Day One
Vergil was, by all accounts, dead to the world.
The bed had molded to his shape like an overbearing lover who refused to let go. One leg dangled limply off the edge, his face half-buried in a pillow that smelled faintly of old lavender and stale dust. His eyes fluttered open once or twice—just long enough to groan and retreat back into the quiet, aching void.
The pain in his back was a dull, persistent throb—like an annoying neighbor who knocked without mercy but never had anything important to say.
He didn't eat.
He didn't think.
He just… existed.
[Status: Congratulations! You are currently doing your best impression of a corpse. Keep it up!]
Vergil let out a muffled groan and shifted, burying his face deeper into the mattress.
"Shut up.
Let me sleep."
[Noted.]
He didn't move again for hours.
---
Meanwhile…
Outside the Cottage
The clearing behind Elvira's cottage pulsed with tension. The grass had long since been scorched and flattened by repeated trials, the surrounding trees keeping a respectful distance. Eleanor stood barefoot on the cracked earth, her palms glowing with flickering threads of electricity.
The spell was called Volt Lance—a Rank 1 piercing spell, designed to travel in a tight, linear burst of electric force. It demanded speed, control, and, above all, restraint.
Naturally, it was fighting her every step of the way.
"You're still choking the flow," Elvira called from her perch on a nearby stone, cane resting across her lap. "You're not throwing a tantrum at the lightning, girl. You're inviting it to dance."
"I'm not choking it," Eleanor muttered through clenched teeth, sweat trickling down her temple. "I'm trying to keep it from blowing my damn hand off."
Elvira raised a brow. "Sounds like a you problem."
The magic flared—too sharp, too wild—and lashed outward with a crackling shriek, splitting the air and carving a shallow trench into the earth several feet away.
Eleanor flinched, hissing through her teeth as she shook out her stinging fingers.
Elvira gave a tired chuckle. "Congratulations. You missed the tree and the target. Impressive."
"I wasn't aiming for either."
"Ah. Deliberate failure. Bold strategy."
Eleanor scowled, but didn't retort. She tried again—this time focusing not on brute control, but on channeling. Letting the mana flow like water over stone, guiding it rather than forcing it. The sparks grew tighter. Quieter.
A lance of condensed lightning burst forward—thin, precise—and embedded itself in the bark of a distant tree with a satisfying crack.
Elvira grunted in approval. "Better. Still sloppy, but better. You're starting to listen."
"To the lightning?"
"No. To me."
"…Unfortunate."
---
Later That Night – Inside
Vergil still hadn't moved.
The day had blurred into grey. He stared at the wooden ceiling above, half-expecting it to collapse—just to add to the ambiance.
[Status: Inactive. Mental activity: low. Physical activity: non-existent. Sarcasm levels: building.]
He rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head.
--
Day Two
Vergil managed to sit up this time—albeit slowly.
His joints crackled like old wood, his muscles flaring in protest. The soreness remained, but it had faded from a screaming agony to a grumpy mutter.
Progress.
Tiny, annoying, unwanted progress.
Then—
[DING]
Vergil blinked as a faint interface shimmered in the upper corner of his vision.
'Not another joke.'
[Suck your mother]
'...OK, where did that come from?'
>l [No clue.]
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "You're a system, not a sarcastic roommate."
[I can be both. Multitasking is free.]
He stood, pacing the room in slow, deliberate circles. Testing his weight. His balance. Still sore—but his body moved. That was something.
Eventually, he reached into the pouch at the foot of the bed and retrieved a small cloth bundle. Inside were eight Astraylth Crystals, each glowing faintly with that pale, star-like light—mana condensed into pure crystalline form.
He waited until Eleanor returned from her evening practice, hair damp with sweat, knuckles bruised from spell recoil.
Without a word, he held the bundle out to her.
She blinked. "…What's this?"
"Astraylth stones from our last hunt," he muttered. "Should be enough to push your mana circle closer to second refinement."
She stared at him. Then at the crystals. Then back.
"I know what they are. We only got twelve from that last subjugation. Don't you need to give them to the guild?"
"You're worth more than just sitting at Tier One. Four is more than enough. Tomorrow I should be alright to move."
A pause.
Then—she took them. Quietly.
"…Thank you."
Vergil nodded once and turned away, as if the conversation hadn't happened.
As if his heartbeat hadn't betrayed him a little in his chest.
---
That night, just as sleep began to creep in, the door eased open once more.
Eleanor stepped in with quiet, deliberate steps. Her new clothes were more practical now—dark leather, a storm-thread tunic, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. She didn't say a word as she crossed the room and unwrapped a new rapier on the table.
Slender. Elegant. Deadly.
She didn't look at him. Just walked to the bed, pulled the covers over herself, and settled into silence.
[Eleanor Valtier – Status: Asleep. Mood: Tired but focused.]
Vergil stared at the rapier in the dark, the soft hum of electricity still lingering in the air like a ghost.
"…At least one of us is productive."
[Would you like to level up your sulking skill? You're only 20 XP away.]
"Fuck you."
He sighed.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, he'd get out of bed for real.
Maybe. Just maybe.
---
The morning sunlight crept gently through the shutters as Vergil sat up in bed. His joints no longer screamed in protest, though they still ached faintly—reminders of the hell he'd crawled out of just days ago. His back throbbed dully where the wound had closed, manageable now, but still a sore spot.
He rolled his neck, flexed his fingers, and exhaled as he pushed himself up.
"I can move again," he muttered. "More or less. I should really find a recovery skill—heal that back wound properly. It's a damn miracle that bastard's sword missed my spine."
A soft chime echoed in his mind.
The System Interface flickered to life.
[Finally got off your lazy ass.]
Vergil groaned. "You just can't shut up, can you?"
[I could. But where's the fun in that?]
After a quick rinse and slipping into a fresh shirt, Vergil stepped out into the early bustle of town. The streets were already alive, merchants setting up stalls, townsfolk sweeping doorsteps, and the aroma of fresh bread drifting from nearby bakeries.
He made his way to Willow & Stitch, the tailor nestled just off the town square.
A small bell chimed as he entered.
"Looking for something rugged or refined?" the shopkeeper asked without looking up from a half-stitched coat.
"Both."
Fifteen minutes later—and two silver coins lighter—Vergil stepped back out into the morning sun clad in a fitted charcoal-gray tunic reinforced with leather padding along the shoulders and sides. Dark, flexible trousers tapered into sturdy black boots, and a forest-gray sleeveless cloak draped across his back, subtle utility loops stitched along its hem.
[Item Equipped: Adventurer's Field Garb]
Category: Light Armor
Rarity: Common (Enhanced)
Defense: +4
Description: A well-fitted charcoal-gray tunic reinforced with leather padding, paired with durable travelwear. Offers flexibility and moderate protection. Favored by resourceful adventurers who value mobility over bulk.
[Look at you! Almost like a real adventurer now. Just don't get blood on it in the first five minutes.]
"…Not bad," Vergil muttered.
He ducked into a nearby alley and checked for prying eyes. With a flick of mental will, his inventory materialized. He fastened his sword at his hip and slung the iron shield across his back. The straps clicked into place with practiced ease.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's get to work."
---
The Adventurers' Guild was alive with its usual chaos—boots clanging against stone, voices rising in argument and laughter, the scent of sweat, metal, and old wood clinging to the air. Parchment fluttered as adventurers swapped notices on the mission boards, and the occasional bark of a guild officer rang out over the din.
At the front desk stood Elina, amber-eyed and cool as ever. That usual spark of quiet amusement tugged at the corners of her lips.
"Well, look at you," she said, eyes flicking over his new outfit. "Didn't take you for the stylish type."
Vergil smirked. "Upgrade. Figured I'd stop looking like a half-dead vagrant."
"Smart move." She flipped through a stack of bounty scrolls. "What brings you in?"
"I'm here to turn in my last subjugation." He placed four Astralyth Crystals onto the counter—each faintly pulsing with residual magic.
Elina inspected them with a glance and nodded. "Solid haul. That's five silver." She slid the pouch toward him.
He pocketed it with a nod. "Also looking for another E-rank mission. Preferably something involving healing traits."
She raised an eyebrow. "That's oddly specific."
"Studying regenerative behavior," he said casually. "Low-risk target, high observation value."
"Huh." She rummaged for a moment, then handed over a slightly crumpled parchment. "Lucky you. Something's been spotted near Mistwood Trail. Locals have wounded it a few times, but it just keeps coming back. No fatalities—yet. Mostly nuisance reports."
His eyes scanned the page. One name stood out:
Verdant Goremire.
"Sounds like just what I need."
"Try not to get eaten," Elina said, amused.
"No promises."
---
The sky had turned a softer gold by the time Vergil veered into a quiet side street near the town square. The scent of dried herbs and roasted grain filled the air, guiding him to a humble shop tucked between a blacksmith and the tailor. A weathered sign swung gently above the door: The Forager's Bundle.
Inside, the air was cooler, earthy—lined with shelves of dried meats, preserved rations, and bundles of rope and travel gear. The old man at the counter barely looked up as Vergil entered.
Vergil gathered a few essentials and brought them to the till.
"Two silver," the shopkeeper said gruffly.
Vergil paid without comment, flicking the items into his inventory with a subtle motion. He'd grown used to concealing the System—too strange to explain, too dangerous to show.
Outside, the sun dipped lower, streaking the sky with amber. Vergil passed through the southern gate, boots crunching softly on the gravel path. The wind picked up, whispering across the open fields.
Eventually, the road narrowed, trees pressing close on both sides—the start of the Mistwood Trail.
Tall trunks stretched toward the sky, their canopies thick and tangled, casting shifting shadows over the underbrush. A low mist clung to the forest floor, cold and damp, like breath in winter air.
Vergil slowed his pace.
The magic here was thin but unpredictable. Feral.
"Focus and sustain," he murmured.
If he could get a healing skill—or even a passive regeneration trait—it would change everything. He wasn't built for raw power or high-damage magic. Not yet. To survive what was coming… he needed to last. Endure. Adapt.
"Food first," he muttered, almost a mantra. "Then I'll grind out as many Astralyth Crystals and skills as I can. I need to hit at least forty-five in my core stats before I even think about squaring off with that thing again…"
His eyes flicked to the side.
Just for a moment, he thought he saw something move in the trees.
A shadow? A flicker of presence?
He paused, breath held.
Nothing.
But still—his body tensed.
His hand brushed the hilt at his side, thumb resting lightly over the grip. The shield on his back shifted slightly with each step as he pushed deeper into the trees.
The forest grew quieter.
Then the air changed.
It was subtle—too subtle for a novice to notice. But not for Vergil.
His instincts stirred.
Primal Awareness flared again.
He didn't wait. His body moved on instinct.
A second Verdant Goremire lunged from a bramble patch, maw wide, tendrils slithering from its mouth like black vines.
Ember Spark flew from Vergil's palm before the creature could even screech—a flash of flame catching it mid-leap. It shrieked, rolled, and thrashed wildly through the undergrowth.
His sword slid free in a single breath.
He dashed in, ducked beneath a flailing vine, and slashed low across its knees—dropping it hard.
Another Ember Spark. Point-blank.
Straight into its face.
The body spasmed once.
Then stilled.
One down.
---
Two more followed soon after.
One tried to ambush him from the canopy.
Vergil ripped it from the trees with a precise Spark, then ignited its spore sack mid-air.
The third fled after witnessing the others burn.
It didn't get far.
---
Shadows peeled from Vergil's hand again—those same black mouths, silent and ravenous.
They consumed everything: bone, fang, spore, and ichor.
Each time, his muscles thrummed heavier with weight. His skin grew denser, firmer against the cold.
---
[Authority of Predation – Activated]
Targets: Verdant Goremires (E-Rank) ×3 – Consumed.
[User has gained 2 Strength, 1 Constitution, and 1 Dexterity]
[User has levelled up]
---
New Skills Acquired:
Regenerative Core (E-) ×3
Limb Burst (F) ×3
Rotlash (F) ×3
Mire Body (F):
Takes reduced damage from piercing attacks. Vulnerable to fire.
Fungal Resilience (F+):
Resistant to poison and disease effects.
---
Vergil leaned against a moss-covered tree, flexing his hand as new power settled into his frame. He could feel it—his body humming with greater endurance, wounds already stitching closed, his lungs burning less with each breath.
His Constitution stat now sat in the 30s, and it showed.
He pulled a dried ration from his inventory, chewing absently as he scanned the fog-shrouded horizon.
His thoughts flicked back to that grotesque puppet watching the village days ago… and the demon it served.
Not yet.
But step by step… I'm getting closer.
---
He raised his hand, focus narrowing.
"Combine the four Regenerative Cores."
Combining skills... Combination successful.
Greater Regenerative Core (D+)
Constant passive regeneration of wounds, including deep gashes, broken bones, and internal injuries.
Can drastically accelerate healing in combat, allowing lost flesh or fractured limbs to regenerate within moments—at the cost of stamina and energy.
Improved stamina efficiency compared to E-Rank.
Minor resistance to bleeding, poison, and infection.
Vergil exhaled in satisfaction.
"Finally got what I was after. The reduced stamina cost is a nice bonus."
He felt warmth spread across his back. The wound there closed silently, leaving no scar—but his stamina drained fast.
It works… but yeah, it's still D+. The cost's steep.
---
"Next: combine Weak Toxin Resistance (E-) and **Fungal Resilience (F+)."
It takes too long to level passive skills naturally—either I wait weeks or poison myself. Better to fuse them.
Combining skills... Combination successful.
Toxic Resilience (E)
Grants passive resistance to mild poisons, toxins, and fungal infections.
Reduces duration and effects of:
Toxic gases
Venoms
Spore-based diseases or hallucinogens
Slightly improves the body's detox process, reducing damage from ingested or inhaled contaminants.
Especially effective in swamps, dungeons, or against venomous beasts.
Vergil closed the skill window with a flick of thought.
"That's all for now. Would've been nice to get a movement skill… something like Shadow Dash. But this'll do."
He hesitated, glancing at Mire Body.
"It's not bad... but the fire weakness is a problem. Might be worth keeping if I had a skill to cancel that out—but fire's my strength right now."
"Convert Mire Body into evolution points."
[Mire Body has been converted into 10 F-Rank Evolution Points.]
---
He opened his Status Screen and gave a small nod.
"Allocate all remaining points to Constitution."
[3 Stat Points Allocated to Constitution.]
A subtle pressure rippled through his body—like old tension quietly realigning. His breath came easier. His stance felt more stable. Muscles responded with sharper control. Even the dull ache in his joints faded.
It's small, but it adds up.
---
His eyes narrowed, following the quiet bend of the Mistwood trail. The fog danced like ghosts across the ground.
That demon… it wasn't serious during our last fight. Didn't even tap into its true power. That wasn't a battle.
It was a warning.
He clenched his fist slowly.
Veins pulsed faintly beneath his glove, glowing with inner force.
If we fought again right now—and it went all out—my odds are maybe thirty percent.
If that.
He exhaled, steady and grim.
And that's assuming it's alone. If it's guarding a gate… a relic… or something stronger… then I'm walking into death.
The mist curled at his feet like creeping fingers. Silence stretched.
I need more skills. More strength.
But time was never a luxury in this world.
Still, step by step, he would close the gap.
And when the time came…
He would be ready.
Or he would die trying.