Chapter 15 : Skill Gifting

Caldus leaned back, his voice calm and patient.

"Let me explain it with an old story," Caldus continued. "In a faraway kingdom, there was a prince. He wasn't famous, and his name is long forgotten. But he was gifted with the spear. Day after day, he trained, creating his own unique style. It didn't have a name—it was just something he developed on his own."

"Eventually, the prince awakened. But even after gaining the system's power, he kept using his stoped using his own spear style. Over the years, he became king. Then, during a war, his kingdom was attacked. In the final battle, wounded and desperate, he used his spear style one last time."

"But that time, something changed. His mana mixed with his movements. His body and spirit pushed beyond their limit. And the system recognized it. A skill was born—based on his art, shaped by his emotion, and strengthened by his mana."

Caldus looked at Nerion.

"That's how it works. A Skill is made when instinct, training, and mana come together. The system doesn't just hand them out. It watches, and when something special happens… it gives it a name."

"There are many types of skills—combat, magic, crafting, strategy, support. But all of them come from the same place: action."

Caldus gave Nerion a long look, his voice softer now.

"Each skill, Nerion… every single one, was once made by someone or something. A person. A creature. Maybe even a god."

"The stories behind them may be lost. Their names forgotten. But at one point, those skills were precious—born from struggle, desire, or survival. To their creators, they mattered."

"Even the skills you'll find in the Tower… They weren't just placed there. Someone earned them. Lived them. Maybe died for them. Skills carry more than power—they carry pieces of the ones who made them."

Nerion looked thoughtful, eyes fixed on his hands.

"So… if all skills are made, not given… does that mean I can make my own too?"

Caldus let out a low, dry chuckle—rough, but not unkind.

"Maybe one day," he said, a faint smile touching his scarred face. "When you've bled for something. Trained long enough. Believed in it deep enough…"

He tilted his head slightly.

"Then yes. You might forge something the system has never seen before."

Nerion's fingers curled slightly, like they were already imagining holding a sword—or shaping something more.

Caldus leaned back again, voice steady.

"Skills, boy, aren't all the same. They're divided by categories—but the first and most important is rank."

Nerion nodded slowly.

"Like Ember-rank?"

"Exactly. An Ember-rank skill is designed for someone who's at the Ember stage. Your body, your mana flow, your soul—they match that level. If someone stronger uses it, the skill won't show its true potential. It might even fail to activate properly."

Nerion raised an eyebrow.

"Wait, so stronger people can't use lower-rank skills?"

Caldus smiled faintly.

"They can try—but it's like fighting with a child's sword. Most weak skills can't even withstand higher-rank power. They'll snap under the weight. Unless a skill has something truly rare or exceptional… it gets discarded."

Nerion tilted his head again.

"Then what if someone weaker—like me—tries to use a higher-rank skill?"

Caldus's face darkened slightly, the smile vanishing.

"Then it could kill you."

"A skill too far beyond your current rank will crush your mana channels. Burn your nerves. Shatter your soul if you're not lucky. It's like trying to pour a river through a straw. You'll break before the skill bends."

Nerion swallowed.

"So even a skill can kill its user…"

"If used recklessly? Yes. That's why knowing your limits matters. Rank isn't just about strength—it's about what your body and soul are ready to carry.Now rarity of any skill "

"Rarity, simply put, is a measure of how unique and powerful a skill is. It determines not just its immediate strength, but also its growth potential over time."

"There's a system to skill rarity. From the weakest to the strongest, it's usually ranked like this: F, E, D, C, B, A, S or even more because there are no limits in tower"

Caldus glanced at Nerion, eyes steady.

"Now listen carefully, boy. The rarity of a skill isn't just for show. The rarer the skill, the more effective it is. Stronger. Cleaner. More efficient in how it uses mana."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"A person with a high-rarity skill—say A or S-grade—will always have an edge over someone using a C or D-grade one. They'll grow faster, fight better, and adapt more quickly."

Nerion asked quietly,

"Even if the person with the weaker skill trains harder?"

Caldus didn't flinch.

"Hard work matters. But a rare skill is like a sharp blade—it cuts deeper with less effort. Even if you train day and night with a dull one, you'll always be a step behind someone born holding something sharper."

He tapped his chest lightly with a finger.

"Skills are themselves rare even a f rank , common awakener dream to get one that's why they contract soul pacts and blood bounds with powerful people and houses,That's why families hoard rare skills. Why kingdoms go to war over a single scroll. A high-rarity skill doesn't just win battles—it shapes legacies."

Verran, the ever-composed butler, stepped inside, his gloved hands carrying a blackwood box faintly pulsing with emberlight. Behind him walked a tall figure with a powerful gait and a storm in his eyes—Count Alaric Ophirein, his cloak still dusted from travel.

The moment Alaric laid eyes on Nerion, bloodied and standing near Caldus, he froze. The next instant, he rushed forward, abandoning all noble formality.

"Nerion!"

He ran and pulled his son into a tight, protective hug, not caring about the blood or dirt. He held him for a long second, then stepped back and grabbed his shoulders, his eyes wide with alarm.

(Nerion had changed his clothes but still his skin was covered with blood and dirt)

"Why are you not in the infirmary?! This blood—this goo on you—"

His voice sharpened, and then he touched Nerion's hand, pausing. His expression changed as he sensed something impossible.

"You've… awakened? Your mana circuit—and your circle—both open?!"

Alaric's voice rose, full of disbelief and concern. He turned to face Caldus with a shout.

"Is this your doing, grandpa ?! He could've been seriously hurt! Why is he here?! Why didn't anyone inform me?!"

He turned back to Nerion, frustrated and afraid.

"You should've come to me first! You should've asked before entering that test!"

Caldus didn't flinch. Sitting still in his chair, he gave his son a dry look.

"He passed the test on his first try."

Alaric blinked.

"What?"

Caldus' lips curled into a faint smirk.

"And those mana circuits and that circle? They were gifts from the Tower. Not mine. I didn't help him. I don't even have hands, remember?"

He raised the ends of his ruined arms with a dry chuckle.

"All of it—his achievement. Your boy's strength. And his will."

Silence settled for a moment. Alaric stared at his son—his tired, bloodstained son—standing tall with power thrumming through his veins. Then the fury in his eyes began to fade, replaced by something else:

A quiet, powerful pride.

"You really did it," Alaric said softly.

Nerion nodded, still catching his breath.

"Yeah… I did."

Verran, who had respectfully waited nearby, finally stepped forward, presenting the blackwood box.

"My Lord," he said, bowing slightly to Alaric, "the Ember-Rank box—as per your earlier command. Shall I prepare it?"

With practiced care, Verran unlocked the rune-sealed box and slowly lifted the lid. A soft glow spilled out, casting warm, flickering light across the room like firelight on ancient stone.

Inside lay three large crystal balls , each the size of a man's hand, smooth and faceted like glass—but glowing from within with pulsing mana. Strange symbols and shifting letters moved across their cores, constantly changing, as though alive. Crimson-gold light shimmered from each shard, casting dancing reflections on the walls.

Nerion took a step forward, eyes wide.

Alaric let out a quiet breath, nostalgia heavy in his voice.

"This brings back memories… I remember the day you gave me these Ember-rank crystals, Grandpa . The light… the heat… it hasn't changed."

He looked down at the three glowing relics as though seeing old friends.

"They felt heavy back then too."

Nerion glanced between the two men, then looked back at the glowing shards.

"What… are these?"

Caldus gave a small chuckle, voice gravelly but calm.

"One of the rarest things you'll ever see, boy."

He nodded toward the box.

"These are three Ember-Rank skill crystals. Each is B-Rarity, which means they weren't made by just anyone. These weren't found—they were forged through battle, mastery, and will of our ancestors ."

"Inside each of these is a skill waiting to be awakened by someone strong enough—and worthy enough—to carry it."

Nerion's eyes didn't leave the crystals.

"They're… big," he whispered.

Caldus nodded with a grin.

"Big in size, and bigger in consequence. A skill's power is measured not just by rank, but by rarity. And the higher the rarity, the deeper it digs into your soul—and the farther it can take you."

Grandpa leaned in, his blind eyes gleaming faintly under the candlelight.

"Listen well, boy. Of the three, the rarest is the meditation skill."

He tapped the crystal gently with what remained of his limb.

"Even the Margrave—your father's liege—would wage war on us if he knew we still had this. Meditation skills aren't just for calming the soul—they're the very foundation of awakening."

Nerion frowned.

"Why? It's just breathing and focus, right?"

Grandpa chuckled, dry and low.

"Only a child would say that. An awakener forms their mana circuits and circles through meditation. A poor man with a crude, F-rank skill may spend twenty years crawling to ten circles—if he survives. But your sister? She reached ten in six years… because of this very skill. Ember Rank. B rarity."

He paused, voice dropping to a whisper.

"Only nobles of duchy-level or higher, and royalty, are known to possess such a treasure. This isn't a weapon. It's legacy. Blood. Power. People kill for less, Nerion. Kingdoms burn for less."

Grandpa leaned back slightly, a rare smile touching his scarred lips.

"Now… go on, boy. Use the crystals. Take what your blood has earned."

Alaric stepped forward, eyes warm yet proud.

"Let me help you, Nerion. This is a moment you'll remember the rest of your life."

He gently took Nerion's hand and guided it over the three glowing crystals. Each one pulsed with ancient energy—symbols shifting across their surfaces like whispers from the past.

"Slow your breath. Feel your mana, not just as power, but as a part of you. Now, flow it into each crystal, one by one."

As Nerion obeyed, his mana responded—like it recognized the legacy within them. The first crystal flared bright red, the second silver-blue, and the third a smoky gold. Then—

[System Message]

You have absorbed the following skill crystals:

— Skill Acquired: [Breath of the Inner Flame](B-type,Rank-Ember – Meditation)

— Skill Acquired: [Fangcoil Sword Doctrine] (B-type,Rank-Ember – Knight Sword Art)

— Skill Acquired: [Ashstep Mirage] (B-type,Rank-Ember – Movement)

Your body resonates with ancestral energy.

Unique Compatibility Detected… Adjusting skill synchronization…

Nerion staggered slightly, a rush of warmth, clarity, and instinct flooding through him. His breath slowed, his heart beat steadier—he felt them: the circuits, the forming patterns of mana inside deep within him.

Alaric grinned.

"Good. They've accepted you."

Grandpa nodded solemnly.

"The legacy walks again."

Nerion's eyes burned with excitement as he clenched his fists.

"Yes… now I can finally enter the Tower. I'll use these skills there, I know it!"

Grandpa sighed deeply, rubbing his temple with the stump of his arm.

"Why do you sometimes speak before thinking, boy? Moments like these I wonder if you were dropped on the head as a child."

His voice turned stern.

"Don't rush into the Tower. Power without control is just a good way to get yourself killed. Learn your skills. Master them. Then talk about towers."

Nerion opened his mouth to argue, but Alaric cut in with a chuckle.

"He's right. And more importantly—you stink."

He stepped closer, grimacing exaggeratedly.

"Go take a proper bath. Wash off the blood and dirt. It's already night, and your body needs rest."

Nerion scratched the back of his head, finally noticing how stiff and uncomfortable his robes felt.

"Alright, alright. I'll deal with everything tomorrow."

Alaric raised an eyebrow, his tone shifting.

"Your mother is still angry, by the way. You missed your own awakening banquet. Didn't even greet the guests."

Nerion shrugged as he turned toward the hall.

"Didn't have time for that, you know… being test and all."

Alaric's voice was firmer now.

"That's no excuse. You're a noble of House Ophirein. We don't just fight—we represent. Hold yourself with some decorum. Our name means something."

Nerion paused for a moment, then gave a tired nod.

"I understand, Father."

Grandpa grunted behind them.

"Let him go take some sleep. He's earned that much."

Alaric smiled.

"Fine. But tomorrow, you start learning what it really means to be awakened."

Nerion stepped into his room, the door clicking shut behind him. The weight of the day finally pressed down—on his shoulders, his eyes, his limbs. He stripped off the clothes and stepped into the warm bath prepared by the servants. The heat soaked into his sore muscles, chasing away the lingering chill of the awakening chamber.

Later, standing in front of the tall mirror beside his bed, he examined himself.

A boy stared back—no, not quite a boy anymore. Five-foot-seven. Shorter than his towering siblings. The twins, Riven and Aelric, stood proud at six-three. Seraphine, his sister, was taller still, six-five and broad-shouldered like a war goddess.

But Nerion wasn't weak. Not anymore. His frame wasn't bulky, but every line of his body was carved from relentless training. A lean strength built not from brute force, but precision and persistence. He traced the faint marks of scars earned in spars and drills, the quiet evidence of a path walked without magic—until now.

He smiled faintly. For once, he didn't feel like the little brother lost in the shadows.

"Tomorrow," he whispered to his reflection, "everything begins."

He crawled into bed, the sheets soft against his clean skin. As he lay in the quiet dark, his thoughts swirled with mana circuits, glowing crystals, and the awe in his father's eyes.

Sleep took him quickly, dreams filled with towers stretching into infinity.