Alarik folded his arms across his broad chest, the plates of his armor shifting with a soft clink of steel. His voice, when it came, was firm and direct.
"Good. Then let's begin."
He turned his head slightly and raised his voice above the clamor of the moving camp.
"Norma!"
A figure broke from the nearest group of soldiers, boots striking the dirt in brisk rhythm. She was young—no more than twenty-five—with blonde hair coiled tightly into a bun and a sharpness in her expression that suggested discipline honed by relentless repetition. Her armor bore the insignia of a junior officer, and her stride had the kind of confidence that only came from being tested in the field.
"Yes, Commander," she said, saluting crisply with the flat of her palm placed horizontally over her chest—the traditional Reign military salute.
Alarik nodded toward her, his tone clipped but calm. "This is Norma, my second-in-command. Norma, have someone bring my horse. And one for our guest as well."
"Right away, sir." She turned and moved with practiced urgency, not a step wasted.
Alarik watched her go, then turned back to Reivo, gesturing toward the front of the convoy where the royal chariot waited. "We'll ride ahead. In front of the princess. We'll speak as we move."
Reivo didn't reply with words. A silent nod was enough. The fewer he used, the less he revealed.
Minutes later, a young man led two horses toward them. The first was a burly brown destrier, its coat gleaming under fine tack and a saddle etched with silver patterns. The second was a black stallion—sleeker, built more for speed and agility. Its reins were simple, but well-maintained. Clearly the mount intended for Reivo.
Reivo swung into the saddle in a single fluid motion. He wasn't a trained cavalryman, but his body had adapted quickly since his Awakening. The horse responded to his grip on the reins without resistance. Alarik mounted with the smooth, practiced efficiency of a soldier who'd spent half his life in armor.
With a series of sharp calls and horn signals, the camp began to move. Wagons creaked forward. Soldiers tightened their lines. A protective perimeter of armored cavalrymen closed around the royal chariot as it rolled into motion, its black and gold canopy swaying gently.
Reivo and Alarik rode at the front of the column, side by side. The path ahead curved gently through low hills dusted with amber and crimson leaves. The sky was overcast, and the wind carried the damp scent of old rain and wet bark.
For a time, they rode in silence, broken only by the soft thudding of hooves, the clatter of chainmail, and the barked orders from captains keeping the lines in order. Reivo remained quiet, his eyes ever on the forest edges, his ears tuned to the rhythm of the march.
Then, after nearly two hours, Alarik broke the silence.
"Reivo," he began, voice steady but not without a note of curiosity. "What you did yesterday… a level one clearing a two-star dungeon breach alone. That's something people will remember."
Reivo didn't even glance at him. "I just did what you didn't."
Alarik smiled slightly. It wasn't mocking, but it carried the weight of someone who had heard worse and endured far more.
"You're right. I asked the princess for permission to go with you. She refused."
Reivo snorted quietly. "Heh. Convenient."
Alarik looked ahead, eyes narrowed against the breeze. When he spoke again, his voice had changed—calmer, but laced with something older and more bitter.
"My sister died in a dungeon breach. Years ago. That's what set me on this path. That day, I learned that the world doesn't wait for your grief to catch up before it tears into someone else." He paused, jaw tightening. "If it had been up to me yesterday, I would've been there, cutting those monsters down."
Something in Reivo shifted at those words. He didn't soften, but he understood.
Alarik continued. "But the princess had a different plan. She wanted to see if you could survive on your own. See what you'd become when left with nothing but your will."
Reivo didn't respond. He wasn't sure if he was grateful or enraged.
After a few more minutes, Alarik broke the silence again. "Tell me, Reivo—what do you actually know about the System?"
Reivo furrowed his brow. "Not much. Levels. Classes. Skills. That's about it."
Alarik gave a short nod. "Then we'll fix that."
His voice became more formal, as though stepping into the role of instructor. "The System is the Will of the World, they say. A force meant to preserve balance. Dungeon breaches are constant. Without Awakened, we'd have long since been overrun. The System is how the world arms its chosen."
Reivo's eyes narrowed. "And who gets chosen?"
Alarik let out a dry laugh. "Ah, the golden question. No one really knows. Some say it's random. Others claim it's bloodlines or inner strength or some mystical resonance with the world's mana."
"So… no one has a real answer?"
"Not one that holds water," Alarik replied. "You could spend years listening to the Archmages and theorists in the capital and still walk away confused. They'll tell you there's a consciousness behind it all—a mind watching, judging, selecting."
Reivo frowned. "Do you believe that?"
Alarik glanced at him. "I believe the System gives you what you need, not what you want. It molds you for the road ahead—gold-paved or blood-soaked."
They rode in silence for a moment, Reivo digesting that.
"Now," Alarik said, "enough theory. Let's talk facts. Open your status window."
Reivo hesitated for half a breath, then focused. With a silent mental command, the familiar translucent screen shimmered into existence before his eyes.
---
Status Window
> Class: Summoner
Level: 1+
Mana Core: Dormant
Titles: Voice of the Dreamless Depths [Cursed]
Summoning Path: Nightmare Pact
Contracts: Verhen, the Bleeding Herald
Skills: Nightborn Pact (Epic)
Passive Effect – Dreamless Murmur:
Your presence distorts dreams and weakens mental defenses. Those nearby may feel observed or whispered to by unseen things.
---
Reivo nodded to signal that it was open.
Alarik's tone shifted. "Good. I don't need every detail—that's your advantage to guard. But tell me your class."
"Summoner," Reivo said without pause. "Still level one."
Alarik gave him a sidelong glance. "Magic type, then. Huh. I'll admit—I took you for a warrior. You've got the frame for it. Taller than me, and your body's trained. Don't worry, that strength won't go to waste. Even Awakened with magic classes are stronger than ordinary men. A pure Warrior type will usually outmatch a mage in raw strength… but not always."
Reivo raised an eyebrow. "Not always?"
"There are exceptions," Alarik said. "Some Awakened gain rare or advanced classes—hybrids that blend magic and might. Those ones? They can break armies."
Reivo frowned thoughtfully. "What do you mean by 'advanced' class?"
Alarik's eyes gleamed slightly. "Ah. Now we're getting into it. Every ten levels, the System offers you a choice—three evolution options. Most people get common enhancements like, Iron Skin, which makes your body tougher. Mountain Stand, which improves your resistance to being staggered. Useful, but basic."
He paused.
"But if you're lucky… or if the System has something specific in mind for you… you might see epic or even legendary paths. These choices can twist your class into something unique. Something dangerous. That's when people stop being foot soldiers and start becoming legends."
Reivo stared straight ahead, the trees passing like ghosts.
He was already on such a path. The cursed title, the Nightmare Pact, the voice of something deeper and darker than he fully understood. The System hadn't chosen him at random.
And whatever path lay ahead… it wouldn't be paved in gold.
It would be soaked in blood.