Sylvester’s breath hitched in his throat, a ragged, wheezing sound. The alley still reeked of stale refuse and something metallic that might have been Scar's blood. His hands trembled, not with cold, but with a jolt that ran bone-deep. Three men. Three men, down. A rusty dagger, a clenched fist. And then, nothing. Only the echo of their pained grunts, the thud of bodies hitting the grimy cobblestones. He hadn’t thrown a punch. He hadn’t even landed a kick. He had just… stood there. The reality clawed at him, a cold, sharp thing. Scar, the one with the face like a broken roadmap, had lunged. The blow had connected, a dull ache blooming in Sylvester’s stomach. But Scar had screamed, collapsing like a puppet with cut strings. Then the other two, blind with rage and confusion, had rushed him. They’d stumbled, twisted, their own momentum betraying them. One had slammed his head against the damp brick wall. The other had tripped over his comrade, cracking his jaw on the ground. Not his doing. Not directly. He pushed himself away from the wall, his heart hammering against his ribs. The fear was a living thing, a coil of dread tightening in his gut. This wasn't acting. This wasn't a script he could follow, a scene he could rehearse. This was real. And it was terrifying. His life, already a ticking clock, now had a new, unpredictable variable. The need to be alone, to process this impossible event, was overwhelming. He stumbled out of the alley, ignoring the curious stares of a few passersby. His eyes scanned the crumbling stone structures, searching for a hideout, any place where he could be invisible. He remembered seeing a derelict shack on the outskirts of the barracks, half-hidden behind a pile of broken crates and discarded timber. It had been an actor’s instinct, always cataloging potential locations. His legs felt heavy, each step a conscious effort. The air was cold, biting. He pulled his thin tunic tighter, the worn fabric doing little to ward off the chill. He walked past the main barracks building, keeping his head down, hoping Kael and his cronies weren't lurking. He couldn't afford another confrontation, not now, not when his mind was a storm of questions. The shack was worse up close than he remembered. A lean-to, really, constructed from warped wooden planks and sheets of corroded metal. The roof sagged in the middle, a testament to years of neglect. A single, grimy window, patched with cloth, offered no view. He pushed open the rickety door, which groaned like a dying beast. Dust motes danced in the slivers of weak light filtering through the cracks. The air inside was still and thick with the smell of damp earth and decay. He stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him, plunging the interior into near darkness. He huddled in a corner, drawing his knees to his chest. His breath plumed in the cold air. The faint, sickly yellow glow of his mana, which had flickered and died during the Archmage’s test, felt like a distant, cruel joke compared to whatever had just happened in that alley. He was F-rank. He was supposed to be weak, a liability, a piece of essence waiting to be recycled. But three men, stronger, better equipped, had fallen. Because of him. Or rather, because of something inside him. A reflected blow. A redirected momentum. The phrase repeated in his mind, plucked from the fleeting holographic display he’d glimpsed after the summoning. "Damage Reflection (Passive)." He had dismissed it then, a cryptic note on a screen full of numbers he didn't understand. Now, it was a terrifying, undeniable truth. He closed his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands against them. Was this the cheat ability he’d hoped for, the one he’d fantasized about in his old world, watching too many power fantasy anime? It felt less like a cheat and more like a curse, something that had just marked him. If he couldn't control it, if it activated without his will, what would happen next? The consequences of being exposed, of being perceived as anything but weak, flashed through his mind. Powerlessness was a death sentence. But so, too, was uncontrolled power. He needed answers. He needed to understand. --- He sat there for what felt like an eternity, the silence of the shack pressing in on him. His mind raced, replaying the alley scene, dissecting every moment. The shock, the pain from Scar’s punch, then the bizarre, almost comical way Scar had crumpled. It was like watching a perfectly executed stunt, only he hadn’t been the one choreographing it. His old life, his acting career, felt impossibly distant, a faded memory from a different reality. This was his reality now: six months to live, an F-rank, and a terrifying, unbidden power. A faint hum vibrated in the air. Sylvester’s eyes snapped open. He scanned the dimly lit shack, his muscles tensing. There was nothing, only the dusty walls and the sagging roof. Then, the hum intensified, a low thrumming that seemed to resonate in his teeth. A shimmering, cerulean light bloomed in the stale air directly in front of him, coalescing into a rectangle. It hung there, utterly still, a window into another dimension. The light was soft, almost inviting, yet it held an alien quality. He blinked, expecting it to vanish, but it remained, unwavering. It was the holographic screen he’d seen briefly during the summoning, before the Guardian had snapped him to attention. His heart, which had just begun to settle, surged again, a frantic drum against his ribs. He reached out a tentative hand, his fingers brushing against the intangible light. There was no heat, no resistance, just a strange, cool sensation that prickled his skin. It was real. This impossible screen, defying all logic, was here. And it was waiting for him. The blue light shifted, text appearing across its surface in a language he somehow understood, a common script shared across summoned individuals. His name, Sylvester Gyaban, stood at the top, stark white against the cerulean. Below it, a series of lines unfolded, each one a stark, undeniable fact about his current existence. "STATUS REPORT:" "NAME: Sylvester Gyaban" "AGE: 16 (Identified as minor)" "RANK: F-Rank Mana Affinity (Mana Insufficiency)" "TIME REMAINING: 180 Days, 06 Hours, 34 Minutes" "UNIQUE ABILITY: Damage Reflection (Passive)" Sylvester stared, his breath catching in his throat. Sixteen. They had registered him as sixteen. He was twenty-four. His age, his real age, had been one of his carefully guarded secrets, a lie he'd maintained to appear more vulnerable, less of a threat. But the System knew. It saw through his facade, stripping away the carefully constructed layers. This wasn't just some archaic magic; it was something far more invasive, far more aware. Then his eyes locked onto the last line: "UNIQUE ABILITY: Damage Reflection (Passive)." A cold dread turned into a thrilling, desperate hope. It was real. The thing that had saved him in the alley, the impossible force that had brought three men to their knees, was a defined ability. Not a fluke. Not a random event. It was *his*. A subheading appeared beneath the ability description: "DAMAGE REFLECTION (PASSIVE): Unconscious redirection of aggressor's kinetic force. Returns a percentage of damage received to the source. Activation threshold: Moderate physical impact. Current Reflection Rate: 25%." Twenty-five percent. He had taken the hit, but a quarter of that force had bounced back to Scar. Enough to cripple. Enough to make them think twice. The System, this mysterious interface, was not just displaying information; it was explaining the very mechanism of his survival. His mind, the actor's mind, always searching for the angles, the leverage, began to whir. This wasn’t just a ticking clock. It was a rulebook. And he, Sylvester Gyaban, had just found the first page. --- Sylvester’s fingers twitched, a sudden urge to touch the screen, to confirm its solidity, its reality. He resisted, his focus narrowing. The System was a cold, impartial oracle, laying bare his grim prospects while simultaneously offering a sliver of desperate hope. He had 180 days. A number he’d mentally tracked since the summoning, a looming guillotine. But now, he had a tool, a specific, quantifiable ability. More text rippled onto the screen, like water over stone, responding to his unvoiced questions. The word "TUTORIAL" shimmered into existence, drawing his gaze. He leaned closer, devouring the information. "WELCOME, SUMMONED. THIS SYSTEM IS YOUR GUIDE TO ASCENSION IN THE REALM OF VERIDIAN." "MANA: The lifeblood of this world. Every living creature possesses mana, albeit in varying degrees. Mana is power, energy, and the very fabric of existence. Your F-Rank Mana Affinity indicates a severe deficiency, hindering direct mana manipulation and spellcasting." Sylvester’s jaw tightened. He knew about F-rank. He knew about the deficiency. The System merely confirmed the death sentence. Yet, there was a pragmatic detachment in the explanation, a lack of judgment that was almost refreshing after the sneers of the Guardian. "SKILL ACQUISITION: Skills are honed abilities, either innate or learned. Your UNIQUE ABILITY, Damage Reflection (Passive), is a rare innate skill. Most skills are acquired through rigorous training, study, or direct engagement with the world's threats." Innate. He hadn't asked for it. It was simply part of him, a cruel twist of fate or a divine gift, he wasn't sure which. The thought of training it, of consciously controlling its activation, sparked a flicker of excitement. This wasn’t just about survival anymore; it was about mastery. "RANK SYSTEM: The realm of Veridian categorizes its inhabitants and threats by a hierarchical rank system, from F (weakest) to S (strongest). Your initial F-Rank applies to your mana affinity. However, your overall rank is a culmination of mana, physical prowess, and mastered skills. Progression through ranks unlocks new potential, grants access to higher-tier resources, and extends lifespan." Lifespan. That word resonated, echoing his deepest fear. *Extends lifespan.* This was it. This was the path. Not just to survive the mana sickness, but to actively defy it. The System offered a way out, a ladder to climb, however steep. The fear, for a fleeting moment, receded, replaced by a surge of cold, hard determination. This wasn’t a hopeless fight; it was a solvable problem, albeit one of immense scale. He kept reading, his eyes devouring every line, every detail. The System outlined the requirements for each rank. F-rank to E-rank required not just a slight increase in mana, but also the demonstration of a basic combat skill, or substantial physical conditioning. D-rank demanded mastery of a specific skill. C-rank, B-rank, A-rank, and finally S-rank. The progression seemed exponential, the demands growing with each tier. It was a brutal gauntlet, designed to filter out the weak. "Mana replenishment occurs naturally, albeit slowly for F-rank individuals. Active mana cultivation techniques, while difficult, can accelerate this process. Physical conditioning directly impacts your survivability and, indirectly, your ability to channel mana through strenuous activities." This was a blueprint. A game plan. He wasn't just an actor anymore, playing a role. He was a strategist, analyzing the game, looking for the winning move. He could train. He could find cultivation techniques. He could become stronger, not just a liability. The thought galvanized him. He had faced impossible odds before, albeit on a stage, but the stakes here were real, absolute. His survival depended on turning this F-rank mockery into something formidable. His entire existence had just been defined by a digital interface, and for the first time since he’d arrived, he felt a strange, cold sense of purpose. --- The tutorial ended, the text fading for a moment before reforming. Sylvester braced himself, anticipating the next revelation. This was the moment of truth, the visual representation of the climb ahead. He had parsed the words, absorbed the concepts. Now, he needed to see the scale. The cerulean light shimmered, and a new display materialized. It was a progress bar, massive and intimidating, stretching horizontally across the entire screen. It was segmented, clearly delineating the ranks from F to S. A tiny, almost invisible sliver of light pulsed at the very beginning of the F-rank segment, his current position. The rest of the bar, from E to S, remained dark, an abyss of unachieved power. "RANK PROGRESSION:" "F [----------] E [----------] D [----------] C [----------] B [----------] A [----------] S" "Current Rank: F (Mana Affinity: 1.2/100)" "Next Rank (E): Mana Affinity 10/100, Mastery of 1 Basic Combat Skill, or Advanced Physical Prowess." The numbers were stark. 1.2 out of 100. It wasn’t just F-rank; it was *barely* F-rank. He was at the absolute bottom, clinging to existence by the thinnest thread. The gap between his current state and the E-rank requirement felt like a chasm. Ten out of one hundred. A basic combat skill. Advanced physical prowess. Each phrase was a mountain. A wave of despair, cold and heavy, washed over him. The initial surge of determination faltered. This wasn’t just difficult; it was monstrous. Six months. Could he really achieve a tenfold increase in mana, plus a skill, plus physical conditioning, all while battling mana sickness and dodging the scrutiny of the Guardian and the bullying of Kael? His former life, with its predictable scripts and manageable challenges, seemed like a dream he could never recapture. But then, his actor's pragmatism reasserted itself. Despair was a luxury he couldn't afford. This was his only path. He had to climb. He had to fight. He had to survive. He would find a way to train his Damage Reflection, to cultivate his mana, to build his body. He would become the strongest hero, not because he wanted to, but because he had no other choice. The fear returned, but it was sharper now, honed into a weapon, a spur. He scrolled through the interface, mentally mapping out potential training regimens, seeking any hidden advantage, any loophole. He saw sub-menus for "Skills," "Inventory," "Quests," and "Settings." He clicked on "Skills," and his Damage Reflection ability reappeared, now with a small, clickable info icon next to it. He tapped it. Another screen bloomed, detailing the nuances of his unique ability. It explained how the reflection rate might increase with his own mana development, how greater physical impacts could be redirected with more efficiency. It spoke of the potential to evolve the skill, to gain active control over it, rather than relying on its passive nature. This was it. This was his starting point. This was his cheat. He continued to scroll, his eyes darting across the fine print at the bottom of the ability description, searching for any hidden clause, any critical detail he might have missed. But as he delved into the fine print, a single, ominous line at the bottom of the System notification made his blood run cold: 'Warning: Unstable Skill. Prolonged use may result in…'

Chapter 4: Unveiling the System