The sun rose over Auremir in blazing heat, washing the city in gold and fire.
Orien squinted against the light as he followed his brother through the crowded streets. The stink of sweat and spice clung to the air. Merchants had already set up their stalls, shouting prices as if the chaos from last night had never happened.
"First day as a recruit," his brother said with a grin. "You excited?"
"Excited? We're broke."
"Broke doesn't mean we can't look."
They made their way through the market, stopping at every weapon stall they could find.
One had curved sabers with jeweled hilts that glittered like fire. Orien reached for one, only for his brother to smack his hand away.
"Don't touch unless you can buy."
Another shop displayed racks of throwing knives and crossbows, neat and deadly. His brother picked one up, giving it a casual spin like he owned it, before the shopkeeper's glare sent them moving again.
The next stall showcased massive scimitars, heavy enough that Orien wasn't sure he could even lift them. His brother laughed. "Perfect for you. You can barely hold a broom, but let's get you a scimitar."
Orien rolled his eyes and walked ahead.
Then he stopped.
A small, half-hidden shop caught his attention. No fancy sign, just a dangling curtain of trinkets and charms that clinked in the breeze.
And inside, in a glass case, he saw it.
A dagger.
It wasn't decorated. No gold. No jewels. Just dark steel with faint, almost vein-like patterns etched into the blade.
It wasn't beautiful. But it felt… right.
He didn't even notice how long he was staring at it until his brother spoke up.
"You're going to burn a hole in it if you keep staring like that," his brother teased.
Orien blinked, snapping out of his trance. "It's… nice."
His brother smirked, filing that reaction away without another word.
The robed shopkeeper appeared from behind the counter, his baggy sleeves swaying as he moved.
"Well, well," the man said, his voice smooth. "Two little rats looking for cheese. What do you want?"
"That dagger," Orien's brother said casually, nodding at the case. "How much?"
The shopkeeper's grin widened. "Twenty gold."
Orien nearly choked. That was more than their family made in a year.
His brother scoffed. "You've lost your mind."
The man shrugged, shooing them toward the door. "Window shopping doesn't pay my rent. Out."
They were pushed out before Orien could say anything more.
But as they turned down the alley, his brother suddenly grabbed his wrist and shoved something into his hand.
It was cold. Heavy.
Orien opened his palm.
The dagger.
"Consider this," his brother said with a smirk. "Your inauguration gift."
Orien turned the dagger over in his hand.
Up close, it looked even plainer. No shine, no intricate craftsmanship, no balance like the fine blades he'd seen in other shops. Yet there was a weight to it that felt… permanent and weightless like holding a feather. Some ancient word etched into it.
He tested the edge with his thumb. It was sharp enough to draw a bead of blood.
"You're holding it like a broom," his brother said, rolling his eyes. He unhooked a leather strap from his belt and tossed it to Orien. "Here. Tie it to your leg. Keep it hidden. No one will look there."
Orien hesitated. "On my leg?"
"Unless you want someone gutting you for it in broad daylight, yes."
Awkwardly, Orien knelt and strapped the dagger to his thigh under his loose trousers. It felt strange there, like he was walking with a secret.
"Better," his brother said, nodding with approval. "Now you look like one of us."
"One of us?"
"A killer in the making." his brother smiled.
They didn't go staright away to the inaguration ceremony. Instead, his brother led him through narrow alleys, away from the bustling markets, until they reached a place Orien hadn't visited in months.
A crumbling stone building with its doors wide open. The smell of boiled lentils drifted out.
Inside, people sat on long benches with chipped bowls in their hands, eating in silence. Old men, widowed women, children with faces too thin for their age.
At the far end of the room stood a bent old woman ladling soup from a pot bigger than she was. Her gray hair was tucked into a scarf, and her wrinkled face held a permanent, gentle smile.
"Grandma," Orien's brother called.
She looked up, her eyes brightening as she saw them. "If it isn't my two little troublemakers," she said warmly. "Come in, come in. You look like you haven't eaten in days."
She handed them each a bowl without asking questions.
Orien sat and took a sip. The soup was thin, little more than water and lentils, but it was hot, and it was kindness.
"You've grown," she said to Orien, reaching out to pat his cheek with a hand that smelled of herbs. "You take care of your older brother?"
"He takes care of me," Orien muttered, glancing at his brother.
Grandma chuckled. "That's how it always is."
For a moment, the world outside — the gold towers, the slave chains, the harsh desert — felt far away.
But only for a moment.
Orien sipped his soup slowly, savoring its warmth.
The place was quiet, filled with the hum of soft conversation and the clinking of spoons against bowls.
Then a sound broke the calm — a child's crying.
Orien turned. A little boy, no older than six, sat near the door, sobbing into his hands.
Before anyone else could move, Grandma knelt beside him, her joints creaking but her movements soft as silk. She said nothing at first, only placing a gentle hand on his head.
"Little one," she whispered, "you are safe here."
The boy hiccupped, wiping his tears.
Grandma reached into her apron and pulled out a small carved figure — a tiny bird made of wood. She handed it to him, smiling.
"Do you know what this is?"
The boy shook his head.
"It's a nightingale. They sing even in the darkest nights."
The boy stared at the toy. Slowly, his tears quieted. His lips twitched upward.
"You can see them migrating through the desert at every Dawnburst"
The child smiles looking at the toy bird.
Orien blinked. It wasn't just kindness. It felt… otherworldly, the way she could pull sorrow from a child and replace it with peace.
"Eat," Grandma said, patting the boy's shoulder. "You need your strength."
When Orien and his brother finished their bowls, they stood to leave.
A young woman in plain robes — one of the volunteers — stopped them at the door. "Thank you," she said to Orien's brother.
Orien frowned. "For what?"
The woman smiled. "For the coin you leave for us. Grandma always says you never take without giving."
Orien blinked at his brother, who only shrugged like it was nothing.
The woman continued, "Grandma… she's an angel, isn't she? I don't know how she does it. This whole community — we'd starve without her."
Orien's brother nodded and walked out.
Orien followed, silently admiring his brother.
They moved deeper into the slums, where the air grew heavier and the alleys quieter. After several turns, they reached a half-collapsed house.
Inside, the windows were boarded up, the walls crumbling.
"Here," his brother said, leading him to the back. He moved aside a loose panel in the floor, revealing a set of narrow stairs.
A hidden room.
The air down there was cooler, smelling of old stone and incense. Candles lit the corners, and strange markings were carved into the floor.
"This," his brother said, standing by the center circle, "is where it happens."
Orien felt his stomach knot. "Where what happens?"
His brother smirked. "Your inauguration."
Orien glanced around, his pulse quickening. The place felt suffocating, yet heavy with purpose.
"Don't worry," his brother said, "Every assassin goes through this.
Orien stood at the edge of the carved circle, heart hammering in his chest. His brother gave him a shove.
"Go on."
Orien stepped inside.
The moment his foot crossed the marking, figures emerged from the shadows. They wore black robes, faces hidden, their movements unnervingly silent.
"Orien Thalri," one of them said, voice like gravel. "You enter the circle as a child. You leave it as one of us."
Orien's brother tossed him a different blade — sharper, cleaner than the one strapped to his leg.
"Your life before this is done," the gravel-voiced man continued. "Your blood belongs to the shadow."
At the center of the circle sat a massive cement bowl, its insides stained dark from years of offerings.
"Cut your palm," the man said. "Bleed into the vessel."
Orien swallowed hard. His hand trembled as he pressed the blade into his palm. The cut was quick and sharp.
Blood dripped into the bowl.
The moment the first drop hit, the room went black.
Not candlelight dark. Not shadowed dark. A darkness that swallowed everything, thick and endless.
Orien gasped.
Then came a voice. Not one he could see or place — it was as if the darkness itself whispered:
"One with the shadow."
And suddenly, he understood.
If he stood still, if he willed himself into silence, the shadows would claim him. He could vanish into darkness like mist.
The candles flared back to life.
The robed figures nodded in unison.
"Welcome, brother," gravel-voice said. "You are one of us now."
They didn't let him savor the moment.
"You have your first task. Go to the watchtower on the border. Wait for instructions."
It was that simple. He was an assassin now.
Orien gave back the plain dagger back to his brother.
"Congratulations," his brother said. Clapping him in the shoulder "Now go earn your keep."
"Goodbye,"his brother said.
"Not goodbye," orien corrected. "Just later."
They couldn't help but smile at each other.
Orien climbed out of the half-collapsed house into the blinding sunlight.
The slums stretched before him — endless rows of mud-brick shacks and patched tents, stitched together with desperation. Narrow alleys reeked of waste and stale water. Children with hollow cheeks chased stray dogs for fun. Men with scars from the mines sat slumped against walls, too tired to beg.
This was the Thalri quarter. Once, his people had lived on the sea. Now they lived like this — slaves in all but name, digging up mana stones for the Auremirans while their families starved.
Orien kept walking.
The closer he got to the border, the more the scenery shifted. The stench faded. Streets widened. Walls rose higher. Vendors actually smiled. Here, Auremir's golden elite lived — behind tall gates and under colorful awnings. It was like crossing from ash into sunlight.
But Orien belonged to the ash.
"Orien!"
He turned.
A little girl was struggling under the weight of a clay pot filled with water.
"Need help with that, runt?" Orien teased, taking it from her with one hand.
"I could've carried it," his sister huffed, brushing her hair out of her face.
"Sure you could." He grinned. "What would you do without me? Drink sand?"
She swatted at him, but her smile peeked through.
"You're in a good mood," she said. "Why?"
"I got a job."
Her eyes widened. "A real one? Not the mines?"
"Not the mines," he confirmed. "Merchant guild work. High-paying."
She frowned. "Orien… this isn't like—like what happened to our brother, is it?"
The words hit like a stone.
"No," he said quickly. "This is different."
Her worry didn't ease. "Mother threw him out because he became their dog. You know what will happens to thalri's who serve the Auremirans. They will be used until they benefit them and thrown out like garbage"
Orien put on his best confident smile. "Don't worry. I'm not ending up like him. like a killer. And I'm never going back to the mines."
She didn't look convinced. But she didn't press.
"Just… be careful," his sister said softly.
Orien ruffled her hair. "Always."
He handed back the clay pot and waved goodbye, her small figure vanishing into the crowd.
The noise hit him first.
It started as a hum — hundreds of voices all murmuring at once — but as he pressed forward, the hum became a roar. Cheers, whistles, hands clapping against one another in unison.
The streets were choked with bodies. Thalri men and women who'd left their shacks and the stink of the slums just for a glimpse. Some balanced children on their shoulders. Others clung to carts and rooftops for a better view.
At the center of it all stood a tall platform, gilded with the sun emblem of Auremir. Banners of deep crimson flapped in the hot wind.
And there he was.
Governor Kaelen Dravos.
Unlike the jeweled princes who paraded through Auremir pretending to be gods, Kaelen wore simple robes of white and gold. He was middle-aged, his dark hair streaked with silver, his skin weathered by the sun — a man who looked more like a soldier than a politician.
He raised his hand, and the crowd went silent.
"People of Auremir," his voice boomed, strong and clear. "And my brothers and sisters of the Thalri."
Orien stilled at that. My brothers and sisters. No other Auremir official spoke like that.
"I stand here today," Kaelen continued, "not as a ruler above you, but as one of you. I have seen your suffering. I have walked your streets. I know the hunger that gnaws at your families and the chains that bind your lives. And I swear to you—"
The crowd erupted into cheers, drowning his words for a moment.
Orien didn't stay to listen.
He shoved his way forward, the heat of bodies pressing against him, the smell of sweat and dust thick in his nose.
"Watch it!" someone barked as he pushed past.
"Move," Orien muttered, slipping through gaps, ducking under waving arms.
The closer he got to the platform, the more Auremir guards he saw — tall men in polished armor, spears in hand, keeping the crowd from spilling too close. Past them, Orien spotted the watchtower.
It loomed just beyond the platform, a squat stone structure rising above the city's edge, overlooking both the slums and the shining Auremir walls.
The border.
He ducked into a side alley, slipping out of the crowd. From there, it was easy to reach the tower unnoticed.
He placed his hand on the rough stone and began to climb.
The stones burned under the midday sun, scraping his fingers, but he kept going until his head breached the top platform.
He crouched low, staying in the shadow of the parapet.
At the top of the watchtower, Orien wasn't alone.
Two figures stood there already, leaning casually against the parapet. Both wore the same black robes as the men from the initiation, hoods drawn low over their faces.
"Fresh blood," one of them said with a smirk. "Welcome to your first real mission, kid."
The other pointed down. "Take a look."
Orien moved to the edge and peered over.
From here, the whole world lay open. The cheering crowd. The walls separating the filth of the Thalri quarter from the polished streets of Auremir proper. And at the center — Governor Kaelen, his arms raised as he spoke words Orien couldn't hear over the roar.
For a moment, Orien almost forgot why he was here. It felt like standing at the crossroads of two worlds — the one he was born in and the one he'd just stepped into.
The smirking assassin spoke again. "Not bad for a first view, eh?"
Orien didn't reply. Something about their tone didn't sit right.
It gnawed at him.
That old lesson from his brother came back like a whisper.
"Don't just look at them, Orien. Read them."
Years ago, they'd been just two hungry kids slipping through the markets, fingers quick and stomachs empty. His brother had taught him everything.
"See that man? Broad shoulders, hand on his belt? He's got a blade. Not worth the risk. But that merchant there? Fidgety, sweating, and his purse is heavy — that's the one you take."
"Pickpocketing isn't about speed. It's about reading the room. Who notices? Who doesn't? Every face tells you how close you are to getting caught."
Orien blinked back to the present.
And now?
The room — no, the tower — felt wrong.
The two assassins weren't calm. They were hiding it, but their shoulders were tense, eyes flicking between each other.
Something was off.
"What are we doing here?" Orien asked slowly.
The smirker grinned wider. "Your first mission."
"And that is?"
The other answered flatly. "Assassinate the governor."
Orien froze. "What?"
"You heard me."
"No." Orien's voice sharpened. "That's—That's insane. Kaelen is the only Auremir noble who actually gives a damn about the Thalri. Kill him, and a lot of innocent people suffer. It's suicide for them."
"Orders are orders," the smirker said. "You want to climb the ranks? Do the job."
Orien's hand clenched on his dagger. "I won't kill him. Not in broad daylight. Not like this."
The quiet one sighed. "Listen, kid. You're seeing the mask. The bright personality? It's a lie. He traffics people. Your people. Takes Thalri orphans, sells them like cattle, tortures them for fun. He's filth hiding behind pretty speeches. No need to pity him."
Orien's stomach turned. "That's—no. That can't—"
"It can," the smirker interrupted. "You think a man like him really cares about you? About us? He's an Auremir noble. Their nature doesn't change. You should know that by now."
Orien stared at the crowd below. Kaelen stood there, smiling, as the people cheered.
Trafficking? Torture?
It didn't make sense. But then… nothing about Auremir ever did.
He shook his head. "Then fine. If he's guilty, kill him. But not here. Not in the Thalri quarter. You'll make them pay for it."
"This isn't about you," the smirker said, annoyed now. "This is about sending a message. He's been playing spy games with some shadow network, and the higher-ups want his blood in public. That's how you put fear in them."
Orien's jaw tightened. "So they didn't care about his crimes until he crossed them?"
"Exactly."
"And they want me to help make their point?"
"Exactly."
The smirker leaned closer. "Think about it, kid. Big pay. Enough to keep your family out of the mines forever. You can earn more than your brother in one job. One kill, and you're set. So stop playing moral and start thinking like an assassin."
Orien stared at his dagger.
The Thalri cheered below. If Kaelen died here, in front of them, they'd be the ones crushed under the backlash.
"No," Orien said finally. "I won't do it."
"Stubborn little—"
The dart hissed past Orien's cheek, grazing skin.
He spun, dagger raised, heart hammering.
And then he saw him.
An Assassin once, no doubt — the cut of his garb bore the marks of one who had walked the edge between glory and annihilation.
He wore a deep, hooded cloak that draped over his entire form, stitched with only a few simple white fastening loops near the collar — practical, not ornamental. Beneath the hood, his face was obscured by a half-mask of dull, bone-like material, shaped to cover his nose and mouth, leaving only his eyes exposed.
One of those eyes glowed faintly red, an unsettling ember against his pale, bloodless skin.
The hood cast heavy shadows across his features, giving him a faceless, inhuman presence at first glance — though Orien knew, in his gut, that this was a man. A human. One who had chosen to live as something else entirely.
Every inch of his attire screamed silence. Muted colors. No glinting metal. A cloak large enough to hide blades or poisons within its folds.
This was a figure built for darkness — for alleys, moonlight, and whispers.
Yet here he was, standing in full daylight, where his attire looked out of place and his presence impossible to ignore.
He wasn't meant to be here.
He was here for Orien.
The man tilted his head, that faint red eye narrowing.
"Enough talking," the stranger said, his voice low, distorted slightly by the mask.
The two assassins beside Orien froze for only a heartbeat before obeying his command.
"Plan B," the masked man said coldly. "Kill him. We only need his body. And then we can proceed with killing Kaelen"
Steel hissed as the two assassins drew their blades.
Orien's pulse thudded in his ears.
Orien dropped into a low stance, his dagger tight in his grip.
The two robed assassins lunged at him.
His instincts screamed to run — to dive off the tower and pray to any god listening. But there was nowhere to go. The only way down was the narrow staircase, and even if he made it halfway, they'd gut him before he reached any opening.
Think, Orien. Brother wouldn't panic.
He could hear his brother's voice in his head: "Two on one isn't about killing them fast. It's about not dying."
The first blade came in, slashing low. Orien twisted aside, shoving the attacker's wrist upward, and used the opening to drive his dagger toward the second one's ribs. The man blocked, but the blow still staggered him back a step.
Sloppy.
Orien blinked. They're slow.
He ducked under another swing, pivoting on his heel, and slashed across the back of one's leg. The assassin grunted, stumbling.
Brother's sparring is tougher than this.
These weren't real killers. They were rookies — afternoon drinkers, their movements sluggish, their strikes predictable. Drunkards playing at being assassins.
If even one of them were full-fledged, he'd already be dead.
Orien exhaled, finding his rhythm. His brother's training kicked in — both hands ready, always moving, using his small frame to slip inside their guard before they could adjust.
The dagger…
It felt strange.
Weightless. Balanced. Almost like an extension of his own hand.
He darted forward with sudden speed, too fast for even himself to process.
Steel clashed, a quick parry — then his dagger carved an arc across the first man's temple.
The assassin crumpled with a grunt, clutching his head, knocked out cold.
The other one froze, staring at Orien like he'd grown a third hand. "How the hell—?" he muttered. "How the hell does he move his dagger like that? Like it's… like it's a feather."
Orien's chest heaved. He couldn't explain it either.
The masked man still hadn't moved.
He stood at the edge of the platform, arms crossed, that single glowing red eye fixed on Orien. Watching. Measuring.
"Enough," the one-eyed man said finally.
Orien stiffened.
The air shifted as the masked figure drew his weapon.
It was no ordinary blade — a curved sword, its sheath worn and blackened by time. He slid it out halfway, until the steel just caught the sunlight, then stopped.
His hand bent across his face, arm arched like a crescent moon.
Then he whispered, low and deliberate:
"Crescent—"
"NO!"
The voice came from behind — the man Orien had knocked out, now half-conscious, groaning as he sat up.
"We need his body intact!" he wheezed. "No moon-shaped holes!"
The masked man paused. Slowly, he pushed the blade back into its sheath with a disappointed click.
Orien's stomach sank.
It wasn't for show — if he'd used that skill, Orien would already be dead. He'd narrowly escaped a death sentence.
"It's hand-to-hand then," the last rookie muttered.
He sheathed his blade, bowed slightly to the red-eyed figure, and stepped back, giving his master space.
Orien tightened his grip on his dagger. Look for an opening.
Nothing.
The masked man didn't even raise his guard. He just walked toward Orien with slow, deliberate steps — like a man strolling through a garden.
Fine. If he wanted me dead, he'd have to earn it.
Orien feinted high, lunging for a full frontal strike—then ducked, pivoting toward the stairs.
He barely made it two steps.
In an instant — no, less than that — the masked man was there, standing between Orien and escape.
How?
The glowing red eye was the last thing Orien saw before the fist came.
A single, brutal hook to the gut.
Orien crossed his arms in an X to block, but it didn't matter. The impact lifted him off his feet, launching him backward like a ragdoll.
He flew through the air and slammed against the edge of the tower, barely catching the parapet with his left hand before he went over.
Agony exploded through his body. His right arm hung uselessly at his side — broken. His ribs felt cracked, every breath fire in his chest.
I can't… win this.
He clung to the ledge, panting, glaring at the masked man who was now walking toward him again, slow and unhurried.
Even his brother wouldn't stand a chance against this. And Orien? He was nothing.
Desperation clawed at his mind.
He gripped his dagger tightly. He couldn't match this monster in swordplay or brawling.
So he did the only thing left — he threw.
With all his strength, Orien hurled the dagger at the masked man's chest.
It bounced off with a dull clang.
Armor.
The man tilted his head. "You know," his voice was calm, mocking, "I can catch something like that.
What are you going to do without a weapon?"
Behind him, the two rookies were grinning. Even the one Orien had knocked out was back on his feet, rubbing his head.
"Don't worry," the half-conscious one croaked. "It'll be painless. And when we're done, maybe I'll take another drink… and visit your sister."
That did it.
Everything his brother had taught him — patience, control, reading the room — shattered under a flood of white-hot rage.
Orien roared and charged, all form and technique gone.
He didn't care if it killed him. He'd tear these bastards apart.
But the kick came before he reached them — a single, effortless strike from the masked man, knocking him back like a child swatted away.
"This is taking too long," the red-eyed figure sighed. "As a final gift, I'll show you how to throw a knife."
He extended his hand to the right.
From the left, a sound cut the air — a sharp zip.
Pain bloomed in Orien's chest.
He looked down, dazed, to see a blade fully buried in him.
He collapsed, vision swimming, air refusing to fill his lungs.
"Don't worry," came the voice above him, fading, distant. "The poison will finish the job soon."
Through blurred vision, Orien saw one of the rookies kneeling, picking up his dagger.
"Will this thing even be worth a copper?" the man sneered.
The red-eyed one yawned, already turning away. "What a boring fight."
Orien's blood boiled. If he was going to die… then he'd take one of them with him.
He lunged, a last burst of dying strength, tackling the rookie holding his dagger.
"Goddamnit," the masked man barked — too late to stop it.
The two of them went over the edge.
The world spun. Impact. White pain. Everything broke. Blood gushed from his mouth as his body refused to move. one of the goons Orien had thrown off the tower was now impaled on the sharp iron spikes of the gate.
Through fading sight, he saw the dagger beside him — broken in half.
Golden sand poured from its shattered core.
Not normal sand. It moved. Alive. Reaching.
Tiny golden hands, the sand crawled into his nose, mouth, and eyes — smothering his fading life. Orien's last breath hitched, his final thought lingering on his sister.
Then darkness.
He opened his eyes.
Morning light.
A ceiling he knew. His bed.
And floating before him, faint and translucent:
[Status Window Notice!]
╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗
║ ＳＴＡＴＵＳ ＷＩＮＤＯＷ ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════════╣
║ Name: Orien Solis ║
║ Race: Human (Cursed) ║
║ Class: Thief ║
║ Level: 03 ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════════╣
║ HP: 500 / 500 ║
║ MP: 0 ║
║ Stamina: 600 / 600 ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════════╣
║ Attributes: ║
║ ─ Strength : 12 ║
║ ─ Endurance : 10 ║
║ ─ Intelligence : 15 ║
║ ─ Dexterity : 13 ║
║ ─ Perception : 18 ║
║ ─ Willpower : 30 ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════════╣
║ Skills: ║
║ ▪ Swordsmanship (Basic) ║
║ +5% effectiveness with small bladed weapons, +10% effectiveness when dual wielding║
║ ▪ Silent Step (Novice) ║
║ Movement generates minimal sound ║
║ ▪ Survivor's Instinct ║
║ Faster reaction in life-threatening ║
║ situations and reading emotions ║
║ ▪ One with the Shadow (New) ║
║ Blend into darkness, become a shadow║
║ ▪ Detect (New) ║
║ Appraise items & living beings, ║
║ revealing hidden details and stats. ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════════╣
║ Titles: N/A ║
╠══════════════════════════════════════════╣
║ Status Effects: ║
║ ▪ Hunger (Mild) ║
║ ▪ ███TIME REGRESSION███ (CURSE) ║
║
╚══════════════════════════════════════════╝
Status Window
Name: Orien SolisRace: Human (Cursed)Class: ThiefLevel: 3
HP: 300 / 300MP: 0Stamina: 400 / 400
Attributes:
Strength: 12
Endurance: 10
Intelligence: 15
Dexterity: 13
Perception: 18
Willpower: 30
Skills:
Swordsmanship (Basic): +5% effectiveness with small bladed weapons, +10% when dual wielding
Silent Step (Novice): Movement generates minimal sound
Survivor's Instinct: Faster reaction in life-threatening situations, improved emotional reading
One with the Shadow (New): Blend into darkness, become a shadow
Detect (New): Appraise items & living beings, revealing hidden details and stats
Titles:
None
Status Effects:
Hunger (Mild)
███TIME REGRESSION███ (CURSE):