The wood was slick. That was the first problem. The second was his arms.
They burned like they'd been packed with hot coals. Every pull upward felt like dragging dead weight through wet concrete. Sweat stung his eyes. His breath came in short, ragged pulls that did nothing to fill his lungs. The rope bit into his palms. His shoulders screamed.
Above him, a boy in a torn tunic lost his footing. A sharp curse. The sound of boots scraping uselessly against damp timber. Then a thud. Not fatal. Just a drop to the canvas mats below. Groans. Instructor's whistle. A chalk mark.
Eryx didn't look down. Looking down was a luxury for people with grip strength.
He focused on the next rung. Just wood. Just rope. Just friction. He shifted his weight. His right hand slipped an inch. He caught it. Barely. Fingers trembled. Knuckles white. He pulled again. Muscles quivered. A sharp crack echoed from somewhere to his left. Another cadet dropping. The instructor didn't even flinch. Just marked the slate.
Eryx's left hand gave out.
He slammed his fingers back against the wood. Nails scraped. Skin tore. He gritted his teeth, tasting copper and dust. He pulled. His right arm collapsed first. A sudden, sickening pop in his shoulder. Not broken. Just spent. The tendons had nothing left to give.
He gasped. Reached for the support rope. Missed.
Gravity won.
The world tilted. The sky swapped places with the ground. Wind rushed past his ears. Four meters. Maybe five. Hard-packed dirt and scattered gravel below. The mats were for the ones who fell on purpose. He wasn't aiming for the mats.
Panic flared. White-hot. Primal. His stomach dropped. His arms flailed uselessly. Time didn't slow down. It just felt heavy. Like moving through thick water.
*Brace. Tuck. Don't land flat. Don't land flat. Don't—*
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Cold. Not physical. Neural. Like ice water poured straight into his spine.
A voice. Not his. Not human. Flat. Dry. Devoid of everything except absolute, mechanical certainty.
`[Null System Activated.]`
Text didn't appear in his vision. It appeared *behind* it. Etched into the dark.
`[Survival Protocol: Online.]`
`[Trigger confirmed: Lethal trajectory. Instinct override engaged.]`
`[Skill Unlocked: Basic Survival Instinct (Lv 1)]`
`[Skill Unlocked: Pain Resistance I]`
The words didn't ask permission. They just happened.
Then came the cost.
A spike drove through his temples. White lightning. His vision fractured. Blood warmed his upper lip. Vertigo hit him like a physical shove. The world spun. The ground rushed up.
But his body… moved.
Not by choice. By reflex. Hardwired. Sudden. Violent.
His shoulders twisted mid-air. Hips rolled. He hit the dirt at an angle, not flat. The impact jarred his bones, rattled his teeth, sent a shockwave up his spine—but his body absorbed it. Distributed it. Rolled with it. Gravel scraped his side. His uniform tore. He kept moving, tucking his chin, letting momentum carry him into a clumsy, untrained roll that ended with him flat on his back, staring at the pale morning sky.
Silence.
Then: breathing. Ragged. His own.
Pain was there. Distant. Muffled. Like it belonged to someone else. The migraine throbbed behind his eyes. Blood dripped from his nose onto his collar. His head spun. But his limbs worked. His lungs drew air. He was alive.
He lay there for three seconds. Four. Counting his heartbeats. They were slowing down. Stabilizing.
*What… was that?*
`[System initialized. Survival metrics calibrated.]`
`[Welcome to the Null.]`
The tone in his head was bored. Like a clerk stamping a form. Like a machine stating the weather.
Eryx swallowed. The copper taste in his mouth was real. The blood on his lips was real. The dirt under his palms was real.
He pushed himself up. His knees shook. Not from fear. From the sudden, violent recalibration of his nervous system. He wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. Left a red smear.
"Unorthodox landing," a voice drawled from above.
The head instructor stood at the edge of the rig, slate in hand. He wasn't looking at Eryx's torn uniform or his bleeding nose. He was looking at the scuff marks in the dirt. The angle of impact. The lack of broken bones.
"You fell like a sack of bricks," the man continued. "But you rolled like a stray cat. Luck?"
Eryx pushed himself fully upright. His head pounded. His vision swam at the edges. He kept his voice level. "If luck feels like someone kicked my skull from the inside, then yes. Definitely luck."
A few cadets snickered. Most just stared. Falling wasn't unusual. Surviving a fall like that on packed earth was.
The instructor's eyes narrowed. Just a fraction. He made a note on the slate. Didn't look impressed. Just… observant.
"G-Class. Back to the line. Next attempt starts in two minutes."
Eryx stepped away from the rig. His legs felt like they were moving through syrup. Every step sent a fresh pulse of nausea through his gut. He found a patch of shade near the stone wall and sank against it. Slid down until he was sitting on his boots.
He closed his eyes. Let the darkness take the edges of his vision.
Inside, the text remained. Faint. Persistent.
`[Basic Survival Instinct: Active. Passive detection of lethal vectors.]`
`[Pain Resistance I: Active. Sensory dampening: 40%.]`
`[Note: System adaptation requires stress. Rest reduces efficiency.]`
He didn't understand it. Didn't want to yet. But he felt it. A quiet hum beneath his skin. A new rhythm in his chest. Something old waking up in a place that shouldn't have it.
He opened his eyes. Looked at his hands. Still trembling. Skin scraped. Knuckles raw. But functional. Alive.
*Survival protocol. Instinct override. Pain dampening.*
He pressed his thumb into a fresh bruise on his forearm. Expected sharp sting. Felt only a dull, muffled pressure. Like hitting something through thick cloth. He pressed harder. Skin reddened. The ache stayed buried.
Forty percent. Maybe more.
He exhaled. Slowly. The vertigo was fading. The migraine settled into a steady, manageable throb. The blood from his nose had dried to a sticky crust.
He looked back at the climbing rig. Another cadet slipped. Dropped. Hit the mat. Groaned. Got up. Tried again.
Eryx watched. Listened to his own breathing. Felt the quiet, alien presence settling into the corners of his mind.
It wasn't a gift. It felt like a transaction.
He wiped his face. Stood up. His legs still ached. His head still spun. But his spine straightened.
*Okay,* he thought. *New rules. New game.*
He took a step toward the rig. Then stopped.
A flicker in his vision. Just for a second. The text glitched. Letters scrambled. Turned red.
`[Warning: Anomaly signature detected. Recalibrating...]`
Then it was gone. Back to clean, cold white.
Eryx didn't react. He just kept walking. But his pulse jumped. Once. Hard.
The system wasn't just awake.
It was watching.
And it already knew something was wrong.