Rise of the Broken System

Arthur counted his winnings carefully — a full silver coin, smooth and cold in his hand, and ten bronze tucked beside it.

He'd never held a silver before.

It was the kind of coin nobles flipped for fun. For him, it was survival — and maybe, just maybe, a step toward something greater.

The next morning, the sun barely peeked over the rooftops of Fallowmere when Arthur finished his shift. His sleeves were rolled up, arms dusted in dry mortar, but he barely looked winded.

He was washing off at the water barrel when his foreman — a thick-bellied man named Jarrik — walked over, arms crossed, eyes squinting.

"You been on something lately, Greystone?" Jarrik asked.

Arthur blinked. "Sorry?"

"You used to drag your feet just to lift half a beam. Now you're finishing loads faster than the lads with twice your size."

He leaned closer. "And you don't even look tired."

Arthur shrugged. "Been sleeping better. And... training a bit."

Jarrik grunted. "Well, whatever it is, I'm not complaining. Just... keep your nose clean. This city eats the bold."

"I hear you," Arthur said, nodding.

After work, Arthur returned to the alley near the well — his usual training spot. He started his drills: punches, kicks, footwork. The strain felt good. Familiar.

He could feel the strength in his muscles — coiled and precise, not just brute force anymore.

Then he paused, took a deep breath, and focused.

"Status: Grail the Mason," he thought, eyeing one of the workers passing by.

Processing...

Name: Grail Fenwick

Age: 34

Level: 2

Strength: 6

Dexterity: 3

Intelligence: 4

Status: Slightly Tired

Occupation: Stone Mason

Arthur smirked.

"Works. And no reaction. He didn't even feel it," he whispered to Aeon.

"Good. Keep testing it — carefully. Try to learn how to feel intent without focusing too long. The more subtle you are, the safer you'll be."

Later that afternoon, Arthur stopped by the market to grab a loaf of bread and some dried meat. As he reached into his pocket and passed the vendor a silver coin, he caught something — a flash of motion in the corner of his eye.

Three young men standing across the lane. Dirty coats. Quick glances. That twitchy look of street hyenas spotting easy prey.

He kept walking like he hadn't noticed.

He turned down a side alley — narrow, damp, and empty. As expected, the footsteps followed.

A voice called out.

"Hey! You dropped something shiny back there."

Arthur didn't turn. "Don't think I did."

The tallest of them stepped out from behind a barrel. A knife flashed.

"No shame in sharing, friend. Silver's a heavy thing to carry alone."

Arthur stopped. Turned slowly. "You want the coin?"

The thug smiled. "Yeah."

"Come and get it."

They moved fast — faster than most common thieves. But not faster than him.

The first rushed in with a dagger. Arthur ducked low, grabbed his wrist mid-swing, and twisted. The blade clattered to the cobblestone.

The second thug lunged. Arthur drove his elbow into the man's gut, then swept his legs out from under him.

The third froze. He hesitated — too long. Arthur was already in front of him. A straight punch to the nose sent him crashing into the wall behind.

All three groaned on the ground, coughing and cursing.

Arthur checked their pockets. Two had small pouches.

Twelve bronze... six bronze...

And one guy had... three silvers?

He raised an eyebrow. "Not bad."

From the other pocket: another silver and some copper crumbs.

He stood over them.

"I don't mind giving a coin to someone who asks. But trying to take it?"

He turned and walked away, tossing one pouch onto a nearby rooftop for the crows.

Aeon's voice came quietly. "That was efficient."

"They started it," Arthur muttered, pocketing the silver. "I just made it worth my time."

He now had 5 silver and 28 bronze coins, he sure was earning money.

The forge sat tucked between two crumbling buildings, marked by nothing but a crow's skull nailed above the door.

Arthur pushed through the heavy curtain of soot-stained cloth and stepped inside.

The heat hit like a wall. Iron, sweat, and coal choked the air. A single fire pit glowed in the center, and beside it stood a shirtless blacksmith — lean and wiry, arms like iron rods, a black feather tattoo curling up his collarbone.

He didn't look up.

"You here for something sharp, or just the heat?" the man grunted.

"Looking around," Arthur said.

The smith gave a grunt that meant suit yourself and went back to hammering.

Arthur wandered past racks of tired weapons — dented swords, splintered hafts, rusted knives barely hanging onto their hilts. This wasn't a merchant's display. It was a graveyard.

Then something stopped him.

Not a sound. Not a movement. Just… something.

A pull.

He turned his head. In the far corner, beneath a rack of broken polearms, was a cloth-wrapped blade shoved between two crates.

Arthur crouched and tugged it free. The moment his fingers touched it, a shiver ran up his arm — faint, almost imagined.

The dagger looked awful. Dull steel. Chipped edge. Handle wrapped in old, cracked leather. It didn't even have a sheath.

But the weight… it felt right.

"That blade," Aeon said softly. "Something's off."

Arthur didn't speak.

"Not cursed. Not magical. But... old. Deep. Like it remembers something you don't."

He turned to the blacksmith. "What's the story with this one?"

The man finally glanced up — squinted, then scoffed. "That thing? Scrap metal. Came in a pile from the ruins near the Deep Quarry. Can't sharpen it. Won't heat right. Been meaning to melt it down, but it refuses to take shape. Useless."

Arthur looked at it again. It was cold. Not temperature-cold. Just... dead.

But it felt like it was waiting.

"How much?"

The smith raised a brow. "One silver, if you're desperate."

"I'll pay three."

The blacksmith paused mid-hammer. "Three?"

Arthur nodded. Calm.

"You want a sheath with that too?" the man asked.

"No. Just the blade."

The blacksmith shook his head, muttering, "People are mad these days…" He scooped the coins and waved him off. "It's yours, freak."

Arthur stepped back into the street, the weight of the dagger in his palm. He turned into a quiet alley and unwrapped it again.

The blade was dull, uneven. Ugly. But there was something…

[SYSTEM NOTICE]

Foreign Item Registered.

Weapon Tree Unlocked — "Unnamed Dagger"

This weapon has bound itself to you. Origin unknown.

Traits Unlocked:

Sleeper's Edge — This weapon gains power through battle. Its edge sharpens with blood.

Echo Slot (Locked) — Can store and replay one combat technique seen in battle.

Bonded to the Chosen — Cannot be stolen or wielded without your will.

Arthur blinked.

"Aeon… this dagger just—"

"Bound itself. Yes. I've never seen this happen outside of relic-class weapons."

"So what is it?"

"I don't know. And that's what bothers me."

Arthur stared at the blade, breath slow.

It was worthless. Broken. Forgotten.

And yet now… it was his.

And somehow, he knew it wouldn't stay silent forever.