The village of Draymoor stank of blood and smoke.
By the time the Hero's party returned with proof of the goblin cull, the townsfolk were already gathering at the square, cheering Aldric's name as if the man had slain a dragon single-handedly. The Hero basked in it, raising his sword high, flashing his perfect smile, drinking in their adoration like nectar. Garron thumped his chest proudly, Serenya rolled her eyes at the noise, and Lyria quietly accepted the villagers' thanks with polite bows.
Kael, as always, was invisible. He carried the party's sacks, heavy with goblin ears and scavenged loot. When someone passed him by, their gaze slid over him as though he were part of the baggage itself.
He didn't mind. Shadows had always been his element. And now? The less attention, the better.
But in that same anonymity, Kael found freedom.
That night, when the others celebrated at the inn—Aldric surrounded by serving girls, Garron leading bawdy songs, Serenya seated aloof with her wine cup, Lyria laughing nervously at their antics—Kael slipped away.
He found the outskirts of the village, a ruined barn on the far edge of the fields. There, moonlight fell across broken beams and rotting hay. Perfectly quiet. Perfectly forgotten.
Kael set down a pouch of supplies he'd "borrowed" earlier: a vial of diluted poison, a blunt practice sword, and scraps of leather armor discarded by the militia. He sat cross-legged for a moment, eyes closed, recalling the rules of his new ability.
[Develop] — growth at eight times the natural rate.
Eight times. For an assassin, that was already monstrous. For a man reborn in a world of magic, it was potential without ceiling.
Kael's lips curved into a sharp smile. "Let's see how far I can push this."
He started with poison.
In his past life, poison resistance was something assassins earned only after months of careful, gradual ingestion. Too much, too soon, and one simply died.
Kael uncorked the vial, its bitter fumes curling in the night air. Without hesitation, he drank half.
Fire seared his throat, his stomach clenched, and cold sweat broke over his body. He forced himself to remain still, focusing on the sensation. Every nerve screamed, every muscle spasmed, but he endured.
The system whispered.
[Poison Resistance Lv.1 Acquired]
[Poison Resistance Lv.1 → Lv.2]
[Poison Resistance Lv.2 → Lv.3]
In minutes.
Kael staggered, retched into the dirt, and then laughed hoarsely. "So it works… Even on things that should take months."
Encouraged, he donned the leather scraps and took up the practice sword. The weapon was poorly balanced, the grip slick with old sweat, but Kael moved with measured precision. He cycled through strikes, thrusts, parries—movements he had only ever mocked in the pampered guards he once assassinated.
Again, the system responded.
[Swordsmanship Lv.4 → Lv.5]
[Swordsmanship Lv.5 → Lv.6]
Every swing cut cleaner, every stance firmer. His assassin's instincts meshed with this new martial knowledge, refining him into something more than either alone.
But Kael wasn't satisfied. He remembered how he died—betrayed because he had trusted. Too slow. Too complacent. He would not make that mistake again.
He worked until his arms burned, until his lungs heaved for air. Sweat dripped into his eyes, his throat still raw from poison, his body trembling on the edge of collapse.
And the system rewarded him.
[Stamina Control Acquired] – Fatigue management improved. Recovery speed ×2.
Kael leaned against the barn wall, grinning through his exhaustion. Already, in just a single night, he had gained more than some warriors achieved in months.
If this pace held… within a year, he could surpass every so-called hero on this continent.
"Impressive."
Kael's dagger was in his hand before the voice had finished speaking. He spun, ready to strike—only to find Lyria standing at the doorway of the barn, the moonlight turning her silver hair almost luminous. She held no weapon, only her healer's staff, and her expression was a mixture of worry and awe.
"How long have you been there?" Kael asked coolly, though inside he cursed himself. Too focused. Too reckless.
"Long enough to see you fight… and long enough to see you poison yourself." Her eyes softened. "Why would you do that? You could have died."
Kael sheathed the dagger slowly. "Because weakness kills faster than poison."
She flinched at his words, but didn't retreat. Instead, she stepped closer, her voice quieter. "Aldric dismisses you. Serenya mocks you. Even Garron laughs at your expense. But I saw you, Kael. Back in the forest. The way you killed those goblins—it wasn't luck."
Kael's expression remained unreadable. "And what do you think it was?"
"I think…" Lyria hesitated, then gave a small, uncertain smile. "I think you're hiding what you really are."
He held her gaze for a long moment. Her kindness unsettled him more than poison ever could. In his old life, there had been no kindness—only contracts, knives, and betrayal.
"…If I were, would you tell them?" he asked at last.
Her smile widened faintly. "No. Everyone has their secrets. Even me."
For the first time since his reincarnation, Kael almost laughed sincerely. Instead, he shook his head and turned away. "You should return before they notice you're gone."
"And you?"
"I'll stay here. Train more."
Lyria lingered, as if wanting to say something else, then quietly left. The sound of her footsteps faded into the night.
Kael exhaled. "A healer with secrets of her own, hm? Interesting."
But he pushed the thought aside. Attachments had killed him once. He wouldn't let them slow him again.
The following morning, the Hero's party departed Draymoor to head for their next destination: the city of Kelross. A larger quest awaited—a scouting mission near the frontier, where reports of monstrous activity had grown increasingly dire.
As usual, Aldric strutted at the front, recounting exaggerated tales of his goblin victories to anyone within earshot. Garron boasted about the ale he had drunk, Serenya scowled at the noise, and Lyria walked quietly, staff in hand, occasionally glancing back at Kael.
Kael carried the baggage without complaint. But inside, he was no longer the same "loader" they thought him to be.
Every step felt sharper, every breath steadier. His body was transforming under [Develop]. Soon, this charade would no longer be necessary.
But he would wait. Wait for the right moment.
Because in this world of heroes and demons, the deadliest shadow was already walking among them—smiling faintly, biding his time, and sharpening his blade.