The air in the dilapidated Westeros manor was thick with dust and the faint, bitter tang of mildew. Kayle Westeros lay sprawled across a creaking bed, his frail body trembling beneath a threadbare blanket. His chest heaved with shallow, labored breaths, each one a painful reminder of the "Bloodline Curse" that gnawed at his vitality—a hereditary affliction that had plagued the Westeros lineage for generations, reducing their once-proud noble house to a shadow of its former glory. The room around him mirrored his decay: cracked walls, shattered windows letting in slivers of gray light, and a rotting wooden floor that groaned under the lightest step. At twenty-three, Kayle looked more like a man twice his age—pale, gaunt, with sunken eyes that flickered with a fading spark of defiance.
He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms as memories of better days flashed through his mind. The Westeros family had once commanded respect across the Aslan continent, their banners fluttering over vast lands rich with mineral wealth. Now, their estate—all that remained—was a crumbling ruin on the edge of a forgotten village, its fields barren and its people scattered. Kayle's father had died in a skirmish years ago, his mother succumbed to the same curse that now gripped him, and the manor's servants had dwindled to a loyal handful. Only his younger sister, Lilia, and the old steward, Tom, remained by his side, their faith in him a bittersweet burden.
A sharp crash jolted Kayle from his reverie. The heavy oak door downstairs splintered under a brutal kick, and coarse laughter echoed up the stairwell. Footsteps thudded closer—too many to be friendly. Kayle's heart thudded painfully against his ribs, but his legs refused to obey, pinned by the curse's invisible chains. He gritted his teeth, cursing his weakness. He knew who it was before the voice confirmed it.
"Well, well, look at this dump!" The sneering tone belonged to Robert Layton, the second son of the neighboring Layton family—a clan of opportunistic nobles who'd been circling Westeros lands like vultures since Kayle's father fell. Robert's boots stomped up the stairs, each step a taunt. "I heard the last Westeros worm was rotting away up here. Thought I'd come see for myself."
Kayle's bedroom door burst open, and Robert swaggered in, flanked by two burly servants wielding clubs. He was a stocky man in his late twenties, with a pockmarked face and a perpetual smirk that oozed arrogance. His fine leather tunic and silver-trimmed cloak mocked the tattered rags Kayle wore. Robert's eyes glinted with malice as he surveyed the room, kicking over a rickety chair for good measure. "Pathetic," he spat, stepping closer to the bed. "You're a disgrace to your name, Kayle Westeros. A waste of flesh too weak to even stand. Your family's done—finished. This land's ours now."
Kayle's blood boiled, but his body betrayed him. He tried to push himself up, but his arms buckled, sending him crashing back onto the mattress with a groan. Robert laughed—a grating, guttural sound that made Kayle's skin crawl. "Look at you," Robert jeered, leaning down until his face was inches from Kayle's. "Can't even lift a finger. What's left of your precious manor? A sister too naive to know better and an old fool playing steward? I'll take it all—the land, the mines, everything. And you? You'll die here, alone and forgotten."
"Get… out," Kayle rasped, his voice a hoarse whisper but laced with venom. His vision blurred from exertion, but he locked eyes with Robert, refusing to look away. The defiance only fueled Robert's amusement.
"Out?" Robert straightened, chuckling. "Oh, I'm not leaving until I've had my fun." He snapped his fingers, and one of his servants handed him a club. He swung it lazily, testing its weight, then pointed it at Kayle. "Maybe I'll speed up that dying process. Save us all some time." He raised the club, grinning wickedly. "Say goodbye, worm."
Kayle's mind raced, desperation clawing at him. He couldn't move, couldn't fight—couldn't protect Lilia or Tom if Robert went after them next. The club descended, a dark blur against the dim light, and Kayle braced for the inevitable pain. But then, something shifted. A cold, mechanical voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, sharp and precise: "Host life signs critical. Detecting imminent threat. Activating 'Evolution System.' Binding initiated."
Time seemed to slow. Kayle's eyes widened as a translucent panel flickered into existence before him, glowing with alien runes and text:
"System online. Host: Kayle Westeros. Status: Near death. Emergency protocol engaged. First task issued: Survival Trial—Eliminate the intruder. Reward: Initial Evolution Points + Mechanical Arm Blueprint."
"What… the hell?" Kayle muttered, his voice drowned out by Robert's mocking laugh. The club was inches from his skull when instinct—something primal and unfamiliar—surged through him. His hand shot out, not to block, but to grab a rusted metal box under his bed. Old Tom had stashed it there months ago—a relic of their ancestors, filled with odds and ends from a forgotten era. Kayle's fingers closed around a jagged piece of metal, a fragment of some ancient device, and with a strength he didn't know he had, he yanked it free.
Robert's club slammed down, but Kayle rolled—just barely—off the bed, crashing to the floor in a heap. Pain exploded through his body, the curse screaming in his veins, but the system's voice rang again: "Task in progress. Host must act." Adrenaline flooded him, drowning out the agony. He clutched the metal shard, hands trembling, and with a grunt, jammed it into another piece from the box—a cog-like component. They clicked together, sparking faintly, and the system chimed: "Improvised assembly detected. Constructing 'Basic Mechanical Arm.' Activation in three… two… one."
A surge of energy raced up Kayle's arm. The makeshift contraption glowed blue, wrapping around his forearm like a skeletal brace. It whirred to life, gears grinding, and suddenly, his right arm felt… alive. Strong. Robert froze, club mid-swing, his smirk faltering. "What's that junk?" he sneered, but unease crept into his tone.
Kayle didn't answer. He pushed himself to his knees, the mechanical arm humming with power. Robert swung again, aiming for his head, but this time, Kayle moved. The arm shot up, faster than he'd ever thought possible, and caught the club mid-air. Wood splintered under the grip, and with a twist, Kayle wrenched it from Robert's hands, tossing it aside like a toy. Robert stumbled back, eyes wide. "What—?"
"Shut up," Kayle growled, his voice low and dangerous. He lunged, the mechanical arm swinging in a brutal arc. His fist connected with Robert's chest, a sickening crunch echoing as the noble flew backward, smashing through the bedroom wall into the hallway beyond. Plaster and wood rained down, and Robert sprawled amidst the debris, coughing blood, his fine cloak torn to shreds.
The servants gasped, dropping their clubs and backing toward the door. Kayle staggered to his feet, the mechanical arm pulsing with faint blue light. He glared at Robert, who clutched his chest, wheezing in pain. "You… you freak!" Robert spat, scrambling to stand. "You think this changes anything? My family will bury you!"
Kayle stepped forward, towering over him despite his frail frame. The system's voice chimed: "Task completed. Intruder neutralized. Reward dispensed: 10 Initial Evolution Points + Mechanical Arm Blueprint." A rush of warmth flooded his body, easing the curse's grip just enough to let him breathe freely for the first time in months. He flexed the mechanical arm, marveling at its strength, then fixed Robert with a cold, unyielding stare.
"Waste?" Kayle said, his voice steady now, sharp as a blade. "You don't get to call me that. Not anymore." He raised the arm, gears clicking ominously. "Get out of my house. Tell your family what happened here. And if you ever come back…" He slammed the fist into the floor, cracking the boards beneath Robert's feet. "I'll break more than your ribs."
Robert paled, scrambling backward like a whipped dog. "You'll regret this!" he shouted, but his voice cracked with fear. He stumbled down the stairs, his servants fleeing after him, leaving the manor in eerie silence.
Kayle stood there, chest heaving, the mechanical arm still humming faintly. Footsteps rushed up the stairs—Lilia and Old Tom burst into the room, their faces a mix of shock and relief. Lilia, her auburn hair tangled, ran to him, eyes wide. "Brother! Are you okay? What was that thing?" Old Tom, grizzled and stooped, leaned on his cane, staring at the wreckage. " Young Master, what in the gods' name just happened?"
Kayle managed a weak smile, the adrenaline fading, leaving exhaustion in its wake. "I don't know," he admitted, glancing at the glowing arm. "But I think… things are about to change." The system panel flickered again: "Host stabilized. Prepare for next task."
Outside, Robert's curses faded into the distance, but Kayle knew this was only the beginning. The Laytons wouldn't let this humiliation stand. And somewhere deep within him, a spark ignited—a hunger for power, for revenge, for the glory his family deserved. He clenched his new arm, resolve hardening.
"Whatever this 'system' is," he muttered, "I'll use it. I'll take everything back."