Chapter 9: Flames of Regeneration, Part 1
[Adam's Quarters - Night, Day 4]
The candlelight in your quarters flickers, casting dancing, hypnotic shadows on the stone walls. The air is still, a quiet blanket of anticipation. You sit on your straw mattress, the phantom ache of your past deaths a constant, low thrum in your bones. You had failed twice. You had died twice. But you had won. You had gained skills, and you had gained knowledge. You were ready for the next step. The purple simulation. The ultimate prize.
The holographic screen glows, its light a stark, unblinking presence in the dark.
[PURPLE SIMULATION LOADING… 100%]
[TALENT: REGENERATION (PURPLE)]
[SIMULATION INITIATED: USER ACTION—BLOCK JAIME LANNISTER.]
A strange, pulsing heat spreads from your core, a pleasant warmth that banishes the Winterfell cold. Your skin tingles, a faint glow under your scars, and you feel a strange sense of… wholeness. It is the feeling of being healed. Of being unbreakable. You hold your dagger, its steel cold and familiar, and you step into the simulation. The vortex of colors and sensations pulls you in, and you embrace it, a smile on your face.
"Healing? Now we're talking. The system's finally generous. Let's stop Jaime cold. He's a machine. He's a warrior. But I have a cheat code. This is going to be a fun day. I'm going to beat him, and I'm going to love every second of it. I'm not a man anymore. I'm something more."
[Winterfell Tower - Dawn, Simulation]
[You stand at the tower's base, the frost biting your face, the stone rough under your boots. The world is a silent, cold tableau. The boy, Bran, climbs, his small hands gripping tightly, his curls bouncing in the wind. Jaime, the golden lion, moves toward the tower, his crimson cloak swirling like a banner of war. You hold your hand out, and a small flame, no bigger than a firefly, flickers in your palm. It is a strange, impossible thing in this cold, grey world. You feel a surge of power, a raw, untamed energy that hums through your veins. You are a man of fire, a man of power. You step into Jaime's path, your voice low and confident. "Not today, Lannister."]
Jaime sneers, a look of contempt on his perfect face. He sees you, a simple stablehand, a nuisance. He draws his sword, the sound of steel on leather a sharp, clean sound. "What sorcery's this?" he hisses, his eyes narrow, a flicker of suspicion in their emerald depths.
"Just a stablehand's spark, ser," you reply, a smirk on your face. You flick your wrist, and the small flame flares, singeing the edge of his crimson cloak. A thin wisp of smoke rises in the air, a testament to your newfound power. He jumps back, his face a mask of disbelief.
"Healing and fire? I'm a legend in the making. He has no idea. He thinks he's fighting a man. He's not. He's fighting a god. A man who can't be hurt. A man who can summon fire from nothing. He's going to regret coming here. He's going to regret ever meeting me."
You press your advantage, the small flame growing larger, a miniature sun in your palm. Jaime is fast. He is a master of the sword. But he is a man of flesh and blood, and you are… something else. He lunges, his sword a silver blur, and you don't even try to dodge. You let the blade bite deep into your arm, and you feel the sharp sting of the cut. But the pain fades as quickly as it came. The wound seals itself, skin knitting back together in a grotesque but beautiful display of power. You grin, a flash of white teeth in the smoky air. The look of utter disbelief on Jaime's face is a reward in itself.
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