The faint glow of twilight still lingered on the horizon, casting deep shadows along the edges of the crimson dunes. Armin stood before the holographic interface—its letters glowing softly in hues of gold and icy blue, suspended mid-air like scripture from another world. The voice that accompanied it was neither male nor female, lacking all warmth and familiarity. Robotic, clear, and impossibly ancient.
[The Goddess told you that you can see and check up on your Skillset, right?]
Maton's voice. The system's tone was always emotionless, but Armin had grown to imagine a personality behind it—cold, almost smug, like a butler who had long since grown tired of explaining things to mortals.
"Yes," Armin replied cautiously, his eyes flicking across the floating symbols and diagrams dancing in the air like fireflies carved from language.
"But… what exactly is a skillset?"
[A Skillset is the potential to unlock new Skills.]
[Your Skills will evolve into Advanced Skills.]
[Skills can also branch off into Related Skills.]
[Eventually, Skills can develop to the point where they bestow you a Title.Though you can also gain a title by achieving something.]
"A Title?" Armin echoed, his brow furrowing.
[A Title grants additional abilities or enhances your existing ones.]
[It can increase your charisma, influence, and other intangible attributes.]
He blinked slowly, letting the information settle. The desert wind rustled against his clothes, carrying with it a dry scent of blood and ash. He turned his gaze back toward the body of the worm—its massive, bloated frame still leaking green-tinged blood from the wound he had carved into its head. Steam curled upward from the corpse, dancing in the heat.
"This… Swordsmanship Skillset," he said, motioning toward the beast, "I got it by killing the worm?"
[No.]
[You received it as a reward for completing the trial run.]
[Most Skillsets will not be that easy to obtain.]
"I see..." Armin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "And that... conjuring thing I did earlier?"
[Storage.]
[Your inventory space can hold material objects that are bonded to your essence.]
[You also retain possession of the Bag of Meat you carried before your death.]
Armin perked up with curiosity, eyes narrowing. The bag? He hadn't thought of it since waking into this warped new life. With nothing more than a focused image in his mind, he pictured the tattered sack he had once clung to so dearly—the one filled with dried meat and wrapped memories.
A sound like cascading bells rang softly in his ears.
With a swirl of golden particles, the bag materialized into his outstretched hand, tangible and real. He turned it over in his grip, inspecting the worn leather, the still-present tear near the stitching, the faint scent of smoke still clinging to it. It was truly his.
"That is… incredibly useful," he murmured with awe.
[There are limitations.]
[You must bear one-tenth of the stored item's weight on your person.]
He blinked. "That… explains a lot. I did feel heavier than usual."
He slung the bag over his shoulder with a quiet grunt, testing the strain it added to his movements. Manageable—for now.
"Well…" He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing again toward the horizon. "Where do I go now?"
[I advise heading toward the capital of the Romulus Duchy.]
Armin froze.
"…What?" he blurted, incredulous. "Romian? That's where the Duke lives!"
[You are destined to slay him.]
The answer came swiftly. Too swiftly.
"If I live that long," Armin said under his breath.
[No.]
[You are going to slay him.]
The finality of that statement carried a weight that settled in his chest like stone. It wasn't a prediction. It was a decree. The system spoke in absolutes.
The way it emphasized the word are made the back of Armin's neck itch.
He clenched his fists, uneasy. Doubts still gnawed at the edge of his thoughts—shadows whispering questions the system never seemed to acknowledge.
What if I'm not strong enough? What if they're wrong about me?
He sighed and tucked the bag back into the storage system. A ripple of golden light engulfed it and then it vanished, dissolving into motes of warmth and quiet. He repeated the motion with his sword, watching as the divine blade faded into the air like a memory.
The sun dipped below the horizon entirely now. Twilight bled into night.
Later, Armin sat beside a flickering campfire under a canopy of stars, his bedroll unfurled across the cooling sands. The temperature had dropped sharply, and the fire was essential not just for warmth but for sanity—for something to keep his thoughts from slipping too far inward.
He turned a skewer of meat over the flames, watching the fat sizzle and pop.
Romian... he thought bitterly.
The name sounded beautiful. Like poetry.
But the reality?
Romian was not a city. It was a beast.
A metropolis built on the edge of decadence. A hub of trade and art and temptation. Its markets overflowed with silk and spice, its alleys dripped with perfume and blood. Museums and art houses—yes, Romulus was proud of its sculptors. Marble hands reaching toward heavens that no longer listened.
But under that glimmering surface lay rot. Crime syndicates ruled the underbelly. Pleasure houses veiled as temples. Political assassins in tailored suits. The nobles there smiled too wide and laughed too loud.
A rotten apple, Armin thought. Shiny, fragrant… and poisonous.
He had never traveled beyond his village and the dozen or so miles around it. Romian might as well have been another continent. And now, not only was he expected to reach it—he was expected to kill the man who ruled it.
The Duke.
A creature spoken of in hushed tones. Rumors swirled that he was not entirely human. That he'd extended his life through blood rites and forgotten sciences. That he kept an army of homunculi, each with a sliver of his soul.
Armin's fingers twitched at the thought.
Slay him, the system had said.
Destined.
He took a slow bite of the roasted meat, chewing mechanically. The firelight cast long shadows across his face, and for a moment he stared into the flames and saw shapes—teeth, eyes, claws. Maybe it was just his imagination.
Maybe.
But he couldn't shake the feeling that something watched him. Always. Like his very soul had been laid out and marked.
He licked his fingers, wiped his hands on his trousers, and reclined back against the warm sand, staring up at the fractured heavens. Stars glittered through the dry clouds like a broken crown, scattered and sharp.
"Romian," he muttered aloud. "You better be worth the trouble."
A wind gusted across the dunes, carrying with it the faint smell of distant incense—like burned petals and scorched dreams.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time in days, he tried to sleep without dreaming.
Night passed.
In the early hours, before the sun could breach the sky, Armin stirred. The cold bit into his joints as he sat upright. The fire had died to embers.
The system greeted him with its customary lack of warmth.
[Route calculated.]
[Estimated time to Romian: 7 days, 14 hours, 32 minutes.]
He groaned and stretched, reaching for water from a half-empty canteen he conjured up.
It was originally inside his bag.
"Of course you already know that."
He remarked.
[I always know.]
There was something unsettling about that.
He kicked dirt over the fire and rolled up his bedding, slinging it into storage with a practiced flick of his hand. His sword appeared in his grip again, summoned from golden haze like a loyal hound.
He stared at the blade for a moment.
Its weight had not changed.
But he had.
He wondered what his father must have felt when holding that sword.
Did he feel scared?
Anxious?
Proud?
Excited?
Who knows,but Armin felt...hesitant yet he was looking forward to his future.
"Well,I was going to die young anyway,let's help some people in the mean time..."
With that statement he walked off to the emerging rising sun.
To Romian.
End of Chapter-012