A New Addition
Ian sat half-submerged in the steaming pool, the water rippling gently around him. The sharp scent of minerals clung to air, thin mist rising in soft waves. One hand rested on the pool's edge. The other gripped the hilt of a dagger.
[Vowbreaker]
Grade: 4 (BeastBound)
Type:
Abilities:
The panel flickered beside his vision, hovering like a silent warden.
Vowbreaker. A name he hadn't given it.
It had been assigned—named not by his will, but by the System. As though the blade itself had a will, or history, beyond him.
His fingers tightened around the worn hilt. Its bone-forged grip felt cold, even in the hot water.
"How the hell am I supposed to awaken it?" he muttered, his eyes narrowing at the display.
No prompt. No guidance. Just the ominous placeholder:
With a flick of his hand, the blade vanished back into his inventory. The mist of the pool settled again.
He turned slightly, the glow of torchlight flickering against his damp skin.
"Now... you," he muttered.
"Come."
The air shifted.
Suddenly, the steam turned bitter.
The soft rippling of the water drowned by a low, unnatural growl. Shadows moved along the walls, lengthening, thickening into smoke.
A purple mist bled across the room. The torches dimmed. The shadows writhed.
Then—two shapes erupted from the darkness.
The first, familiar: Pit Brawler, his earliest Soulbound. Hulking, kneeling at the edge of the pool. The silhouette of a human, but warped and blackened by death's touch. Bone cracked beneath rotted flesh. Its head bowed in silence.
But the second...
The second was new.
It padded from the void with quiet menace, each step unnervingly soft. A massive wolf-like beast, easily over the size of a carriage, its body formed entirely of writhing, mist-shrouded shadows.
Its fur was like smoke bound by skin, constantly shifting and alive. Crimson eyes glowed like molten cores, but within them swirled a purple void, deep and endless.
It stood beside Pit Brawler on the stone, head lowered. And it stared directly into Ian's soul.
Ian grinned.
"What a perfect abomination you are," he whispered, extending his hand to run through its semi-ethereal mane.
It was like stroking smoke laced with frost.
He turned toward the System's panel, the data forming in front of his eyes.
---
[SoulBound: 2]
> Pit Brawler (Human)
Soul Strength: 5
Abilities: None
Upgrade Cost: 500 NE
> Ashvaleth (Predator Beast)
Soul Strength: 32
Abilities: Fear Paralysis, Swift Step
Upgrade Cost: 7800 NE
---
Ian stared at the fourth line for a long while.
"That's a lot," he muttered. "Seven thousand eight hundred…"
And his current reserves?
---
[Necrotic Energy]: 900 / 2000
[Soul Essence]: 1500
---
Even now, after slaying what felt like a forest's worth of beasts, he wasn't even close.
Necrotic Energy didn't just rise from killing. It came from proximity—death itself. From the stench of rotting flesh, from being drenched in the presence of slaughter.
A dark current he absorbed, often without realizing it.
But this meant…
If he were near a war, a battlefield, a city on the brink—he could fuel his rise far faster.
He waved his hand.
"Go back."
Both soulbound disappeared into the shadows—Ashvaleth vanishing in a plume of violet mist, Pit Brawler folding into himself like ash in wind.
The room fell silent again.
He opened his full status panel.
---
[Level: 17]
[Health]: 500 / 500
[Mana]: 50 / 50
[Necrotic Energy]: 900 / 2000
[Soul Essence]: 1500
[Corruption]: 3%
[Attributes]
STR: 39
AGI: 43
INT: 85
CHARISMA: 14
---
The numbers looked nothing like the ones he'd seen when he first awakened in this world. Back then, he was barely a man—closer to cattle in the eyes of others.
But now?
Now, he was more than the worthless dreg mark and the others left to die.
And growing stronger every day.
Still, the upgrades would take time.
Too much time, Ian thought. I need a way to feed it faster…
His thoughts were cut off by the sound of footsteps. A servant approached quietly, head bowed. In her arms: a neatly folded set of clothes and a drying towel.
She placed them on a small table beside the pool.
"The Princess awaits you in the courtyard," she said. "You should prepare and meet her."
Ian nodded wordlessly.
The servant left as quietly as she'd come.
Ian sighed, rising from the water.
His breath caught for a second as the cool air kissed his damp skin. He stepped from the pool and reached for the towel, drying off in silence.
Then he pulled on the new clothes.
Dark garments, carefully tailored.
A deep black tunic lined with grey threads—threads etched with subtle patterns, like sigils. The fabric clung comfortably to his form, tight enough for movement but elegant enough for formality.
Over it, a sleeveless cloak—short, draping just past the waist, with a high collar and silver clasp. The trousers were equally dark, tucked into polished boots reinforced with metal tips.
Finally, the gloves. Black, stitched from beast-hide, reinforced at the knuckles. When Ian slipped them on, they fit like another skin.
He looked at his reflection in the polished wall mirror.
He didn't look like a slave.
He didn't even look like a man anymore.
He looked like a shadow, dressed in flesh and steel.
A necromancer.
A monster.
He stretched his fingers, flexing within the gloves.
"Let's hear what you have to say, Princess," he muttered.
And then he turned, walking toward the door.