The iron-bound gates of Oakhaven loomed ahead. As Kaelith stepped onto the cobblestones, he didn't look like a disgraced noble; he looked like a traveler with an unusually steady gaze.
Suddenly, the crowd parted for a Holy Knight on a white stallion. The man's armor gleamed with a divine radiance that made the commoners bow in awe. As the knight passed, Kaelith felt a sharp, ringing pressure in his skull. A flash of white robes flickered in his mind—no face, just the color.
Why does that feel like a physical weight? Kaelith wondered, leaning against a stone wall until the feeling passed. It's not fear. It's... physiological. Like my body is reacting to a pathogen.
He shook his head, pushing the thought aside. He didn't want trouble. He just wanted to understand.
After securing a room at The Rusty Hilt, Kaelith locked the door and sat at the small wooden desk. He stared at the blue panel hovering in the air.
"Alright," he whispered to the empty room. "Let's break this down. I have a 'Broken Core,' yet the system says I have Ex-Rank swordsmanship. That's a massive contradiction. If the core is the engine and the sword is the tool, I have a legendary tool but no fuel."
He looked at his stats.
> STATUS WINDOW
> * Level: 1 (Exp: 80/100)
> * Strength: 8 | Agility: 12 | Stamina: 7 | Intelligence: 25
> * Available Stat Points: 3
>
"Three points," Kaelith mused, tapping his chin. "My Intelligence is already high—likely why I can analyze this so clearly. But my Stamina is a liability. If I use an Ex-Rank move with a Level 1 body, I'll snap my own bones."
He assigned all 3 points to Stamina. A subtle warmth flowed through him, the ragged edges of his fatigue smoothing out.
"Better. Now, the mana. The system says I need to 'devour' cores. That means my body has changed from a generator to a consumer. I don't need to pray or meditate like my brothers. I need to hunt."
The next morning, Kaelith arrived at the Mercenary Guild. He didn't pick a fight or act tough; he calmly registered under the name Cian and took a simple Slime quest.
In the meadows, he stood before a green, pulsing Slime.
"Logically," he muttered, drawing his iron shortsword, "a slime is just a liquid membrane protecting a core. I shouldn't waste energy on a wide swing."
He moved. It wasn't a "shout and charge" attack. It was a single, efficient step. The blade slipped into the slime like a needle. Pop.
[ LEVEL UP! LEVEL 2 ]
Kaelith watched as a tiny spark of light rose from the remains and settled into his chest. He felt his mana pathways twitch—a cold, hungry sensation.
"It works," he whispered, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. "I don't need the Valkarin name. I don't need their 'grace.' I just need a steady supply of targets. If I can maintain this growth rate, I can live a decent life where no one can ever throw me into the mud again."
He looked at his hands, feeling the new strength. "I'm not a failure. I'm just an entirely different species of power."
Back at his inn that night, Kaelith looked out at the stars. He didn't feel the need to burn the kingdom down. He just felt the need to be unrivaled.
"Step one: Fix the core," he said to himself, his voice calm and methodical. "Step two: Accumulate enough wealth to never have to rely on anyone's 'sympathy' again. Step three: Find out what those white robes are, just so I can stop this annoying headache every time I see a priest."
He leaned back, his mind already calculating the most efficient way to clear the local D-Rank dungeon.