[The Son of Luck Detected]
[Ronan Raylinde]
The man froze in place, eyes widening as he stared at the hologram hovering silently in the air before him.
"Another son of luck? How is that even possible?" he muttered under his breath, his tone thick with disbelief.
Without delay, he spun around, scanning the bustling crowd in a frenzy, searching for the name that had just surfaced. But amidst the flood of countless faces, there was no sign of the one he sought.
"Damn it!" he hissed sharply, his voice low and tight with frustration.
He lingered for a heartbeat, torn with hesitation, then turned the other way. He had more pressing matters to handle—at least for now.
'I'll find you soon, Ronan Raylinde. After I finish him… or maybe… both of you.'
With those silent thoughts, he strode away, each footstep echoing with heavy intent.
---
From Ronan's point of view…
[New Unique Skill Acquired: Threadbound Sense]
[Description: A latent ability awakened when the flow of fate deviates from its natural course, marking the wielder as a disturbance in the order of the world]
[Effect: Allows the user to sense when their fate turns ill or is touched by foreign forces, granting an acute instinct for hidden threats and the presence of observing entities. 10% chance of immunity to forces from other worlds]
'What the hell? A new skill? A unique skill?!' Ronan exclaimed inwardly, his crimson eyes wide with shock as he stared at the glowing hologram hovering in front of him.
He had done absolutely nothing—and yet, somehow, a system had just given him a skill.
'What's the meaning of this, system?' he questioned silently.
[Systems usually don't interact directly with hosts, but this is part of the system's security protocol]
[Beware of false stars]
Ronan's brows creased tightly. 'False stars? What the hell does that even mean?'
But no answer followed. The system had gone quiet again.
That silence only deepened his confusion. False stars… Threadbound Sense… fate deviating from its path...
Then suddenly—his eyes snapped wide. A thought struck him like lightning.
'Don't tell me… is my reincarnation in this world the reason behind all this? And the false stars… could they be people like me? I'm not the only one...'
He stood frozen in place, his expression hardening into a tense scowl as thoughts spiraled in his mind like a whirlpool.
And then, just as suddenly—his eyes lit up.
"The guy I bumped into earlier!"
He whipped around, scanning the crowd with sharp eyes. But no luck. All he could remember was a pair of striking violet eyes.
He let out a slow, frustrated sigh. There was no point chasing shadows. What mattered now was simple—clear.
He had to become stronger.
---
The clock read 9 PM, yet the second floor of the facility remained bustling with life. Ronan stood now at the center of the scroll hall, surrounded by hundreds of skill scrolls, each one radiating a glow of vibrant color. Screens beside them played looping demonstrations of the skills contained within.
But one color stood out for its absence: gold.
On one display, a man hurled a ball of fire—clearly, a basic fireball skill. A standard, common ability most awakeners could use.
The arrival of skill scrolls had made the world fairer. People were no longer limited to the powers they awakened with. In fact, many scroll-based skills could surpass someone's natural abilities.
But for the unawakened? It was a cruel twist of irony. A hard, cold truth. Skill scrolls could only be used by awakeners—not ordinary humans, not even those walking the path of cultivation.
Eventually, Ronan approached the cashier's desk. Behind the counter stood a woman dressed in a clean, formal uniform, her posture straight and professional.
Without pause, he placed the golden scroll on the counter. "I'd like to check the effect of this skill," he said, voice calm but firm.
The woman reached out, examining the scroll with practiced eyes. A faint crease appeared between her brows as confusion touched her expression.
"Where did you get this?" she asked instead.
"Does it matter?" Ronan replied evenly. "I just want to know the skill's effect."
"Yeah… here's the thing," she said, tapping the scroll gently. "Every skill scroll has a signature embedded in the paper—usually from the memory press used to create it. That's how we analyze them."
Ronan blinked. Now he was the one confused.
She sighed softly and continued, "There are three kinds of memory press: passive, active, and bound. Each one leaves a trace that contains info about the person or company that integrated the skill."
He gave a slow nod. "Alright. I found this scroll in the forest, so I have no idea who made it."
"I see," she murmured. "But here's the other issue. Unverified scrolls like this can be dangerous. You never know if it's a legit skill—or a suicide skill. There've been plenty of cases like that."
She paused, then added, "If you want, you can just hand it over to us. We'll give you ten dollars for it."
Ronan exhaled, a long breath escaping through his nose. That was exactly why he wanted the scroll analyzed before taking any risks.
But even with the warning—something deep inside him whispered differently. He didn't feel fear. Instead, he felt an almost magnetic pull toward the scroll. A quiet voice from the depths of his instinct: Don't let go of it.
"Is there no other way to identify it?" he asked again.
The woman hesitated, then frowned slightly—until a flicker of realization passed through her expression.
"Actually… maybe. There's a scroll analyst from the Empire visiting right now. He might be able to identify it."
The moment those words left her mouth, Ronan's hand moved on its own. He reached out and snatched the scroll back, fast and firm, like someone guarding a precious secret.
The woman blinked, caught off guard. "Uh… so? Do you still want it checked?"
Ronan swallowed once. "You're right. This might be dangerous. I should just destroy it," he said plainly, then turned on his heel and walked away.
The woman stared at him strangely, shaking her head with a puzzled frown.
Outside the hall, Ronan's face hardened.
"What the hell was that? My hand moved on its own," he muttered, staring at his fingers, now tightly clutching the scroll.
He truly had no idea what had just happened. The moment she mentioned the Empire's scroll analyst, a sharp, almost primal instinct had surged within him. A warning. A clue.
"Was it hunter sense? No… it felt different. Or maybe… That skill…" he whispered.
He straightened his back and summoned the hologram once again.
[Unique Skill: Threadbound Sense]
[Description: A latent ability awakened when the flow of fate deviates from its natural course, marking the wielder as a disturbance in the order of the world.]
[Effect: Allows the user to sense when misfortune is near, or fate is touched by foreign forces. Creates a sharp instinct for hidden threats and observing entities. 10% chance of full immunity to weapons from other worlds.]
[Next upgrade requires 100,000 skill points]
"Must be it," he muttered.
His gaze returned to the scroll in his hand. There was no way this was just some suicide skill. Not if Threadbound Sense had reacted.
Then his eyes flicked toward the flow of people around him. No—this wasn't the place. Whatever this scroll was, he couldn't risk using it here.
And so, without drawing attention, he slipped away into the crowd.
---
It didn't take long for Ronan leave the House of Wisdom and find a quiet alley between two tall buildings. Empty, shadowed, silent—its only company a rusted trash bin and the distant hum of city life.
In that gloom, his crimson pupils shimmered faintly, casting a soft gleam against the shadows as he gazed down at the scroll in his hand.
He took a deep, measured breath.
Then, with firm resolve, he channeled mana into the parchment.
At once, it blazed to life in a radiant golden glow.
Dark, ink-like characters began to surface, ancient and indecipherable. Ronan couldn't recognize a single one. They writhed and twisted across the paper before slowly rising into the air—dancing like constellations, orbiting one another in silence.
They merged, fusing into a single blood-red rune that pulsed over the parchment like a living brand.
His brows furrowed. He'd seen scrolls activated before—but never like this.
The rune hovered in place, pulsing… until it suddenly surged forward, detaching from the scroll and compressing into a floating droplet of energy.
One by one, the ancient symbols were absorbed into it, and the scroll's glow faded, turning paper-white and empty.
Before his eyes, the crimson rune took shape—a glowing droplet, like a single bead of blood suspended in the air, pulsating faintly in the darkness.
Ronan's breath caught in his throat. "What the hell is that…?"
Before he could second-guess himself, his hand reached forward, almost instinctively.
The moment his fingertip touched the droplet—it soaked into his skin. No resistance, no pain. It simply vanished into him, leaving behind no trace.
He stared at his hand.
No light. No heat. No sensation at all.
But then, a message appeared before his eyes.
[New Bloodline Acquired]