The hero they threw away.

The morning mist clung low to the twisted trees, curling around Andrew's boots like pale serpents. He moved cautiously, hand wrapped around the hilt of the crude blade he'd scavenged from one of the fallen revenants. His body ached from the skirmish the day before, but the rush of absorbing another skill—"Minor Healing"—still lingered like a pulse in his veins.

He'd barely slept.

The forgotten temple loomed behind him, its broken statues casting jagged shadows in the dawn light. It had given him clarity—and power—but also more questions than answers.

"SS+ Class: Mirror Strategist," Andrew muttered under his breath again, flipping open the torn page from the dead mage's journal. "Skill Replication. Buff Preservation. Tactical Projection. This class... was erased from records for a reason."

He stared at his palm, where a faint sigil now shimmered beneath the skin. When he focused, it glowed slightly.

With each soul he encountered, each skill he drew from those who had died unjustly in the disposal zone, Andrew felt the class evolving. It was as if the class grew with him—adjusted to his tactics, matched his drive.

He walked on.

Hours passed before the silence broke again—this time with guttural snarls and the sound of clashing steel.

Andrew crouched low, slipping between the foliage. Ahead, in a makeshift clearing, a group of bandits was attacking someone—two figures, backs against a rock, barely holding out.

Another exile, Andrew guessed. Or worse, bait.

Still, something in him stirred.

He stepped into the shadows, whispered a command, and activated his newly acquired skill: "Projected Shield."

A faint barrier shimmered in front of the struggling exiles, just enough to buy them time.

"What the—?!" one of the bandits shouted.

Andrew struck hard, using his environment. A loose stone. A fallen branch. He knocked two of the attackers unconscious in seconds, then disabled a third with precise strikes.

The final bandit turned and ran.

Andrew didn't pursue.

Instead, he approached the two figures—one injured, the other breathing heavily.

"You're... not one of them," the uninjured one said. She was tall, gaunt, maybe fifteen. Her companion—a younger boy—clutched his side in pain.

"I'm no one," Andrew replied. "But if you want to live, you'll move before more show up."

They did.

Andrew led them to a hidden alcove beneath a ruined stone bridge, lighting a small fire and sharing what little water he had. The girl's name was Sera. The boy, Dael. Both exiled. Both powerless. Until now.

"You... protected us," Dael said weakly. "Why?"

Andrew didn't answer at first. His eyes were on the fire. The flickering flames danced across his features, casting sharp shadows.

"Because I was thrown away too," he finally said. "And because surviving alone only gets you so far."

Sera glanced at him. "Are you forming a party?"

Andrew looked at the sky, then back at her.

"Not yet. But maybe one day. When the time is right."

His class granted power, yes—but it also required choice. Each skill he absorbed changed him. Each ally he chose would shape his tactics. And each enemy he faced… would prepare him for the reckoning he felt growing in the world's shadows.

Somewhere out there, his classmates still trained under divine guidance. Somewhere, the priestess who betrayed him still wore her holy veil. Somewhere, plans were being made.

But here, in the dirt and ash, Andrew carved his path.

And he would not be stopped.