Bryan felt his consciousness slipping away in that final moment, as the blood drained from his body and soaked the cold office floor. One last question echoed in his mind, almost like an inaudible whisper: Will my soul go to hell after all I've done...? If only I had enough power...
The metallic taste of blood no longer bothered his lips; the pain had become a distant whisper. He no longer felt his hands, legs, or torso. His vision was consumed by an ever-deepening darkness, and before the final spark of life extinguished, Bryan could only recall the blank expression of Byron, the traitor who had taken everything from him without remorse or hesitation.
Then, everything became nothing.
It was like waking from a dreamless sleep in a place where time simply did not flow. There was no up or down, light or dark—just an absolute void, an infinite expanse where even the concept of existence seemed shapeless. For a moment, Bryan couldn't tell if he was still himself or merely an insignificant particle of consciousness wandering the abyss.
Suddenly, he felt a faint vibration, as if something immense was about to take shape. A fissure, almost imperceptible at first, tore through the silent expanse. Within seconds, the crack widened at an overwhelming speed, stretching beyond what his eyes could perceive. Stunned, Bryan tried to focus on a point of reference, but there was nothing except the expanding rift.
In the next instant, the fissure revealed a colossal figure seated on a throne of black rock. It was so immense its size rivaled that of a mountain. Clad entirely in black, wearing what seemed to be ceremonial robes, the figure's hood obscured most of its ghastly features. Were it not for the exposed, luminous skull, Bryan might have thought it was just an extraordinarily tall man. But the violet light pulsing in its empty eyes resembled flames on the verge of consuming everything around them.
The space surrounding the entity began to shift, as though its mere presence had the power to reshape reality. With a single motion of its hand, it raised a massive barrier—a circle of energy that expanded for miles within the void. In mere moments, Bryan sensed that this new space was isolated from the rest of the void; it was as if the giant being had molded reality itself.
An ancient voice, deep as thunder echoing across thousands of miles, filled everything. Bryan felt the sound vibrate within his very essence, causing every particle of his new form—whatever it now was—to tremble. The voice resonated like a murmur yet flooded every corner of the space:
"Do you desire power?"
Even without a physical body, Bryan realized he could "speak" mentally. There was still a trace of his former determination, that consuming thirst for revenge that had defined his dying moment. With a surge of resolve, he screamed in his mind:
"Power! Give me great power! Power strong enough to annihilate my former organization, the Trinity!"
The giant raised its head, gazing at Bryan as though peering beyond his soul. Without moving its mouth, its speech rang clear and cutting:
"You are no longer in your former world. Your soul no longer belongs to that place. Even if I grant you the power you seek, you will not be able to return to exact your vengeance."
Those words pierced Bryan like poisoned arrows. He felt a nearly primal fury well up within him. I can't return? Then what good is all the hatred I still feel for Byron and the Trinity? Before he could voice any thought, the entity continued, as if reading his hesitation.
"I can read your thoughts. You are in limbo—or, more precisely, the void. Your soul no longer belongs to the world you knew. Even so, I can offer you a chance to become strong. The question remains: what price are you willing to pay?"
Bryan faltered. A million doubts swirled in his mind, but he forced himself to focus. If I can't return, what's the point of power? Yet the desire for strength was undeniable; he couldn't bear the thought of remaining insignificant. At last, he asked cautiously:
"Then what can I gain? What can I pay? What can you give me?"
The colossal being emitted a sound that might have been a muffled laugh, though it resembled more the creaking of bones. It then replied coldly:
"To obtain the highest level of skill in the sword arts, you must relinquish your soul entirely. You will never again feel love or friendship and will live in solitude until the end of your days. You will not be able to procreate, have descendants, or experience any positive emotion. Fury and negative emotions will consume you. With this, you can become extraordinarily powerful. If you refuse this bargain, I can torture your soul here and imprison it forever."
Bryan's heart—or what remained of it—froze at the cruel terms. The being's threat felt real. He was gripped by an indescribable fear, as though standing before an endless abyss. Yet he remembered everything he had lost: he had never truly had family or friends, except for his mentor, who had driven a blade into his chest. What value did emotions or personal connections have now, when they had never brought him peace?
A bitter, trembling smile formed in his mind. It was as if he were laughing at himself. He had died, betrayed and abandoned. So what difference would it make to give up something he had never truly known? With an insane laugh, he screamed in his mind:
"I accept! It couldn't be better! I've already lost everything. Friends, family… I never had any of that. Even the one person I considered family stabbed me. What choice do I have?"
The being on the throne tilted its head, seeming slightly pleased. Then its voice took on a hissing tone:
"Very well. Before we seal the pact, know my name, if it matters to you: Aldritch, King of the Dead, god of carnage and slaughter. I hope you grow enough not to perish miserably."
At the mention of that name, Bryan felt something twist within him. Aldritch. It was as if a purple flame burned his spirit. Then, everything went dark. He felt himself pulled downward, as if a vortex were dragging him into the depths of an ocean made of shadows. A sharp ringing pierced his consciousness, and the pain returned, throbbing and tearing through every thought.
Suddenly, a rush of air filled his lungs. He opened his eyes—or at least, it felt like opening his eyes in a physical body—and found himself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. His vision was blurry, but it gradually sharpened. He tried to lift his arms and noticed they were much thinner than before. They were the arms of a child. In disbelief, he moved his hands, examining the pale skin and frail fingers.
The room seemed simple, with a narrow bed beneath him and a small window covered by a worn curtain that let in a sliver of light. Still disoriented, Bryan tried to organize his thoughts. Am I… alive? But in another body? Before he could go further, a notification resonated directly in his mind, as if echoing inside his skull.
A translucent, floating holographic panel appeared before him. Red letters flashed, emitting a faint glow:
"Do you wish to attune your soul to the Cursed System?
YES / NO
NOTE: If you do not accept, you will die, and your soul will be tortured."
Aware of Aldritch's threat, Bryan, now occupying the body of a boy named Ronan, responded "yes" without hesitation. Then, a searing pain stabbed his skull, as if needles were piercing every inch of his brain. His eyes turned bloodshot, and for a long minute, the agony seemed endless. Finally, the torment ceased, and the panel reformed before him.
========< STATUS WINDOW >========
Name: Ronan Blake
Age: 12
Class: —
Talent: Grade
Elements: —
Skills: —
Height: 160 cm
Level: 0 (0/500 XP)
======< USER STATS >======
VIT: 4
STR: 5
INT: 8
AGI: 6
MGP:
Points of distribution: 0
That made Bryan—now Ronan—suspect that this world operated like a large "system" with RPG elements. With no time to explore the panel further, he heard knocks at the door.
He stood up, feeling the physical weakness of his new body. He would need to learn to deal with that frailty. Taking cautious steps, he approached the door, mentally hiding the panel. When he opened it, he came face to face with Ana, a young maid from the Blake Mansion, who stared at him with a mix of disdain and irritation.
"Finally decided to wake up, 'young master'?" she said, her tone dripping with mockery toward Ronan. "Don't you think it's about time to get dressed? Today's your first day at Avalon Arcane Academy, you know? It's bad enough you got in with below-average scores and are already a joke to the entire Blake family."
She held up a simple uniform, nearly devoid of embellishments, which must have been Ronan's initial attire for the Academy. Standing in the doorway, her chin slightly raised, she looked at him as though he were a nuisance.
Bryan, accustomed to being feared—or at least respected—felt his blood boil at her attitude. A silent fury pulsed in his chest: he had been a lethal assassin in his previous world, someone who wouldn't tolerate humiliation even from superiors. Now, however, he was trapped in the body of a boy scorned by his own servant.
Yet his new features didn't betray the anger he felt inside. His face remained cold, almost inert. If Ana noticed anything different in Ronan's gaze, she didn't show it. She simply handed him the clothes and turned away.
"I'll be downstairs waiting. Don't take too long. It's bad enough your family feels ashamed to have someone as useless as you."
She walked off, her heels striking the floor with force, displaying her impatience. Bryan closed the door, not bothering to argue. He wasn't used to taking orders so directly. But for now, he would swallow the insult. He needed time to plan his steps in this new world.
As he put on the uniform, he sifted through the memories that Ronan had, now his own. He learned that this world was called Omnia, a vast planet divided into 12 human continents: Althea, Sulzahar, Frostfang, Avarin, Domoria, Ritrassa, Elnirion, Garthia, Zandras, Melzhur, Onarra, and Exellos. Each of these continents housed various kingdoms and cities. Some non-human races coexisted, but overall, human dominance prevailed.
In the continent of Althea, where Ronan lived, there were several academies for magic and combat, but the most prestigious of all—not only in the continent but across all twelve human domains—was the Avalon Arcane Academy. It was founded by a legendary Magic Swordsman named Leonhardt Anders, renowned as the most powerful man in the world. Leonhardt had single-handedly subdued an ancient dragon and, for decades, had presided over the Academy as its Supreme Director.
Monsters and dungeons were scattered across the continents, and many esteemed adventurers and warriors roamed the world seeking wealth, treasures, and fame. However, the Avalon Arcane Academy stood out for training the elite of young nobles and a few talented commoners—these last rarely admitted, but when they were, they proved to have exceptional abilities.
Ronan, however, did not fall into this category. His family, the Blakes, held a low-ranking aristocratic title but still wielded enough influence to secure his entry into the Academy, despite his poor aptitude test performance. As such, he was a laughingstock: the "failed son" who tarnished the family name.
These thoughts flowed through Bryan's mind as he finished buttoning the white shirt and dark pants, topping it off with a simple coat embroidered with the name "Blake" on the left chest. The uniform, compared to what he imagined noble students wearing, was quite basic, confirming his status as a student with no high expectations.
Once dressed, he walked over to the small window in the room and opened it, allowing sunlight to flood the space. Outside, the Blake Mansion courtyard stretched out. The house itself wasn't enormous but boasted gardens, statues, and an orchard, showcasing a degree of luxury. Servants moved about, each focused on their tasks. None even glanced toward Ronan's room.
He shut the window, then quickly checked the "Cursed System" in his mind, summoning the panel. Everything remained as before: STR: 5, INT: 8, AGI: 6, MGP: , VIT: 4, Height: 160 cm. But the mention of "Talent Rank
He then remembered Ana and his obligation: it was time to go down and head to his first day at the Academy. Strategically, Bryan saw the Academy as the perfect opportunity to understand the mechanics of magic and combat in this world. The Academy's head, Leonhardt Anders, was the greatest living magic swordsman—someone who, in the past, Bryan could never have imagined encountering. If there was a manual or method to exploit his "SSS Talent," he would likely find it there.
Inside the carriage, the journey to the Academy was marked by heavy silence. The coachman was used to ignoring Ronan, and Bryan had no interest in conversation. His mind remained focused on two things: understanding more about his talent and managing his simmering rage. He had been despised and humiliated before in the criminal organization Trinity, but at least there, he had the reputation of a fearsome enforcer. Here, on the other hand, he didn't even have a body capable of intimidating anyone.
He thought of Aldritch and the pact he had made. That macabre being expected accomplishments from him and would offer no guidance on how to grow. A thread of reflection led Bryan to realize something: the constant anger he felt might be part of the price he had paid. He couldn't bring himself to feel pity or compassion; every positive emotion seemed locked away, as if behind bars. Rage, however, was free, and perhaps it would be his greatest fuel for growth.
The city of Althea was grand. As the carriage passed through the gates, Bryan observed streets lined with light stone buildings, red-tiled roofs, and numerous shop signs. People of all social classes moved hurriedly, while soldiers patrolled the area. Occasionally, a human wearing magical robes or wielding ornate swords could be seen. They were adventurers or knights from various kingdoms, all drawn by Althea's burgeoning influence, particularly because of the Avalon Arcane Academy.
"We've arrived," Ana announced, breaking the silence as the vehicle came to a stop. She jumped down and opened the door for Ronan. "Try not to drag the Blake name through the mud."
Once again, Ronan didn't respond. He stepped out of the carriage, straightened his coat, and cracked his neck, trying to ease the annoying stiffness. Before him stood the imposing Academy building: a structure with marble towers, rune-carved columns, and ornate steel doors. Stained-glass windows reflected sunlight, casting magical patterns on the ground.
The Academy grounds were enormous: several white marble towers, training courtyards surrounded by runed walls, gardens filled with rare flowers, and statues of ancient heroes. Students of all ages were present—from twelve- or thirteen-year-old newcomers to twenty-something veterans in their final fifth-year term.
Descending from the vehicle, Ana merely huffed.
"Don't screw this up, boy. If you can avoid being expelled, it'll already be a miracle."
Ronan gave her a cold stare. His striking yet somber expression was hard to read. Turning away, he headed toward the main gate, blending into the crowd of first-years. Many whispered as they recognized him as the Blake family's "failure," but he ignored it all, carrying himself with unshakable dignity.
In the grand entrance hall, organizers and professors directed students to their provisional classrooms. Each newcomer had to check a magical panel to find their initial group. Some upperclassmen were also present, more as curious onlookers or guides for younger siblings.
Among the bustling crowd, a group of twelve young people atop an internal staircase drew attention. Six boys and six girls, all wearing personalized versions of the First Year – Class A uniform. Though they were first-years like Ronan, they already stood out due to their extraordinary aptitude test scores or the influence of incredibly powerful families. The Academy had already begun calling them "The Twelve Heroes of the First Year," as expectations were high that they would swiftly dominate any challenge.
— A young woman with long blonde hair, almost golden in hue. She was of average height but had an athletic build, with slightly broad shoulders for a girl and well-defined arms. Her piercing blue eyes, like icy blades, exuded confidence and a certain haughtiness. She smiled self-assuredly but showed disdain whenever she met the gaze of a student deemed "inferior." Elena was the representative of the Sieghart family, renowned for commanding the armies of the Althea continent and producing the world's best military strategists.
Camille Auburn — A young woman with shoulder-length red hair and freckles on her fair skin. She appeared less arrogant than Elena but carried an air of superiority. A fire spell specialist and, according to rumors, the daughter of the Grand Marquis of Sulzahar, a desert region famous for its sandstorms and exceptional mages.
Lucinda Dracwell — Petite, with dark skin and delicate features, she carried a short sword at her waist and a grimoire in her hand. She specialized in a rare hybrid style of magic and close combat. Although not physically imposing, her mana control was extraordinary. She hailed from a family in Frostfang, known for warriors who endured extreme cold and mastered ice magic with finesse.
Cedric Wolff — A tall and sturdy boy with light brown hair and fierce eyes. He carried a long-hafted spear on his back. Cedric descended from the Wolff family, a legendary lineage from Garthia, known for heroes of ancient battles. His immense physical strength was the result of brutal training passed down through generations.
Andreus Belmont — Of average height, with a serious face marked by faint scars. He had short dark hair and an analytical gaze. He wielded a longbow but also carried daggers strapped to his thighs, indicating versatility. His family, from Ritrassa, consisted of hunters who knew every forest and mountain of their continent like the back of their hands.
Raiden Stormrider — A blond-haired, green-eyed boy specializing in elemental wind and lightning magic. Rumor had it that he could generate thunderbolts during his aptitude tests—an almost unprecedented feat for a first-year student, owing to his dual-element mastery. He was the heir to the Stormrider family from the windy region of Zandras, where storms were a daily occurrence.
These six represented the elite of the most influential families from their respective continents. However, they weren't alone. Six other youths completed the group, representing other key regions:
Isolde Frostvale — With white hair and silver eyes, Isolde was a mage specializing in ice and snow spells. She came from a family of powerful magicians in Frostfang, known for controlling the extreme climate of their icy continent. Her presence was as cold as her magic.
Darius Ironclad — A burly boy with black hair and brown eyes, Darius came from a renowned blacksmithing family in Melzhur, famous for rare metals. He was a warrior focused on defense, wielding a large shield as his main weapon.
Selene Blackthorn — Tall and slender, with jet-black hair and violet eyes, Selene was a practitioner of dark magic. Her family, originating from Domoria, was known for dealing with curses and forbidden spells, earning them both suspicion and respect.
Kael Duskbane — A tanned young man with brown hair and golden eyes, Kael specialized in light magic and short-sword combat. His family, from Onarra, hailed from a sunlit region where sun worship and light magic were predominant.
Lyria Dawnshield — With short blonde hair and blue eyes, Lyria wore a set of lightly enchanted armor. She came from a family of knights in Elnirion, devoted to gods of light and justice. A disciplined fighter, she focused on protection and support.
Talon Vyrn — A young man with reddish hair and dark eyes, Talon specialized in thunder magic, a rare inheritance in his family from Exellos, a continent steeped in dragon legends. His presence was fierce and intimidating.
These twelve formed the "First-Year Heroes," all in Class 1-A. Their talents were extraordinary. Elena, in particular, stood out as a martial prodigy, combining speed with refined technique using light swords. Her family, the Siegharts, was among the most important in Althea, deeply connected to high-ranking military commanders on the continent.
Ronan quickly realized he wasn't alone in the fight for recognition. In addition to the "Heroes" of Class 1-A, there were other newcomers with less impressive backgrounds who had nonetheless secured spots in the Academy and were drawing attention as they moved in groups.
In the middle of the commotion, Ronan, still searching for the magical board listing the location of his assigned class, was shoved by another first-year student. He stumbled and nearly fell but managed to steady himself. Suddenly, someone grabbed his wrist to stop him from crashing into a pillar.
"You should watch where you're going," said a commanding female voice.
Looking up, Ronan found himself face-to-face with Elena von Sieghart. Taller than him, athletic, and exuding confidence, she looked down at him. Her icy blue eyes flickered with a hint of curiosity, quickly replaced by evident disdain as she noticed his worn, unadorned uniform.
"Th-thank you…" Ronan muttered, his tone low and cold.
"Don't thank me," Elena retorted. "Just make an effort not to get trampled by the crowd. Avalon Arcane Academy is no place for the weak."
Despite her words, her demeanor resembled that of a "veteran" instructing a newcomer, even though they were all first-years. She quickly pointed to a section of the hall where a series of magical projections displayed instructions for the new students.
"Check your name there to find your class. If you don't have what it takes, it's better to leave while you still can." The blonde turned to walk away but paused for a moment, scrutinizing Ronan's face more closely. "Surprising… you have a much more harmonious face than many nobles who think highly of themselves."
She seemed to notice the unique sharpness of Ronan's features: well-proportioned with piercing, almost feline amber eyes. However, she shook her head as if dismissing the thought.
"In any case, try not to wander around the halls looking lost."
Elena then rejoined her group, where Cedric and Raiden stifled laughter, and Lucinda rolled her eyes. They seemed to question why she had wasted words on "a weakling from Class C" while their instructor led them to their classroom.
Ronan said nothing but felt a pang in his soul. Even though he had been "helped," he was treated with arrogance and contempt. Internally, anger made his heart race. He clenched his fists, keeping his expression neutral. In his previous world, he would never have accepted being humiliated so easily—and he wouldn't now, either.
Soon, a stern-looking woman wearing gray academic attire approached, holding a clipboard.
"Ronan Blake?" she called out without emotion. "You're on my list. I'm Professor Ulyara, responsible for guiding the new students in Class Group C.
"Follow me. I'll take you to Room C, where we'll have the initial orientation."
He nodded, maintaining a cold demeanor. The woman led the way down the corridors, and Bryan—now Ronan—walked behind her, sensing the curiosity of other first-year students as they passed. The professor opened a large wooden door, revealing a classroom with aligned desks and a blackboard covered in arcane symbols. Inside, some students were already seated, either silent or speaking in hushed tones.
As he entered, Ronan observed that his class, 1-C, was filled with students of various origins and personalities. Four nobles stood out:
Arwin Hale: Tall, blonde, with intense green eyes. His family was known for crafting magical artifacts. Despite his imposing appearance, he had an air of disdain.
Marla Vinter: A girl with short black hair and a sharp gaze. Her posture reflected discipline but also arrogance. She was the daughter of a renowned general of Althea.
Edric Thornfield: A sturdy boy with a confident smile and short brown hair. The son of wealthy merchants, Edric loved to flaunt his expensive possessions.
Celine Faerwood: With wavy light brown hair and a reserved demeanor, she wasn't as hostile as the others but still viewed herself as superior.
On the other hand, there was a commoner in the class:
Tomas Greaves: Of average height with messy brown hair, Tomas had modest abilities but a friendly attitude. Despite being the target of prejudice, he tried to remain positive.
Ronan took a seat in a corner, hearing whispers and sensing glances filled with superiority. He, however, didn't react. He was determined to carve out his path silently and prove that the weak could become the strongest.
Without drawing further attention, Ronan chose a spot in the back. He noticed a few odd looks from one or two classmates but ignored them. Deep in his chest, he felt the need to prove his worth—not to them, but to himself. He also felt the rising flame of fury over the contempt he had faced in such a short time. But he knew he needed to take things one step at a time.
Professor Ulyara positioned herself at the front of the classroom, scanning the young faces before her. She seemed like a middle-aged woman, but her firm posture, sharp eyes, and demeanor exuded combat experience. Her voice was steady, without unnecessary harshness.
"Welcome to Avalon Arcane Academy, the most prestigious institution across the twelve human continents. Nowhere in Omnia offers more advanced training in magical and martial arts."
She paused, looking at them. "That means your aptitudes didn't stand out in the tests. You have two choices: remain mediocre or push yourselves to surpass your limits."
A few students swallowed hard. Ronan remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the professor. She explained that advancing in the Academy required completing missions, participating in duels, exploring supervised dungeons, and demonstrating growth in practical lessons. The best would move up to advanced classes, gaining access to rarer resources. The worst, however, risked expulsion or, at best, graduating with a standard diploma of little relevance.
"Here, you will experience everything: elemental spells, sword combat, runes, alchemy... But above all, you will learn that the Academy does not tolerate weakness or complacency," the professor said, her gaze sparking. "If you seek an honorable future, seize this opportunity."
A bell rang in the distance, signaling the start of activities. Ulyara temporarily dismissed the class, announcing that an introductory lesson on magical fundamentals would follow soon. The students left the room, some whispering about their expectations or fear of failure. Ronan exited last, indifferent to any friendly interactions.
In the corridor, he noticed another group of first-year students wearing richly adorned uniforms and polished boots—clearly children of more influential noble families, placed in higher-ranked classes due to exceptional results. One of them, a young man with blond hair and sapphire eyes, looked at Ronan with disdain:
"Ah, so this is the 'famous' Ronan Blake. The king of zeroes on the tests, right?"
Edward Gardner, from a mid-ranked noble family, had a penchant for bullying the weak and looking down on them.
Ronan didn't respond to Edward's biting comment. His amber gaze briefly met Edward's, showing neither anger nor frustration. Instead, his expression was cold and unshakable, as if Edward were little more than an insignificant obstacle. Without a word, he turned and walked down the Academy corridors toward the training fields.
The sound of hurried footsteps, echoing voices, and muffled laughter from other students gradually faded, replaced by the silence that enveloped the expansive training fields. It was an impressive space, with areas designated for various disciplines: swordsmanship, archery, magic practice, and even dungeon simulations. The fencing area was surrounded by racks filled with training swords, some wooden and others metal.
Ronan approached a rack and chose a simple wooden sword. He held it with both hands, feeling its weight and balance. It wasn't like the sharp blades he had wielded in his previous life as Bryan, but it would suffice for what he had in mind.
He positioned himself in the center of the fencing field, planting his feet firmly for balance. Taking a deep breath, he tried to clear his mind. However, the young body he now inhabited didn't respond like the experienced assassin's. His muscles were weak, and the muscle memory that once guided him was absent. He performed his first move—a diagonal slash from top to bottom. The swing was clumsy, the angle misaligned.
Suddenly, a voice echoed in his mind. Deep, mocking, and dripping with disdain:
"Your stance is pathetic. Your footwork… horrendous. How could the master choose such a weak and simple successor?"
Ronan froze mid-swing, frowning. He looked around, but no one was there. He tightened his grip on the sword, wondering if he was hearing things. The voice continued, now closer, as if coming from inside his own head:
"Don't bother looking. I'm here, within you. And to be honest, it's disappointing to be bound to someone so inept."
"Who are you?" Ronan muttered, narrowing his eyes. "What do you want?"
The voice let out a short, scornful laugh.
"I am Aegis, a fragment of the consciousness of the true master of swords. I was sealed here, in this body, to guide the next heir. But seeing you now... perhaps it was a mistake."
Ronan felt a flash of anger. He didn't appreciate being underestimated, not even by a mysterious entity.
"I don't need your approval," he replied coldly. "If you're here to help, then do it. Otherwise, spare me your opinions."
There was a brief silence before Aegis's tone grew more serious:
"Perhaps there's something in you after all. Let's start with the basics. Watch."