In the span of mere hours, Richter had gone from a quiet office to a savage new world governed by an indifferent System. He’d fought a supernatural bear, witnessed two people torn apart, branded a murderer, scarred by divine judgment, and personally marked by the god of murder himself. To say this wasn’t what he expected from the countdown would be the understatement of a lifetime.

  What had that psycho said before disappearing? Look down. Richter couldn't even muster the energy to be angry anymore. His emotions were burned out, hollowed by exhaustion and trauma. The god was clearly playing some kind of game, but Richter lacked the strength to resist, to question, or even to care. Logic told him Cain had no other Blessed, that he couldn’t give his power to just anyone. So maybe—just maybe—he’d lend a hand, if only for his own selfish gain.

  "Well, in for a penny, in for a pound." Richter's gaze drifted downward, and he knew—he should be horrified. The sight before him was grotesque, like something ripped straight from a nightmare or a banned horror film. Cain, in his theatrical cruelty, had somehow sculpted a path from blood-soaked soil, its dark crimson clumps glistening with wet rot, leading away from the bear’s corpse like a trail of viscera.

  There was no point arguing with it. Numbly, Richter followed.

  Behind the bear, nestled in a macabre circle of saturated earth, lay the pouches once carried by the dead family. Their placement was too deliberate to be chance. For a fleeting second, a strange flicker of gratitude stirred in him—he would've forgotten them. Of course, they didn’t need the gear anymore. And just as that thought passed, a darker one slid in behind it: why did that come so easily? Why did he think of them as 'the dead family' like it was a character note instead of a memory?

  Then he saw it.

  Sophie’s dagger.

  Bathed in the blood-red hue of the dusk light, the blade lay half-buried in the soil. The same blade that had once been embedded in Jason’s throat, slick with betrayal. It hadn’t been cleaned. The dried blood clung to the edge like guilt refusing to be washed away. Of all the things scattered in the dirt, it was this that struck Richter. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was a mirror.

  Was Cain trying to remind him of what he was now? Or did the god simply find joy in placing symbols of guilt where the dying light could glint off them just right?

  Richter didn’t feel grief. Not yet. Just the hollow space where it should’ve been.

  As he approached the circle, something else caught his attention—words etched into the blood-soaked soil, disturbingly clear: "Identify the Dagger."

  Richter froze. Confusion stirred in his chest, mingling with unease. Why? Why point out the dagger? It looked the same as before—basic, utilitarian. The System had given it to Sophie. Dull, dark grey metal, plain and unadorned. The red fabric wrapped around the hilt was soaked through, its color deepened to a near black.

  What was Cain trying to show him? It was just a weapon… wasn't it?

  As he reached out and wrapped his fingers around the hilt, a chill crawled up his spine. It hit him instantly—the same suffocating presence he had felt in Cain’s aura. Dark. Oily. Sinister in a way that defied reason. The dagger pulsed with a wrongness that dug beneath the skin, settling like a parasite behind his eyes. It hadn’t felt like this before—not when he held it, not when it was buried in Jason’s throat.

  As Richter's gaze locked onto the dagger, a pulse of instinct surged through him—his Identify skill triggered on its own, unbidden. The moment the information unraveled before his eyes, a cold weight settled in his gut. This wasn't the same blade. Not even close. Whatever it had been before, it was something else now. Something transformed by blood, by death—by him.

  Blade of the First Murder (Unique)

  "When the first drop of blood stained this blade, it was ordinary. But murder—murder transforms things. This is no longer just steel; it is a conduit, a reflection, a scar that cannot be erased. It is bound to its wielder, as much a part of them as the act that birthed it."

  Effects & Abilities:

  Essence Reaper (Passive)

  Absorbs the Essence of slain beings, drawing fragments of their memories, emotions, and latent power. These Essences can be absorbed to grant Richter skill upgrades, influence future skill development, or reveal insights about the slain. Additionally, they can be harnessed for crafting or rituals.

  Bladebound (Passive)

  The blade is soulbound—an extension of its wielder's will. Indestructible and can be summoned at any time, responding instantly to the wielder’s call, no matter the distance.

  Richter stared at the floating text, the words burning themselves into his mind more deeply than any System notification before it. Blade of the First Murder. The name alone should have rattled him. Once, it would have. But all he felt now was a quiet numbness, like watching himself from behind a thick sheet of glass.

  His mind tried to compartmentalize, to apply the analytical lens he’d used in his old life: Unique-grade item, soulbound, essence absorption, ritual potential. These were terms he could understand, categories he could file away. He should have been dissecting the implications—resource management, power scaling, magical synergy.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  But instead, something else gnawed at the back of his thoughts: This weapon was born from Jason’s death. From Sophie’s scream. From my hand.

  He tightened his grip instinctively, and the blade responded. Not with a glow or a hum—but with something more intimate. A pulse. Like a heartbeat.

  The energy it exuded wasn’t malevolent in the traditional sense—it didn’t burn or scream. It simply existed as a reflection. Of him. Of what he’d done. A blade forged not from metal, but from guilt and necessity. From blood that couldn’t be washed away.

  Cain hadn’t left him a message. He’d left him a mirror.

  Richter’s throat was dry. He wanted to drop it, but something in his chest whispered that it wouldn’t matter. The blade would return. It belonged to him now. Just as much as the mark on his face did.

  There was something else embedded in the blade’s presence—subtle, but undeniable. Beneath the oppressive weight of Cain’s aura, there was a quieter echo. Familiar. Personal. Richter’s breath caught in his throat as recognition bloomed. Jason.

  It wasn’t just a weapon infused with power. It held something of the boy he had killed.

  Without thinking, his hand moved as if on instinct, summoning a translucent screen. He didn’t know how he knew to do it—only that it felt natural, as if the knowledge had been burned into him when the blood first hit the blade.

  Essence of [Human – Level 0, Caster – Level 1]

  His chest tightened. Not data. Not numbers. A piece of Jason. A sliver of his soul, caught in the metal like a whisper of what once was.

  As he stared at the screen, trying to make sense of the presence lingering in the blade, another prompt blinked into existence—cold, clinical, and utterly unfeeling. It offered no comfort. No time.

  Do you want to absorb Essence now? [Y/N]

  Warning: Once absorbed, the Essence will be consumed entirely.

  The words felt like a scalpel—sharp, precise, and utterly devoid of empathy.

  Richter stared at the message, the flickering text hovering in the air like a verdict.

  He should have hit No. Every part of him wanted to.

  This was Jason—what was left of him. A boy who had screamed, cried, and bled out on the forest floor. A boy who had hated him in the end. A boy whose death now offered power. The thought turned Richter’s stomach, but no nausea came. Just a heavy, hollow ache.

  What would absorbing him mean? Would it be mercy—releasing Jason from the liminal space he was trapped in? Or desecration, one final violation in a string of tragedies? He didn’t know.

  “I don’t want to do this,” he whispered. Not because of fear. Because it felt wrong.

  But then, something colder stirred—reason. Logic. The part of him that had survived this far by clinging to data, not emotion. The part that understood this world didn’t care what felt wrong.

  Jason was already dead. The only question now was whether his death could mean something more than pain.

  Richter swallowed hard. His hand hovered over the confirmation, fingers trembling—but only slightly.

  He clicked Yes.

  A small red orb emerged from the tip of the blade, hovering in the air like a dying ember. It pulsed once, twice, then unfurled like a flower in bloom—except it wasn’t petals that spread, but tendrils of crimson energy. They stretched outward, languid and purposeful, before latching onto Richter.

  The essence flowed into him like smoke drawn into lungs—warm, invasive, oddly intimate. Not painful, but unsettling, like something brushing against the inside of his thoughts.

  Then he saw it.

  A vision—not a memory, not quite. He was standing in the clearing, but untouched. Clean. Hair tousled but vibrant, no blood on his robes, no dirt beneath his fingernails. The wooden staff looked almost ornamental in his grip. And his face… his face was whole. No mark. No scar. No murder. This was Jason's view.

  The image lingered only for a breath, but it hit harder than any blow. That was who he had been. Before the blood. Before the death. Before the System made him something else.

  Next came the moment of the bear. It wasn’t just a memory—Richter felt it. Jason’s fear flooded his senses like icy water, raw and suffocating. His panic spiked, frantic and wild, a silent scream echoing in Richter’s chest. And then—nothing.

  Then came a new sensation—Jason mid-fight, adrenaline crackling through his limbs as a Mana Bolt began to form in his hand. But this wasn’t like Richter’s version. This was sharper, more stable, more whole. The magic didn’t flicker with uncertainty; it hummed with intent. Even under fear, Jason's spell had been instinctive, practiced. Efficient.

  Richter leaned into the sensation, letting the memory pour into him. Information slid through his mind—not spoken, not written, but felt. Muscle memory. Emotional imprint. A deeper understanding of how Jason had cast—not just the technique, but the why behind it.

  And then it was gone.

  The final vision struck like a blade.

  From Jason’s eyes, Richter saw the chaos unfold. He was straddling himself—Richter—beating him, knuckles raw, blood running freely from his nose and dripping into Richter’s pale hair. There was rage, yes, but also something deeper—loss, confusion, betrayal that had nowhere else to go. And then… the shift.

  Panic.

  Jason realized too late what he was doing. The anger fractured, splintered into fear. Richter felt it—Jason’s horror at his own actions. The desperate attempt to stop. To pull back.

  And then—the blade.

  He saw the hand reach down. Felt the dagger being drawn. Saw it coming, but too late to stop it. The cold flash of metal. The split-second where instinct screamed, and the world slowed.

  Then pain.

  A searing, suffocating agony that erupted in his throat, drowning out every thought. Jason’s vision blurred, not from blood—but from disbelief. Regret poured in, hot and thick, right before everything went black.

  It wasn’t just death Richter felt. It was Jason’s final understanding.

  The vision ended. Darkness swallowed him whole. Then—clarity. Richter was back in the clearing, his breath shaky, heart thudding in his ears.

  A new System notification blinked into view.

  System Notification

  [Mana Bolt (Inferior)] → [Mana Bolt (Common)]

  Condense mana into a small projectile and launch it at a target. Gains a increase in damage based on Intellect.

  He blinked—but the screen didn’t stay.

  The text stuttered, then glitched.

  A flicker. Then a ripple—like reality buffering.

  Lines of static danced across the interface. The words twisted, broke apart, rearranged. The original upgrade faded into static snow, replaced by something else—something deeper, more personal.

  System Notification Updated

  [Mana Bolt (Inferior)] → [Unstable Mana Lance (Uncommon)]

  A volatile, high-intensity variant of Mana Bolt. Significantly increased damage scaling with Intellect and emotional intensity. May misfire when overcharged or emotionally unstable.

  A pulse shot through his fingertips. Heat—not from the environment, but from within. The spell was there now, just beneath his skin, like a coiled serpent of raw mana, twitching with potential.

  It wasn’t just a spell.

  It was Jason’s rage. Jason’s fear.

  And now—it was his.

  Somewhere far away—or perhaps uncomfortably close—Cain smiled, slow and sharp. "Now that’s something new," he murmured, golden eyes flickering with amusement. "These humans… they’re going to ruin everything. Gods, I hope they do. This is going to be fun."