The morning fog still clung to the slums like a second skin when Arel stepped outside the forge, his fingers tightening around the satchel slung across his back. Inside it, nestled among a few scraps of dried bread and a folded cloth, was the worn spellbook from the dungeon — Bone Grasp.
He hadn't told his father.
Not yet.
Some things needed to be his, for now.
Kael didn't follow him in the daylight. The System kept him bound in a silent stasis — a shadow lurking beneath Arel's skin, ready to be summoned with a thought. It drained him slightly just to keep the bond alive. Not physically — but mentally, emotionally.
Arel hadn't slept well. The whispers from the dungeon still lingered in his dreams.
And the System?
It was growing louder.
[Skill Upgrade Path Unlocked — "Bone Grasp" may evolve with experience] [System Sync: 12.8%] [Next Threshold: 20% — Unlock "Passive Slot I"]
He didn't know what "passive slot" meant, but he intended to find out.
His feet carried him toward the oldest part of the city — the Scholar's Quarter. Technically, slum kids weren't allowed there without a pass, but no one really enforced it. Not anymore. Not since the Great Decline. Most libraries had been turned into storage bunkers or military offices.
But one remained.
The Seventh Codex.
A half-ruined tower of stone and vine, its symbol — a cracked eye — still carved into the marble archway. A place for those desperate for forgotten knowledge.
Inside, it was cold and silent.
Old books lined the crooked shelves. Most were sealed with magic, locked by class or rank. Arel knew the rules — his father had brought him here once, long ago.
"Don't touch the glowing ones."
He ignored most of the shelves and went straight for the back room. There, behind a dusty curtain, sat an old man on a stool, scribbling furiously onto a strip of worn parchment.
Master Varik.
One of the few remaining civilian class-holders who hadn't left the slums for the cleaner inner zones.
Varik looked up, eyes magnified behind thick hexagonal lenses. "Well, well. If it isn't the forge-rat."
"I need a skillbook."
Varik snorted. "You and every brat south of the river."
"I already have a spell. I just want to know how to train it."
That made the old man pause.
"Class?"
Arel hesitated. "Necromancer."
Varik stared. Then laughed — a deep, wheezing sound that echoed through the stone.
"Gods below. And here I thought your father's luck couldn't get any worse."
Arel didn't react.
The old man eventually sobered and motioned for him to follow.
They descended a stairwell carved from obsidian stone, old and clearly not meant for students. This was the unlisted archive — where failed classes and forbidden knowledge were kept.
"Your class," Varik muttered, "is one of the rarest... and most hunted. The old world feared you. Still does. But they also feared your potential."
He gestured to a floating orb in the corner.
Arel touched it.
The orb flared, projecting text in midair — a spell-training simulation.
[Bone Grasp Training Initiated] [Progression Metrics Active: Cast Frequency | Control Stability | Spirit Drain Rate]
It was... beautiful.
Arel reached into his core, felt the echo of the spell, and whispered: "Bone Grasp."
His shadow twitched.
A spectral hand clawed from the floor — unstable at first, flickering like a dying flame — then solidified. It latched onto a summoned training dummy and froze it in place.
[Success — Grip Duration: 3.2 seconds] [Skill Proficiency: +2.1%] [Current Level: 1 → 2]
Varik raised an eyebrow. "Huh. You're not hopeless."
Arel released the grip, panting slightly.
But something inside him tingled — the System reacting to his growth.
[System Sync Increased: 14.6%] [Minion Enhancement Unlocked — Passive: "Ghoststeel Memory"]
Before Arel could ask, the old man handed him a second book — unbound, worn, and covered in burn marks.
"Take it. It's about Minion Command Theory. Outdated, but good. You'll need it if you want to survive."
Arel nodded.
As he left the Codex, the city's sun finally broke through the clouds.
But with it came a shadow — a figure watching from a nearby rooftop.
A robed man, face obscured, whispered into a crystal.
"…The boy lives. And his class has awakened."
From the crystal, a voice replied:
"Good. Begin surveillance. The Saint-Necromancer hybrid must be... contained."