The silver light of the box did not merely illuminate the stone walls of Kaelen's cell; it seemed to peel back the layers of his ignorance. Having spent the night devouring the Weapon Smith Guide, Kaelen sat with the Pitch-Black Dagger resting across his palms. The weight was impossible—not heavy, but significant, as if the small blade held the density of a collapsed star.
According to the manual, weapons in this world were not judged merely by the sharpness of their steel, but by their relationship with Essence. The guide classified them with brutal clarity: Crude, Refined, and Perfect.
Kaelen's breath hitched as he traced a faint, swirling pattern near the hilt—a mark that looked like a thumbprint of frozen smoke. The guide was explicit: a Crude Essence Weapon was simply metal infused with a spark of power, capable of shattering normal iron. Even these were so rare that the Royal House of Aethelgard held only a handful in their secret treasury, treating them as national treasures. Most of the elite guard carried high-quality Iron-Wrought blades—strong, but ultimately "dead" metal.
A Refined weapon was one where the Essence lived within the blade, flowing like blood. But what Kaelen held was a Perfect Essence Forged Weapon.
The mark he found—the "Void-Seal"—proved that this dagger was a masterpiece of the High Realms. It didn't just contain Essence; it was a living conduit. It could bypass the physical toughness of a Skin-Tempering master as if their muscles were made of mist. It could even heavily injure an expert of late muscle forging. This was however related to Kaelen's knowledge, reality was far from he can imagine.
To the Royal House, such a weapon would be a myth, a legend from a lost era. To Kaelen, it was the ultimate equalizer hidden beneath a pile of dirty laundry.
The realization was a heavy burden. If Grok or any noble found this, they wouldn't just kill him; they would tear the palace down to possess it. He carefully hid the dagger in the secret compartment of the box, his mind reeling. The "boot-thief" was now in possession of a blade that could kill a King.
The morning bell rang, and the familiar, grinding routine began. As expected, Hobb the cook denied Kaelen his meal with a sneer, and Kaelen once again refused the charity of Lian's bread. His body felt like a coiled spring of silver energy; he didn't need the watery porridge of the servant's hall.
The trouble started during the afternoon shift at the heavy grain-lifts.
Morg, the broad-shouldered sycophant who had spilled the oil on Kaelen the day before, was looking for a encore. He was joined by two other workers, emboldened by Grok's blatant favoritism toward anyone who made Kaelen's life a hell.
"Still walking, rat?" Morg barked, stepping into Kaelen's path as he hauled a massive sack of grain. "I thought Grok's kick would have turned your insides to mush by now. You're tougher than you look."
Kaelen ignored him, attempting to walk past.
But Morg stepped sideways, slamming his shoulder into Kaelen's bruised ribs—or where the bruises should have been.
Instead of Kaelen stumbling, Morg felt like he had run into a wall of solid granite. He bounced off Kaelen with a grunt of surprise.
"Watch where you're going, thief!" Morg shouted, his face reddening with embarrassment as the other workers snickered. He turned to his cronies. "He's getting arrogant. Maybe we should teach him that being the 'favorite' of the Head Post means staying on your knees."
Morg reached out, grabbing Kaelen by the hair to yank his head back. In the past, Kaelen would have collapsed, taking the blow to avoid a worse one.
But today, the Primordial Eclipse energy in Kaelen's Spirit Sea surged. It was a cold, silent tidal wave. Before Morg's hand could even close around his hair, Kaelen's hand moved.
The motion was a blur. Kaelen didn't use a technique; he used pure, unadulterated speed. He caught Morg's wrist in a grip that made the larger man's bones creak.
"Let go," Kaelen said. His voice wasn't a plea. It was an ultimatum.
Morg's eyes widened. "You little—!" He swung a heavy, clumsy fist at Kaelen's jaw.
Kaelen didn't flinch. He leaned back just an inch, the fist whistling past his nose, and then he struck. He drove his palm into Morg's solar plexus. There was no "Dull Root" weakness here; the strike was backed by the weight of a cultivator's intent.
Morg's breath left his body in a sickening whoosh. The big man doubled over, his face turning a terrifying shade of purple. But Kaelen wasn't finished. The years of built-up rage, the hunger, and the memory of every boot-print on his back flowed into his limbs.
He grabbed Morg by the collar and slammed him into the stone wall of the grain-lift.
CRACK.
Morg's head bounced off the masonry. Kaelen delivered two swift, brutal punches to Morg's ribs—the exact same spot Grok had targeted on him. He felt the ribs give way under his knuckles. Morg slumped to the floor, gasping and clutching his chest, his eyes filled with a sudden, primal terror.
The two cronies stepped back, their faces pale. They looked at Kaelen, then at the "Dull Root" status on his tunic, and their minds refused to reconcile the two.
"Anyone else?" Kaelen asked, his voice deathly quiet.
The two workers turned and bolted, leaving their leader groaning in the dirt. Kaelen stood over Morg for a moment, his hands steady.
He felt a strange, chilling calm. The energy in his Spirit Sea had settled into a sharp, focused point.
He picked up the grain sack as if it weighed nothing and continued his walk.
From the shadows of the upper balcony, a pair of eyes watched the entire exchange. It wasn't Grok. It was a figure in a dark, silk robe—the Royal character. He had seen the speed, the precision, and the power. He didn't see the Essence—the seals on Kaelen's meridians were still doing their job—but he knew that no "Dull Root" could move like that.
Kaelen returned to his cell that night, his knuckles slightly bruised but his heart soaring. He had crossed a line. He had fought back.
He opened the box one more time before sleep. He didn't look at the pills. He looked at the Weapon Smith Guide. He realized that if he was going to keep winning, he couldn't just rely on a stolen dagger. He needed to understand the "Perfect" forging process to hide his own path.
As he lay down, the "boot-thief" was truly gone. In his place was a shadow with the heart of a smith and the blade of a king.