The frantic energy of the Awakenings faded, leaving behind a nervous, buzzing silence as the last of the aspirants moved into the strange wilderness.
Rickon's team, a tightly held center of calm, moved with a purpose that felt strange in the chaotic aftermath.
They walked away from the sounds of battle, their boots sinking softly into the glowing, silver grass that moved in a silent, captivating rhythm.
The twin suns, one bright white and the other deep crimson, cast long, distorted shadows that stretched before them like accusations.
Ragnar walked at the front, his massive body a moving wall of confidence, his newly awakened Stoneskin talent making him itch for a fight.
Sophie moved at a slight distance, her pace fluid and measured, her eyes constantly scanning, analyzing every strange plant and rock formation.
Bran, clutching his wounded arm, stayed close to Ragnar's side, his fear a noticeable aura that even Rickon's fake D-Grade talent could have sensed.
Rickon brought up the rear, his mind a raging storm behind a carefully constructed mask of calm.
The lie he had told his team sat heavy in his stomach, a cold, dense stone of a secret.
He was a god walking among mortals. Every steady step he took was a deception.
"This way," Sophie's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and clear. She pointed towards a dense treeline in the distance.
"The plants are thicker there. Better cover. And the terrain slopes downwards. We might find water."
Ragnar grunted in agreement. "Lead on, eyes. The sooner we find a place to hole up, the better."
As they walked, Rickon deliberately slowed his pace, letting a few meters of distance grow between him and the others.
"Hold up a second," he called out, his voice steady.
Ragnar stopped and turned, an impatient frown creasing his brow. "What is it now, Rickon? Got a blister already?"
Rickon ignored the taunt, feigning a deep focus as he scanned the horizon. "Just getting my bearings. This place… it feels wrong. I need a moment to adjust."
It was the perfect excuse. Sophie gave him a sharp, analytical look but nodded, understanding the need to adjust.
Ragnar just shrugged and turned his back, giving Rickon the privacy he desperately needed.
He closed his eyes, not to the alien world outside, but to the one that had just awoken within him.
He reached inward, past the fear and the lies, and probed the immense, slumbering power of his true Talent: Soul Assimilation.
It wasn't like reading a file on his Nexus Interface. It was like standing at the edge of a vast, dark ocean.
The description he had seen was merely the surface, a single ripple hinting at the unfathomable depths below.
He felt the information flow into him, not as words, but as pure, instinctual knowledge.
The core functions became as clear and fundamental as breathing. He could assimilate the very essence of his enemies, their souls, and make their strength his own.
He could devour the ambient energy within objects, enhancing them, reforging them with the ghosts of the fallen.
He could absorb the abilities of other Awakened, not just copying them, but truly making them a part of his own arsenal.
His mind raced, charting the pathways of this terrifying new power.
The mention of Assimilation Charges in the initial description now made perfect sense. It was a resource, a limit to keep him from devouring the world too quickly.
He focused, and the rules of his power etched themselves into his understanding.
Assimilation Charges: 10 charges available from Level 0 to 2. A precious, limited resource.
The charges would increase as he grew stronger: 20 for Levels 3-6, 30 for Levels 7-10, and so on.
The most crucial detail made his heart hammer in his chest: the charges would completely refill to their maximum every time he leveled up.
It was a cycle of consumption and reward.
Next, the path to power itself: Experience.
Experience Progression:
Level 0 to Level 1: 50 EXP
Level 1 to Level 2: 250 EXP
Level 2 to Level 3: 600 EXP
Level 3 to Level 4: 1100 EXP
The numbers seemed to mock him with their simplicity. His life was now a game of numbers, and the currency was death.
Experience from Kills:
Level 1 Creature: 12 EXP
Level 2 Creature: 20 EXP
Level 3 Creature: 50 EXP
Level 4 Creature: 100 EXP
Level 5 Creature: 180 EXP
He did a quick, cold calculation. He needed five Level 1 kills to reach the next stage of his existence.
Just five lives to extinguish to refill his power and grow stronger.
Then he saw the modifiers, the fine print of this brutal new reality. Killing creatures at his own level gave him the full reward.
But there was a bonus for risk: taking down an enemy two or three levels higher would grant him a fifty percent bonus.
The Verge didn't just reward strength; it rewarded audacity. Conversely, preying on the weak had diminishing returns.
Killing creatures far below his level would cut his gains by half or more. The system encouraged a constant, forward momentum into ever-greater danger.
He felt a tremor of something that was equal parts exhilaration and absolute terror. The Talent's description had hinted at more, at depths he couldn't yet fathom, unlocked through 'exploration, application, and understanding.'
His mind, now unbound by its previous limitations, exploded with possibilities.
Could he enhance living things, not just inanimate objects? Could he channel his power into Bran, fortifying his teammate's own developing talent?
The potential was endless, and he stood at the edge, unsure if he would soar or fall forever.
"You done sightseeing?" Ragnar's voice rang out, pulling Rickon from his internal world with a shock.
He opened his eyes. The world seemed sharper, the colors more vibrant.
He could sense the fragile life-force of his teammates, three tiny flames flickering within the vast and overpowering energy of the strange terrain.
He looked at them, at Ragnar, whose simple trust was a weapon that could be turned against him, at Bran, whose fear made him vulnerable and unpredictable, at Sophie, whose sharp mind was already chipping away at his fragile deception.
The lie felt heavier than a mountain.
He possessed a power that could make him a god, the strength to crush his enemies and reclaim his family.
Yet, to survive long enough to do so, he had to pretend to be nothing.
He had to play the part of the lucky D-Grader, the tactician who led with his mind because his abilities were supposedly so limited.
He took a deep, steadying breath, the strange, sweet air filling his lungs. "Yeah," he said, his voice a mask of calm. "I'm good. Let's move."
He fell back into formation, the god within him now fully awake, cataloging the rules of its new existence.
He was a secret, a weapon hiding in plain sight.
For now, he would be their spear, their tactician, their friend. He would let them believe he was the weakest of them all.
But as they stepped into the shadows of the looming, strange forest, Rickon knew the truth.
The search for his family remained his guiding purpose, but another, far more dangerous pursuit had begun: the quest to discover the limits of the monster lying dormant within his soul.
And to sustain it, he would need blood!