The man charged; wild, heavy, and relentless.

  Adam barely raised his dagger before the blade came down. Steel shrieked against steel, sparks jumping in the rain. The impact sent him stumbling back, boots sliding through mud. His arm burned from the force.

  The man grinned through the downpour. “You’re just a kid.”

  Adam didn’t answer. He lunged, feinted right, then slashed for the ribs. The man twisted aside, driving an elbow into Adam’s jaw. White pain burst behind his eyes. He hit the ground hard, tasting blood.

  “Too slow,” the man sneered. A kick slammed into Adam’s side, rolling him through the muck. Around them, the canyon walls groaned, stone grinding against stone like a heartbeat closing in.

  Get up.

  Move.

  Adam spat red into the dirt and forced himself upright. The dagger trembled in his hand. Every muscle screamed, but the image of Vicar’s cold stare anchored him.

  If I fall here, it’s over.

  The man came again, faster this time. His blade cut the air in a brutal arc. Adam ducked low, mud splattering across his face, and drove his shoulder into the man’s gut. They hit the ground together, thrashing. Adam slashed blindly, the dagger bit flesh. A howl tore through the storm.

  Warm blood slicked Adam’s fingers. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The man’s hand caught his wrist, squeezing until bones ground together. Adam screamed. The dagger flew from his grip, skidding through the mud.

  The man shoved him down, scrambling for the weapon. Adam lunged forward, locking his hands around the man’s throat. They rolled, trading clumsy, desperate blows. Rain turned the ground to grease; the smell of iron filled the air.

  The walls loomed closer now—fifty meters, maybe less. The grinding roared in Adam’s skull.

  The man headbutted him. Stars burst. His vision doubled. Through the blur, he saw the man crawling toward the dagger.

  No.

  Adrenaline hit like lightning. Adam lunged, dragging him back by the ankle. They slammed together again, mud flying, fists pounding. The dagger lay between them, half-buried.

  The man reached first.

  Adam slammed his forearm down. Bone cracked. The man’s scream tore through the rain. Adam’s hand found the dagger. He didn’t think—he moved. He drove it forward.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  The man convulsed beneath him, then went still. Only Adam’s ragged breathing remained, and the slow, grinding halt of the canyon walls.

  He didn’t move. The rain washed blood from his hands, turning it into thin rivers of pink. His arms shook so violently he could barely hold the dagger. He stared at the corpse, eyes wide, mouth frozen mid-breath, and felt something cold unfurl inside his chest.

  It’s over.

  I killed him.

  The words didn’t feel real. His heart pounded like it was trying to escape his ribs. He swallowed hard, tasting iron and bile.

  He didn’t feel strong. He didn’t feel victorious. He felt hollow.

  But as he stared down at the body, one truth steadied him: if he hadn’t done it, he’d be the one lying there.

  His hand clenched around the dagger. It wouldn’t stop shaking.

  The canyon walls slowed, then stopped, as if the world itself had acknowledged the kill. Somewhere above, Vicar’s voice echoed. “Good. You’ve finally learned what it takes to live.”

  Adam didn’t look up. He couldn’t. He just stood there in the rain, shivering, the corpse cooling at his feet.

  [Establishing Connection to Omen…]

  [Connection Established!]

  [You have three new Skills!]

  [Skill: Dominator — Lv. 0 (Locked)]

  [Skill: Illusion Inducement — Lv. 0 (Locked)]

  [Skill: Summoning — Lv. 0 (Locked)]

  [You have unlocked a new Title!]

  [Title: Manipulator]

  Adam’s pulse hammered in his ears as the glowing panels hovered before him.

  He had trained for months, bled and starved, and the system had stayed silent. Yet the first time he took a life, it rewarded him.

  Adam stared at the text, chest heaving. The words meant nothing and everything all at once.

  Then the knowledge hit him—raw, instinctive, as if burned straight into his mind.

  He could feel it. The way his will stretched outward, pressing against the world. The way he could bend sight and sound, twist what others perceived. And somewhere deeper, darker, the quiet pull of the dead—the promise that those he killed would never truly leave him.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The last one lingered, whispering in the back of his head. Objects around him trembled, pebbles lifting an inch before falling still.

  He blinked hard, shuddering. The rain tasted like iron.

  Footsteps approached through the storm, slow and deliberate.

  “Did you awaken any Skills or Titles?” Vicar’s voice cut through the rain.

  Adam didn’t look at him. “Three skills,” he said quietly. “And one title.”

  Thunder rumbled overhead. Vicar’s laughter followed, deep and sharp.

  “Excellent,” he said. “You’re not as useless as I thought.”

  Adam said nothing. His knuckles were white around the dagger.

  Vicar’s tone shifted; low and impassive. “Now,” he said, “we can begin the real training.”

  Wazar Canyon, Outworld

  The canyon swallowed the sun. Far below, in its shadowed heart, Adam—now seventeen and dust-covered—lay on the grit, chest heaving. Sweat slicked his brow, his hair plastered to his forehead. The air hung heavy and still, unmoved even by daylight.

  “Who told you to rest?”

  Vicar’s voice rolled through the gorge—calm, but sharp enough to cut stone. “You’ve grown complacent.”

  Adam’s pulse spiked. He drew his knees in, pressed his palms flat, and kicked up. The motion flowed into a somersault just as a boulder crashed down where he’d been, the tremor shaking his ribs.

  That was close. So much for a break.

  “Spacing out again?”

  The voice came closer.

  Instinct took over. Adam dashed through the canyon’s maze of stone, boots grinding gravel. Projectiles screamed past—whistling darts, splintered arrows, shards of steel. He moved between them like water, each dodge a heartbeat from death.

  An explosion cracked behind him, throwing heat and dust. He pressed against a boulder, lungs burning, eyes fixed on a shadow stirring through the haze.

  Is that him?

  The canyon dimmed. He glanced up—and froze. A massive boulder hung above.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  He burst forward, sprinting into the storm. Steel flashed. A longsword hissed past his ribs; three arrows clipped the air near his ear. The world slowed, every heartbeat sharp and bright.

  “This bastard isn’t holding back.”

  Ten seconds of chaos. A dozen near-misses. Then a blast split the canyon. The shockwave hurled him down. His hands found the pair of axes lying in the dirt, and he rose with a growl.

  “Did I say you could rest?” Vicar’s silhouette stepped from the dust, blade gleaming.

  Adam lunged. Axes met steel in a flurry of sparks. The clash echoed off the canyon walls. In a blur, Adam slipped behind him and brought both axes down. The head fell clean.

  Stone cracked. The clone crumbled.

  “Another one,” Adam muttered. “Where’s the real you?”

  No answer came—only six new shapes cutting through the dust.

  So that’s your game. To wear me down.

  He sprinted north. The spear clone lunged; Adam ducked low and surged forward, axes flashing. One leg gone, then the torso split. He kicked the falling spear into another clone, impaling it clean.

  A great-axe wielder charged. Adam hurled one of his own, red light flaring along the blade. It curved through the air, cleaving through the clone’s skull before returning to his hand.

  Three left. Two throws—two shattered forms.

  “I’ve bled enough for this day,” he said, breath ragged. “Killing you is almost worth it.”

  The last clone stood still, gripping a massive star-shaped shuriken.

  Adam raised a brow. “What’s wrong? Scared?”

  No response. It didn’t move.

  Why isn’t it attacking?

  Wait—could this one be him?

  Adam’s smile curved slowly, dangerously. He stepped closer, tapping his axes together. “Fine. If you won’t come to me—”

  He broke into a run. Shadows rippled across his skin as he closed the distance. The world wavered around him—day bleeding into night, the dusty gorge giving way to a haze of dark rain. Vicar had once told him his eyes turned black when he fought, though Adam had never seen it for himself. Apparently, even the whites drowned in pitch.

  Vicar’s voice came from nowhere. “Still so impatient.”

  The ground split open beneath him. Two more clones clawed their way up from the earth.

  “Perfect. I was waiting for you.”

  Adam threw both axes toward station clone he suspected to be Vicar. Before the new arrivals could rise, he slammed both palms into their skulls. Black energy pulsed through his hands, turning them to stone.

  “You’re wide open!”

  Vicar appeared behind him, wielding Adam’s own axes.

  Adam smiled without turning. “You think so?”

  The shattered clones reformed and lunged at Vicar. Two clean strikes—Vicar cut them down without effort.

  Adam was already moving, widening the gap. His hand flicked, and the great axe resting in the dirt tore free and flew into his grasp.

  “You’ve improved,” Vicar said calmly. “Better than last month, at least.”

  Adam steadied his breathing. “Then stop hiding. I can see everything now.”

  “Oh? Then don’t waste time. Come at me.”

  Adam charged, black veins crawling from his eyes as the axe darkened in his grip. He swung for Vicar’s shoulder, every muscle burning with intent.

  Vicar didn’t flinch. The ground trembled, and a stone pillar shot upward, blocking the blow.

  Adam twisted midair, kicking for Vicar’s ribs—another wall of rock blocked him. He clenched his fist, and the weapons scattered across the field shot toward Vicar. One after another, stone barriers rose to meet them.

  “Is that all?” Vicar’s voice echoed behind the wall.

  Adam smirked. Everything’s going to plan.

  He dashed forward, pressing his hands against the pillars. Shadows spread beneath his palms, darkening the stone until it cracked apart. The weapons burst free.

  “So that was your plan?” Vicar’s tone stayed flat. “I’m unimpressed.”

  The blades broke through the barriers, slicing through Vicar’s body. Adam’s grin faded as the form shattered.

  Another clone.

  “Where the hell are you hiding?”

  “Right here.”

  A hand landed on his shoulder. His strength vanished in an instant—the veins receding, his limbs turning cold. He dropped to his knees.

  “That’s another loss,” Vicar said behind him. “What’s the score now?”

  “Six hundred to nil,” Adam muttered.

  Vicar appeared before him, coat untouched by dust. He lifted a hand, sweeping the debris away with a passing gust. The battlefield lay quiet—shattered stone, nothing else.

  “It’s been seven years,” Vicar said. “There’s nothing more I can teach you.” He tossed a small insignia toward Adam. “You’re registered at Varidan Academy, in Dratol. Continue your training there. Without them, you’ll never reach the dungeons.”

  His tone hardened. “Don’t use your Omen openly. They can’t sense it but don’t test that.”

  Adam nodded, studying the insignia.

  “Find Erik Gilmore,” Vicar added. “Show him this. He’ll handle your entry.”

  Then, like smoke, he vanished.

  Adam stood still, the insignia glinting in his palm.

  Seven years. Finally.

  A quiet smile touched his lips. Varidan Academy… dungeons… let’s see what the world’s been hiding.

  He rose, shouldered his axe, and walked toward the canyon’s shadowed exit, each step lighter than the last.