On the third morning in Asterwyn, Cael woke up with pain that didn't feel new anymore.
It had settled into him like a second skin.
His ribs still ached when he twisted. His shoulder still complained if he lifted his arm too high. But the sharpness had dulled, replaced by something steady—something he could move through.
That alone felt like progress.
He sat on the edge of the bed for a long moment, eyes downcast, letting his breathing even out before he stood. His body didn't sway as badly today. The dizziness came and went like a weak wave rather than a full crash.
He washed his face, tied his hair back with a piece of string he found in the room, and left the inn without wasting time.
Training wasn't enough.
Not anymore.
Strength built slowly, and Cael didn't have the luxury of slow.
He needed something else.
Experience.
The kind that made your body move before you could think.
The kind you couldn't gain from running in circles on a field.
He needed a weapon.
The academy entrance trials weren't gentle. Even if they didn't call it a "death match," the truth was simple: people got hurt, bones broke, and the weak were dragged away with bruised pride.
Cael wasn't allowed pride.
Only survival.
He walked through the early market district until he found what he wanted—a small weapon stall tucked between a butcher and a cloth seller. The merchant behind it looked tired and unimpressed by everyone.
Blades hung in rows: short swords, knives, cheap daggers, worn spears with chipped tips.
Nothing legendary.
Nothing heroic.
But Cael didn't need heroic.
He needed something that worked with his miserable stats.
A heavy sword would ruin him. A spear would require reach and stamina he didn't have yet.
So he chose the simplest thing.
A dagger.
Short, sturdy, plain steel.
It fit in his hand like it belonged there—balanced, light enough for his weak arm, sharp enough to matter if he could land a strike.
He tested the weight once.
The merchant watched him. "That one's not fancy."
Cael nodded. "I don't need fancy."
The man grunted. "Two silver."
Cael hesitated for half a heartbeat—then pulled the coins from Serel's pouch. He paid without a word, tucked the dagger into a cheap leather sheath, and walked away.
The moment the blade rested against his hip, his posture shifted slightly.
It wasn't confidence.
It was awareness.
A weapon didn't make him strong.
But it meant his body had one more option besides running and praying.
He returned to the training field, choosing an empty corner where no one would interrupt him. A few students were already there, practicing flashy sword forms with smooth movements and expensive gear.
Cael ignored them.
He drew his dagger and stared at it.
It was small.
But small was honest.
Small didn't pretend you could win with strength.
Small demanded precision.
Cael began with basic motions—simple thrusts and slashes, repeated until his wrist burned. He focused on footwork more than the blade.
In the game, weapon skill trees were neat.
In real life, every wrong angle hurt.
Every bad grip stole energy.
The dagger's handle started rubbing his palm raw again, pressing against skin that hadn't finished healing. A sting rose with each repetition.
Cael didn't stop.
He adjusted his grip slightly and kept going.
Thrust. Step. Pull back.Slash. Turn. Reset.
Again.Again.Again.
After a while, he stopped breathing like someone training.
He started breathing like someone fighting.
Short, controlled inhales. Slow exhales. His shoulders stayed loose. His legs moved with rhythm.
His mind wandered, but not away from the blade.
Toward why he needed it.
Bandits on the road.
A guardian in the grove.
Scouts in the city.
This world wasn't waiting for him to "level up" politely.
It was already moving.
Already hunting.
He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist and continued.
His stamina dipped. He stabilized it with Inner Loop mana circulation. His legs weakened. He forced them steady.
Then, in the middle of a thrust, the System flashed into existence with no warning.
A blue window hung in the air, cold and intrusive.
Cael froze.
[Survival Quest Detected]
Quest: "Do Not Become Prey."Condition: Underworld Scouts have marked you as a potential target.
Objective: Escape an attempted capture within 48 hours.
Reward: Skill Fragment (Random)
Failure Penalty: Body Injury / Item Loss / Route Collapse
Cael stared at the words until they dug into his mind.
Escape an attempted capture…
So it wasn't a "maybe."
It was coming.
Within two days.
He felt his stomach tighten, a slow cold spreading through his chest.
His first instinct was anger.
Of course this world wouldn't let him train peacefully.
Of course the moment he gained even a sliver of progress, something would show up to crush it.
But beneath the anger was something else.
Relief.
Because the quest confirmed what his instincts had already told him.
He wasn't paranoid.
He wasn't imagining predators.
They were real.
They were moving.
And now he had a time window.
A deadline.
Deadlines were something Cael understood.
They were better than surprises.
He dismissed the quest window with a flick of his hand and looked down at the dagger again.
The blade reflected a distorted sliver of his face.
Not Ell.
Not anymore.
Cael Thornwood.
Weak.
Wounded.
Still barely holding himself together.
But not empty-handed.
He tightened his grip until his knuckles went pale.
"Fine," he whispered to no one.
"If you want to hunt me…"
His eyes hardened.
"…then come closer."
He resumed training, faster now—not with reckless speed, but urgency. Each movement carried purpose.
He wasn't just learning how to swing a weapon.
He was preparing for the moment someone tried to put a collar on him.
And when that moment came, Cael promised himself one thing:
They would not take him quietly.