**Chapter 1: The Morning After**
Aurieth Dragonbane woke to the faint gray light filtering through the shack's single cracked window and the sound of Mira breathing softly beside him.
His side throbbed — a dull, steady ache where the gash had closed overnight into an ugly pink scar. Blood had crusted over the wound, stiffening his torn shirt, but the bleeding had stopped sometime in the small hours. He lay still for a long moment, staring at the warped wooden ceiling, listening to the quiet rhythm of his sister's breathing and the distant clatter of the slums waking up outside.
He was alive.
Again.
The thought felt strange, almost amusing in its absurdity. Two deaths in two days. Two worlds. Two bodies. And yet here he was, still breathing the same damp, smoky air of Valoria's outer districts, still feeling the cold seep through the thin pallet beneath him.
Mira stirred.
Her small hand tightened on his sleeve — the same bloodied sleeve she had clung to last night — and her eyes fluttered open. For a heartbeat she looked at him with wide, frightened eyes, remembering the blood, the pain, the way he had limped through the door. Then recognition settled in and her face softened.
"Aurieth…" she whispered.
"You're still here."
He gave her a crooked half-smile, the one that always made her relax even when he was lying through his teeth.
"Of course I'm still here," he said quietly. "Told you. You're stuck with me."
She sat up slowly, small fingers brushing over the crusted stain on his shirt. Her brow furrowed.
"It's not bleeding anymore… but it looks bad. Does it hurt?"
"Only when I breathe," he said lightly.
Then, softer: "It's fine, Mira. I've had worse."
A lie, but a necessary one.
She didn't need to know he had died twice in the span of a night. She didn't need to know the world itself had tried to erase him and failed.
She bit her lip, eyes glistening again.
"You were gone so long last night. When you came in and said someone attacked you… I thought… I thought they got you for real."
He paused, remembering how he had muttered about the attack when he staggered in the door last night, too dazed from the pain and the system window to keep the story straight. "They tried," he said, voice steady. "They failed. End of story."
She looked at him for a long moment, searching his face.
"You're different," she said suddenly.
"Not just the blood. You feel… different."
He froze.
For a second the air felt heavier.
Then he forced another smirk.
"Must be the near-death glow. Makes me more handsome."
She didn't laugh.
She just stared, small hands twisting in the blanket.
He sighed and sat up slowly, wincing as the scar pulled.
"Come on. Let's get you something to eat. I'm not letting you skip breakfast again."
He pushed himself to his feet.
The room tilted briefly.
He leaned against the wall until it passed.
Mira watched him the whole time.
Worried.
Too worried for a ten-year-old.
He hated that look on her face.
Outside, the slums were already stirring.
Voices carried through the thin walls — vendors shouting prices, children running between shacks, the clang of metal from a nearby forge. Normal sounds. Ordinary sounds. Sounds that belonged to a world that had tried to kill him twice in two nights.
He stepped outside first, scanning the narrow alley.
No suspicious shadows.
Just the usual filth and early-morning haze.
Mira followed close behind, clutching his sleeve.
They walked in silence toward the market street.
Aurieth kept his pace slow, hiding the limp as best he could.
Every few steps the scar tugged, reminding him how close he had come — again.
At the edge of the market, a familiar stall came into view — old Mara selling yesterday's bread and thin porridge.
She spotted them and frowned.
"You look like death warmed over, boy," she called out.
"And you're bleeding through your shirt again."
Aurieth gave her his usual half-smirk.
"Good morning to you too, Mara. Got any of that porridge left?"
She snorted.
"Always begging for scraps. One bowl — for the girl. You can starve."
Mira tugged his sleeve.
"You need to eat too."
He shook his head.
"I'm fine. You first."
Mara rolled her eyes and ladled a bowl for Mira.
"Stubborn as always. One day you'll learn."
Aurieth paid with the last few coppers in his pocket.
Mira ate quickly, hungrily, while he stood watch.
When she finished, he took the empty bowl back to Mara.
She looked at him — really looked.
"You're different today," she said quietly.
"Something in your eyes. Like you've seen too much."
He shrugged.
"Bad night. Happens."
She didn't push.
Just handed him a stale heel of bread she hadn't charged for.
"Eat it," she said.
"Or I'll shove it down your throat myself."
He took it.
Broke it in half.
Gave one piece to Mira.
The other he ate slowly, tasting dust and yesterday's oven.
They walked back in silence.
When they reached the shack, Mira stopped at the door.
"Aurieth…"
She looked up at him.
"Are we going to be okay?"
He crouched so they were eye-level.
His voice was quiet, steady.
"Yes," he said.
"We're going to be more than okay. I promise."
She searched his face.
Then nodded once, small and trusting.
He stood up.
Looked out at the alley — at the city beyond.
The script wanted him dead.
The world had rejected him.
The system had labeled him F-rank trash.
Good.
He had always been better at breaking rules than following them.
And now he had a sister to protect, a story to rewrite, and a second life to burn through however he damn well pleased.
He stepped inside the shack and closed the door behind him.
The world outside could wait.
For now, he had planning to do.
Inside the shack, Aurieth sat on the pallet, back against the wall, while Mira busied herself straightening the blanket and sweeping the dirt floor with a worn broom. He watched her for a moment, the way she moved with that quiet determination she had developed too early — a ten-year-old trying to make their crumbling world feel a little less broken.
The pain in his side had dulled to a constant throb, but he knew it would flare again if he pushed too hard. He needed to heal, needed food, needed money. But more than that, he needed power.
He closed his eyes, willing the status window back into view.
The blue panel materialized, plain and unadorned, hovering in his vision like an unwelcome reminder.
```
[Status Window]
Name: Aurieth Dragonbane
Age: 16
Rank: F
Class: none
Talent: [Accelerated Adaptation] (Greatly increased learning speed, intuition, and ability to adapt to new situations, techniques, and environments)
Anomaly Trait: [Narrative Rejection] (You are not recognized by the world's narrative/script/fate. This grants resistance to predetermined events and allows growth from "erasure" attempts)
Strength: F
Agility: F+
Endurance: F-
Mana: F
Mana Capacity: F+
Will: B
Charm: A
Luck: ???
Skills:
• Basic Swordsmanship (F)
• Basic Mana Control (F)
• Evasion (F)
```
He stared at it, the numbers mocking him in their simplicity. F-rank everything, except for Will and Charm — the system's way of admitting he was stubborn and good-looking enough to make a difference, perhaps. Luck hidden behind question marks — fitting, given how his life had gone so far.
He muttered under his breath, "F-rank endurance. No wonder the stab wound feels like fire. But Accelerated Adaptation… that's something. I can use that."
He dismissed the window and leaned his head back against the wall, letting his mind wander to the novel he knew so well. *Eternal Chronicles*. The story he had read to its end, criticizing every plot hole, every lazy twist. Now it was his reality — and his advantage.
First, money.
The world's currency was simple, hierarchical, and unforgiving. Copper coins for the poor — a handful could buy bread or porridge, but not much more. Ten coppers made a silver, enough for a week's scraps if you stretched it. A hundred silvers to a gold — the kind nobles tossed away on frivolities. And ten gold to a platinum — rare, used for high-trade or academy fees, something a slum kid like him might never touch in a normal life.
But his life was no longer normal.
He knew where to find quick money. He could sell information to the black market — valuable secrets from the novel that no one else knew yet. For example, the exact recipe for a rare potion called "Vitality Elixir" — a mixture of common herbs like moonbloom and riverweed, but with a secret ingredient: ground demon bone dust, which stabilized the brew and boosted endurance for hours. In the novel, it became common knowledge much later, but the black market would pay gold for the formula now, before it spread. "I can find a fence in the market's underbelly," he thought. "Whisper the recipe, take the coins, disappear. Enough silvers to keep Mira fed for months, maybe even buy a decent sword."
He glanced at Mira sweeping the floor. She was too thin, too small for her age. The thought made his jaw tighten. "No more skipping meals. Not for her. Not anymore."
Then, power.
His rank was F — the lowest of the low. In Elyndor, ranks started at F- for newly awakened 16-year-olds like him, climbing through E, D, C, B, A, S, SS, SSS with +/- modifiers for precision. Most slum kids stayed stuck at F or E, never climbing because they lacked training, resources, or opportunity.
But he had [Accelerated Adaptation]. He could learn fast — skills, techniques, everything. And [Narrative Rejection] — that was his real edge. The world tried to erase him, and he grew from it. The Anomaly Core, whatever it was, felt like a ticking bomb in his chest, waiting for the next attempt.
"I need to test this," he muttered. "See what happens when the script tries again."
He knew the novel's early events. There was a low-level rift dungeon outside the city walls — a small cave system that appeared early in the story. It was supposed to be discovered and cleared by someone else later, but he could reach it first. Inside it were rewards — a powerful sword art manual and some useful skills — that would give him a massive edge in combat and survival. "If I take it first, it's mine," he thought. "No one else knows it's there yet. I can get in, get the rewards, get out."
But he had no sword.
No weapon at all.
The dagger he carried was dull and short — good for cutting rope, not fighting.
He needed a blade.
A proper one.
The plan formed quickly.
Sell the potion recipe to the black market.
Get enough silvers to buy a decent iron sword from a shady stall in the market.
Then head to the rift dungeon.
Clear it alone.
Take what was meant for someone else.
Risky. The dungeon had F-rank beasts — small but vicious. At his current stats, they could kill him. But with Evasion (F) from years of dodging thugs and stealing food for Mira, and Accelerated Adaptation, he could manage. "I'll go alone," he thought. "Clear it quick. Get the rewards. Sell any loot for more silvers. Use the potion recipe to get gold for better gear later."
He glanced at Mira.
She had finished sweeping and was watching him, broom in hand.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked, voice small.
He smiled — a real one this time.
"About how we're getting out of this shack," he said. "Soon."
She tilted her head.
"How?"
He ruffled her hair.
"Leave that to me. You just stay safe."
She nodded, trusting him as always.
He stood up, ignoring the twinge in his side. "Mira, I'm going out for a bit. Stay here. Lock the door."
She stopped sweeping, broom in hand.
"Where?" she asked, voice small.
He ruffled her hair again.
"To make things better. Trust me."
She nodded, trusting him as always.
He stepped outside, the door creaking behind him.
The alley was empty.
But he felt eyes on him.
The script was watching.
Waiting for the next erasure attempt.
He smirked.
"Bring it on."
The day had just begun.
(End of Chapter 1)