Chapter 2: Kill and Gain

Kane sat rigid at the breakfast table, the weight of his father's gaze pressing down on him like a stone slab. The King's eyes, sharp and unyielding, lingered too long, a silent judgment Kane had carried across lives. The table groaned under a lavish spread—golden loaves still warm from the oven, spiced venison glistening with fat, fruit towers threatening to spill—but Kane's stomach twisted too tightly to care. He poked at a pear with his fork, appetite buried beneath the familiar churn of dread.

Two weeks. That's all he had until the entrance exam for Eryndor's Academy of Magic and Sword—a chance to rewrite the failure that had branded him in his past life. The school bore the name of Eryndor Valtarius, the first imperial king, a legend who'd felled the Demon Lord with a blade none could match and woven spells of the 10th circle, a feat unmatched since. He'd united the North—small kingdoms like Alderon bending to his banner—not through conquest, but with a vision of peace. No baseless violence, equality for all, education to uplift even the lowliest. He'd built the academy to train warriors and mages, raised towers to harness magic for the common good—high healing, teleportation, a better life. But when Eryndor died, his dream rotted. The imperial crown seized the North, kings reduced to hollow titles, and the magic towers turned inward, their power twisting into a cold religion. Now, only two forces ruled: the imperial king and the tower's enigmatic leader.

Kane knew the exam's weight from bitter memory. In his last life, he'd stood before half the kingdom's nobles, sword slipping from his sweaty grip, magic fizzling into nothing. A commoner's fist had cracked across his jaw, and the laughter still echoed in his skull. His father's pride had curdled into disappointment that day, a quiet wound that never healed—not until the kingdom burned, and Kane lost everything else too. This time, he swore, it would be different.

His mother's voice sliced through the tension, bright as a bell. "Rowan's letter came this morning," she said, beaming as she unfolded the parchment. "He bested Lord Caelen's son at the academy—split the boy's shield clean in two. They're calling him the Blade of Alderon now."

The King's chest swelled, pride lighting his stern face. "Mark my words, Rowan will bring glory to this kingdom unrivaled since Eryndor's day."

Kane's nails bit into his palms beneath the table, the sting grounding him as bitterness surged. Glory? He nearly scoffed aloud. That arrogant bastard will help tear this kingdom apart. He saw it still—the blood-soaked ruins, Rowan's absence when the imperial prince's banners rose. But he swallowed the words, letting them fester in silence as his mother prattled on.

Breakfast ended, and Kane escaped outside, the cool morning air brushing his flushed skin. Alone by the palace gardens, his mind drifted to the night before—the glowing text that had seared into his vision after the phoenix's fire: Welcome to the System of IRITH. A second chance, it had promised. Yet his arms still quaked under a sword's weight, and his fingers couldn't coax a spark from the air. Where was the strength he'd chosen?

He scanned the empty courtyard, a flicker of hope warring with doubt. The memory of that golden heat stirred in his chest, a faint echo of the phoenix's power. "IRITH," he said, voice low but firm, as if testing a key to an unknown lock.

A shiver ran through him, sharp and searing like that blinding light, and the air shimmered. Text flared into existence, hovering like a specter before his eyes:

[System of IRITH]

[Chart of Kane]

[Strength: 3]

[Magic: 1]

[Dark Magic: 0]

[Special Ability: 0]

[Occupation: Not Yet Decided]

[Mana: 10]

[Rule: Kill and Gain]

The numbers glowed faintly, their low values a stark mirror to his weakness. Strength at a measly 3—barely enough to swing a dagger without strain. Magic at 1, a pitiful flicker he'd never mastered. Dark Magic and Special Ability both at 0, untapped and unknown. Mana a scant 10, a trickle compared to the torrents he'd need for Eryndor's trials. And that rule—Kill and Gain—pulsed in sickly green below, sharp-edged and festering. Kane's pulse quickened, a knot of unease tightening his chest, shadowed by a grim resolve. No riddles, no mercy—just a cold, brutal path. He didn't flinch, though. If death was the price of strength, he'd pay it. He'd seen too much to hesitate now.

Goblins. They skulked near the forest's edge, small and weak enough for a boy with a dagger and no skill. He slipped from the palace grounds, a blade pilfered from the armory tucked against his hip. The forest swallowed him quickly, its air growing chill as branches arched overhead like skeletal claws. Shadows pooled thick in the undergrowth, and the silence pressed against his ears.

Then he saw it—a lone goblin, its mottled green skin blending with the leaves. It prowled on bandy legs, claws scraping the dirt, a low growl rumbling from its throat. Kane crouched, gripping the dagger until his knuckles ached. This is it, he thought, steadying his breath. My first step.

He lunged, aiming for its back. But the goblin whirled with unnatural speed, his blade slicing empty air. Yellow eyes locked onto his, gleaming with twisted cunning. It grinned—a jagged, toothy leer—and let out a screech that sank into Kane's bones like ice.

A rustle stirred the shadows. Kane's breath hitched as a snarl echoed behind him, then another to his left. He spun, heart hammering, as shapes slunk from the undergrowth—one, two, three more goblins, then a fourth. Their smirks mirrored the first, sharp and wicked, as they closed in, slow and deliberate. Guttural chuckles wove a net of dread around him. This isn't right, his mind screamed. He'd come to hunt, but the forest had turned on him. This wasn't a fight—it was a trap, and he was the prey.