Rise of the Broken System

Arthur walked home under the amber glow of the Fallowmere lanterns. The streets were quieter now. The chaos of the slums had curled back into its corners, and only distant laughter and the bark of a dog broke the silence.

His hand rested lightly against the cloth-wrapped dagger tucked into his coat.

Three silver coins, handed over without hesitation.

For a broken blade.

"What did I just buy?" he murmured.

"A risk," Aeon replied. "And maybe something more."

His pouch jingled softly. After everything — the fights, the theft attempt, the blood and bruises — he still had two silver and twenty-eight bronze left.

For the first time in months, he didn't feel desperate.

He felt… possibilities.

The door creaked open as he stepped inside. The familiar scent of cooked lentils and herbs filled the room. Myra sat at the table, hair tied back, sorting through a small stack of dried herbs and cloth rolls.

She looked up. "You're late again."

Arthur gave her a tired smile. "Wasn't running around the arena this time."

"Then?"

He sat down across from her, set the pouch on the table, and untied it.

Coins spilled out. A few clinked as they rolled slightly. The glint of silver lit her eyes.

She blinked. "You're joking."

"Dead serious."

Myra stared at the pile. "How?"

"Work. Fights. A few street rats who picked the wrong guy."

She let out a slow whistle, then looked at him. "You alright?"

"Yeah. Took some punches, but nothing serious."

She nudged the pouch with a finger, watching a bronze coin roll. "So what now?"

Arthur leaned back in the chair, arms crossed.

"I was thinking... maybe we save some. Upgrade our roof. Maybe patch the corner leaks."

"And the rest?"

He paused. "I don't know. Training gear, better food... maybe even rent a small stall at the weekend market. Try selling something."

Myra smiled faintly. "This might be the first time in years we're not scraping by."

Arthur nodded. "Let's not waste it."

The next morning,

Arthur woke early — his muscles stiff but steady.

After finishing another quick shift at the building site (where Jarrik didn't even bother hiding his curious glances anymore), he skipped the usual well drills. His body needed rest.

Instead, he walked deeper into Ashlight Ward — not the dangerous part, but not safe either. The kind of place where people kept their heads low and doors bolted.

He passed by an old tower-turned-orphanage. A fruit vendor with more bruises than apples. A dog dragging a broken wagon axle.

But he wasn't just wandering. He was watching.

"Status: Halrin, Vendor," he thought.

Processing...

Name: Halrin Drome

Age: 48

Level: 1

Strength: 2

Dexterity: 3

Intelligence: 5

Status: Fatigued

Occupation: Street Vendor

He tested it again — on a guard, a drunk, a pickpocket. None noticed. It was silent. Clean.

But then...

He spotted a man leaning by an alley, arms folded, eyes scanning the crowd.

Nothing unusual. Except his stance was too controlled. Too still.

Arthur glanced at him and whispered:

"Status: —"

ACCESS DENIED.

Arthur stopped walking.

"Aeon?"

"He's cloaked. Or higher-leveled than you. Either way, not good."

Arthur didn't turn around, just kept walking casually past the alley.

"Someone from the gangs?"

"Or something worse."

Arthur eventually returned to the forge path and walked past the shop again — just long enough to confirm something chilling.

The Cinder Crow blacksmith was gone.

And someone else stood behind the anvil now.

The forge looked the same.

Same scorched walls. Same crooked chimney spilling smoke. But the man behind the anvil wasn't the blacksmith from yesterday.

This one was younger. Lean. Dressed too well for sootwork. Sleeves rolled up but spotless. His eyes were golden — not a bright gold, but dull, matte, like dried blood on brass.

He looked up as Arthur passed.

"You bought the knife," he said.

Arthur stopped mid-step.

"I watched," the man continued. "Three silvers for a blade everyone thought worthless. That's a bold choice."

Arthur turned slowly. "You work here?"

The man smiled. "Something like that."

"Don't trust him," Aeon whispered. "That smile's practiced."

Arthur stepped cautiously closer. "What was it? That blade?"

The man gave a shrug. "No one ever figured it out. Found it in the Deep Quarry ruins two winters ago. We tried burning it, folding it, melting it down — nothing. Wouldn't bend. Wouldn't break. So we left it alone."

Arthur didn't say anything.

The man leaned forward. "It didn't respond to us. But it responded to you."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Curiosity," the man said smoothly. "Nothing more."

He tilted his head. "If you ever want to know more... come back. Ask for Dren."

Arthur stepped back, nodded once, then left.

"Aeon…?"

"He's not lying. But he's not being honest either."

"You think he knows about the system?"

"No. But he knows the blade isn't normal. And now he knows you are."

Later That Night

Arthur returned home, quiet.

The wind had picked up in Fallowmere. Dust swirled through the cracks in the boards, and the old shutters creaked like tired bones. Inside, Myra had already made stew. A candle flickered low.

She was reading something — an old herbal journal, notes scribbled in the margins. She looked up as he entered.

"You always walk like you're expecting a knife to your ribs," she said.

Arthur smirked. "Only because I nearly got one yesterday."

She got up, poured him a bowl of stew, and sat beside him on the floor.

"Still got those coins?"

He nodded, pulled the pouch and dropped it in her lap. She counted slowly, then looked up.

"We could buy new blankets," she said. "Or maybe proper shoes. You've worn those down to their souls."

"I was thinking maybe a lock on the door," Arthur replied.

She chuckled. "You? Paranoid?"

He gave her a look.

"Okay, fine. Lock first. Shoes later."

They ate in comfortable silence. No talk of fights. No talk of gangs. Just the quiet between two people who had nothing, but finally… a little something.

Arthur lay on his back, staring at the cracked ceiling. The dagger was under his pillow, wrapped in cloth.

But he couldn't sleep.

"Aeon?"

"Still awake, I see."

"What is this thing doing? I feel like it's breathing."

"That's because it is. Not like a living thing. But it's… stirring."

Suddenly, a faint pulse ran through Arthur's chest.

Like something moved beneath his skin.

[SYSTEM UPDATE]

Weapon Bond: Level 1 Progressed

New Passive Ability Unlocked: Edge Memory

You may now "remember" one enemy's combat move and store it in the dagger.

Memory Slot: [Empty]

This weapon grows with your experience. Continue using it to awaken more traits.

Arthur sat up slowly. He pulled the blade from under the pillow.

It was warm.

The edge looked just a little cleaner than before.

Sharper. Hungrier.

He stared at it for a long time.

"What the hell are you?" he whispered.

No answer.

But deep down… something smiled.