Ashen awoke to the smell of incense and polish—the signature scent of the Summoned Barracks. Fresh linens. Scrubbed floors. Fake sunlight pouring through stained glass windows that didn't show the real sky.
The same lie, wrapped in gold.
He sat up slowly, body stiff. The muscle degradation from last night's burden hadn't healed. In fact, it had worsened. A dull ache spread from his left thigh down to the ankle, every movement laced with quiet fire. The price of altering fate.
He clenched his jaw, stood anyway.
Across the dormitory, the other summoned had already started their day. They buzzed with excitement and nervous tension. Today was when they would be introduced to their Party Assignments, the first real step toward becoming a true Hero candidate.
Ashen pulled on the plain linen shirt folded at the foot of his bed. No crest. No class colors. No System mark.
He was invisible to it.
Still, he had work to do.
The assembly hall gleamed like a shrine. Banners of light and velvet lined the walls, and floating orbs hovered near the ceiling, casting soft illumination on the marble stage. One by one, names were called.
"Serin Elthara – Class: Flame Archer – Blessing of Emberlight."
The tall red-haired girl from his dungeon trial rose. Her posture had changed—shoulders back, chin lifted. The Fire Blessing had awakened something in her.
"Rai Mirien – Class: Battle Squire – Blessing of Steelroot."
The silent boy who'd shielded Serin. He followed her up the stairs without speaking.
More names. Dozens more.
Each was handed a crystal ring—System-bound, meant to channel Hero Points and track their path toward "Salvation."
Ashen's name was never called.
He stood against the back wall, arms folded, ignored like a smudge on a sacred portrait.
"Next… Kaleid D'Mirian – Class: Chosen Hero – Blessing of Dawn."
The crowd erupted. Even the other summoned applauded. Kaleid stood with mock humility, one hand pressed to his chest.
"I am honored," he said, voice smooth as silk. "Let my light be yours."
Ashen said nothing. But his fingers twitched at his side. Every word Kaleid spoke was a lie. He'd abandoned his comrades in the original timeline. Let the priests die during the first raid. Ran from the dungeon collapse.
But the System had recorded none of it.
Kaleid accepted his crystal ring. It pulsed with golden light.
Ashen's gaze darkened.
That thing wasn't just a tracker. It was a tether.
The System watched through those rings. Manipulated. Chose what to reward, what to ignore.
And he wasn't the only one who knew it.
After the ceremony, Ashen slipped away into the deeper halls of the Barracks. He moved like a shadow, silent and certain. The Anathema Trait didn't make him invisible—but it made people forget him faster than they should. Attention slid off him. Even trained guards blinked as he passed, uncertain whether they'd seen anyone.
He made his way to the old library—the one sealed in the previous timeline after "forbidden texts" were discovered.
He knew exactly where the loose stone tile was. Knew what lay beneath it.
A trapdoor. A spiral staircase. A dead language carved in silver script.
He descended.
At the bottom, the walls were scorched black from divine cleansing magic—but some of the relics remained. Ashen knelt before a cracked pedestal, brushing ash away to reveal a single line of jagged script.
"Truth is not what is seen. It is what survives seeing."
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he touched the pedestal.
System Warning:"You are interacting with a sealed artifact. This may result in permanent corruption."
He didn't flinch.
"Confirm corruption?"
Yes.
Pain stabbed through his palm—then bloomed across his body like ink in water. The relic pulsed once. Symbols burned into the inside of his left wrist.
System Alert:"Forbidden Seal Engraved: Ghost Brand – Allows rejection of divine blessings. May nullify System influence within limited radius."
"Burden Assigned: Emotional dampening + Interpersonal decay."
Ashen hissed through his teeth as a strange hollowness settled in his chest. Like someone had unplugged a cable inside him. His breathing slowed. His pulse dropped.
It was harder to feel… anything.
The cost of resistance.
He had known this path wouldn't be free.
By the time he returned to the surface, evening bells rang across the capital.
The Chosen Candidates had been divided into teams and given quarters in the outer spires. The Academy would begin in earnest tomorrow: combat training, strategy lectures, divine tests.
Ashen wouldn't be attending.
Instead, he slipped into the outskirts of the city, toward a district few nobles visited: the Graylane Markets. Spices, blades, and secrets.
He wasn't looking for a vendor.
He was looking for someone the System had once killed before they had a chance to change the world.
He found her beneath a rusted awning, sharpening daggers on a flat whetstone. Dark hair in a rough braid. Eyes like winter storms.
Her name was Lira Halewind. In his past life, she'd never made it to the Capital—killed by bandits two days before reaching the Trial Island. She'd never been summoned. Never been given a Blessing.
And yet she had killed three demons with a broken spear before dying.
Ashen stepped into the light.
Lira's gaze snapped up, blade ready.
"Easy," he said. "I'm not here to rob you."
"That's what robbers say."
Ashen knelt in front of her fire.
"I'm here because you survive longer than most. But you're not supposed to be here yet."
She squinted. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means," he said, "I'm offering you a way to break something that has never been broken."
A pause.
"...I don't believe in Chosen Ones," she said finally.
"Neither do I."
They spoke until the moon rose.
He told her parts of the truth. That the System was rigged. That blessings came at a cost. That not all strength was rewarded. She listened, silent and skeptical—but didn't throw him out.
When he rose to leave, she called after him.
"What's your name?"
He paused.
"…Ashen."
"No last name?"
He smiled, faintly. "Not one that matters anymore."
That night, he didn't return to the Barracks. He found a rooftop near the western wall and sat beneath the stars.
His leg throbbed.
His chest ached from the Ghost Brand.
His soul felt too old for the body it inhabited.
But he was here.
The world still turned. The false Hero still smiled. The System still spun its web of lies.
And Ashen Verrick was alive.
Unseen.
Unblessed.
Unbroken.
For now.
[Save if you'd like, I won't force you to.]