Kiara had not always borne that name.
In another world shaped by steel towers and satellite signals, she had been Kiara Hughes, a weapons architect whose designs altered wars without ever appearing on the battlefield. Generals requested her presence in sealed meetings. Engineers recognized her signature even when her name was stripped from documentation.
She built weapons that did not jam.
She built systems that did not fail.
She believed that control meant safety.
One winter, while resting in a coastal country far from home, an invitation arrived wrapped in luxury and obscene numbers. The world's largest criminal syndicate wanted her genius, her silence, and her loyalty.
She declined.
A few days later, she attended a party and hooked up with a guy. It was supposed to be a one-night stand with the handsome hunk, but when she opened her eyes, she wasn't in a hotel room. Instead, she woke on an island that did not exist on any public map.
She was not tortured. She was too valuable for that. Instead, she was given laboratories, materials, and protection. Armed men called her colleague while measuring gratitude in ammunition.
Five years passed.
She complied.
She memorized faces.
She memorized routines.
She built weapons for them while quietly building a future for herself.
She did not panic. She did not beg.
She waited.
On a storm-torn night when guard rotations faltered, she escaped through blood and rain. She stole a boat and navigated by fractured moonlight. When she finally reached a secure line and contacted former allies in the army, relief nearly surfaced.
Nearly.
The helicopters that arrived bore familiar insignias. The eyes behind the visors were not.
During her captivity, rumors had fermented. Defection. Contamination. Compromise. High command decided uncertainty was more dangerous than proof.
A genius who had lived too long among criminals was a liability.
Gunfire erased any illusion of reunion.
She had spent five years preparing to reclaim control. She had memorized every weakness on that island. She had planned her return with surgical patience.
She had not planned for her own side to erase her first.
Wounded and cornered at a cliff's edge, she chose the sea.
If she were to die, it would not be on someone else's command.
The ocean swallowed her without ceremony. Blood diffused into dark ribbons. Moonlight fractured above as water filled her lungs.
She had endured captivity.
She had endured betrayal.
But she would not endure obedience.
Darkness closed.
***
When awareness returned, it did not come with waves or salt.
It came with memories that were not hers.
A different sky.
A different body.
A different injustice.
Her soul had crossed into another world, settling into a young woman who bore the same name.
Kiara.
This Kiara had been born in the inner palace of the Phoenix Empire.
And removed just as quietly.
At birth, the child did not possess any Ether core, fated to be a plainfolk with no future. In the Empire, Ether was legitimacy. Nobility without it was shame, especially for women. As for the Royalty, it was even worse.
The royal princesses exist in this world so that the Emperors marry them off to another royal family or the son of Dukes. But who would want to marry a plainfolk who has high chances of giving birth to a child with no ether core?
Perhaps that is why, before the Emperor ever saw his daughter's face, her own mother exchanged her with a servant's newborn son before sending her away.
The true Kiara grew beneath open skies as the adopted child of a village chief. She laughed freely. She worked in fields. She learned to carry tools instead of jewels.
She also learned what it meant to feel nothing when others summoned light.
No Ether answered her.
No power stirred beneath her skin.
Only silence.
Regardless, there was peace in her life for 15 years.
However, that fragile peace ended one night when a burglar's blade silenced her foster parents. Their home was left broken. Their kindness ended without reason.
At 15 years old, she stood alone with no one to depend on and no skills to make career.
Fortunately for her, an old friend of her adoptive parents took her in, out of sympathy. He placed her as manager of a modest weapon store in a nearby town.
Five quiet years passed behind counters and inventory ledgers.
She endured whispers.
She endured pity.
She endured being lesser.
When Kiara Hughes's soul descended into that body, it did not meet resistance. The original spirit had already thinned beneath years of exclusion and grief. The collision was brief.
Memories merged.
Two lives aligned.
One erased for being too dangerous.
One diminished for being too powerless.
When she opened her eyes, the pattern was clear.
In one world, power had not saved her.
In this one, she had none at all.
She would accept neither role again.
And that was when the voice spoke.
*
A system unfolded within her mind, precise and emotionless.
Acquire a weapon store.
No other functions would activate until that requirement was met.
She resigned from her manager position without drama. For weeks, she observed the system's menus in silence, testing commands, measuring limitations, allowing her mind to settle within its new vessel.
Kiara's modest assets were sold. Coin replaced sentiment.
When enough funds were secured, she traveled to the Imperial Capital and purchased a forgotten shop in Averton.
Back to the present;
Now, alone behind closed shutters, she selected her reward.
Kiara opened her inventory. Five hundred translucent slots arranged in orderly rows greeted her vision. Several contained clothing, pouches of gold coins, and basic supplies. Among them rested a newly appeared gift box icon.
She selected it.
Light flared.
Notifications followed.
[Signboard acquired.]
[Android Assistant acquired.]
[Single Shot Pistol unlocked.]
[Bullet unlocked.]
Another flash flooded the room.
When the brilliance faded, a young man stood before her. His posture was straight, features symmetrical with deliberate precision. He appeared human, yet carried an exactness that betrayed design rather than birth.
[Name the assistant.]
Kiara studied him as she once studied the prototype.
"Zion." She spoke aloud
The android's eyes sharpened. He bowed. "Greetings, Master."
"I named you after my younger brother," she said evenly. "You will be my family from now onwards, Zion. I'm your Big Sister, and you are my younger brother. That will be your identity from now onwards."
"As you wish, Big Sister."
Information unfolded before her sight.
Name: Zion
Spirit Path: Fighter
Rank: Four-star, Intermediate
Active Skills:
Laser Eyes
Incineration
Lightning Fist
Passive Skill:
Battle Craze
"A capable guardian," she murmured. "Still too weak though."
[Earn credits to upgrade strength.]
The reminder appeared instantly.
She shifted focus.
"Open gallery."
A wide panel unfolded, filled with silhouettes of locked weapons. She selected the available ammunition.
[9 mm Bullet]
Price: 20 silver coins.
"Twenty silver for one round."
Next, the pistol.
[Single Shot Pistol]
Price: 5 gold coins.
Effective range: ten meters.
*
"Five gold for an ungraded weapon. A bit too expensive."
Five gold coins could feed a laborer for months. It could rent a modest home for a season. It could purchase ten iron blades from nearby shops.
Rarity determines value. Prices are fair.
"Three hundred gold remain after purchase. Time is sufficient."
She opened the quest panel.
[Main Quest: Sell your first system weapon.]
Reward: Dismantling Skill.
*
"What does dismantling do?"
[Select the owned object. Convert to credits based on quality.]
Her gaze moved toward the aging weapons lining the walls.
"That's useful."
She returned to the pistol interface.
Create.
Select quantity.
One.
Single Shot Pistol created.
The weapon materialized within her inventory. She withdrew it, feeling its weight settle naturally into her palm. The balance was precise. The grip is familiar.
This world favored blades and bows.
This felt like home.
"This feels right."
Her attention then shifted to the unused board icon.
"The signboard."
Change store name or keep current.
"Change."
Name your store.
"Nexus."
It had once been her code name in sealed briefing rooms.
A polished signboard appeared on the floor, bold letters etched in Western script.
She lifted it carefully.
Zion stood silent and ready.
Everything was aligned.
Two lifetimes.
One purpose.
She walked to the entrance and grasped the shutters.
This time, she would not build weapons for others to control her fate.
This time, she would own the battlefield.
The shutters rose.
"Let us begin."
*
Evening settled over the Imperial Capital with a patient hush, the crescent moon suspended like a silver blade above cathedral towers and tiled rooftops.
Through one of the narrower streets of the Averton district rolled a carriage. Shopping parcels were stacked neatly inside, perfumed with spices and silk. It bore the crest of
Pedestrians did not step aside because of the crest.
They moved because of the beasts.
Four massive wolves drew the carriage, their fur dark as midnight steel and their eyes faintly luminous beneath the lanternlight. Their paws struck the ground without wasted motion, each step measured, controlled, predatory. Ether coiled subtly around their limbs like unseen armor.
Rank four beasts.
Most onlookers did not know the number, yet instinct told them enough. Mothers pulled children close. Merchants flattened themselves against walls. A rank four wolf could tear apart a seasoned fighter of equal circle without much effort.
Within the carriage, a young man leaned back against velvet cushions, long fingers idly adjusting the cuff of his tailored coat. His features were sculpted with an almost celestial precision to the point one can only describe him as Godly Handsome.
Across from him sat a young woman draped in layered silk, her veil sheer enough to reveal the sharpness of her eyes and the impatience that often ruled them.
"Stop," the young man said suddenly, voice calm yet commanding.
The wolves slowed at once.
The woman frowned. "What's wrong?"
He did not answer immediately. His gaze had fixed upon something ahead, something that stained the dim street with color.
A signboard glowed at the mouth of a shabby lane, its letters cascading in seven shades from crimson to violet. Beneath the name was an unfamiliar emblem, two strange metal objects crossed in symmetry.
"Nexus," he read softly, the word resting easily on his tongue. "Those lights are quite interesting."
The woman followed his gaze and scoffed. "Another cheap trick to lure fools."
The sign's radiance reflected in his eyes.
"I want to see it."
She blinked at him. "It is a poor quarter."
"That makes it interesting," he replied, a faint smile touching his lips.
The carriage shifted course at his instruction.
The driver descended and entered the shop briefly before returning. "It is a weapon store, my lord."
The woman laughed under her breath. "Then it is surely filled with scrap iron."
The young man's gaze did not waver from the luminous board.
"Open the door."