The Pinnacle of Skill Effects

In the midst of battle's chaos, Eamon found himself at a crossroads—not on the field of combat, but within the silent, glowing interface of his Dimensional Codex. The system's prompt flashed before his eyes, urging him to choose a new skill. Though a part of him longed to unleash the raw fury of Frost Strike, he knew better than to attract undue attention. In this brutal world, the mere hint of a connection to the Lich King's power could betray him to those who hunted heretics and undead alike. With a steady resolve, he tapped on the option labeled "Crusader Strike."

"Crusader Strike," he murmured under his breath, a decision as pragmatic as it was cautious. He imagined the rival factions in his former life—knights and paladins alike—picking apart the evidence from the fallen. Choosing a skill tied to the sacred rather than the accursed was, after all, a matter of survival.

No sooner had the words left his lips than the system chimed in with a familiar digital cadence:

  [Acquired Skill: Crusader Strike]

  [Skill Held: Crusader Strike]

  [Proficiency: D (Novice)]

  [Upgradeable]

A prompt then materialized, its question as blunt as it was foreboding:

  "Would you like to use Dimensional Points to upgrade your proficiency?"

Eamon's mind raced, yet his decision was swift. "No," he replied quietly, almost to himself. Having once designed the very system that now governed his fate, he knew all too well the precious nature of Dimensional Points. In a world where every point could summon a soul stone or bolster his defenses against the relentless undead, splurging them on a mere upgrade was a luxury he could ill afford. It was, after all, the hallmark of a true non-fortunate—a self-discipline born of constant necessity.

With that decision made, Eamon closed the interface, and the steady hum of the Codex's magic faded into the background. In the real world outside, the battle raged on. The local militia, though battered and few, were already regrouping. Bodies of the fallen lay strewn across the cobbled streets of Tristurm, and the air was thick with the acrid scent of spilled blood and desperate determination.

Eamon cast his gaze about him. The town's defenses were a patchwork of hastily erected barricades and the trembling resolve of men who knew they were fighting a losing battle. The undead—slow yet inexorable—moved as a single, unstoppable force. Even if Tristurm's walls held for a time, he knew that when the next horde arrived, their desperate resistance would be all that stood between order and total annihilation.

In that fleeting moment of quiet before the next assault, Eamon allowed himself a brief reflection. He was no hero destined for epic glory; he was merely a survivor—a reluctant executor of fate in a game whose rules he once wrote. Every decision, every cut of his enchanted blade, was a calculated act of defiance against a world that seemed determined to crush the light of civilization.

The weight of his realization settled over him like a shroud. The struggle before him was not a battle for victory but a desperate, dying stand against overwhelming odds. With the militia already rallying and the first distant moans of the undead echoing through the narrow streets, Eamon gripped Frostmourne tighter. He steeled his heart, knowing that every swing of his blade was both a small victory and a reminder of the fragile line between life and oblivion.

In this forsaken moment, as the forces of darkness gathered once more at the gates of Tristurm, Eamon embraced the bitter truth: their fight was nothing more than a final, desperate resistance—a dying gasp against an endless night. And so, with the cold precision of a man who had learned to value survival above all else, he stepped forward into the fray, ready to carve out yet another moment of defiant light amid the consuming shadows.