The city of Neo-Terra was a brutal monument to the simple truth: your Talent Score was your destiny. Above the skyscrapers, floating districts housed the Monarchs and Emperors, those whose Divine and Mythic talents bent reality to their will. Down in the smog-choked lower sectors, people like Viktor D. Harper existed only to serve.
Viktor, at the age of seventeen, stood in the long, echoing hall of the Talent Registry, the fluorescent lights flickering over his worn clothes. The scent of ozone and stale fear was thick. He gripped the edge of the smooth, obsidian appraisal stone, his knuckles white.
"Name," a bored, armored registrar droned, not looking up from his holographic terminal.
"Viktor D. Harper."
"Age, Cultivation Rank."
"Seventeen. First-Stage Warrior." The lie tasted like rust. He was barely a Stage One Novice, the lowest of the low.
The registrar finally looked up, his eyes sweeping over Viktor with thinly veiled contempt. "Cultivation Talent: Novice. Special Talent: None registered. Status: Unremarkable." He slammed a stamp onto a sparse, paper document. RED FLAG: Low Potential. "Move along, Harper. The line is long."
Viktor didn't flinch at the casual dismissal. He merely took the document and turned away, his expression as flat and empty as the concrete floor. Novice. It was the word that had shadowed his entire life, the single label that decided he was less than nothing in a world where strength was currency and weakness was an invitation to be crushed.
He walked past the line of hopeful, anxious youths, their faces shining with the promise of Top-Tier and Apex talents. Their ambition was a buzzing drone he had long learned to tune out.
He had a secret, though. A truth that mocked every single evaluation.
As he walked, Viktor focused internally, a mental command as easy as breathing.
{STATUS}
A translucent, blue screen, visible only to him, snapped into existence in his mind's eye.
👤 STATUS: Viktor D. Harper
Cultivation Realm: Warrior (Stage 1)
Core Talent: Novice Cultivation (Placeholder)
Special Talent: Systematic Replication (Unique - Unranked)
Cooldown: 30 Days
Replicated Talents: 0
Upgrade Path: Locked (Requires Prime Essence Treasure)
Martial Skills: None
Artifacts: None
The key was the first line under his Special Talent: Systematic Replication. No one knew it existed. They had scanned him with Mythic-Grade crystals and found nothing but the weakest trace of energy, concluding he simply lacked a Special Talent. They were looking for an output of energy; Viktor's talent was a storage and imitation device, completely dormant unless actively engaged.
He could copy, perfectly and permanently, any Talent—Cultivation, Special, Martial Art—he physically touched. The catch: once per month.
Thirty days.
He felt the familiar, cold knot in his gut loosen just a fraction. Today was December 6th. His monthly cooldown had reset this morning. He could finally begin.
His steps quickened as he left the Registry and headed towards the residential sector. He had a sister to protect.
He found the apartment door slightly ajar. Inside, the single-room dwelling was immaculate, a testament to the hard work of the girl who cleaned it daily.
His junior sister, Elara D. Harper, was sitting at a chipped table, tracing patterns in a thin workbook. She looked up, her face lighting up with a brief, fragile smile that always pierced Viktor's armor of cynicism. Elara was only twelve, but she was the only reason Viktor hadn't abandoned the world to its wolves.
"Viktor! How was the re-registration?" she asked, her voice quiet.
He forced a comforting smile, leaning down to ruffle her dark hair. "The same old rubbish. Novice, as always. But I'm a Stage One Warrior now, so they can't throw me out of the academy yet."
Elara's smile faded, replaced by a worry far too heavy for her age. "Brother... you should have been ranked higher. That Shadow Form skill you use—it's fast. Faster than anyone in my class, even the Top-Tier ones."
Viktor shook his head lightly. "Speed is not Talent, Elara. Only potential matters. And my potential," he paused, his eyes hardening with an unshakeable resolve that didn't reach his voice, "is apparently limited."
Limited? No. It was a blank slate, a hidden vault, and he had finally just received the key.
"Don't worry about me," he said, pulling a meager coin pouch from his pocket. "I worked an extra shift at the processing plant today. Enough for your new nutrient paste and maybe a new book."
"Thank you, Brother," she whispered.
He watched her for a moment, and a grim picture of her future flashed through his mind: forced labor, mandatory service, a life of subjugation, all because her own Cultivation Talent was only Normal—not enough to escape the slums.
That future was unacceptable.
The first step, he thought, his blood running cold with the thrill of impending action. The first step begins tonight.
He needed a talent to copy. Not a good one, but the perfect one to start his ascension. He needed a talent that could mask his rapid future growth.
He needed to find someone with a highly rated Healing Talent.
Why healing?
Because tonight, a lot of people would get hurt, and he needed a way to justify why a Novice-Talent Warrior could survive a clash with a Mid-Tier power without revealing his true strength.
The fight would be bloody. The victory would be overwhelming. The countdown had begun.