Pain came first.
Burning. Gnawing. Like iron hooks raking through sinew. His body twitched in the dust, every nerve alive and screaming. Coarse fabric clung to sweat-slick skin. Breathing hurt. Moving was worse.
Then came the noise. Wood creaked. Chains rattled. Sand scraped beneath heavy wheels. Someone was coughing blood nearby. Another whimpered. The air stank—sweat, metal, and rot.
He opened his eyes.
Sunlight stabbed into them. Harsh. Alien. A sky painted orange-red stretched overhead, swirling with green auroras that danced like spirits. Two moons hung above—a pale crescent and a larger cracked orb that glowed sickly yellow.
A wagon. A slave convoy. He lay chained beside thirty others in a reinforced cart of iron and bonewood. Some were unconscious. Others too far gone to care. Each wore the same collar—thick, rune-etched, humming faintly with containment energy.
He tried to speak, but his throat scraped raw. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Then memory hit—not of this body, but of another life. Cold rooms. War maps. Blood on polished floors. A poisoned goblet raised in false toast.
Betrayal.
He had died.
And now… this.
His eyes trailed down his arms—thin, scarred, mottled with bruises. His left leg was twisted at the knee. Old injury. Never healed right. His breathing was steady, but each inhale felt like sandpaper.
Reincarnated.
Again.
A soft flicker blinked behind his eyes.
A translucent panel appeared before him, its edges blurry. No sound. No voice. No welcome message. Just a cold list of metrics and raw skill logs.
— SKILL PANEL —
Status: Weak | Starved | Minor Fracture (Left Leg)
— SKILL TRACKING —
Pain Tolerance – Lv.2 (72%)
Tactical Instinct – Lv.1 (20%)
Observation – Lv.1 (45%)
His lip curled. There was no AI. No guiding voice. No coddling interface.
Just the grind.
He didn't mind. In fact, he preferred it this way.
A hard world deserved hard tools.
The wagon jostled violently as it crested a dune. Someone screamed as they were thrown against a metal post. No one helped. No one had the strength to.
He lay still, breathing shallow. Watching. Counting. Every bounce of the wheel. Every guard rotation. Every second between patrol shifts.
Observation — Lv.1 → 47%
Good.
An hour passed. Maybe more.
At the front of the wagon, a slaver barked something in a guttural tongue. The caravan slowed as they entered a basin surrounded by scrap towers and rusted fortifications. Fires burned in iron barrels. Guards in makeshift armor—some with glowing plasma rifles, others with bone-tipped spears—moved lazily atop platforms.
They were herded off the wagon like animals. Prodded. Kicked. Lashed. The collars around their necks flared with heat if they resisted.
He limped forward, dragging his leg, masking the controlled coldness in his eyes.
A man fell beside him—too weak to stand.
The guard raised his baton to strike.
He stepped between them.
The strike came. Sharp, crackling pain across his spine. His body spasmed. His knees gave out. He hit the ground hard.
The guard laughed and moved on.
Pain Tolerance – Lv.2 (79%)
Progress.
He pushed himself up without a word.
The man he shielded was already dead.
Figures.
Later, as the sun dipped below the desert horizon, they were thrown into a holding pit. Barbed wire walls. A sand floor soaked in old blood. No roof. No water. No food.
He sat in a corner, back to the fence, eyes half-lidded.
One of the other slaves—young, thin, eyes like a cornered dog—crept up to him with shaking hands.
"Y-you okay?"
He didn't respond.
"Th-thank you, back there. You stopped that guard from—"
He looked at the boy. Really looked.
The boy's left wrist was bulkier than the rest of him. Wrapped too tightly in cloth.
A hidden shiv.
Smart, in a stupid way.
"Don't thank me." His voice was gravel. "You're going to die here. Just not tonight."
The boy backed off, trembling.
Good.
Observation – Lv.1 (50%)
His gaze swept the pit. Thirty-two slaves, ten of them injured. Two guards patrolled the perimeter in four-minute loops. The weapons shack was thirty meters east, guarded by a turret that rotated every eleven seconds.
One of the older men in the corner was barely breathing.
Another had been silently carving symbols into the sand with his finger—mad, probably. Maybe not.
He cataloged everything.
Tactical Instinct – Lv.1 (25%)
He closed his eyes and waited.
That night, as the other slaves groaned in sleep or pain, he remained still—cold, alert, calculating.
He needed a corpse.
Not for food.
Not for revenge.
For growth.
The Skill Panel had shown something odd earlier. A line at the bottom of the logs—brief, flickering.
New potential trait unlockable upon active kill.
Conditions: Manual execution, awareness, survival intent confirmed.
A mechanic. Quiet. Hidden. No drama. No cutscene.
He liked it.
A knife in the dark, and then… progress.
That was all this world cared about.
He waited until the moons aligned and the guards were farthest.
The young boy was still asleep, curled against the wall.
Kairon moved like smoke—limping, yes, but silent.
He crouched beside the boy.
A whisper.
"You should've stayed useful."
One hand over the mouth. One jerk of the shiv—torn from the bandaged wrist. A clean stab to the throat. Quick. Efficient.
The boy twitched. Struggled. Then went still.
Kairon laid the body down gently.
[Skill gained: Assassination – Lv.1 (12%)]
[Skill increased: Pain Tolerance – Lv.2 (83%)]
[Skill increased: Tactical Instinct – Lv.1 (27%)]
Trait unlock condition met: "Essence Retention" available upon mastery of 5 survival skills.
Current Count: 3/5
He stood. Limped back to his corner. Closed his eyes again.
The others never woke.
Morning came with fire and commands. New slaves were dragged out and chained together for transport to labor camps or auctions.
He complied.
For now.
But the chain was just metal. The collar just a tool. The guards just meat in armor.
He would watch. Learn. Adapt.
And when the time came—
He would burn them all.