[London – The Slums of Westminster – The Broken Home Orphanage]
Lucian gasped, his eyes snapping open as he bolted upright in the cramped, narrow bed.
His chest heaved, lungs grasping for air that smelled of mold, wet rot, and unwashed bodies—the familiar perfume of the slums. For a moment, his mind was still drifting in the white wasteland. He could still feel the phantom sensation of freezing wind on his skin, the weight of black armor on his shoulders, and the visceral crunch of the black sword cleaving through the three-headed monster.
He looked down at his hands.
They were pale, thin, and trembling. No armor. No sword. Just the scarred, calloused hands of a nineteen-year-old orphan who hadn't eaten properly in three days.
"Was it... a dream?" he whispered, his voice raspy.
But deep down, he knew it wasn't. The cold settling in his bones was too real. The memory of that voice—Lucifer—echoing in the sanctuary was etched into his soul. Your flesh for My power. Your humanity for My crown.
He slumped back against the peeling wallpaper, rubbing his temples. He had survived the Trial. He had killed the guard. He had killed the monster. And now, he was back in this hellhole, with nothing to show for it but a headache.
How do I even check? Lucian thought, staring at the ceiling. If that wasn't a hallucination, there has to be proof. In the stories the nobles tell, the Awakened can see their strength.
"Status," he muttered, feeling foolish.
Instantly, the air in front of him shimmered. A semi-transparent blue screen materialized, hovering in the dim light. It looked like the interface of a game, stark and glowing against the grime of the room.
[SYSTEM APPRAISAL]
Name: Lucian
Race: Human (Deviant)
Sequence: Sin of Pride
Class: Lightseeker (Tier 1)
Patron: The Seventh Prince (Dormant: Lucifer)
[ATTRIBUTES]
Strength: 18 (Human Avg: 5)
Agility: 15
Spirit: 40 (Overloaded)
Ether: 3/100 (Critical Low)
[ACTIVE SKILLS]
King's Pressure (Lv. 1): Projects an aura of gravity based on the user's confidence. Current Range: 5 meters.
Shadow Weave (Lv. 1): Allows the user to repair armor or regenerate minor wounds using the shadows of the dead.
[PASSIVE TRAITS]
The Sin of Pride: The user is immune to Fear and Mental Corruption from lower-tier entities.
Constraint: The user cannot bow, beg, or flee in disgrace. Violation results in a permanent reduction of stats or serious physical backlash.
Lucian read every line, a mix of excitement and dread churning in his stomach.
"Strength eighteen... that's more than three times a normal man," he murmured, flexing his fingers. That explained how he had lifted the monster.
But the rest of it was gibberish. Ether? Spirit? Overloaded? And what the hell was a Lightseeker?
He frowned. He knew a little about the Awakened—you couldn't live in London without seeing them. The shiny, golden-armored knights of the Preservation Guild who walked the upper streets. He knew they followed the "Angelic Path." But he had never heard of a "Sin Sequence."
Well, it's not like I'm special, Lucian thought cynically. Every nineteen-year-old gets dragged into a Trial. Even the beggars on the corner probably passed their Tier 1 trials years ago. Just because you have a System doesn't mean you're rich.
He looked around the squalid room. The logic was sound. There were plenty of people in the slums who had low-level powers—Lighting a candle with a finger, hardening their skin to take a punch—but they were still poor. They still starved. Power required resources to grow, and without resources, you were just a thug with a fancy trick.
"Whatever," Lucian sighed, the adrenaline fading, leaving him exhausted. The filth of the room suddenly felt unbearable. "I need a bath. Then maybe I can go down to the factory district... see if they need extra hands for the night shift. Or if that fails, I can always sit by the bakery and hope for leftovers..."
THROB.
Pain exploded in his skull.
It wasn't a headache. It felt as if someone had driven a rusted nail through his temple and struck it with a sledgehammer.
"Gah—!"
Lucian doubled over, clutching his head with both hands. His vision blurred white. A new message flashed violently in red text across his vision, pulsing with the beat of his heart.
[WARNING]
[The User is harboring the thoughts of a lowlife.]
[The Sin of Pride finds your lack of ambition repulsive.]
[Constraint Violation Imminent: The Monarch does not beg. The Monarch does not labor for scraps.]
"What... the fuck..." Lucian gritted out, coughing violently. He tasted copper. Blood dribbled from his nose, staining his ragged shirt.
The pain was blinding. It wasn't just a warning; it was a correction.
He gasped for breath, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as the message burned into his retinas.
[Constraint: The user cannot bow, beg, or flee in disgrace.]
The realization hit him harder than the pain.
"So..." Lucian panted, wiping the blood from his lip. "You're saying... I can't work in a factory? I can't ask for food?"
The pain subsided slightly as he acknowledged it.
"I have to starve or steal. Those are my options?" He let out a dry, bitter laugh that turned into a cough. "Wow. Just wow."
He fell back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling with dead eyes.
He couldn't be a normal citizen anymore. He couldn't keep his head down and survive. If he tried to act like a nobody, his own power would kill him from the inside out.
"Fine," he whispered to the dormant Prince in his head. "If I can't flee from danger, and I can't beg for mercy... then I guess I have to be the one making the danger."
He lampooned his own fate with a twisted smile. He was a rat forced to act like a lion.
He closed his eyes, deciding to sleep off the migraine. Tomorrow, he would have to find a way to eat that didn't involve begging.
[Central London – Bond Street Market]
The morning fog clung to the cobblestones of Westminster, damp and heavy with the scent of coal smoke.
Bond Street was a cavernous plaza surrounded by towering Victorian buildings. The architecture was a mix of classic brick and industrial pipes, with steam venting from the sewers into the gray sky. Even at this hour, the plaza was bustling. Merchants pushed carts of preserved cabbage, and citizens in gray coats hurried to their designated work zones.
A soldier stepped out of the crowd.
He wore the distinct uniform of the City Watch—a long black trench coat and a stiff, peaked cap. He moved with a purpose, carrying a roll of thick parchment and a bucket of adhesive paste.
He approached the public notice board, a massive wall layered with advertisements for "Mana-Enriched Bread" and reminders that "The Tax on Sunlight has increased by 2%."
The soldier ignored the other papers. He took his brush, slapped a generous amount of paste over a poster regarding lost pets, and smoothed his new parchment over it.
The paper was stark white. The seal of the War Office was stamped in red ink at the bottom.
The soldier stepped back, admiring his work. He looked at the bustling crowd—the shopkeepers, the laborers, the young men and women unaware that their lives were about to change.
"It's going to get noisy from tomorrow onwards," the soldier muttered, adjusting his cap.
He turned and slipped into a nearby alleyway, vanishing into the shadows before anyone could ask him questions. The first crow of the morning landed on the notice board, staring at the fresh ink with black, intelligent eyes.