Consciousness returned in pieces.
First, the smell. Copper and rot and something sharper underneath. Chemical. Wrong.
Then sensation. Cold ground beneath him. Something is hard digging into his ribs. Fabric stiff against his skin.
Then pain.
Oh god, the pain.
It hit like a freight train. Every nerve ending in his body screaming at once. His ribs felt like broken glass grinding together. His shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat, each pulse a fresh stab of agony. His ankle was a ball of fire wrapped in barbed wire.
Arthur tried to open his eyes. His eyelids were crusty. Stuck together. He forced them apart.
Daylight.
Bright. Too bright. He squeezed his eyes shut again, wincing.
Tried again. Slower this time.
Blue sky filtered through tree branches overhead. Morning sun slanting through the canopy at an angle. Early. Maybe two or three hours past dawn?
He turned his head. The movement sent lightning down his neck.
The wolf.
It lay three feet away. Still. Lifeless. Its skull caved in on one side, and dark fluid pooled beneath its ruined head. One green eye stared at nothing, glazed and dull.
Memory crashed back.
The fight. The chase. The rock.
Arthur had killed it.
And then he'd passed out on top of it like an idiot.
He looked down at himself. His tunic was stiff with dried blood. Brown now instead of red. Crusted and cracked. It pulled at his skin when he tried to move. His hands were the worst—blood caked under his nails, in the lines of his palms, up to his wrists.
He couldn't tell which blood was his and which belonged to the wolf.
Probably both.
I need to move.
The thought was distant. Clinical. But correct.
He'd been unconscious for hours. Completely vulnerable. Any other corrupted monster could have found him. Could have finished what the wolf started.
He'd gotten lucky.
Stupidly, impossibly lucky.
Arthur pressed his palms against the ground. Pushed. His arms trembled. His shoulder screamed. He made it maybe three inches before collapsing back down.
Come on. Move.
He tried again. Got higher this time. His vision swam. Went grey at the edges.
Don't pass out. Don't you dare pass out.
He made it to his knees. Stayed there, gasping. Each breath sent knives between his ribs.
Standing took three attempts.
The first try, his ankle gave out immediately. He went down hard, barely catching himself.
The second try, he made it halfway up before his legs decided they were done. Just completely done.
The third try, he used a tree. Grabbed the trunk, hauled himself upright, and stood there shaking like a newborn deer.
Up. I'm up.
His whole body felt like one giant bruise. Every muscle is stiff and screaming. His injuries from last night had settled in overnight. Stiffened. The gashes across his ribs pulled with each breath. His shoulder was swollen, hot to the touch.
He looked around the clearing. Taking stock.
Wolf corpse. Check.
Trees. Check.
Him barely standing. Check.
No one else. No search party. No concerned friends or teachers or—
Right. Because no one knew he was gone.
Arthur lived in the Academy dorms. Alone. Had moved in a week ago after passing the entrance exam. The year hadn't even started yet. Most students were still at home with their families, enjoying the last bits of summer before classes began.
No one was looking for him because no one knew he'd left.
Great. Fantastic.
His eyes drifted back to the wolf.
Something tugged at the edge of his mind. Something important.
Skill drops.
Corrupted monsters dropped skills. Rare, valuable abilities that are integrated with your system. Arthur had read about it dozens of times in the novel. Lloyd had collected several throughout the story. Enhanced perception from a bird-type. Pack tactics from wolves. Each one making him stronger.
This wolf was corrupted. Lower apprentice rank.
It should have a skill core.
Arthur limped toward the corpse. Each step sent fresh pain shooting up his leg. He knelt beside it—slowly, carefully, gritting his teeth against the protest from his ribs.
How do you even check for this?
Arthur's memories supplied fragments. Skill cores formed near the heart. Inside the chest cavity. You had to... open them up. Look inside.
Of course. Because this wasn't disgusting enough already.
Arthur's hands hovered over the wolf's body. The fur was matted, crusty with dried blood. The smell was worse up close. Decay is already starting despite the morning chill.
He found the gashes he'd seen during the fight. The ones across its side. Three long tears that exposed muscle and bone.
Perfect.
He grabbed the edges of the largest wound. Pulled.
The flesh was cold. Stiff. It resisted.
Arthur pulled harder. The wound opened with a wet sound that made his stomach turn.
He forced himself to look inside.
Dark. Red. Glistening tissue and exposed ribs.
No glowing core. No crystallised skill waiting to be claimed.
Just meat.
Arthur checked the other wounds. Stuck his hand inside the chest cavity, feeling around the ribs, near where the heart should be.
Nothing.
"Are you kidding me?" His voice came out hoarse. Raw.
All that. The fight. Nearly dying. Getting torn apart. Bathing in blood.
And nothing.
"Skills are supposed to drop from these things," he muttered, sitting back on his heels. His hands were covered in fresh gore now. Mixed with the dried blood already there. "That's how it works. Kill the monster, get the skill."
But apparently, 'supposed to' didn't mean guaranteed.
The novel had mentioned it. Casually. In passing. Lloyd occasionally killed corrupted monsters that didn't drop skills. It happened. The drop rate wasn't 100%.
But Arthur had figured—had hoped—that his first kill would count for something. Some kind of cosmic consolation prize for nearly dying.
Nope.
Just bad luck.
"RNG bullshit," Arthur said to no one. "Even in a fantasy world, it's RNG bullshit."
He stood, wobbling. His hands were disgusting. He wiped them on his already-ruined tunic. It didn't help.
The skill cores were supposed to be obvious when they formed. A crystallised sphere of mana, usually glowing faintly with the monster's element or affinity. You'd know if one was there.
This wolf had nothing.
Which meant Arthur had risked his life, torn himself apart, and won absolutely nothing except the privilege of continuing to breathe.
Welcome to the grind, he thought bitterly.
He looked at the wolf one last time.
The corruption was obvious now. In daylight. The black veins spread under its skin like roots. The way its flesh had started to decay was wrong—too fast in some places, not at all in others. The green glow had faded from its eyes, but the wrongness remained.
This thing had been an animal once. A wolf. Normal. Maybe part of a pack somewhere in these woods.
Then the corruption had taken it. Twisted it. Turned it into something that existed only to kill.
And Arthur had put it down.
No skill drop. No reward. No cosmic acknowledgement.
Just survival.
That's enough, he told himself. It has to be enough.
He turned away from the corpse and started walking.
Every step was agony.
His ankle wanted to give out with each impact. His ribs ground together every time he breathed. His shoulder had stiffened to the point where he couldn't lift his arm above chest height.
But he walked.
One step. Then another. Then another.
The forest looked different in daylight. Less threatening. Almost peaceful. Birds sang somewhere overhead. Sun filtered through leaves in golden shafts. If Arthur didn't hurt so much and didn't smell like a slaughterhouse, it might've been beautiful.
He used the sun to orient himself. Morning light came from the east. The Academy was... north? Northwest?
Arthur's memories supplied the answer. Northwest. Maybe forty minutes of walking when he was healthy and uninjured.
He'd be lucky to make it in two hours at this pace.
Just keep moving.
His mind wandered while his body handled the mechanical task of putting one foot in front of the other.
Cecilia.
His sister. Arthur's sister. His sister now, he supposed. The memories made her feel real. Made the bond feel genuine even though Oscar had never met her.
She'd be training right now. Working on her air manipulation, probably. Pushing herself to catch up to where Arthur should be. Where she thought he was.
She didn't know her brother had died yesterday. That someone else was wearing his skin now.
I should visit her, Arthur thought. Once I'm healed. Once I don't look like I lost a fight with a meat grinder.
The academy will start in two months. Eight weeks to heal. To train. To figure out what the hell he was supposed to do with this second chance.
If I even survive that long.
The thought was bitter. True.
He'd barely survived one weakened, corrupted wolf. What happened when he faced something at full strength? What happened when he ran into an Adept-rank monster? Or higher?
What happened when the actual plot started and Lloyd Ashford began his rise?
Arthur shook his head. Regretted it immediately as pain lanced through his neck.
One problem at a time. Survive today. Heal. Get stronger.
Then worry about the protagonist.
The trees started to thin.
Arthur's heart jumped. He was close. Had to be close.
He pushed forward faster. His ankle protested. His ribs screamed. He ignored both.
The forest gave way to a clearing. Then a path. Then there it was.
Anastasia Academy rose against the morning sky like something out of legend.
Massive stone walls stretched across the horizon, their surface etched with intricate defensive arrays that pulsed with faint blue light. Ancient magic woven into every brick. The main gate stood open, reinforced iron bound with enchantments that made the air shimmer.
Beyond the walls, the Academy proper sprawled like a small city. At its heart rose the central tower. A Gothic spire of dark stone that pierced the clouds, its peak crowned with flags bearing the Academy crest. Windows glinted in the morning sun, hundreds of them climbing the tower's height.
Surrounding it, specialised buildings spread across manicured grounds. Training halls with reinforced walls scarred from years of combat practice. Library towers wrapped in preservation spells. Dormitories arranged in neat rows, their roofs covered in red tile.
Floating lanterns drifted above the pathways, casting soft light even in daylight. They moved in preset patterns, magical constructs that never flickered or dimmed. Arthur could see students walking below them. Some in dark formal uniforms, others in training clothes.
Looks a lot more impressive when you're not reading about it on a phone screen, Arthur thought distantly. Also looks a lot less welcoming when you're covered in blood and can barely walk.
The grounds themselves were immaculate. Stone pathways wound between buildings. Grass so green it looked painted. Trees placed with deliberate symmetry, their branches swaying gently.
This was where heroes were forged. Where Lloyd Ashford would rise. Where the Blessed Generation would gather.
Where Arthur needed to survive.
Relief hit him like a physical thing. He'd made it. Actually made it.
Just a little farther.
The path smoothed beneath his feet. Packed dirt gave way to proper stonework. Flat, even, maintained by magic that prevented weeds and erosion.
The Academy walls loomed ahead. Two hundred yards. Then one hundred.
Fifty.
Arthur's legs felt like jelly. Each step was pure willpower. His vision kept greying at the edges.
Almost there. Just a little more.
Twenty yards. He could see the gate details now. The enchanted iron. The defensive arrays were glowing softly in the stone.
Ten yards.
His ankle rolled. He stumbled. Caught himself.
Five.
Almost...
His legs gave out.
Arthur hit the ground hard. The impact drove what little air he had from his lungs. He tried to push himself up. His arms wouldn't cooperate.
He could see the Academy. Right there. Stone towers reaching toward the sky. Students moving in the distance. The floating lanterns drift peacefully overhead.
So close.
But his body was done.
Completely, utterly done.
The edges of his vision went dark. Then darker.
Not again, he thought distantly. Not...
Darkness swallowed him whole.