The skeleton did not look divine.
It did not even look useful.
Its bones were wrong.
Too thin.
Too fragile.
Cracks ran through the skull like fractures in old porcelain. Several ribs were missing entirely. One arm ended in a jagged stump where a hand should have been.
It looked like something that had already died twice—
and failed both times.
And yet—
on its back—
two faint structures protruded.
Not wings.
Not fully.
But something that had once wanted to be wings.
Ruger stared at it in silence.
This… was born from the Origin?
For a brief moment—
a thought crossed his mind.
Maybe the gods are not what they claim to be.
His will extended.
Touched the skeleton.
Connection.
A thin thread formed between them.
Not control.
Not domination.
Something closer to… ownership.
He felt its structure.
Its weakness.
Its incomplete existence.
And something else—
deep inside—
A resistance.
Faint.
Barely there.
But real.
Ruger narrowed his eyes.
"...Interesting."
His mana was gone.
Drained completely.
Fatigue followed immediately.
Heavy.
Oppressive.
He exhaled slowly.
Then—
almost casually—
"You're mine."
A pause.
"Your name is Floya."
The skeleton did not react.
But just before it dissolved—
returning to that strange place beyond perception—
Ruger felt it again.
A flicker.
Not obedience.
Something sharper.
Annoyance.
Silence.
Ruger blinked.
"…No."
He frowned.
"Skeletons don't feel anything."
He dismissed the thought.
But it did not fully leave him.
The next morning—
he summoned it again.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Every time—
the same broken creature emerged.
Same cracks.
Same missing bones.
Same fragile, unfinished wings.
No improvement.
No evolution.
And yet—
That faint presence remained.
Watching.
Ruger accepted it.
Not because it was enough—
But because it was his.
By evening—
his mana had recovered.
He needed a drink.
The Oak Grove tavern was loud.
Too loud.
Laughter.
Shouting.
Coins hitting tables.
Life.
Messy. Noisy. Pointless.
Ruger stepped inside anyway.
"Ruger!"
Eit.
Same grin.
Same arrogance.
Same complete lack of discipline.
"You've been gone for months. Thought you grew a conscience."
Ruger sat.
Drank.
"I tried," he said flatly.
"Didn't take."
Laughter exploded around the table.
Nobles.
Failures.
Second sons.
Third-rate talents with first-rate egos.
Two dancers leaned between them.
Perfume.
Skin.
Noise.
Eit slapped his shoulder.
"You're better like this."
Ruger said nothing.
His eyes moved.
Scanning.
Measuring.
Then—
he saw them.
Mercenaries.
Real ones.
Not polished.
Not clean.
Used.
The woman in black armor drew attention immediately.
Not because of beauty—
though she had that.
But because of violence.
It sat on her like a second skin.
Three blades at her thigh.
A greatsword within reach.
She did not relax.
Even seated.
That alone made her dangerous.
Beside her—
a girl.
Younger.
Soft.
Expensive.
Wrong place.
Ruger watched.
Quiet.
Then—
the air shifted.
Silence spread through the tavern like a ripple.
The door opened.
Gold.
Not color—
presence.
Ophiroc.
Everything about him was excessive.
Too perfect.
Too bright.
A man shaped by expectation—and aware of it.
Beside him—
something colder.
A woman.
Dark robes.
Flames that did not burn.
Her eyes—
empty of warmth.
Ruger's breath slowed.
For a moment—
just a moment—
he thought he saw silver.
Then—
CRASH.
A mug shattered against Lens's skull.
Ale splashed across Ruger's face.
Reality snapped back.
The mercenary woman stood.
Sword drawn.
Her gaze burned.
Ruger didn't need to ask why.
Lens was still grinning.
Idiot.
The fight began instantly.
Eit tried to cast—
failed.
Too drunk.
Ruger moved.
Not fast.
Precise.
Two magic missiles formed.
Weak.
Predictable.
The warrior raised his blade—
Ruger bent his will.
The missiles stopped.
Mid-air.
Shifted.
Curved.
Struck the man's face.
He dropped.
Not dead.
But broken enough.
Another charged.
Too fast.
A blade technique.
Ruger didn't cast.
Didn't need to.
He pulled.
The man stumbled.
A mistake.
A fatal one.
Ruger shoved a table forward.
Impact.
Wood shattered.
The man's skull didn't.
But it came close.
Ruger stepped in.
Knee.
Upward.
Crunch.
The sound was clean.
Efficient.
Controlled.
He felt it.
Not excitement.
Not fear.
Just—
clarity.
Two down.
The others struggled.
Blades clashed.
Chaos spread.
The mage finally moved.
A defensive spell.
Overkill.
Ruger picked up a mug.
Threw it.
Then another.
Then a chair.
No magic.
Just disruption.
The spell collapsed.
Ruger closed the distance.
Fast.
Closer than a mage should ever be.
The enemy hesitated.
That was enough.
The fight ended quickly.
Not clean.
But effective.
Behind him—
a scream.
The mercenary woman staggered.
Something stuck to her chest.
Egg.
Half-eaten.
Greasy.
Ruger didn't even remember throwing it.
But it worked.
She broke formation.
And that—
was all it took.
The last man fell.
Hoofbeats.
Authority.
The city guard.
Too soon.
Too inconvenient.
They scattered.
Ruger grabbed the mage's staff.
Left.
No hesitation.
No pride.
Only efficiency.
Above—
from the shadows—
someone watched.
Ophiroc smiled.
"That one," he said softly.
"The fat one."
"Interesting."
The woman beside him did not look.
"He is nothing."
Ophiroc chuckled.
"Nothing… doesn't bend magic mid-flight."
A pause.
"Find him."
Behind them—
a figure moved.
And vanished.
Far below—
Ruger ran through the night.
Unaware—
that something had already begun to take interest in him.
Not as a man.
But as—
a possibility.
END OF CHAPTER 3