A discarded concubine. No references. No skills except scrubbing floors and washing clothes. And you..." She stroked his cheek with her thumb, and her eyes were bright with tears that hadn't fallen yet. "You're Duke Ashborne's blood. That means protection, even if he doesn't care. Even if everyone else forgets. Out there?" She shook her head. "Out there you're just another peasant boy. Easy target for bandits, slavers, worse things."
"I can protect us."
"You're fifteen."
I'm twenty-eight. And I have a System that shows me exactly how to get stronger every single day.
"I'm getting stronger," he said instead. "I've been training. You've seen me in the garden."
"I have. And it terrifies me." She pulled her hands back, folding them in her lap, looking down. "Caelan, please. Please don't try to be a hero. Don't draw attention to yourself. Just... stay safe. Stay with me. We have enough. We have each other."
She said it like a prayer. Like if she believed hard enough, it would make it true.
Caelan wanted to tell her everything. The reincarnation. The System. The novel he'd read that ended with both of them dead and forgotten. The fact that "staying safe" wasn't an option because the story itself wouldn't let them.
But looking at her face—the fragile hope there, the desperate need to believe their small, quiet life could just continue forever—he couldn't.
Not yet.
"Okay, Ma," he lied. "I'll be careful."
She smiled, relieved, and kissed his forehead. Just a quick press of her lips, maternal and warm.
It shouldn't have made his heart do that thing. That stupid flutter.
She's your mother. Stop.
Except she wasn't. And his brain kept forgetting to remember that. Kept noticing things he shouldn't notice. The way her hair caught the morning light. The soft warmth of her hands. The curve of her smile.
He was going to hell.
He was already in hell.
This whole situation was hell.
They finished breakfast. Elara started cleaning up, and Caelan helped because she'd protest if he tried to do it all himself. Their hands brushed in the wash basin, and they both pulled away too quickly.
"What are you doing today?" she asked, too brightly. Trying to move past the awkward moment.
"I thought I'd go gather some herbs. Check the snares I set up."
"Be safe."
"Always am."
"And if you see any of the young lords—"
"I'll be invisible. Promise." He dried his hands and kissed her cheek before he could think better of it. "I'll be back before dark."
She touched the spot where he'd kissed her, and her expression went complicated again. "You're getting taller," she said softly. "When did that happen?"
"Recently." He grabbed his pack—such as it was, just a cloth sack—and headed for the door. "See you tonight, Ma."
"Be safe, my little star!"
He stepped out into the morning, closed the door behind him, and let himself lean against it for just a second.
Seven hundred twenty-nine days.
He had to get stronger. Had to master this System. Had to change a story that was already in motion.
And he had to do it without letting his mother know he was a reincarnated stranger wearing her son's face, or that he was having increasingly inappropriate thoughts about a woman who'd done nothing but love him unconditionally.
No pressure.
Right. Time to get to work.
Caelan pushed off the door and started walking toward the forest.
Behind him, through the thin walls, he could hear his mother humming again.
SCENE 3: The System Tutorial
The walk to the forest took about twenty minutes at a steady pace.
Caelan used the time to do what he always did—review what he knew about this world while trying to ignore the surreal fact that he was living in it.
The Aetherion Empire: Ruled by a dying God-Emperor, held together by three Grand Dukes who were absolutely going to tear it apart in a civil war about five years from now according to the novel's timeline.
Duke Valorian Ashborne: His "father." Diamond Tier 6 cultivator. Controlled forty percent of the Empire's military. Had seven official wives, twenty-three concubines, and over fifty children that he remembered. Probably more that he didn't.
The Duke ran his household like a gladiator arena. Children competed for his favor. The strong were rewarded. The weak were discarded. The really weak disappeared in "accidents."
Caelan was so far beneath notice that he'd never even met the man.
Cultivation Ranks: The power system of this world.
Mortal: Regular humans, no magic
Bronze: Enhanced human (tier 1-9)
Silver: Superhuman (tier 1-9)
Gold: Army-level threat (tier 1-9)
Platinum: City-destroying (tier 1-9)
Diamond: Legendary (tier 1-9)
Sovereign: Mythical (beyond ranking)
Normal people took years to advance a single tier. Decades to jump ranks. Most were born at Mortal and died at Bronze.
The Duke's legitimate children got the best training, the best resources, the best everything. They advanced fast.
Caelan Ashborne, forgotten bastard, had been Mortal Tier until three weeks ago.
Now?
Caelan stopped walking once he was deep enough in the forest that no one from the estate could see him. Took a breath. And thought the command he'd learned to use:
System. Status.
The interface materialized in his vision like someone had opened a transparent video game menu:
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ APEX SOVEREIGN SYSTEM v1.0 ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ USER: Caelan Ashborne ║
║ AGE: 15 years, 2 months, 3 days ║
║ RANK: Bronze Tier 3 ↑ ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ ESSENCE CORE ║
║ Type: Void (Mythical) ║
║ Purity: 67% ║
║ Capacity: 1,240/5,000 ║
║ Regeneration: 12 units/hour ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ STATISTICS ║
║ Strength: 48/100 [Bronze] ║
║ Agility: 44/100 [Bronze] ║
║ Endurance: 52/100 [Bronze] ║
║ Magic Power: 189/500 [Bronze] ║
║ Intelligence: 89/150 [Human] ║
║ Charisma: 34/100 [Bronze] ║
║ Luck: 12/100 [Mortal] ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ ABILITIES ║
║ ► Void Blade Arts (Novice Lv3) ║
║ ► Essence Absorption (Active) ║
║ ► Combat Intuition (Passive Lv2) ║
║ ► Essence Transfer (Locked) ║
║ ► ??? (Reach Silver Tier) ║
║ ► ??? (Complete Hidden Quest) ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ ACTIVE QUESTS ║
║ [MAIN] Change Fate ║
║ Prevent Elara's death ║
║ Time: 729 days, 14 hours ║
║ Progress: 0.4% ║
║ Reward: [LOCKED] ║
║ ║
║ [DAILY] Physical Training ║
║ Progress: 0/2 hours today ║
║ Reward: +5 XP, +1 random stat ║
║ ║
║ [NEW] First Blood ║
║ View details? [Y/N] ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
Bronze Tier 3. Up from Bronze Tier 1 three weeks ago.
Not bad for someone who'd been Mortal his entire life until a transmigrator took over his body and started actually trying.
The problem was that Bronze Tier 3 was still pathetically weak in the grand scheme of things. Most of the Duke's children were Silver or Gold by age fifteen. The really talented ones were Platinum.
Caelan was an ant in a world of giants.
But he was an ant with a System that was apparently designed to help him cheat.
System. Show new quest.
The interface shifted:
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ QUEST: FIRST BLOOD ║
║ Rank: D ║
║ Type: Combat / Survival ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ SITUATION: ║
║ Your half-brother Petyr Ashborne ║
║ has noticed your recent hunting ║
║ success. He is jealous and angry ║
║ that a forgotten bastard has been ║
║ encroaching on "his" forest. ║
║ ║
║ He is currently approaching with ║
║ two companions, planning to ambush ║
║ you and "teach you a lesson." ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ OBJECTIVE: ║
║ ► Defeat Petyr Ashborne ║
║ ► Survive the encounter ║
║ ║
║ OPTIONAL: ║
║ ► Win without killing (Bonus XP) ║
║ ► Defeat all three attackers ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ ENEMY ANALYSIS: ║
║ Petyr Ashborne ║
║ Rank: Silver Tier 3 ║
║ Threat Level: HIGH ║
║ ║
║ Lackey 1: Silver Tier 2 ║
║ Lackey 2: Silver Tier 2 ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ REWARDS: ║
║ ► +500 XP ║
║ ► Combat Skill (Uncommon) ║
║ ► +Reputation with ??? ║
║ ║
║ FAILURE: ║
║ ► Death ║
║ ► Crippling injury ║
║ ► Quest: Change Fate (FAILED) ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ WARNING: Enemy is 4 tiers above you ║
║ Direct combat = 0.02% success rate ║
║ Recommend: Tactical approach ║
║ ║
║ TACTICAL ANALYSIS available (50 XP) ║
║ Accept? [Y/N] ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Caelan said it out loud to the empty forest. A bird took off from a nearby tree, apparently offended by his language.
Petyr Ashborne. Half-brother number twenty-three. Son of the Fifth Wife, Duchess Helena. The novel had mentioned him maybe twice—once as "one of the middle sons" and once getting killed during the civil war.
Unremarkable except for being two full tiers above Caelan in cultivation and apparently petty enough to ambush a fifteen-year-old over some rabbits.
Silver Tier 3.
The gap between Bronze and Silver wasn't just numbers. It was:
Bronze Tier 3: Caelan could lift about 500 pounds if he really tried. Run at maybe 20 mph for short bursts. Take a punch that would kill a normal human and walk it off. Do some very basic essence manipulation.
Silver Tier 3: Petyr could lift literal tons. Run at speeds that blurred to normal human eyes. Shrug off knife wounds. Use actual combat magic—fireballs, shields, enhancement techniques that would make him even faster and stronger.
It wasn't a fight. It was an execution waiting to happen.
System. How much XP do I have?
Current XP: 234
Cost for Tactical Analysis: 50 XP
Remaining after purchase: 184 XP
Do it.
TACTICAL ANALYSIS PURCHASED
Analyzing environment...
Analyzing enemy approach vectors...
Analyzing user capabilities...
Generating strategy options...
The world didn't change physically, but Caelan's perception of it did.
Suddenly he could see things that shouldn't be visible:
Glowing red markers appeared in the forest showing enemy positions—three figures moving through the trees about sixty meters away, spreading out to surround him.
Blue highlights appeared on terrain features—high ground, choke points, defensive positions, things he could use.
Green lines traced possible escape routes through the forest.
And floating in his vision, a list:
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ TACTICAL OPTIONS ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ 1. Flee South ║
║ Success Rate: 87% ║
║ Rewards: None ║
║ Consequence: Quest Failed ║
║ ║
║ 2. Ambush from Trees ║
║ Success Rate: 12% ║
║ Risk: VERY HIGH (likely death) ║
║ Rewards: If successful, HIGH XP ║
║ ║
║ 3. Negotiate/Submit ║
║ Success Rate: 34% ║
║ Risk: HIGH (may be beaten anyway) ║
║ Rewards: Survival (maybe) ║
║ ║
║ 4. Lure to Ravine + Rockslide ║
║ Success Rate: 56% ║
║ Risk: MEDIUM ║
║ Rewards: MEDIUM XP + Quest Complete║
║ ║
║ RECOMMENDED: Option 4 ║
║ Ravine location: 200m West ║
║ Estimated time to reach: 3 minutes ║
║ Preparation time needed: 1 minute ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
Option 4 lit up brighter than the others, and an arrow appeared in Caelan's vision pointing west through the forest.
A ravine. With unstable rocks. That I can trigger to fall on them.
It was absurd.
It was also fifty-six percent better odds than anything else.
And it was very, very Murder Hobo behavior for someone who'd been an IT professional with no history of violence in his previous life.
They're coming to cripple or kill you, the rational part of his brain said. This is self-defense.
You're going to murder three people, the part that still remembered being Marcus Reeves said. Premeditated murder. With a rockslide.
They're trying to KILL you. And if you die, Mom dies. In two years. Alone. Forgotten.
That settled it.
Caelan took off running.
Not a full sprint—that would burn through his essence too fast and he'd need every drop for what came next. But a ground-eating jog that used just enough essence enhancement to move faster than human normal.
Behind him, he heard voices:
"There!" Petyr's voice, sharp with excitement. "The little bastard's running!"
"Should we chase, my lord?"
"Obviously! I want to see him piss himself before I break his legs!"
Charming. Real charming. This was who the System wanted him to outsmart.
Fine. Let's see how smart you are when several tons of rock land on your head.
Caelan pushed harder, following the glowing arrow in his vision. The forest blurred past. His lungs burned—Bronze Tier 3 gave him better endurance than a normal human but he'd been running for almost three minutes now and his body was starting to scream.
The sound of running water grew louder. Close. Had to be close.
He burst through the tree line and nearly went over the edge.
The ravine yawned in front of him, a slash in the earth about thirty feet across and fifty feet deep. Water sparkled at the bottom, cutting through gray rock. The sides were steep but not quite vertical—climbable if you were careful and had enhanced strength.
And above, on the opposite rim, exactly where the System's tactical analysis said they'd be: a pile of boulders. Big ones. Perched precariously on an outcrop that looked like it had been waiting for centuries to collapse.
Perfect.
Caelan didn't hesitate. He jumped.
Not across—he'd never make thirty feet. But down, catching a root jutting from the ravine wall about ten feet below the rim. His shoulders screamed at the impact but he held on, swung, found a foothold in the rock face.
Started climbing across. Fast.
Scrambling along the wall like a particularly motivated spider, using every handhold, every crack, essence flowing to his fingers and toes making him sticky, stronger, faster than he should be.
Bronze Tier 3 wasn't much but it was enough for this.
He heard shouting from above:
"What the—is he insane?"
"He's climbing across!"
"After him, you idiots!"
Caelan didn't look up. Just climbed. Twenty feet across. Twenty-five. Almost there.
He reached the other side and hauled himself up onto the opposite rim just as Petyr and his goons arrived at the edge he'd started from.
Petyr Ashborne looked exactly like Caelan expected—eighteen years old, pretty-boy features that probably made him popular with maids, expensive clothes that had never seen real work. Silver Tier 3 aura made the air shimmer around him like heat waves.
His two friends flanked him. Bigger guys, probably hired muscle. Silver Tier 2 each. Swords at their belts.
All three of them staring at Caelan across the thirty-foot gap.
"Going somewhere, little brother?" Petyr called out. His voice was mocking, confident. Why wouldn't it be? He thought he had Caelan trapped.
"Just taking a walk," Caelan called back. "Nice morning for it."
"Funny. Real funny." Petyr's smile was sharp. Cruel. "You know, I've been watching you. Sneaking into the forest. Hunting. Acting like you have rights. Getting ideas above your station."
"I'm feeding my mother."
"Your mother." Petyr said it like the word tasted bad. "The cum-rag concubine in the east corner. You know what the servants call her? The Duke's Mistake. Because that's all she is. A mistake he made when he was drunk. And you?" He laughed. "You're the mistake's mistake. An accident on top of an accident."
Something cold and sharp settled in Caelan's chest.
The original Caelan—the boy whose body he was wearing—would probably have just taken it. Accepted the insult. Bowed and apologized and hoped Petyr would get bored.
Marcus Reeves, who'd spent twenty-eight years being a doormat at his job, taking shit from managers and coworkers and clients, might've done the same.
But this version of Caelan—the one who'd died once and woken up with a countdown timer to his mother's death burned into his brain—felt something different.
Rage.
Cold, focused, useful rage.
His hand found a rock the size of his fist. Baseball-sized. Good weight.
He channeled essence into his arm. Enhanced strength. Enhanced aim. The System helpfully projected a targeting path in his vision.
And threw.
The rock crossed thirty feet of empty air in under a second and caught Petyr square in the mouth.
There was a very, very satisfying crack of breaking teeth.
Petyr stumbled backward, hand flying to his face, blood pouring between his fingers. "You—you hit me! You fucking—"
"Yeah," Caelan said. His voice came out cold. Flat. "I did. Crazy what happens when you insult a man's mother."
"Kill him!" Petyr screamed through his ruined mouth, spraying blood. "I want him DEAD! Both of you, get over there and kill him!"
The two lackeys looked at each other. Looked at the thirty-foot gap. Looked at Caelan.
Then they jumped.
Silver Tier 2 meant they could actually make that distance if they put enough essence into it. Both men launched themselves across the ravine, weapons drawn.
Caelan was already moving.
Not toward them—away from them, scrambling up the slope behind him, heading for those unstable boulders.
The first lackey landed where Caelan had been standing. Big guy, scarred face, sword that looked like it had seen actual use.
"Stand still, you rat!"
"No."
Caelan kept climbing. The boulder pile was right there, twenty feet up the slope, perched on that outcrop like it was begging to fall.
The second lackey was right behind him, cursing and scrambling up the rocky incline.
Almost there. Almost—
Caelan reached the largest boulder. It was huge—probably weighed two or three tons. Balanced on a wedge of smaller rocks that were themselves balanced on an eroding ledge.
The entire thing was a disaster waiting to happen.
Good.
He pressed both hands against the boulder, feet braced against the slope. Channeled every drop of essence he had into his arms and legs.
And pushed.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then—
Crack.
The wedge stones shifted. The big boulder tilted. The whole pile groaned.
"Oh shit—" The first lackey's eyes went wide.
The rockslide started slow. A grinding sound. A few small stones tumbling down. Then faster. Then it wasn't a slide so much as an avalanche.
Tons of stone roaring down the slope, picking up speed, picking up more rocks, becoming an unstoppable cascade of geological "fuck you."
The two lackeys tried to run.
Didn't make it.
The rocks caught them, swept them sideways, and dumped them over the ravine edge. Caelan heard screaming and crunching and the sound of bodies hitting water and stone fifty feet down.
Then silence.
Caelan clung to the slope above the rockslide's path, breathing hard, staring down at the ravine where two bodies floated in the water, not moving, probably never moving again.
I just killed two people.
The thought was distant. Detached. Like it was happening to someone else.
His hands were shaking.
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ ENEMIES DEFEATED: 2/3 ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ Lackey 1 (Silver Tier 2): DEAD ║
║ Lackey 2 (Silver Tier 2): DEAD ║
║ Method: Environmental Kill ║
║ Efficiency: EXCELLENT ║
║ ║
║ +800 XP (Overkill Bonus) ║
║ +1 Skill: Tactical Awareness (Novice) ║
║ ║
║ WARNING: Petyr Ashborne has fled ║
║ He will report this incident ║
║ Consequences: SEVERE ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
Caelan looked up, across the ravine.
Petyr was gone. Run away like the coward he was. Probably heading back to tattle to his mother about how the forgotten bastard had murdered his friends.
Shit.
This was going to be bad.
Actually, "bad" was an understatement. This was going to be catastrophic.
Caelan had just killed two Silver Tier guards. That was supposed to be impossible for a Bronze Tier. It would raise questions. Draw attention.
The Duke would hear about this.
And the Duke had two options:
Recognize that Caelan was talented and worth training (very unlikely)
Decide Caelan was dangerous and have him quietly eliminated (extremely likely)
Fuck.
Caelan started climbing down from his perch. He had to get back to the Lotus Bower. Had to warn his mother. Had to prepare for whatever shitstorm was about to hit.
Seven hundred twenty-nine days to save her.
And he'd just made the first seven hundred twenty-eight a lot more complicated.
But at least he'd survived.
And at least Petyr Ashborne would think twice before running his mouth about Elara again.
Caelan reached the bottom of the slope, looked one more time at the bodies in the ravine, and felt absolutely nothing.
Is this what this world does to you? Turn you into someone who can kill and not even feel it?
Or maybe that was just what happened when you had something worth protecting and someone threatened it.
He'd figure out his feelings later.
Right now, he had to run.
ACT 2: CONSEQUENCES
SCENE 4: The Return Home
Caelan made it back to the Lotus Bower in fifteen minutes, moving at a dead run the entire way.
His essence was depleted. His muscles were screaming. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
But he was alive.
Two Silver Tiers dead. Petyr knows. He's running back to tell everyone. How long do I have? An hour? Two?
He burst through the door of their tiny home.
Elara was sitting by the table, mending one of his shirts—the one he'd torn climbing a tree last week. She looked up, startled, and her expression immediately shifted to concern.
"Caelan! What—" She dropped the shirt and was on her feet in an instant, crossing to him. "What happened? You're covered in dirt and—" Her hands found his face, his arms, checking for injuries. "Are you hurt? Did someone—"
"I'm fine, Ma."
"You're not fine. You're filthy and shaking and—" Her fingers found something wet on his shirt. She pulled her hand back. Red. Blood. "Caelan, is this blood?"
It wasn't his. It was from one of the lackeys—probably splashed on him when the rocks hit.
"I got in a fight," he said.
The color drained from her face. "A fight. With who?"
"Petyr. Petyr Ashborne."
She went completely still. When she spoke, her voice was tiny. Terrified. "Petyr Ashborne? The Fifth Wife's son? Caelan, what were you thinking—"
"I wasn't. He ambushed me. Him and two of his friends. In the forest. They were going to—" He stopped. Couldn't say what they'd planned to do. The way Petyr had talked about breaking his legs. "They were going to hurt me, Ma. Badly."
"And?" She was staring at him with huge eyes. "What happened?"
"I fought back."
"Against a Silver Tier? Caelan, you're Bronze. You can't—" She stopped. Looked at him. Really looked at him—at the dirt, the blood, the fact that he was standing here whole. "You won."
"I got lucky."
"You got—" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. Borderline hysterical. "You got lucky against a Silver Tier."
"I was creative. And angry. They said—" His jaw clenched. "They said things about you. Bad things. And I lost it."
Elara's hands were shaking worse than his now. "Where are they?"
"Two of them are dead. Petyr ran away."
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence.
Elara stared at him like she'd never seen him before. Like he was a stranger wearing her son's face.
Which, technically, he was.
"You killed them," she whispered.
"I didn't have a choice."
"You're Bronze Tier 3. They were Silver Tier 2. How did you—"
"Does it matter?"
"YES!" She grabbed his shoulders, and for the first time in three weeks—in fifteen years of the original Caelan's life—she looked angry. Terrified and angry. "Yes it matters! You just killed two of the Duke's men! You're a Bronze Tier who shouldn't be able to do that! They're going to ask questions! They're going to investigate! And when they find out—"
She stopped. The anger drained away, leaving just terror.
"They're going to kill you," she finished quietly.
Caelan pulled her into a hug. She resisted for half a second, then collapsed against him, shaking.
"I'm sorry," he said into her hair. "I'm sorry, Ma. I didn't mean for this to happen."
"My little star." Her voice was muffled against his chest. "My brave, stupid, reckless little star. What are we going to do?"
Good question.
Caelan's mind raced through options:
Option 1: Run
Pack what they could carry
Leave tonight
Head for a city far from Ashborne territory
Try to disappear
Problems:
No money, no resources, no plan
Elara couldn't travel fast with her health
They'd be refugees with no protection
Easy targets for bandits, slavers, worse
Original plot said she died from illness in two years—stress and poor conditions would accelerate that
Option 2: Appeal to the Duke
Claim self-defense (true)
Hope the Duke cares about justice (he doesn't)
Maybe get a fair trial (definitely won't)
Problems:
The Duke had never spoken to Caelan
Didn't even know his name probably
Why would he care about a forgotten bastard?
The Fifth Wife would demand blood
Justice meant nothing compared to politics
Option 3: Prepare to fight
Assume they'd come for him
Set traps around the Lotus Bower
Try to kill whoever they sent
Keep killing until they gave up or he died
Problems:
He was Bronze Tier 3
They'd send Platinum Tiers if they wanted him dead
He'd lose
And Elara would die with him or shortly after
Option 4: Spin it
Control the narrative
Frame himself as talented, not dangerous
Make the Duke want to keep him
Turn this disaster into an opportunity
Problems:
Required incredible luck
Depended on the Duke's mood
Could easily backfire
But it was the only option that didn't end with them dead or running forever
"Ma," Caelan said, pulling back to look at her. "We're not running."
"Caelan—"
"Running makes us targets. Out there, we're just refugees. Nobody. Easy prey for anyone who wants to hurt us." He held her shoulders, met her eyes. "But here? I'm Duke Ashborne's blood. That means something. Even if he doesn't care, the law does. They can't just execute me without some kind of trial. Some kind of process."
"You think the Duke cares about law?"
"I think he cares about appearances. About maintaining order. About not looking weak." Caelan was making this up as he went, pulling from half-remembered novel details. "If he just kills me without investigation, it shows he can't control his household. That anyone can murder anyone and get away with it. He can't allow that."
Elara searched his face. "And if he investigates and decides you're guilty?"
"Then we run. Together. But Ma..." He squeezed her shoulders gently. "I think I can spin this. Self-defense. Secret training. Natural talent that's been hidden. Make myself look valuable instead of dangerous."
"That's a huge gamble."
"Everything's a gamble now."
She looked at him for a long moment. Then, quietly: "When did you grow up?"
About three weeks ago when I died in another world and woke up here.
"Recently," he said.
"You're sure about this? You really think you can convince the Duke?"
No. But I'm sure that running gets us both killed within a year, and I've got seven hundred twenty-nine days to change a story that ends with you dead. I'll do whatever it takes.
"I'm sure I have to try."
Elara's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "You're all I have, Caelan. If they take you from me—"
"They won't." He pulled her close again. "I promise, Ma. I'm not leaving you. Not now, not ever."
She held onto him like he was the only solid thing in a tilting world.
And maybe he was.
They stood like that for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes.
Then: footsteps.
Multiple people approaching the Lotus Bower. Heavy boots on the stone path. Military cadence. The sound of armor creaking.
Elara pulled back, eyes wide with fear.
Caelan moved to the window, careful not to be seen, and looked out.
Six guards in Ashborne colors—dark blue with silver trim. Armed. Armored. Professional soldiers, not the lazy estate guards who usually patrolled.
And leading them—
A woman in her late fifties, silver hair pulled back in a severe bun, wearing a dress that probably cost more than everything in the Lotus Bower combined. Her face was sharp and cold, like winter given human form.
Platinum Tier 8 aura that made the air itself feel heavy.
Duchess Serelith Ashborne. The First Wife.
Oh fuck.
Not just fuck. SUPREMELY fuck.
The First Wife was the most powerful woman in the household. She'd been married to the Duke for forty years. Controlled half the estate's politics. And she hated concubines and their bastard children.
In the novel, she'd been responsible for at least a dozen "accidents" involving women and children who'd gotten in her way.
If she was here personally, this was very, very bad.
"Ma," Caelan said quietly, not taking his eyes off the window. "Remember what I said. Stay quiet. Don't argue. Don't fight. Just let me handle this."
"Caelan—"
"Please."
The knock on the door was loud. Commanding. The kind of knock that said I don't need your permission but I'm being polite anyway.
Caelan took a breath. Walked to the door. Opened it.
Duchess Serelith stood there, flanked by guards, looking at him the way someone might look at a particularly interesting insect.
Up close, she was terrifying. Beautiful in a cold, ageless way—Platinum Tier cultivation had preserved her, made her look maybe forty instead of nearly sixty. But her eyes were ice. Absolutely merciless.
"Caelan Ashborne," she said. Her voice could have frozen fire. "You are summoned to appear before Duke Valorian. Immediately."
Every instinct screamed run.
But Caelan kept his voice level. "On what grounds, Your Grace?"
Her eyebrow rose slightly. The fact that she was surprised at all was probably bad. "You dare question?"
"I dare ask the reason for my summons, Your Grace. As is my right as the Duke's acknowledged son."
It was a technicality. Bastards had almost no rights. But "acknowledged" meant his birth was in the family records. Which meant, technically, certain legal protections applied. Probably.
The guards tensed. One hand went to a sword hilt.
Serelith's expression didn't change. "The murder of two Silver Tier guards."
"Self-defense against an ambush, Your Grace."
"That will be determined. Come." She turned, clearly expecting him to follow. "Now."
It wasn't a request.
Caelan looked back at his mother. Elara stood in the middle of their tiny main room, hands clasped in front of her, looking small and terrified and trying so hard to be brave.
Their eyes met.
I love you, she mouthed.
I love you too, he mouthed back.
Then he stepped outside, and the guards immediately closed in around him. Not quite restraining, but making it clear he wasn't going anywhere they didn't want him to go.
"Your Grace," one of the guards said quietly. "Should we bind him?"
"Is that necessary, Caelan Ashborne?" Serelith asked, her voice light and dangerous. "Will you come quietly, or must we drag you?"
"I'll come quietly, Your Grace."
"How civilized." She started walking, and the guards immediately fell into formation—two in front, two behind, one on each side. A prisoner's escort, even if they weren't calling it that.
Caelan walked, surrounded by armed men, following the First Wife toward the main palace.
Toward a meeting with Duke Valorian Ashborne.
His father, who'd never spoken a single word to him in fifteen years.
The System pinged softly:
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ NEW QUEST: THE DUKE'S JUDGMENT ║
║ Rank: C ║
║ Type: Social / Survival ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ OBJECTIVE: ║
║ Convince Duke Valorian you are ║
║ worth keeping alive ║
║ ║
║ SUCCESS: ║
║ ► Survival ║
║ ► Status increase ║
║ ► Possible recruitment ║
║ ║
║ FAILURE: ║
║ ► Execution ║
║ ► Quest: Change Fate (FAILED) ║
║ ► Game Over ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ RECOMMENDATION: ║
║ Be honest about your abilities ║
║ Show value, not just strength ║
║ The Duke respects useful tools ║
║ ║
║ WARNING: ║
║ The First Wife wants you dead ║
║ The Fifth Wife wants you dead ║
║ Petyr wants you dead ║
║ ║
║ The Duke... doesn't care either way ║
║ Make him care ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ Good luck. ║
║ You're going to need it. ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
Great.
Just great.
The walk to the main palace took twenty minutes that felt like twenty hours.
And with every step, Caelan could feel his mother back at the Lotus Bower, waiting. Terrified. Alone.
I'm coming back, he promised silently. I'm not dying today. Not when you need me.
I'm not letting the story win.
Not now. Not ever.
ACT 3: THE JUDGMENT
SCENE 5: The Throne Room
The main palace of the Ashborne Estate was designed to intimidate.
Caelan had seen it from a distance his entire life—this life and the original Caelan's memories—but he'd never been inside. Forgotten bastards didn't get invited to the seat of power.
Now, walking through halls that could fit his entire home ten times over, surrounded by marble pillars and gold trim and tapestries worth more than most people's lives, he understood viscerally what he'd only known intellectually:
These people have everything. You have nothing. Remember your place.
The guards marched him through corridor after corridor. Servants pressed themselves against walls as they passed, eyes down. A few of them glanced at Caelan with pity or curiosity.
The forgotten bastard going to his execution, their faces said.
Duchess Serelith led the way, gliding more than walking, like ice given human form.
Finally, they reached a set of massive doors. Twice as tall as a man, carved from some dark wood, inlaid with silver in patterns that probably had symbolic meaning Caelan didn't know.
The guards stationed at the doors didn't need to be told. They pushed them open, revealing—
The Duke's audience chamber.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Caelan's breath caught despite himself.
The room was massive. Easily a hundred feet long, fifty feet wide, ceilings so high you could fit a three-story building inside. Columns marched down both sides—real marble, veined with gold. Windows taller than houses let in afternoon light that made everything glow.
At the far end, elevated on a dais: a throne.
Not a chair. A throne. Black stone that might've been onyx or obsidian, carved with patterns that hurt to look at directly. Silver inlay that caught the light and threw it back wrong.
And sitting on that throne, looking like he belonged there because he absolutely did:
Duke Valorian Ashborne.
Caelan's father.
He'd never been this close before. Never seen the man except at a distance during festivals or parades.
The resemblance was obvious now. Same dark hair, though the Duke's was streaked with silver. Same sharp jawline. Same intense eyes.
But where Caelan was thin and young and still growing into himself, the Duke was presence. Broad shoulders. Scarred hands from actual combat. A face that had ordered thousands of deaths and slept fine afterward.
Diamond Tier 6 aura pressed down on the room like a physical weight. The air itself felt heavy. Caelan's knees wanted to buckle. His system was throwing warnings:
WARNING: EXTREME POWER DIFFERENTIAL
Opponent is 18+ tiers above you
Combat success probability: 0.00000%
Survival recommendation: MAXIMUM DEFERENCE
DO NOT ANTAGONIZE
Yeah, no shit.
Caelan stayed standing through sheer stubbornness and the fact that falling to his knees would look weak.
The guards marched him to the center of the room and stopped. Serelith glided to one side, taking a position near the throne. Observing.
Caelan stood alone in the middle of an empty floor, looking up at a father who'd never acknowledged his existence.
Silence stretched.
The Duke studied him the way someone might study an unfamiliar insect. Interested but detached.
When he finally spoke, his voice was exactly what Caelan expected—deep, commanding, utterly devoid of warmth:
"So. You're the one who killed my Silver Tiers."
Not "my son."
Not "Caelan."
Just "the one who killed."
"In self-defense, Your Grace," Caelan managed. His voice only shook a little.
"Self-defense." The Duke leaned forward slightly. "A Bronze Tier 3—" He paused. "You are Bronze Tier 3, according to the reports?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"A Bronze Tier 3 claims self-defense against two Silver Tier 2 guards. Do you know how that sounds?"
"Unlikely, Your Grace."
"Impossible."
"And yet here I stand."
The words came out before Caelan could stop them. Too defiant. Too challenging.
The First Wife's eyes narrowed. Several guards shifted their grips on their weapons.
But the Duke... smiled.
It was not a comforting smile.
It was the smile of a predator seeing something interesting.
"Indeed. Here you stand." He stood from the throne, and somehow that made him more intimidating. Descended the steps of the dais slowly. Deliberately. "Serelith tells me you were impudent at your home. Asked questions. Demanded reasons. Most interesting behavior for a forgotten bastard who should be grateful he's even alive."
Oh good. The First Wife is already trying to get me killed.
"I apologize if I gave offense, Your Grace. I merely sought to understand the situation before—"
"Spare me the politics." The Duke waved a hand dismissively. He was closer now. Close enough that Caelan could see scars on his hands, a thin line on his jaw. "You're Bronze Tier 3. Petyr Ashborne is Silver Tier 3, trained by professional instructors since age five, equipped with the best weapons and cultivation resources. His two companions were both Silver Tier 2 guards. Trained. Armed. Experienced."
He stopped about ten feet away, studying Caelan.
"How did you win?"
Good question. Great question. Question I don't have a good answer for.
"Strategy, Your Grace."
"Strategy."
"Yes, Your Grace. Direct confrontation would've been suicide. So I used the terrain. Led them to a ravine. Triggered a rockslide. They were crushed. Petyr fled."
The Duke's eyebrows rose. "You led three pursuers—all above your tier—to a specific location and used environmental advantages to defeat them."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"That requires knowledge of the terrain. Pre-planning. Tactical thinking." The Duke circled him slowly, like a wolf circling prey. "You're saying you had time to plan this ambush?"
Shit. That sounds premeditated.
"No, Your Grace. I saw the opportunity when I got there. Made a split-second decision."
"A split-second decision that perfectly utilized environmental hazards to defeat superior opponents." The Duke completed his circle, facing Caelan again. "Remarkable."
Was that sarcasm? Genuine interest? Impossible to tell.
"How did you get strong enough to climb a ravine wall while being chased?" the Duke continued. "Bronze Tier 1 is average for a fifteen-year-old with no training. Bronze Tier 2 might happen with hard work. Bronze Tier 3?" He tilted his head. "That requires resources. Instruction. Cultivation techniques."
"I've been training on my own, Your Grace."
"Where did you get training materials?"
I stole a basic manual from the estate library two weeks ago and the System helped me not die using it.
"I found an old cultivation manual in the servants' quarters, Your Grace. Someone must have discarded it. I've been practicing."
"For how long?"
"Three weeks, Your Grace."
Complete silence.
Then the Duke laughed.
It was a cold sound. Sharp. But genuine.
"Three weeks," he repeated. "You're telling me you went from Mortal to Bronze Tier 3 in three weeks of self-study."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"That's—" He stopped. Looked at Caelan with new intensity. "That's prodigy-level advancement. Natural genius territory. The kind of talent that appears maybe once in a generation."
Or the kind that appears when someone with adult-level intelligence and a cheat System takes over a teenager's body.
"I don't know, Your Grace. I just trained."
The Duke stared at him for a long moment.
Then: "Serelith. Your assessment."
The First Wife stepped forward smoothly. "A liar, my lord. No one advances that fast without proper resources. He must have stolen cultivation pills. Or found a hidden cache. Or—" Her eyes glittered coldly. "—he's been receiving outside help. Possibly from enemies of the family."
Oh fuck she's trying to frame me as a spy.
"That's not true, Your Grace," Caelan said quickly. "I've never left the estate. I have no contacts outside. No resources beyond what my mother and I can afford on our allowance."
"Your mother." The Duke's expression shifted slightly. "Concubine... Elara? Is that correct?"
The fact that he had to think about it. Had to remember his own concubine's name.
"Yes, Your Grace."
"The one in the eastern quarter. The Lotus Bower."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Hmm." The Duke walked back toward his throne. "Serelith believes you're lying about your advancement. Petyr's mother, Duchess Helena, is screaming for your blood. Half my council thinks you're a threat that needs to be eliminated before you become a problem."
Caelan's heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
"And yet," the Duke continued, settling back onto his throne, "three weeks from Mortal to Bronze Tier 3 would make you the most talented cultivator in this family. Possibly the most talented in the entire northern territories." He drummed his fingers on the armrest. "If it's true."
"It is true, Your Grace."
"Prove it."
"Your Grace?"
The Duke smiled again. That predator smile. "Prove you're capable of killing Silvers. Right now."
And that's when the doors opened again.
And someone walked in.
Caelan's blood ran cold.
Because he recognized this one from the novel. Had seen his name in multiple chapters. Had read about his exploits, his victories, his body count.
Mordain Ashborne. Half-brother number two. Son of the Second Wife, Duchess Morgana.
Platinum Tier 1.
Twenty-six years old. Six feet of pure muscle and killing intent. Scarred face that had seen actual warfare. Cold eyes that assessed Caelan like a problem to be solved.
The novel had described him as "the Duke's Sword." The military genius. The one who commanded armies and won battles through a combination of tactical brilliance and overwhelming personal power.
He'd killed over a thousand people personally. In the novel's civil war arc, he'd destroyed entire cities.
And he was walking toward Caelan with his hand resting casually on his sword hilt.
"Mordain," the Duke said pleasantly. "Thank you for joining us."
"Father." Mordain's voice was rough. Practical. "You said you had a test for me."
"Indeed. This—" The Duke gestured at Caelan. "—is Caelan Ashborne. My son. Do you know him?"
"No." Mordain looked at Caelan without interest. "Should I?"
"Probably not. He's been living in the forgotten corners of the estate with his mother. But today he killed two Silver Tier 2 guards. Claims he did so in self-defense using superior tactics."
Mordain's expression didn't change. "Bronze Tier 3?"
"Yes."
"Impossible."
"That's what I said. So I'm going to have you test him." The Duke leaned back in his throne. "Five minutes. If he survives, I'll believe his story. If he doesn't..." A shrug. "Problem solved."
Caelan's system was losing its mind:
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ EMERGENCY QUEST UPDATE ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ NEW OBJECTIVE: ║
║ Survive Mordain Ashborne ║
║ Duration: 5 minutes ║
║ ║
║ OPPONENT ANALYSIS: ║
║ Mordain Ashborne ║
║ Rank: Platinum Tier 1 ║
║ Threat Level: LETHAL ║
║ Combat Experience: EXTREME ║
║ ║
║ Probability of survival: 0.3% ║
║ Probability of victory: 0% ║
║ ║
║ RECOMMENDATION: ║
║ BEG FOR MERCY ║
║ (it won't work, but it's all you've got)║
╠══════════════════════════════════════╣
║ I told you to git gud. ║
║ You didn't git gud enough. ║
║ Good luck anyway. ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
Mordain drew his sword.
It was a beautiful weapon. Simple, elegant, deadly. Probably worth more than the Lotus Bower and everything in it.
"Your Grace," Caelan said, trying to keep his voice steady, "with respect, I'm Bronze Tier 3. He's Platinum Tier 1. That's a difference of six full ranks. Eighteen tiers. The gap is—"
"Insurmountable for most people," the Duke finished. "Which is why this is a good test. If you're truly talented, you'll find a way to survive. If you're not..." Another shrug.
Mordain stepped onto the open floor. Rolled his shoulders. Took a ready stance.
"Five minutes," he said. "Try to make it interesting."
And Caelan, Bronze Tier 3, exhausted from running and fighting and stress, facing a Platinum Tier 1 warrior who'd killed more people than Caelan had met in either of his lives, thought:
Well.
Fuck.