After allocating the points to his Strength stat, Azael sat still for a moment, waiting for something to happen.
He didn't expect his body to suddenly erupt with power, but he was surprised by the subtle shift that did occur.
His limbs felt steadier, his hands gripped the stone floor with more firmness, and his core seemed a little more grounded. It wasn't much, but in this wretched place, every inch of advantage mattered.
He leaned back against the cold stone wall, breath slow and even, and pulled the system window back up in front of him.
His eyes moved down toward the lower part of the Status tab, stopping at a section labeled Aracenes. Two names sat there in dull white text—Lightning Strike and Dark Veil.
He narrowed his eyes and selected the first one. Instantly, the description unfolded across the transparent pane.
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—Lightning Strike: A ranged offensive Aracane that channels high-voltage lightning to the designated target. The force, precision, and control of the attack scale with the user's ability and core stage.
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Azael nodded slightly. He had used this skill back in the game plenty of times, especially during the early levels. But now… the reality of it made him view it differently. The words on the screen were no longer just tooltips—they were potentially life-saving knowledge.
It felt more like reading the manual to a weapon he could only fire once at the right time.
He moved on to the second one—Dark Veil—a skill that hadn't been available to him before, since he wasn't a Darkness element player.
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—Dark Veil – A beginner-level stealth Aracene that allows the user to blend into surrounding shadows. At low proficiency, the user remains partially detectable. Efficiency increases when the user is surrounded by natural darkness or the user's core stage is higher.
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Azael's eyes flicked toward the far corner of the cell, where the lantern's weak glow failed to reach. A shadowed edge lingered there—thick, quiet, perfect.
Shadows, the mines were riddled with them. The tunnels. The blind spots behind the storage crates. Even this very cell offered refuge in the dark.
"Useful," he muttered under his breath.
Unlike Lightning Strike, which could easily alert guards or draw attention, Dark Veil was a quieter advantage. Stealth was often the key to survival, especially when strength wasn't enough.
Normally, no one could use an Arcane without awakening their core. That was a fundamental law, etched deep into the very veins of this world.
Ezma, the essence of magic, had to be gathered, stored, and then channeled through the awakened core. Without it, the body lacked the vessel to hold or direct its power. Manipulating ezma directly from the surroundings was considered not just impossible, but unnatural.
A violation of the world's order.
And yet… Azael could feel it.
It wasn't much—just a whisper of energy in the air, brushing against his skin like faint threads in the wind.
Barely enough to shape into even a basic Arcane. But the fact that he could sense it at all proved that he was special.
In the game, there had been characters with rare physiques—bodies unusually sensitive to the flow of ezma.
Gifted by fate or born through strange circumstances, these individuals were exceptions to the rule.
They could bend the world's laws slightly, subtly.
Their Arcanes shone with unusual purity, their affinities more precise. They didn't need a core to guide the ezma—not at first.
They could pull from the air, siphon from their surroundings, and mold it into something tangible.
Azael had inherited such a body.
He couldn't unleash spells or rain fire from his fingertips, not yet. But he could perform a single Runic Arcane, as long as he tried hard.
To be capable of that wasn't powerful, but it was something. And in a place like this, even the smallest edge could mean survival.
Thinking more about it, Azael also knew the other way to break this law.
Willpower.
It was the willpower of the individual that overcame that of the World.
The game had hinted at it in cryptic lines, stories of Mystics who ascended not by talent, nor by bloodline, but by sheer, indomitable will.
Those who pushed past the boundaries of their bodies defied the world's laws by refusing to yield.
When one reached the higher realm of the Mystics, they no longer needed a core to shape ezma. Their soul itself became the conduit, their presence alone warping the natural flow of magic.
That level was far beyond his reach now, a distant dream.
Anyways, it wasn't for that think about.
He had to focus on something else.
To escape this damn prison.
"..sigh.."Slightly tired, but he didn't need to break free today. He just needed to survive.
His mind was starting to tick again, thoughts layering on top of each other like gears finding their rhythm.
He swiped back to the system's main interface. Several other tabs sat there, still unexplored—
Inventory.
Store.
Story progression.
He exhaled quietly. Strangely, this world had already given him more control over his fate than the one he came from.
No sickbed. No quiet grief for his mother taken too soon. Here, at least, he had tools—small, limited tools, yes—but real ones.
Tools he could sharpen.
His gaze drifted around the cell. Tarek and Milo were already asleep. The new arrivals—the lifeless man and the quiet child—remained curled up near the far wall, unmoving and silent.
Azael leaned his head back against the rough stone behind him.
He needed to move quickly. Information, opportunity, and strength—those were the three things he needed to stack up as soon as possible. He couldn't rely on fate. Not again. Not here.
And now, for the first time since arriving, he finally felt like he had something to start with.
The system faded from his view, and the faint flicker of the lantern on the wall hummed gently in the silence.
Tomorrow, he decided.
Tomorrow, he would take the first step.
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The siren screamed through the prison cell like a morning curse, a blaring command for the workers to rise. It wasn't needed. Most were already awake—whether from habit, the cold bite of the floor, or the nightmares that didn't let go even when their eyes were open.
Azael, for one, had barely slept at all.
He sat up, watching the others stir. Like lifeless puppets, they shifted to the walls or corners, faces drawn and heads bowed, as if praying to some unseen god of misery.
Or maybe they'd just accepted what they were—slaves stuck in a cell that offered no promises and no doors but the one they weren't allowed to pass through.
Well… they were trapped, after all.
Azael stood, brushing off imaginary dust from his already worn clothes.
With a deep breath, he walked to the center, right in front of the iron door, and clapped his hands sharply.
The sound echoed against the stone walls, pulling dull eyes in his direction.
"Hey, everyone," he started, voice calm but firm. "I want to say something. It's going to sound crazy—hell, I know it sounds crazy. But I want to escape this place."
Silence fell, thick and unmoving. The only sound was the distant hum of the siren dying away.
Then came a dry chuckle. Tarek, arms crossed and back against the wall, looked up with an amused grin. "Kid, that was a good one. You got me to laugh this early. But how about we skip the comedy hour and just sit quietly, yeah?"
"Who said I'm joking?" Azael replied, eyes narrowing slightly.
"I'm serious. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm not going to rot here working like a dog for those trash excuses of guards. Leaving this place isn't just a goal—it's fucking inevitable."
Still, no one spoke. Blank stares met his resolve. Some blinked in disbelief, others looked away entirely.
Eventually, it was Tarek again who broke the silence.
"You've really hit your head, haven't you?" he muttered, his voice losing any sign of amusement. "Spouting nonsense like that's gonna get someone killed. So do me a favor and shut your damn mouth before I lose the last shred of patience I've been holding onto since yesterday."
His glare was sharp, directed towards Azael.
But Azael only smiled in return, stepping forward and stretching out his hand. "Why don't you tr—"
CLANG!
The metallic screech of the door slamming open cut him off mid-sentence. The sound bounced off the stone like thunder, drawing everyone's attention.
Azael froze, his hand still extended, his smile twitching.
'Why is it always a door that interrupts me? Every. Damn. Time.'