The day's final light stretched long shadows across the pavement by the time he reached his apartment. Locking the door behind him, he slipped off his shoes and stood quietly in the dim living room.
Everything felt so strange—his humble room, the buzzing city outside, the absent chaos of monsters. He had all the knowledge of a survivor but none of the current strength.
He needed to fix that as soon as possible.
He switched on a single lamp. Its warm glow fell on a cluttered desk. He moved a few notebooks aside and took a seat, leaning forward, elbows on the surface.
The System had given him that Key Fragment—one piece of something bigger. He remembered how, in the future, various fragments combined to form legendary tools.
Each piece was fought over by elite Awakeners, guild leaders, and rogue mercenaries. Now he had a head start, but just one fragment wasn't enough.
He tried calling up the System screen again, focusing his mind. After a breath, the faint overlay appeared in his vision:
[Status] Strength: 5 Agility: 6 Vitality: 5 Intelligence: 7 Willpower: 8 Luck: 5
No Skills, no Class, no fancy abilities listed. Just stats a bit above average in Willpower and Intelligence. He let out a slow exhale.
To deal with future threats, relying on raw attributes wouldn't cut it. He'd need Skills. Normally, Skills would start dropping when the Rifts appeared.
But maybe there were a few hidden opportunities to gain minor abilities early—strange martial arts manuals, arcane notes tucked away in secret corners of the city.
He recalled rumors from his past life. Before the apocalypse officially began, a few eccentric collectors had gathered unusual texts and talismans that later became priceless.
One such place was rumored to be a rundown antiques store near the old industrial district. People had dismissed it back then, but after monsters came, that store's remnants were said to yield a rare combat manual.
Most never got it, but he remembered someone boasting about it once. If he struck now—tonight—he might claim something valuable.
It was trope-appropriate: the secret shop, the hidden manual. He felt no shame leaning into it. He needed every edge.
He rose from the chair and changed into a hoodie and sneakers, something unobtrusive. The streets would still be busy, but he knew how to blend in.
Pocketing a bit of cash, he left the apartment and headed out.
The city's night air carried the scent of street food and faint car exhaust. Neon signs buzzed and pedestrians chatted, unaware that their world's calm would someday shatter.
He walked briskly, guided by memory. The industrial area was about thirty minutes away by foot.
He preferred to walk—no reason to waste money on a taxi, and he wanted to stay alert.
As he crossed into quieter streets, the crowd thinned. Warehouses, old factories, and chain-link fences replaced trendy cafés.
Here, a low hum of distant machinery lingered. A stray cat darted behind trash bins.
The antique store, if memory served, was tucked behind an abandoned auto repair shop.
He spotted the rusted sign of the repair shop—"Han's Auto"—and moved around to the back alley. Sure enough, a dimly lit side door bore a chipped wooden plaque reading "Treasure Curios."
Not exactly subtle, but easy to miss unless you knew where to look.
He tried the doorknob. Locked. He knocked softly. No answer.
He knocked again, harder this time.
A muffled voice from inside: "Who is it?"
"I'm looking for old books," he said, trying to sound earnest. "I heard you have unusual items."
A long pause. Then footsteps. The door cracked open, revealing a wiry old man with sharp eyes.
He looked him up and down. "We're closed."
"I can pay well for something truly unique," he replied, slipping a few bills into view.
The old man's eyes gleamed with interest. Money talked. He stepped aside, allowing him in.
The interior was cramped, lit by a single naked bulb. Shelves piled high with dusty objects—porcelain figurines, rusted lanterns, yellowed scrolls.
The scent of old paper and mold hit his nose.
"So, what is it you want?" the old man asked, crossing his arms.
He pretended to browse casually, but he was searching for that subtle hint he recalled. In the future, a battered wooden box had contained a half-finished martial arts manual known as the "Nameless Blade Dance."
It granted a modest Sword Skill to those who studied it. Back then, C-rank Awakeners coveted it early on.
Now, getting it pre-apocalypse could give him an invaluable head start.
He spotted something: a stack of scrolls tied with faded ribbon. Next to them, a wooden box with carved patterns—exactly as he remembered.
He took it off the shelf, carefully.
"That's old junk," said the old man, waving dismissively. "Came with a lot I bought years ago."
"I'll take it," he said quickly. He tried to open the box. The lid resisted.
A small metal clasp held it shut.
"Check the contents first?" The old man smirked.
"It's fine," he said, not wanting the old man to see what was inside. He slipped out more money. "This should cover it."
The old man raised a brow, then shrugged. "Your call." He took the bills and stuffed them into a pocket. "We done here?"
He nodded and left, clutching the box under his arm. Back out in the cool night, he allowed himself a quiet grin.
This had gone smoothly. Too smoothly, perhaps. But no reason to complain.
Returning to his apartment took less time now that he practically jogged home. Once inside, he locked the door and drew the curtains.
The box's clasp was old but simple—he pried it with a flat edge of a kitchen knife. A faint puff of dust greeted him.
Inside lay a handful of pages bound together with twine. The writing looked archaic, lines drawn to illustrate stances.
He flipped through them carefully. They described footwork, stance, basic blade arcs. Nothing screamed "System Skill" yet.
But he knew when the System integrated with this knowledge, it could translate into a genuine Skill in the future. Maybe even now, if he studied intently.
He tried focusing on the pages, willing the System to react. Minutes passed, and a subtle notification flickered:
[Potential Skill Source Detected: Unrefined Sword Manual Study Required: Minimum 20 hours
Upon completion: Gain Basic Sword Mastery (Rank: Basic)]
He breathed out in relief. Perfect. Even a Basic-level sword skill would give him a fighting edge once monsters appeared.
He had no sword at the moment, but he could at least prepare the motions. He remembered how, in the early days, struggling survivors with no Skills often fell prey to the simplest beasts.
With Basic Sword Mastery, he'd be miles ahead.
He placed the manual on his desk, carefully. He would study it nightly, burn it into his muscle memory.
If he did so, maybe he could unlock the skill before the Event. There were still a few weeks left until the first Rift opened—he wasn't sure of the exact day, but he knew it was soon.
Time was precious.
Another thought struck him: He had only one storage slot in the System's dimension. Could he store the manual there for safekeeping?
He tried to prompt the System:
[Storage Slot Full. Item: Key Fragment. Additional slots locked. Condition for unlocking more storage: Achieve First Skill or Increase Attributes.]
So he had to earn that skill first. Fine. He would keep the manual hidden in a safe place—maybe under the floorboard.
He'd be cautious.
The night deepened. Outside, distant sirens wailed, just city noise, nothing monstrous. He flicked through the manual's pages again, picturing himself executing each move.
He stood and tried a stance in the cramped room, careful not to bump furniture. His posture was off—he'd long since grown used to massive strength and agility in another life.
Now he had to adjust to this weaker body.
Still, determination burned in his chest. He had a plan:
Master the sword basics from this manual. Search for another hidden item or a secret location that he remembered—maybe an old shrine rumored to appear. Wait for the apocalypse's first signs and pounce on the best loot before others knew it even existed.
Just imagining the look on future Awakeners' faces when he wielded advanced gear and skills before day one made him smirk. Trope or not, he would turn every cliché to his advantage.
As he settled in for the night, mind racing with possibilities, he felt more confident than ever. He might not be the Black King anymore, but he would forge a new path, stronger and smarter than before.
When the apocalypse came, he would stand at the top once again—this time, without letting the world fall to ruin.