The walk back to Whitebrand took Elias four hours. Each step felt strange—his legs moved with an efficiency he'd never known. His muscles no longer burned with ordinary fatigue. Instead, they hummed with potential energy, like coiled springs waiting for release.
He'd traveled this road hundreds of times as a courier. The familiar landmarks—the bent signpost at the fork, the lightning-struck oak, the abandoned mining shed—all seemed smaller now. Or perhaps he seemed larger to himself.
As the city's industrial skyline grew on the horizon, black smoke billowed from the cultivation forges in the Noble Quarter. There, sect disciples refined spirit minerals into artifacts and talismans, channeling their qi through specialized tools. A luxury Elias would never know.
Or so he had believed until three days ago.
The gates of Whitebrand loomed ahead—massive steel barriers inscribed with cultivation arrays that prevented unauthorized spiritual attacks. City guards stood at attention, their uniforms bearing the silver emblem of House Veritan, the ruling merchant sect.
Elias kept his head down as he approached. His face was known to some of the guards—usually as the courier who delivered their moonshine or carried messages to their mistresses. But the guards barely glanced at him today. Just another commoner returning from some errand.
A tingling sensation spread across his skin, and Elias felt something shift in his presence—as if he'd become less substantial, harder to notice. He hadn't requested this. The System was altering something about him, making him less noticeable. Was it helping him? Or merely protecting its investment?
The slums of Whitebrand were called the Ashlands—a cruel joke about the gray dust that coated everything from the nearby refineries. Children with hollow eyes played in gutters. Old men and women sat in doorways, their lungs failing from years of toxic exposure.
Once, Elias had been indistinguishable from them. Now, he felt like an impostor. His body moved differently. His eyes caught details he'd previously missed—the subtle glow of weak cultivation emanating from a beggar's fingertips as he warmed his hands, the faint shimmer of a protective talisman hidden in a shopkeeper's collar.
The world had layers he'd never perceived before.
He turned down Rust Alley, where he rented a single room above a noodle shop. The smell of broth and spices filled the air, making his stomach growl painfully. When had he last eaten? Before the first trial, certainly. Nearly two days.
As he reached for the door, a voice called out.
"Thorne! There you are, you weaselly bastard."
Elias froze. He knew that voice. Kallen Reed—one of Whitebrand's debt collectors. A minor cultivator with a Copper core and a reputation for excessive force.
"Been looking for you since yesterday," Kallen said, stepping from the shadows of a narrow passage. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar running across his nose. His hand rested on the pommel of a short sword at his hip. "Got a message from the boss. Says you're behind on payments. Again."
Elias's mind raced. He owed money to half the loan sharks in Whitebrand. He'd borrowed to survive, to eat, to pay for medicine when sickness struck. Every courier job barely covered the interest.
"I'll have it by week's end," Elias said, the lie practiced and smooth.
Kallen's lips curled into a cruel smile. "That's what you said last month. But the boss isn't interested in promises anymore."
The debt collector stepped closer. Two more figures emerged behind him—muscle, not cultivators, but large men with crude weapons. One had brass knuckles, the other a length of chain.
Elias squinted, trying to assess the threat. Unbidden, details filled his awareness: Kallen's stance revealed formal training, likely Brass Tiger Sect from his positioning. The thugs were untrained but dangerous—one favoring his left side, the other with recent injuries to his right hand.
The alley was narrow, the exit blocked. Neighbors would look away—they always did. No one interfered with debt collectors.
"Now," Kallen said, drawing his sword, "I'm going to take a finger as interest. Your choice which one."
Elias backed away, hands raised. His mind whirled with unfamiliar calculations. He wasn't a fighter. He'd never won a confrontation in his life. But something had changed. The System had changed him.
Could he defeat a Copper rank cultivator? He had no technique, no training. But perhaps...
"Please," Elias said, letting his voice tremble. "I just need more time."
Kallen lunged, the blade flashing in the dim light.
Time seemed to slow—not actually slowing, but Elias's perception sharpened. He saw the arc of the blade coming toward him, but his body felt frozen. Years of instinctive cowering fought against his new physical capabilities. At the last possible moment, he twisted sideways, awkward and uncoordinated.
The sword grazed his shoulder, drawing blood.
"What's this?" Kallen's eyes narrowed. "Trying to fight back now, Thorne?"
Elias stared at his own blood in shock. The pain was there, but muted—distant, like it belonged to someone else. A natural effect of his enhanced body, he realized.
The two thugs rushed forward. Chain-man swung wildly. Brass-knuckles aimed for Elias's face.
Panic surged. Elias threw himself backward, stumbling over a crate. The chain whistled past, missing his face by inches. Brass-knuckles followed, his fist connecting with Elias's ribs. Even with his enhanced musculature, the blow drove the air from his lungs.
He gasped, doubling over. His newly strengthened body was still operated by a mind that had never learned to fight.
"Pathetic," Kallen sneered, advancing with his sword. "Thought you had something for a moment there."
Desperation flared. Elias grabbed the fallen crate and hurled it at Kallen's face. The cultivator slashed it mid-air, but the distraction gave Elias just enough time to scramble to his feet.
Chain-man attacked again. This time, Elias didn't dodge. He caught the chain, the metal links biting into his palm. Pain surged, but his enhanced grip held. He yanked hard, pulling the surprised thug off-balance.
Without thinking, Elias drove his fist into the man's jaw. The impact jarred up his arm—he'd never hit anyone that hard before. The thug's eyes rolled back, and he crumpled.
Elias stared at his own fist in shock.
"You've been holding out on us," Kallen said, circling slowly. "What are you now, Thorne? Join some sect in secret?"
Brass-knuckles charged again. Elias tried to sidestep, but his foot slipped on wet cobblestones. The thug's fist caught him across the temple, sending him sprawling.
His vision swam. Blood trickled into his eye. There was a distant sensation of something wrong inside his skull, a faint pressure that felt misaligned.
Kallen loomed over him, sword poised for a thrust. "Whatever trick you've learned, it's not enough."
The debt collector's free hand traced a quick pattern in the air. A pulse of spiritual energy—a basic Force Push technique—struck Elias full in the chest, slamming him against the wall.
Brick cracked behind him. His ribs screamed in protest.
Brass-knuckles advanced again, grinning with bloodlust.
"No," Elias whispered. Not now. Not when he finally had a chance to be something more than prey. His hand closed around a shard of broken brick. As the thug reached for him, Elias swung upward, catching him across the face. The man reeled back, blood spraying from a gash on his cheek.
Elias pushed himself up, every muscle burning. He'd never fought before—never had reason to believe he could win. But the System had reshaped him. Not just his body but his potential.
He just had to figure out how to use it.
Kallen attacked again, his sword a blur of motion. Elias watched the pattern, the way the cultivator's weight shifted, the angle of his elbow. He couldn't match the skill, but he could see it now—could recognize the mechanics of combat in a way that had been invisible before.
The blade whistled toward his throat. Elias ducked, the movement clumsy but effective. He surged forward, inside Kallen's guard, and drove his knee upward. It connected with the cultivator's wrist, sending the sword clattering across stones.
Surprise flashed across Kallen's face, quickly replaced by rage. He stepped back, hands weaving a more complex pattern. "You asked for this, trash."
The air hummed with spiritual energy. Kallen's fists glowed with a dull bronze light—the Brass Tiger Sect's signature technique, Elias realized. A minor cultivation art, but deadly to the uncultivated.
The first punch grazed Elias's shoulder, and he felt it burn through his flesh like acid. He cried out, stumbling back. The second caught him in the stomach, doubling him over. Blood and bile rose in his throat.
Agony ripped through him, only partially dulled by his body's new resilience. He fell to one knee, gasping.
"Stay down," Kallen growled, bronze light still shimmering around his fists. "Next one goes through your skull."
Something shifted in Elias's chest—not physical, but deeper. A rage he'd buried for years, beneath layers of submission and survival. The rage of the powerless suddenly granted a taste of strength.
"No," he snarled, pushing himself upright. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes burned with newfound defiance. "Not anymore."
He charged forward, abandoning technique for pure fury. Kallen's bronze-shrouded fist swung for his head. Elias took the blow on his forearm—skin sizzled, muscle tore—but he didn't stop. His own fist caught Kallen under the chin, snapping the cultivator's head back.
Before Kallen could recover, Elias slammed his palm into the man's chest. Not a cultivator's strike, but raw physical force, backed by muscles that had been reforged through agony.
The debt collector staggered backward, spiritual energy wavering. His concentration broken, the bronze light flickered and faded.
Elias pressed forward. Each movement was unpracticed, each strike unpolished, but they carried the desperate weight of a man who had found his first taste of power. His fist connected with Kallen's jaw. His knee drove into the cultivator's side.
Brass-knuckles tried to intervene, swinging wildly. Elias ducked under the blow and drove his elbow into the man's sternum. He heard something crack. The thug collapsed, wheezing.
Kallen stumbled, reaching for his fallen sword. Elias kicked it away, then delivered a final, crushing blow to the cultivator's temple. Kallen dropped like a stone, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Elias stood amidst the fallen, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Every inch of him hurt. Blood trickled from a dozen wounds. But he had won.
A sensation like cool water flowing across his mind signaled accomplishment—defeating a cultivator in combat had triggered something within the System. A silent reward.
Then pain lanced through Elias's skull, white-hot and searing. He clutched his head, dropping to his knees as something fundamental shifted within his mind. Memories flashed—not his own, but older, ancient. A glimpse of hands weaving patterns of light. The sensation of energy flowing through meridians he didn't possess.
When it passed, his mind felt different—expanded, as if new chambers had been opened in the architecture of his thoughts.
As he tried to make sense of what had happened, knowledge blossomed in his awareness: something dormant had awakened within him. A fragment of something called a Mnemonic Meridian—a rare bloodline trait allowing him to absorb and replicate physical movements at an accelerated rate.
Elias blinked in confusion. Bloodline? He had no family history, no heritage to speak of. Just another orphan of Whitebrand's endless grind. Yet something had awakened inside him—something even the System seemed surprised to find.
With this newfound awareness came understanding: he needed to discover the origin of this bloodline fragment. A mystery that might lead him to answers about his past.
He wiped blood from his face and retrieved Kallen's sword—a basic spiritual weapon, nothing special to a true cultivator, but priceless to someone like him. He hid it under his tattered cloak and hurried to his room, ignoring the stares of those who had watched the fight from shuttered windows.
As he climbed the creaking stairs, his mind raced with implications. How would he explain his sudden strength if questioned? How long could he hide what he was becoming? And what was this bloodline fragment he had discovered within himself?
Six hours until the next trial, he knew instinctively.
Elias pushed open his door. The room was as he'd left it—small, sparse, with a thin mattress on the floor and a single window overlooking the smoke-clogged streets.
But it felt foreign now.
Because the person who had left it was not the same one who returned.
And somewhere in the depths of his mind, ancient memories stirred—memories that belonged to someone else entirely.