The night draped Lissus in a quilt of frost-bitten stars, and the city, once ragged with sound and life, slumped into a quiet hum of distant tavern songs and the soft moan of wind against wood.
Icariel sat before the inn, knees drawn close, his black cloak brushing against the stone step. His gaze was fixed on the sky, where stars trembled like dying embers. His breath steamed into the cold air, vanishing like memory.
"Humans here barely have any mana," he muttered, voice thin as thread. "Even less than the ones in the mountains."
"You were surrounded by nature," the voice replied from within, calm and knowing. "The mana there was pure and dense. In cities, it's still present, yes, but it's not as concentrated."
"I figured as much…" He leaned his head back against the wood of the door. "What about the awakening?"
The voice shifted, becoming firmer—like iron beneath velvet.
"You already know you're not normal, Icariel. You wield both paths: magic and the body of a superhuman. That alone is... unnatural. But your superhuman side is incomplete. You only possess the physical strength."
"I didn't have time to explain when I rushed you to awaken due to the situation," the voice said. "But there are three stages of a superhuman body."
Icariel listened.
"First stage," the voice continued, "begins with the awakening—an overwhelming surge of strength, far beyond that of ordinary men. The second stage brings heightened agility and acceleration, unlocked only through relentless refinement of the first. Then comes the third... the apex of what mortals call the 'superhuman physique.' Strength, reflexes, and perception are magnified to extraordinary levels. Every strike you deliver—or endure—can bend steel and shatter bone. Your very body becomes a living weapon, a bone-breaking force to anyone with a normal frame who dares to clash with you. Few ever ascend that far."
Icariel's mind drifted. Back to that fight. The brute. The godless invader.
"The one I fought," he muttered. "The one I killed with the lightning—he was stage three, wasn't he?"
"Yes," the voice confirmed. "His punches were like falling stone, meant to break every bone in your body."
"No wonder I felt like I was being unmade."
"And yet…" the voice added, low and near reverent, "you didn't just survive. You moved after that. You fought."
"So I'm... stage two?"
"No."
"Then... stage three already?"
"Wrong again."
His brow furrowed. "Then what am I?"
"Stage four."
The words hit like a slow strike to the chest.
"Four?"
"Yes. A rare... perhaps unknown stage. Your strength is equal to third-stage elites—but your body? It evolves. Adapts. The more damage you take, the more powerful you become. Your endurance will grow permanently. Each blow doesn't just scar—it improves you."
"That... sounds insane."
"Think back," the voice urged. "The bald woman you fought with the crystal. She became Stage Two, temporarily. Yet she barely damaged you. And that second punch from the one you killed with White Lightning? Weaker, wasn't it?"
Now that he thought about it—yes. It had hurt, but nothing like the first. His body remembered.
"It's because you pushed yourself past what should've been possible," the voice explained. "You pierced your own heart—again and again. Even a single arrow would have triggered awakening. But because of me, you chose more. Pain was your forge. That's why this happened. That's why I pushed you so hard."
The voice paused, as if weighing the next words carefully.
"The method to reach the fourth stage is nearly unheard of—rare, and perhaps impossible without luck. The body must fully surrender to the will of the mind, and that alignment is almost unreachable. Most bodies resist. They reject the command. All senses must be focused as one, and the mana must be true—pure beyond what most humans can even produce. Few possess such purity, and even fewer can control it. You directed it into your own heart, flooding your blood vessels.
A note of awe crept into the voice.
"That's what allowed you to ascend. That's why the fourth stage is so unknown. So rare. And I... I don't even know if anyone else has ever reached it. At least—not in this era."
Icariel chuckled, a dry, amazed sound. "…I never asked how you know all this," he said. "Never felt the need to. But if people ever found out what you are teaching me now, I'm sure…"
"They wouldn't be able to handle it."
Silence. Then:
"If the world knew what your body had become... it wouldn't just fear you. It would hunt you."
"I'm lucky to have you," Icariel whispered. "Lucky to still be breathing."
The stars above flickered as if wincing at the thought.
"That's the secret of your body," the voice said. "But the core of a superhuman... isn't just raw power. It's skills."
"Skills?"
"Yes. Techniques that shape their raw might into purpose. Now that you know what you are... it's time to learn what you can do."
"Skills are the true power of superhumans. Even more formidable than magic."
"More than magic?"
"Far more. Let me explain. Say a second-stage superhuman fights a five-circle mage—a high standard for humans. Who do you think wins?"
Icariel didn't hesitate. "The mage. I learned in the tribe: the more circles, the more power, faster casting, deeper mana."
"Wrong," the voice cut in, calm but sharp. "The superhuman wins. Easily."
"Why?"
"Because of skills. Not only are mages vulnerable at close range, but Skills have no casting delay. Especially attack Skills. You call their name, the mana reacts, and the effect is instant."
Icariel blinked. "But… that's like me. Once I imprint a spell with White Sense, I can fire it off instantly. No delay, no prep."
"Exactly. You are a walking anomaly. Most mages can't do that. Their spells require gestures, words, even full rituals. You're thinking through your own lens. Don't."
"I see." He nodded slowly. "So Skills are like spells with no prep time—just call and boom."
"So how do I learn them?" Icariel asked, eyes gleaming.
"You don't learn them. You acquire them."
"Where?"
"Dungeons."
The word struck like iron on stone.
"Dungeons are rifts—fragments of realms where monsters spill through, or are bred. Inside, mana pools, chaos reigns, and buried deep within are... skill stones. Stones that contain the soul of an action. Shatter one, and the skill becomes yours."
"So instead of learning, I claim them by blood."
"Yes. But only after you've survived. That's the trade. Magic can be studied. Skills must be earned."
"If White Sense removes casting delay, and my magic flows freely… what can skills offer that spells can't?"
Skills are primal—raw, instinctive, and without logic. They make you deadly even without a drop of mana."
"Unlike spells, skills aren't crafted. A mage has to carefully combine specific types of mana—some rare, others almost impossible to harmonize—just to mimic the effect of a single skill. That's why skills are overpowered. They're fixed, unchanging. You can't alter their affinity or tweak their duration like you can with magic."
"You don't even need hands to cast them. Nothing. No incantations, no glyphs, no channeling. Just will, instinct, and motion."
"And they don't take nearly as long to learn. Magic demands patience, theory, control. Skills just happen—triggered by repetition, honed through survival. You've only grasped elemental mana and white lightning. Even if you keep collecting spells, each one will demand more time and more refinement."
"But skills?"
"They don't take time. When you get the Stone holding them, they are more efficient. More direct."
"There are rare exceptions—some skills evolve when flooded with mana—but most remain the same. And that's their power. Simple. Brutal. Terrifyingly effective."
"Until now, your body couldn't handle them. The toll skills take would tear an unawakened human apart. But that's changed. You're different now."
Icariel stared at his hand, flexing his fingers.
"So to grow stronger... I need them. I need to enter dungeons."
"Exactly. It's the only path forward."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I'll do it."
"That quickly?"
His fists clenched at his side.
"I want to live a life worth living."
The Voice didn't interrupt.
"So… if that means risking everything again, I will. And Voice—when it comes to training, to pain, to whatever's next—show no mercy. I want to be stronger. I have to be stronger."
A long, quiet beat. Then the Voice whispered:
"You've changed."
"Maybe it's the people I've lost.
Maybe it's the sorrow I finally stopped running from.
But once, you asked me if I thought my life was worthy.
Maybe that question changed me.
Because now, I want more than fear.
I want choice.
want freedom."
Icariel exhaled, shoulders relaxing.
"If you're going to talk like that," the Voice said with a sigh, "then I've got no choice. Just don't curse me later."
Icariel smiled. "I'd never. Not you."
A moment passed.
"We'll talk about dungeons later. For now, get some sleep. Your first job begins in a few hours."
"…You're right," Icariel said, eyes finally growing heavy. "I'm going to sle—"
He slumped back against the wall and was out before he finished the word.
A still breeze passed over the sleeping boy.
The voice whispered one last time:
"Such a pure soul… carries such a cruel fate."