The new body was frail.
Too frail.
For two weeks after waking, Damian could barely walk to the fields.
He had studied himself in a cracked mirror: narrow shoulders, skin like parchment stretched thin.
Ribs counted like bones on a starving dog.
His name, now, was Elias.
His family: a younger brother, Tomas—14, lean but strong-willed.
And a father, Aeren—a hollow-eyed man worn down by decades of back-breaking work under a lord who spat on them.
The old Elias had mouthed off to the lord's son.
The boy had returned with older cousins.
They'd left Elias bleeding in the dirt.
And yet here Damian stood.
Borrowing this ruined frame—but not for long.
Damian spent the first few days listening.
Valeria Kingdom, Eryndral continent.
A brutal, blood-soaked world where Classes and Strength ruled all.
Here, mages, knights, and hunters carved out the highest seats of power.
Here, peasants bled. Nobles feasted.
Damian's father had been born a [Farmer] and would die one.
His brother would likely follow.
---
The village buzzed with whispers. In two months, the annual Awakening would be held.
Knights and a mage from the capital would arrive.
Any child of age would touch the Rite Stone and have their Class revealed.
A chance.
A single chance for cattle to become wolves.
---
Damian began preparing.
He knew strength mattered more than any Class.
And so he rebuilt himself the only way he knew:
With pain.
---
At dawn, before the sun kissed the fields, Damian ran.
At first, one hundred meters left him gasping.
But he pushed. Every day, farther. Every day, harder.
---
He broke into the lord's sheep pens at night.
Stole one.
Killed it with bare hands.
Skinned it.
Roasted the meat alone beneath the forest canopy.
He did this a few times.
---
He fashioned rough weights from stones and wood.
Push-ups. Squats. Pulls. Lifts. Throws.
Hands blistered. Tendons screamed.
He ignored them.
His body would heal as fast as in his past life, this way it was easier for him to build muscle.
---
Tomas caught him once, trembling.
"Brother, if they catch you—"
"I'll be strong enough that they won't."
---
By the second month, Damian's body had transformed.
Broad shoulders. Coiled muscle beneath sun-darkened skin.
---
The Day of the Awakening
The square was packed.
Men and women of the village crowded in shabby clothes.
Three knights stood in gleaming plate beside a stone cart.
A high mage in silver robes—Magister Oryn Hale—presided.
Aeren stood beside Damian, head bowed low.
Tomas clung to Damian's side, excitement in his young eyes.
"I wish I was old enough," Tomas whispered.
Damian smirked. "Next year, then."
---
The first children approached.
Hand upon the Rite Stone. It shimmered.
"[Apprentice Tailor]"
"[Novice Herbalist]"
A boy beamed as the knights shouted:
"[Squire]!"
Cheers erupted.
---
The line shortened.
"Elias. Step forth."
Aeren flinched. Tomas held Damian's arm tighter.
Damian strode forward.
He placed his palm upon the Rite Stone.
---
Nothing.
A long pause.
The knights frowned.
The crowd murmured.
The mage approached, gaze sharp.
"This sometimes happens with rare cases," Magister Hale said.
He placed one hand atop Damian's, the other upon the Stone.
"Brace yourself."
---
White light erupted.
The Stone glowed. The mage's eyes closed, chanting low.
The air thickened.
Energy pulsed outward in waves.
The sky seemed to dim around them.
Then—blinding radiance.
The Stone flared brilliantly.
---
The mage gasped.
His eyes snapped open, staring at Damian.
"You…"
He turned to the crowd, voice booming:
"Abyss Sovereign."
A hush fell over the square.
Aeren fell to his knees. Tomas blinked in shock.
The villagers whispered: A noble class…? A cursed one? What does it mean?
The people were confused.
---
The mage, a white haired man with a black beard, approached Damian.
"Young man, are you willing to become a noble? If you want to follow me I will personally adopt you as my son."
Damian kept his voice calm:
"What benefits do I gain if I follow you?"
Magister Hale smiled thinly.
"Protection. Wealth. Knowledge. Power. You will have rights beyond your station. And—" he lowered his voice—"one pardon per year."
"A pardon?" Damian tilted his head.
"One life. Taken, and forgiven. Once, each year."
---
Damian's gaze swept the crowd.
There.
The lord's son.
Smirking, smug, standing beside his father.
---
Without a word, Damian raised one hand.
Invisible force gripped the boy's throat.
Gasps rippled through the square.
Damian pulled him forward through the air—slowly, deliberately—until the boy hovered in front of him.
---
"This guy ganged up on me with his older cousins and beat me near to death because I complained about the abuse my father receives from the Lord. They broke my nose, ribs, gave me concussions and multiple fractured bones."
Damian looked at Mr. Hale.
"I am free to kill once a year?" he asked again, voice calm.
The mage nodded, uncertain.
"Then this is my first."
---
The crowd screamed.
The boy thrashed, clawing at unseen fingers.
Damian's hand twisted—not the wrist, but the very force around the boy.
Bones creaked.
CRACK.
The head spun—once, twice, three times.
SNAP.
It tore free. Blood geysered.
The body dropped.
The head hovered for a moment in Damian's grip.
He dropped it at the lord's feet.
---
"I am Damian Mercer," he said softly.
Someone dropped a basket of fruit. The thud echoed through the square.
---
A small child whimpered.
An old woman clutched her chest.
The baker took a step back — eyes darting, gauging escape routes.
---
One mother whispered sharply, dragging her daughter away by the arm.
Another man fell to his knees.
---
The lord himself, standing on the platform, turned pale — hand trembling on the railing.
"M-murder! In front of witnesses!" he sputtered.
But no guards moved.
Their eyes flicked from Damian to the headless corpse… and then back to the mage Hale, whose face was unreadable.
---
Damian stood calmly in the center of the chaos — unhurried.
Blood stained his boots.
His gaze swept the crowd — eyes glowing faintly with crimson malice.
---
The mage finally spoke — voice calm, cutting through the panic:
"This act is sanctioned. It was an execution, not a murder. Anyone who dares claim otherwise shall face me."
He planted his staff in the ground — a subtle shockwave silencing even the whispers.
He was shielding Damian. Political instinct.
He turned to the mage.
Hale stepped closer.
"You will come with me now."
---
Damian turned, his voice level:
"I have a condition."
The mage blinked.
"You dare bargain now? I just let you get away with murder. "
Damian tilted his head.
"You need me. You said it yourself—no one has seen this Class before."
He stepped forward. The crowd parted like reeds.
"I will take your name. But I will also take back my own. I will be known from now on as Damian Mercer Hale."
---
A beat.
Then the mage smiled faintly.
"Very well… Damian Mercer Hale."
He extended a hand.
"You will find this alliance benefits us both."
Damian clasped it.
---
The mage leaned closer. "One more thing… tell me. What is your gift?"
Damian smiled slightly.
"I can remotely control objects from a distance. Nothing more."
---
The mage's eyes narrowed.
"Hm. Useful. But I suspect there is more."
Damian said nothing.
Because inside his mind, the truth burned:
---
< Feast of the Abyss>
(Imprinted Knowledge)
You may draw upon the endless abyssal mana beyond this world's veil. The more mana consumed, the greater your body is enhanced.
---
And no one would know.
Not yet.
....
The journey to the mage's estate was swift.
For the first time in this life, Damian ate real food—venison, bread, fine wine.
He bathed in heated water. Wore tailored clothing. Suits, at his request.
And he trained.
Hale provided high-grade gravity enchantments.
Damian lifted impossible weights.
Ran against time-locked winds.
His body hardened beyond human norms.
He practiced sensing ambient mana, learning to pull it subtly into himself without revealing the true Feast process.
Swordsmanship.
Unarmed strikes.
Movement techniques to avoid assassination.
.....
At night, alone in his quarters, Damian truly fed.
He pulled upon abyssal threads, drinking mana from the nearby trees through the window, until his muscles sang with power.
He grew faster.
Stronger.
His senses sharpened. Soon, he could hear a heartbeat two rooms away.
---
After two months, Hale returned with news:
"The Royal Academy has approved your entrance. You will attend as a noble scion—my adopted son."
He grinned.
"Your fame is already spreading. They whisper about the 'new lord of death' who tore a noble boy apart."
Damian sipped whiskey.
"Good."
....
That night, Damian stood before a mirror.
His hair, once short, now brushed his shoulders. He tied it back.
He straightened his suit. Lit a cigar.
Power. Wealth. Influence. It was all coming.
But so were the threats.
---
Suddenly, a knock at the window.
He turned.
Through the glass, a letter floated mid-air—marked with the seal of the Royal Academy.
The elite 1%.