Early in the morning, Reno Mizaria was already standing by the window of his tiny room, through which cold light seeped in. The wooden beams creaked, and the street below, bathed in the first pinkish dawn, was beginning to wake. Merchants rolled their carts, mustard and spice stalls prepared for the day, and somewhere in the distance, the smithy rang out sharply.
"Mom, are you having breakfast?" he called down.
"I'll be there soon, Reno!" The voice of his mother, a young woman with smooth, almost catlike movements, came from the kitchen. Her body seemed made for dance: soft yet strong muscles, posture radiating grace, and hands that seemed to flow through the air like silk. She was already slipping into a light dress, preparing for the morning rehearsal at the local tavern.
Reno turned away from the window and looked at his modest breakfast: a tiny piece of bread and a little cheese. The day promised to be long. Tomorrow he would turn ten—the very day when the world system, invisible and cold, finally chose the skill that would stay with a person forever.
The Empire of Mileziana was vast and strange. Formally, it was ruled by the emperor, an old man with an icy gaze, but real power lay with the guilds. Each controlled its own sector: trade, magic, craftsmanship, espionage. They bought votes in the senate, guided generals, and decided which aristocrats would survive and which would drown in debt. The people only saw the gleaming buildings and guards on the streets, but every commoner knew: without the guilds' consent, the emperor was just a symbol, a decoration.
The economy was fragile and strange. Local merchants brought spices, fabrics, and metals from distant lands, while peasants barely managed on their tiny plots. Smuggling thrived in the cities, and street guilds could turn any cry for help into a coin. Anyone born without a skill risked becoming just a statistic: a laborer, a servant, a small cog in Mileziana's endless mechanism.
Reno didn't like thinking about it too much. Despite their poverty, his mother tried to keep their home cozy. She sang him quiet songs when he was little, and sometimes gave dance lessons—not so he would become a dancer herself, she knew her world was dangerous and harsh for a boy—but just so he could feel how life moved, how the body breathed.
"Mom… what if the skill turns out to be useless?" he asked, carefully breaking the bread.
She leaned toward him, took his small hand in hers, and warmed it.
"Then you'll have to learn to make it useful, Reno. There are no useless skills, only those who underestimate them. And… " She smiled, her eyes glowing with soft light. "Your skill may be the strangest of all, but it will still be yours."
Reno nodded. He understood that his mother was trying to calm him, but anxiety scraped inside him like a sharp stone. Last night he had seen other children talking about their dreams: someone wanted to be a fire mage, another a master swordsman. And him? He couldn't imagine what he wanted, because he barely knew anything.
"Mom, what if my skill is completely dumb?" he asked again, almost whispering.
"Dumb?" she snorted, adjusting her hair. "No, Reno. Even if you get something strange, you will be able to use it. I'm sure of it."
Her confidence was contagious, and Reno felt some of the tension ease. He dressed in what could be called the outfit of a poor student: a simple shirt, trousers, slightly worn boots. When he stepped outside, the world seemed alive and dangerous at the same time. The marketplace was noisy: someone shouted, selling apples, another argued over the price of fur. The air carried the smell of bread, spices, and sweat.
"Reno!" called the old neighbor. "I heard you'll get your skill tomorrow! Hang in there, boy!"
"Yeah, hanging in," Reno replied, smiling, though his heart beat faster.
He walked the streets, taking in the world: old houses with stone steps, noisy markets, tiny alleys where children played their own version of combat games. All of it under the watch of the invisible system, preparing him for the future.
His mother waited on the square in front of the tavern, where she was to give her morning performance. People gathered around, their eyes catching every step. She danced lightly, almost weightlessly, as if the air itself obeyed her movements. Reno stopped in the shadows, watching her, and for a moment forgot his fear.
"Reno, come here," she called, noticing her son. "Don't stand there like a tree!"
He ran over and stood beside her. She leaned down and whispered:
"Watch and learn, even if you're not a dancer. Every step, every turn, every breath—it's a skill. And soon your skill will define you too."
He nodded, but his gaze once again drifted to the sky. In Mileziana, as the elders said, skill determined a person's fate. The world system did not ask for consent. It simply chose, and life depended on that choice.
"Mom… what if…" he hesitated. "What if my skill is dangerous?"
She laughed softly, almost sadly.
"Then use it wisely. Never let the skill control you. You are the master, Reno, not it."
They stood on the square, and at that moment, a guild messenger arrived. All children of ten years old were to gather in the Hall of Data Guild—a tall, old stone building, its walls covered with symbols and maps, and the air smelling of old parchment and candle wax.
"Reno Mizaria?" the messenger's voice echoed through the hall.
He stepped forward, his heart beating so loudly it seemed everyone could hear it. Other children were already seated, their eyes glowing with anticipation and fear. Some whispered, others nervously jiggled their legs.
"Today you will receive your skills," the messenger continued. "Not all skills are equal. Some are stronger, some are cleverer. But each of you must accept your choice. The system will determine you."
Reno sat on a bench, hands on his knees, feeling the cold stone beneath his fingers. The hall smelled of wax, paper, and anxiety. His mother stood by the door, her eyes following him, softly smiling, as if to say: "You can do this."
The messenger raised his hand, and the room fell into a grave silence. In that moment, the air seemed to thicken, and every breath felt heavy. The system began to work, invisible, almost imperceptible. Something stirred inside Reno, and he felt a strange warmth, as if a small fire was igniting within him.
"Reno Mizaria," said the messenger. "Your skill—"
And the sentence cut off. Reno froze, staring at the messenger, but no answer came. Seconds stretched into eternity. Everything around him became irrelevant: neither the whispers of other children, nor the faint noise from the door, nor even the soft breath of his mother in the corridor.
He stood at the threshold of a new world, full of possibilities and dangers, and only one thing was certain: tomorrow would no longer be like yesterday. The world waited, and the system had chosen his path. But what his skill would be—Reno did not yet know.