Chapter 1: The Seed of a New Thorn
The world was pain. Then it was nothing. Then it was everything, all at once, but different.
Daryl Ramsay's eyes snapped open. The first thing he registered was not a sight, but a feeling—the cool, damp grit of stone beneath his cheek. The second was the smell: wet earth, old rot, and the metallic tang of blood that wasn't his own.
He pushed himself up, his body screaming in protest. He was in an alley, the kind that exists in the forgotten spaces between grand buildings. Above, a sliver of sky was a deep, bruised purple, lit by two small moons.
Moons. Plural.
The memories hit him like a wave. Not one wave, but two, crashing into each other and creating a maelstrom.
First, the life of Daryl Ramsay, the F-Grade laughingstock of New Alexandria. A city of spires and magic, where hunters delved into dungeons and awakened with fantastic powers. He remembered the jeers. "Move it, Trash Ramsay!" The way people averted their eyes, not out of respect, but disgust. He remembered the meager coins he earned hauling monster carcasses for real hunters, the way his body ached from the simplest tasks because his [F-Rank Vitality] was so pitifully low. He remembered the day he'd found a hidden portal in a forgotten corner of a solo dungeon, the blinding light, and then... nothing.
Then, a second life crashed into the first. A life from somewhere else. A place of concrete and glass, of screens and traffic. A life where he was just… ordinary. Unremarkable. He had a name there too, but it felt distant now, like a character from a book he'd read long ago. That Daryl had died. A car accident. Quick, impersonal.
He was Daryl Ramsay. He was also… someone else. The fusion of memories settled in his mind, finding an uneasy balance. He had died, and he had been reincarnated. Back into the same body? The same world? It felt the same, yet different. The magic in the air was thicker here, more primal.
A sharp pain lanced through his skull, and a translucent blue screen flickered into existence before his eyes.
[System Re-initializing...]
[Welcome back, Host.]
[Status Panel: Hidden by System Administrator.]
[Talent Assessment Complete.]
Daryl blinked. The status panel had always been visible to him, a source of daily shame showing his single-digit stats. Now it was just… gone. Replaced by that final line.
Talent Assessment.
He remembered his old talent. It was the source of all his misery. [F-Rank Talent: Dull Edge] . It had actively reduced the sharpness and effectiveness of any weapon he held by 30%. He was a warrior cursed to fight with a glorified stick. The cruel joke of the universe.
But this wasn't his old assessment. This was new.
[SSS-Rank Talent Detected: OVERGROWTH]
Daryl's breath hitched. SSS-Rank? It was a rank spoken of in myths, a power reserved for the city's Sovereign-class hunters, the ones who could solo calamity-level dungeons. He stared at the words, waiting for the punchline.
[OVERGROWTH (Passive)]
Effect 1: Thorned Patience. All skills you possess will grow and evolve with use and time. A simple skill practiced for a year will surpass a rare skill used for a day.
Effect 2: Living Arsenal. All equipped items will resonate with your talent. Over time, they will bond with you, their latent potential unlocking and their attributes evolving to suit your growth. An iron dagger carried for long enough may one day thirst for the blood of kings.
The panel faded, leaving Daryl kneeling in the filth of the alley. He looked down at his hands. They were his hands, scarred and calloused from thankless labor. But they felt different. They felt… rooted. Connected to something deep and inexhaustible.
A clatter came from the mouth of the alley. A man, reeking of cheap ale and wearing the patched leather of a low-tier porter, stumbled in to relieve himself. He stopped when he saw Daryl.
"Well, well, if it isn't the city's favorite mascot for failure," the man slurred, a vicious grin spreading across his face. "Heard you ran off to die in a dungeon. Looks like even death doesn't want you, Trash Ramsay."
The words were the same. The mocking tone was the same. But this time, they didn't land with the same crushing weight. They just… washed over him. Inside, a tiny, green shoot of defiance unfurled.
He had a system that hid his shame. He had a talent that could turn time into power. He just needed to survive long enough to let it grow.
Without a word, Daryl stood up, brushed the dirt from his tattered tunic, and walked past the porter. The man's laughter followed him, but it sounded hollow, distant. Daryl's focus was inward, on the strange new sensation of potential thrumming in his veins.
He needed information. He needed resources. He needed to find a place where no one would watch him, where he could let his Overgrowth begin its silent, patient work. The city's forgotten edges, the places where the lights of the Hunter's Guild spires didn't reach, called to him like soil to a seed.
His new adventure had begun, not with a bang, but with the quiet, stubborn persistence of a thorn pushing through concrete. He was still F-Grade. He was still the weakest of the weak. But for the first time in either of his lives, Daryl Ramsay felt the patient, inexorable power of something growing in his favor. The world had sown him in shadow and scorn. Now, he would grow.