Lying on his back, Alistair stared at the sky.

  It was quiet now.

  Too quiet.

  The kind of silence that made your skin itch.

  His chest rose and fell slowly, each breath a smoky blend of blood, ozone, and the faint staleness of scorched magic. The clearing was still littered with death, three champions broken by spell, steel, and poison.

  But what held his gaze was the sky.

  It looked... wrong.

  Muted. Off. Like someone had tried to paint a sunset and ran out of pigment halfway through.

  It didn’t feel real. Not like the gods had designed it, more like they had outsourced it and approved the draft in a hurry.

  Alistair blinked, then deactivated [Blood Sight].

  And the world exploded into color.

  Blues that bled into violet. Gold glinting off the leaves. Every blade of grass shimmered, every insect gleamed like a gem.

  It was overwhelming.

  Beautiful, even.

  He let out a slow breath, drinking it in.

  This is the part they don’t tell you about, he thought. That even in the middle of a divine bloodbath, the world can still look like art.

  For a moment, just a moment, he let himself appreciate it. The smell of living earth. The flutter of wings. A lizard darted past, blue as sky, unbothered by the corpses nearby.

  After a lifetime in the Shadowlands, gray, bleak, and sunless, it was almost too much to take in.

  I’ve been surviving in black-and-white, he realized. This place is in full color.

  Then the notifications pinged.

  [Level Up – 13]

  Attribute Points Gained: +4

  Auto Allocation: Agility +3, Dexterity +2

  Alistair blinked. Right... He had leveled up!

  He scrolled back through the backlog.

  Apparently, killing three people was enough to push the golden bar in his vision to the max. That alone might’ve pushed him close, but the sword had sealed it. It was the extra points it awarded that catapulted him to level 13.

  The sword…

  He sat up, fingers curling around the hilt of the [Redcrystal Shortsword of Slaying].

  [Weapon Passive – Bloodthirst]

  Current Charge: 3 / 50

  Advisory: Weapon strengthens when fed blood. Progression accelerates with higher-quality kills.

  You grow by feeding, he thought, staring at it. Just like me.

  Three points.

  From a single kill.

  His brows furrowed.

  So I don’t need five hundred corpses? Just… enough death?

  That was both comforting and mildly horrifying.

  If the sword could feed on high-quality kills and earn multiple points per death…

  What would it unlock at 500?

  What would he become?

  He turned the blade in his hand. There were still faint specks of blood along the edge, and he swore some of them were slowly being siphoned into the crystal.

  “That’s not creepy at all,” he muttered.

  He tried to ignore the faint tingle in his palm as he slid it back into its sheath.

  Next, the system chimed again.

  [Skill Increased – Swordsmanship Lv.8]

  Weapon Damage +12%, Parry Effectiveness +4%

  [Skill Increased - Dark Magic Level 4]

  Spell Damage +11%, Debuff Potency +2%

  Alistair blinked twice.

  Then again.

  He actually felt his throat tighten. A lump, thick and unexpected.

  Swordsmanship, he thought. It leveled.

  He tapped the notification again, just to be sure.

  Still there.

  Still real.

  After all that training. After all that failure. It finally moved.

  A breath escaped him, half laugh, half something else.

  It was the [Dew of Possibilities] in all its glory. His affinity had been too low before. Now that the bottleneck was gone, the levels had followed.

  If only his father could see him now…

  He scowled, shoving that thought aside.

  Then turned to the next skill update.

  Dark magic.

  New. Dangerous. Addictive.

  And growing fast.

  His spirit guide’s presence pulsed faintly in the back of his mind, approving. Encouraging.

  This was a path. A real one. Not locked behind noble training or court etiquette. A path carved by blood, instinct, and raw survival.

  He grinned.

  Then pulled up his character sheet.

  He scrolled through his stats, gaze skimming past the numbers.

  Agility. Dexterity.

  Higher now.

  Clean. Clear.

  He’d leveled. Finally. But the high lasted exactly three seconds before his eyes fell on his Constitution score. Still garbage. He sighed. “Amazing. I’m now a glass cannon with fangs. If someone sneezes too hard, I die dramatically.”

  Thankfully his affinities were still maxed thanks to the Dew. Swordsmanship and Dark Magic no longer stalled. Even his vampiric traits felt more awake.

  But something else caught his eye.

  A passive effect. Faint. Faded, but present.

  [Passive Debuff – Sun’s Drain]

  Effect: Attributes -10% during daylight

  His jaw clenched.

  Of course.

  So even with all this power, level-ups, perks, he was still fighting uphill.

  Still cursed by biology. Still one glow away from being handicapped.

  He stared at it.

  “…Great.”

  He rubbed his face, feeling the grime and dried blood cling to his fingers.

  The worst part? He could feel it. The fatigue. Like his own bones had gotten heavier since the sun rose. His muscles sluggish. Reflexes slightly off.

  It explained a lot.

  That sluggishness mid-fight.

  That half-second delay when he tried to finish the elf.

  It hadn’t been just exhaustion, it was the sun.

  And it was only getting worse as day dragged on.

  He sighed and tapped open his attributes menu.

  [Unspent Attribute Points: 4]

  He didn’t hesitate.

  Two to Constitution. Two to Strength.

  The changes hit almost immediately.

  His spine straightened. His limbs felt just a little lighter. The fatigue didn’t vanish, but the edge was dulled, replaced with something steadier. Stronger.

  Alistair exhaled. “That’s more like it.”

  His gaze fell to the medallions lying beside him, already claimed, already his.

  He reached for one and slowly slipped it over his head.

  It was heavier than expected. Not just physically. Magically. It sat cold against his chest, then gradually warmed to his skin.

  And then something stirred.

  Not in his body.

  In his mind.

  A flicker of awareness. Not quite a direction. Not quite a pull. But something was there, guidance, faint and low and distant.

  Like a compass buried under layers of static.

  He froze. The medallion pulled. Not yanked, not dragged. Just... nudged. Like a rich aunt trying to set him up at a family dinner. Great. Now his accessories had opinions.

  It wasn’t [Treasure Seeker], that ability still pulsed in the background, muted and precise.

  This was similar, but wilder. Less refined. Like the medallion was resonating with something… calling to it.

  A destination.

  A truth.

  He blinked hard.

  The Founding Crystal.

  He didn’t know how he knew but he knew. This medallion wasn’t just a key to open the portal. It was also a beacon. A guide. A tether.

  And suddenly, a past moment clicked into place.

  The necromancer.

  The way he’d turned, medallion in hand, and walked away without a glance, because the moment he’d equipped his, he didn’t need to stay.

  He’d already been pulled toward what mattered.

  He wasn’t running. He was following the signal.

  Alistair touched the medallion.

  Now, so was he.

  Alistair rose from the rock, dusted himself off, and walked slowly toward the nearest corpse.

  There wasn’t much dignity in looting the dead, but there also wasn’t any point pretending he was above it.

  He crouched next to the dark elf and began to work.

  Most of the armor was useless melted, cracked, half-fused to charred skin. But the man’s right hand still glittered with something intact.

  A ring.

  Simple, silver, engraved with runes along the band. He slipped it off, surprised at the lack of resistance.

  The system chimed.

  [Item Acquired – Ring of Minor Healing]

  Classification: Uncommon

  Durability: 11 / 17

  Effect: Restores 30 HP instantly (1/day) Alistair’s eyebrows rose.

  “Well, that’s convenient.”

  He slid it into his finger, feeling the ever-present tension in his chest loosen just slightly.

  There was no illusion of safety, but with that ring, at least he had a buffer between “barely standing” and “completely dead.”

  He moved to the other corpses.

  The dwarf was beyond salvage. Even his weapon had corroded into a lump of rusted slag, courtesy of the [Toxin Tide].

  But the dark elf… that one had more to offer.

  Among the scorched leather and charred belongings, tucked within a hidden flap of the elf’s belt, another ring.

  Gold band. Pale blue gem.

  [Item Acquired – Ring of Airborne Might]

  Classification: Rare

  Durability: 5 / 21

  Effect: Summon air-imbued arrow. On impact, releases shockwave dealing damage and unbalancing targets.

  Alistair turned it over, recognition settling in fast.

  Well, that answers the question of how the dark elf had managed to deal so much damage from a single arrow. He had been able to conjure magical arrows!

  “You sneaky bastard!”

  He had half a mind to kick the corpse in posthumous protest.

  Instead, he just sighed and slid the ring onto his finger.

  No bow. No training in archery.

  But magic didn’t care.

  “No bow, no problem,” he muttered. “Who needs arrows when you’ve got cheekbones and charm?”

  The tingling mana around the ring suggested it didn’t agree but it didn’t stop him either.

  His search finished, Alistair took a final look around the clearing. He walked the edge once, checking the ground for anything overlooked. Mostly burnt scraps, cracked buckles, half-melted coins. Nothing worth carrying.

  He turned toward the portal.

  It waited, silent and dormant, across the ridge, its stone frame still intact, still humming with potential. The carved archway formed from jagged stones, five shallow indents carved into its surface like waiting mouths.

  He approached cautiously.

  The medallions clinked together in his pouch, like keys waiting for a door that wasn’t quite ready.

  Four down.

  One to go.

  “A familiar situation,” he murmured, mock solemn. “Like every dinner party I’ve ever planned.”

  Though, to be fair, those hadn’t ended in dismemberment. Usually.

  He studied the portal again. Simple construction. Ancient design. The kind that promised power and also implied trap.

  No active magic. No sign of awakening.

  Yet.

  He exhaled and glanced at the sky.

  The sun was dipping. Shadows stretched long and crooked across the trees. The air was cooling.

  A blessing and a curse.

  Night meant strength. Restoration. No more [Sun’s Drain] bleeding stats from his bones.

  But it also meant less time.

  Less light to find that final medallion.

  “To step or not to step?” he asked, mock-dramatic. “That is the question.”

  He paused.

  Then laughed.

  “Oh, who am I kidding. I want whatever’s behind that portal.”

  His smirk faded as he turned back toward the forest, expression sharpening into focus.

  The next fight was coming.

  And this time, they’d know he was a threat.

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