The frost had retreated. Spring crept over Velden like a cautious thief, trading ice for mist and hard earth for muddy grass.
Rowan's bare feet padded across the soft field behind the tavern, his wooden sword already in hand. Two months had passed since the screen first appeared, and in that time, he'd settled into a rhythm. Wake up. Train. Sleep. Again and again. Nothing changed. Except him.
[Status]
Name: Rowan
Age: 5
Race: Human (Soul-Bound Variant)
Level: 1
XP: 17 / 100
[Attributes]
HP: 60
MP: 30
SP: 95
STR: 11
AGI: 13
VIT: 9
DEX: 13
INT: 7
WIS: 6
CHA: 4
LUK: 2
He moved through the air like it resisted him less than it used to. Not much stronger. Not much faster. But his arms no longer trembled after a few dozen swings. His footing no longer slipped when the grass turned wet. Even the pain in his hands had dulled. His body was growing into the shape of his soul—slowly.
Today, like always, he began with the drills. Thrust, pivot, guard, repeat. Sweat gathered on his brow as the sun rose higher. He counted each motion in silence.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------He wasn't alone.
Rowan heard it before he saw him—the heavy rustle of clothes, the scrape of boots, the unmistakable splash of someone relieving themselves just out of sight behind the tavern. Then a voice, rough like gravel soaked in ale.
"You'll pop your wrist swinging like that."
Rowan spun, blade up.
A man stood just a few meters off. Thick coat. Steel greaves. A short sword hanging loose from a frayed belt. He wasn't drunk. Not yet. His eyes were too clear.
"Who taught you to hold a weapon like that?" the man asked, tucking his belt back into place and stepping forward.
"No one."
The man raised a brow. "Huh. You training to be a knight or something?"
"No."
A snort. "Right. You lot barely have guards, let alone knights."
Rowan didn't reply. He lowered the blade slowly.
The mercenary scratched at his beard. "You swing too much from the shoulder. That'll tire you out and make your cuts slow. Let your hips twist. Think of it like… chopping wood, not flailing a stick."
Rowan nodded once.
The man didn't stay. He gave one last look—more curious than kind—then turned back toward the tavern.
"Keep at it, kid," he said. "The world's not short on corpses. Just on people who know how to make them."
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As the sun dipped lower, Rowan's swings slowed. His stance was tighter now, his footwork cleaner—just as the mercenary had shown.
Then, in the grass near his heel, a small thing shifted. A beetle, glistening in the light.
He paused. Watched it crawl across the dirt. Then, with careful intent, he raised the tip of his wooden sword—and brought it down fast.
The beetle cracked. The screen blinked.
+1 XP
He stared at the remains. Just a bug. Nothing more.
But the number stayed in his vision a moment longer than usual.
That was all it had taken.
He crouched beside it, eyes unreadable. No joy. No disgust. Just calculation. Quiet, cold understanding.
Killing gave experience.
He didn't know if it made him cruel for trying it.
But he knew he'd do it again.
That night, Rowan lay in bed while the house creaked around him. His mothers soft snoring echoed from the next room.
His fingers curled into the thin blanket.
He had assumed power only came from work. From sweat. From pain.
But the system rewarded something else too.
Killing.
Even something small. Even something helpless.
Was it wrong?
He didn't know.
But if he wanted to survive—if he wanted to win—he couldn't afford to care.