"The Eighth Sequence? What is that?" Nerion asked, his voice laced with confusion and unease. His brows furrowed as he fixed his gaze on Mia.
She offered a soft, almost wistful smile as she adjusted his weight in her arms, still carrying him like fragile royalty.
She was carrying him as she ran through the thicket at a speed easily exceeding seventy miles per hour, with the towering trees blurring around him. He could hear roars—he had no idea what kind of animals could make such sounds. She had told him they needed to get out of the Primitives' territory because it was downright unstable, especially with one of them being from the modern world and already in the Eighth Sequence.
Though the position was awkward, Nerion didn't protest. The battered chair they had left behind wasn't worth the trouble. Besides, their pace was faster this way, and he had no choice but to endure the closeness.
Mia's tone shifted, firm yet gentle, like a mentor preparing to reveal a dangerous truth.
"Listen carefully, Nerion. What I'm about to tell you is one of the greatest truths of this world—second only to the Ancient Era itself. And don't ask me about that era. I know as little as anyone else. All we understand is that it was the time of the first beings to live here—the ones who created the Sequence Paths."
Nerion's eyes widened.
The Ancient Era.
The same era that the system had mentioned. His bloodline's path had never existed before—no precedent, no blueprint. That was why no natural evolution path had formed for him.
The Origin Bloodline System...
It was his only path forward.
A shiver crawled down his spine, though his body remained numb. He focused sharply on Mia's next words.
"There are ten sequences in total," she said. "Ranked from weakest to strongest. Sequence Ten is the beginning."
"Only about one in a thousand people possess the Source of Willpower, and they are the only ones capable of awakening it. Some are born with it already awakened, while others awaken it later in life. Still others have weak willpower and never awaken it at all, even though they possess the Source of Willpower."
Even this great strength... is just part of the Eighth Sequence? Nerion thought, stunned. The revelation struck him harder than expected—so much that he could almost feel his legs grow heavy.
Two more shocks like this and I might just walk again, he thought wryly, a grin pulling at his lips.
Mia didn't notice.
She raised her chin slightly, pride gleaming in her eyes.
"As for me, I'm still young, yet I've reached Sequence Eight," she added, her voice brushing the edge of a boast—a hopeful one, like someone trying to impress someone important.
Nerion smirked inwardly.
She's trying to impress me.
He kept his tone casual. "You mentioned Willbearer, Mia. What exactly does that mean?"
Her voice slowed, deliberate and clear.
"A Willbearer is someone who has awakened their Source of Willpower and begun to sense Will Energy. Once you reach Sequence Ten, your body strengthens, surpassing the limits of your race. That's why they're called Willbearers."
She paused, locking eyes with him.
"We'll dive deeper into that once you reach Sequence Ten. Trust me, it won't be easy. Requirements vary by race. For now... you need to understand this world."
She gave him ten long seconds to absorb her words.
"Nerion, this world has many races," she resumed, her voice steady. "But they fall into three primary forces: the Living, the Underworld Races, and the Predators."
"Three kinds. Three forces," Nerion echoed thoughtfully.
"And within them," she added, "are four general types. The Underworld and the Predators don't vary much among themselves, but the Living are divided into Primitives and Civilized."
She smiled wryly. "Civilized races live in walled cities, with arcane tools—enchanted lanterns, durable vessels—and are ruled by ancient empires."
"Primitives, on the other hand, live in scattered clans and tribes, in forests, caves, the Boundless Ocean, even the treetops of colossal jungles."
She raised a finger. "But not everyone in the ocean is primitive. Blue Whales, Sharks, and Mermaids—they're civilized dwellers. And fun fact: Mermaids are matriarchal. They don't produce males."
Nerion blinked. "What? Then... how do they reproduce?"
"Parthenogenesis," Mia said, amused. "Female-only reproduction. No males involved." She watched him closely.
To her surprise, Nerion didn't react. He had studied this on Earth. But here?
"You seem well-read," she noted, her smile fading.
Damn. I slipped, Nerion cursed inwardly. He was supposed to be a naive villager, not a scholar.
"Haha... My sister used to bring me books from work. One mentioned life forms and reproduction. I didn't expect Mermaids to fall into that," he added sheepishly.
Mia didn't laugh. Her face darkened.
Crap. Again?
"Nerion... Do you still see me as an enemy? Or just a fool?" she asked, hurt. "If you don't want to talk, just say so. Don't insult me."
Her eyes shimmered with sadness—but beneath it, something wild stirred. Nerion couldn't read it. And he was an expert in psychology.
She's not just angry. She's unstable.
He had to act.
"N-no, dearest Mia! I swear, it's true! I read it in a book my sister Angelina found while coming back from work!" he blurted.
It worked.
At the words "dearest" and "found," her expression softened. The storm in her eyes vanished. She hugged him tightly.
"I'm sorry, Nerion. I was afraid you were rejecting me. It didn't make sense—you and your sister in Primitive lands? Books like that are rare and expensive. Your village had no shops, let alone libraries. I doubted you... I'm sorry."
Though he could barely hear her over the rushing wind, she pressed her cheek to his, purring like a cat.
Nerion didn't react.
Why am I so unlucky? And why were we in the Primitive lands in the first place? Better keep quiet.
"I'm truly sorry, Nerion," Mia whispered, her voice trembling.
Nerion jumped in.
"No worries, dearest Mia. I understand. I'm not upset. Please... continue. You're my only guide."
His words worked.
Mia breathed deeply, then smiled softly.
"Where were we? Right—Primitives and Civilized. Primitives follow strength. Civilized follow royal bloodlines. Rebellions happen, but rarely."
"You and your sister lived among the Ravanians—a race with black wings who live in treetops and descend only to hunt. Their land isn't near human territory."
"That means your family was stranded long ago. Few humans leave their empires, and without a Willbearer, travel is deadly. You've been stuck here, right?"
"Yeah... that's it," Nerion said carefully.
"Thought so. Lucky you weren't in Underworld territory. You'd be doomed."
Nerion asked, "Can you explain the Underworld Races in detail?"
Mia blinked, then nodded.
"They live beyond the Boundless Ocean, in the Underworld Continents. It's a twisted mirror of life. Will Energy is rare there. They use Death Energy instead."
"Their blood taints the land. We cracked their language, and they know ours. Though it's been two hundred years since the Great War, we prepare constantly."
Cold sweat formed on Nerion's back.
If I'd ended up there... I'd be dead.
"Why haven't you mentioned the Predators much?" he asked.
She shrugged. "They don't matter. Most don't go beyond Sequence Six. They're cursed."
"Cursed?"
"To reach the Fifth Sequence, the Bearer of Will needs something specific that you and I will understand once we get there. I don't know exactly what it is, to be honest. All I know is that this is why they're called that, because the Predators don't possess that thing. They rely on the will around them. And when they reach the Seventh Sequence, they stop evolving and die. Only a few of them ever reach the Sixth Sequence."
Suddenly, she said, "I want to apologize again. So I'm giving you this."
She pulled out a shimmering, shifting cube.
Ding!
[Source of Willpower from the Minotaur Path, Sequence Ten, detected near the heir.]
Ding!
[Analyzing... Composition confirmed.]
Ding!
[Consume to activate the system. Cost: nine months lifespan.]
Ding!
[Choose: Yes - No]
Nerion froze—then smiled, joy filling his eyes.
"Thank you, dearest Mia. I appreciate it."
Finally!
He could shed this useless, broken body.