The promised hours stretched into an eternity of gnawing anxiety, then snapped into a sudden, heart-stopping rush as knights, their faces impassive, began to herd the Otherworlders. They were guided from the vast, echoing nave of the cathedral into a smaller, though still impressively proportioned, circular chamber. The air here was noticeably different – not just charged, but thrumming with a concentrated, palpable energy that made Kaelan's teeth ache and his skin prickle with a thousand tiny needles. It felt like standing in the heart of a thunderstorm, moments before the lightning struck.
At the chamber's precise center, atop a three-tiered marble dais, stood an ornate font. It was carved from a single piece of what looked like milky crystal, veins of gold and silver running through it like captured lightning. The font itself pulsed with a soft, internal luminescence, casting ethereal, shifting patterns on the domed ceiling high above.
Arrayed in a solemn semi-circle before the font were a dozen individuals robed in pristine white and shimmering gold, their faces aged with wisdom and etched with the gravity of their sacred duty. These were the High Priests of Lumina, their eyes, ancient and knowing, seemed to pierce through flesh and bone, assessing the very souls of the nervous crowd before them. King Theron, flanked by his honor guard and a retinue of richly dressed nobles, watched from a carved stone balcony that overlooked the chamber, his expression unreadable but intense.
"Otherworlders," one of the High Priests, an elderly man with a beard like spun moonlight that flowed down to his waist and eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of ages, finally spoke. His voice, though not as overtly powerful as the King's, possessed a gentle, resonant authority that commanded instant silence. "The moment of Revelation is upon you. The Unseen, the divine wellspring from which all power in Aethel flows, is ready to bestow its sacred gifts. As your name is called from the Etheric Scroll, step forward. Place your hands upon the Font of Revelation. Your Trait, your unique, inherent power in this world, will be made known to you, and to us."
A collective intake of breath, sharp and fearful, was the only sound. This was it. The crucible. The moment that would define their worth, their potential, their very survival in this alien, hostile land. Kaelan felt his palms grow slick with sweat, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
A younger priest, holding a shimmering, insubstantial scroll that seemed woven from pure light, began to call out names. The names were predominantly Western, but Kaelan heard Japanese, Korean, Hindi, and a dozen other linguistic origins amongst them – a true cross-section of Earth.
The first few individuals approached the font with visible trepidation, their faces pale. As their hands made contact with the cool, pulsing crystal, the font would flare with a brief, brighter light. Simultaneously, a shimmering beam of energy, unique in color and intensity for each person, would shoot upwards, coalescing into complex, glowing runes that hovered in the air above their heads. The High Priest would study these runes for a moment, his expression unchanging, before announcing the Trait and its assessed Rank.
"Liam Porter: Trait – [Minor Fortification]. Rank E." A young man in a faded band t-shirt sagged visibly, his shoulders slumping as a faint, muddy brown light had emanated from the font. He was quietly directed to one side of the chamber by a stoic-looking temple guard.
"Aisha Sharma: Trait – [Herbal Affinity]. Rank D." A woman in a practical-looking tracksuit managed a small, relieved smile as a gentle green light bathed her. She received a curt nod and was guided to a slightly less grim-looking section.
"Kenji Tanaka: Trait – [Elemental Attunement: Fire]. Rank C." A spark of vibrant orange light, and a ripple of appreciative murmurs from the Valorian observers. Kenji, a wiry young man with intense eyes, looked surprised, then a flicker of pride touched his features. He was escorted to an area clearly demarcating a higher status.
The process continued, a slow, agonizing parade of hopes raised and dashed. Kaelan watched, his dread mounting with each pronouncement. He saw the clear, unspoken hierarchy forming.
F-Ranks, their Traits usually described with dismissive adjectives like "Slight," "Minor," or "Basic," were met with averted gazes or faint sneers from the robed priests and watching nobles. Their light from the font was invariably dim, their runes simple and lackluster. They were quickly and unceremoniously shunted to the most undesirable section of the chamber, a place of shadows and palpable despair.
D and E-Ranks, the vast majority, were processed with an air of weary efficiency. Their futures seemed bleakly utilitarian.
C-Ranks earned nods of professional respect. These were the competent, the reliable, the backbone of any organized effort.
Then came the B-Ranks, and the atmosphere in the chamber crackled with a new level of expectation.
"Garrick Stonefist: Trait – [Guardian's Resolve]. Rank B!" The font pulsed with a steady, earth-brown light, strong and unwavering. The burly, blond man Kaelan had noticed earlier – the one built like a brick outhouse – let out a booming laugh, flexing his tree-trunk arms. He shot a confident grin at the other Otherworlders. Several knights on the balcony nodded in approval. Garrick was practically preened as he was ushered to a prominent, almost honorific section, already looking like he belonged.
The truly spectacular, the world-altering, were yet to come.
"Lyra Swiftarrow: Trait – [Eagle Eye Sharpshooter]. Rank A!" The font erupted in a brilliant, piercing azure light, sharp and precise. The slender woman with shockingly keen, analytical eyes barely reacted, her expression one of cool, pragmatic assessment as if she'd expected nothing less. A low hum of genuine admiration swept through the Valorian contingent. She joined Garrick, the two exchanging curt, professional nods. An alliance of power, Kaelan thought, was already forming.
Then, the name that seemed to carry an electric charge was called: "Marcus Vayne."
The tall, devastatingly handsome young man Kaelan had marked from the beginning strode forward. He didn't just walk; he prowled, every line of his body exuding an almost arrogant confidence, a smirk playing on his perfectly sculpted lips. He approached the Font of Revelation not with trepidation, but with the air of one claiming a long-overdue birthright. He placed his hands upon the crystal, and the chamber ignited.
It wasn't a pulse; it was an explosion of pure, blinding golden light, so intense it forced Kaelan and many others to shield their eyes, gasping. The light wasn't just from the font; it seemed to emanate from Marcus himself, bathing him in a divine, heroic radiance. The runes that blazed into existence above his head were vast, intricate, and throbbed with an almost unbearable power. Kaelan felt the very air pressure change.
The High Priest, for the first time, looked visibly stunned, his ancient eyes wide with awe. His voice, when he finally spoke, trembled with a mixture of reverence and excitement. "Marcus Vayne! Trait… Trait: [Holy Sword Manifestation]! Rank… S! A true Hero Class Trait! By the Unseen, a Hero Walks Among Us!"
The chamber erupted. Not just murmurs, but roars of approval from the Valorians, gasps of pure awe from the Otherworlders. Knights on the balcony slammed their armored fists against their breastplates in salute. King Theron leaned forward, a broad, genuine smile finally breaking through his weary facade, his eyes alight with fervent hope. Marcus Vayne simply basked in the adulation, his smirk widening into a triumphant, almost predatory grin. He drank in their worship, his golden aura making him look like a god descended.
"Magnificent!" King Theron's voice boomed from the balcony. "Truly, the Unseen smiles upon Valoria this day! The prophecies hold true!"
Another S-Rank, though less ostentatious, followed shortly thereafter, lending further credence to the King's jubilation. A young woman named Elara Meadowlight, with a gentle face and kind, empathetic eyes, approached the font timidly. A soft, warm, emerald-green light enveloped her, and the runes proclaimed: "[Lifeweaver's Grace], Rank S!" Another wave of awed murmurs. Elara looked overwhelmed, a hand flying to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes, but beneath the shock, Kaelan saw a flicker of profound determination. She was quickly, almost reverently, guided towards Marcus, who offered her a charming, proprietary smile, already extending his protection, his influence. The core of Aethel's new champions was forming before their very eyes.
Kaelan watched them – Marcus, resplendent and arrogant; Elara, gentle yet radiating a quiet strength; Garrick, the stoic bastion; Lyra, the sharp-eyed pragmatist. They were the chosen, the elite. Their paths were already paved with gold and glory, while his own seemed to be crumbling into dust before it even began. The chasm between them felt impossibly vast, a gulf of power and destiny he could never hope to cross.
The dreary procession continued. More A-Ranks, their light bright but not blinding. More B-Ranks, solid and dependable. A large swathe of C, D, and E-Ranks, their fates sealed with varying degrees of mediocrity. And then, inexorably, came the F-Ranks. Each F-Rank pronouncement was like a funeral dirge. A dim, pathetic flicker from the font, simple, almost childlike runes, followed by a chilling silence from the Valorian observers, then a curt, dismissive gesture from a dour-faced temple official who directed the unfortunate soul to the growing congregation of the damned in the chamber's darkest corner. Fear, cold and sharp, gnawed at Kaelan's insides. His turn was approaching.
"Kaelan Richards."
His name, spoken with the same bland disinterest as the F-Ranks before him. His breath hitched. His legs felt like lead, each step towards the font an act of monumental effort. He was acutely aware of every eye in the chamber, the pitying glances from some Otherworlders, the impatient dismissal from the priests, the utter indifference from the nobles. The cool, smooth surface of the font felt like ice beneath his trembling, clammy palms. He closed his eyes, a silent, desperate prayer forming in his mind – anything but F… please, anything but F…
A pulse of light. Feeble. Apologetic. Kaelan's heart sank even before he opened his eyes. The beam that struggled upwards was thin, a sickly, pale grey. The runes that formed were insultingly simple, almost crude compared to the blazing tapestries that had heralded Marcus Vayne.
The ancient High Priest peered at the runes, his expression one of utter neutrality, perhaps even a touch of boredom. His gaze flicked to Kaelan for a microsecond, then away. "Kaelan Richards," he intoned, his voice flat. "Trait: [Fleeting Steps]. Rank F." He paused, then added, as if reciting a barely-worth-mentioning footnote, "Assessed as a minor agility boost. Your connection to the ambient mana allows you to quicken your being temporarily. Your personal timeframe is accelerated by twenty percent for short bursts."
Rank F. Minor agility boost. Twenty percent. The words crashed down on Kaelan like a physical weight, crushing the last vestiges of his fragile hope. He felt a hot flush of shame creep up his neck, followed by a cold, hollowing wave of despair that left him numb. He distantly remembered that fleeting sensation during the chaotic summoning, that almost imperceptible quickening. It had felt like something more profound, a subtle shift in his perception of time itself, but who was he, a terrified nineteen-year-old, to argue with these ancient priests and their divinely empowered font? Their judgment was absolute.
The dour-faced temple official, the one who seemed to take a grim satisfaction in escorting the F-Ranks, gestured curtly, his lip curled in a faint sneer. "This way, F-Rank. Quickly now, don't hold up the proceedings."
There was no pity in the official's eyes, only a cold, hard dismissal. Kaelan stumbled, his legs suddenly weak, as he was herded towards the desolate group of F-Ranks huddled in the shadows. Their faces mirrored his own shock, his own hopelessness. He saw a young girl, no more than twelve, openly weeping into the rough tunic of an older boy, likely her brother, whose own face was a mask of stoic despair. The chasm between them and the S-Ranks like Marcus Vayne was not just a matter of power; it was a judgment of their inherent worth, a preordained consignment to the dregs of this new, brutal society.
As the last few names were called, mostly D, E, and a final smattering of F-Ranks, the social stratification of this new world was irrevocably cemented.
S-Ranks, A-Ranks, and even B-Ranks were being lavished with attention. Priests and nobles, their earlier solemnity replaced with fawning smiles, approached them, offering words of guidance, promising access to the finest tutors, the best equipment, speaking of glorious campaigns and legendary deeds. They were the heroes, the saviors, the shining hope of Aethel.
C-Ranks were given respectful, if less enthusiastic, consideration. They were being assigned to support roles within various knightly orders, mage guilds, or artisan colleges – useful cogs in the great machine of war.
D and E-Ranks were largely ignored by the higher echelons, quietly marshaled by grim-faced, lower-ranking soldiers. Their futures looked bleakly uncertain, likely involving back-breaking labor to support the war effort or conscription into the expendable front-line infantry.
And then there were the F-Ranks. Their pariahs. Their untouchables.
Once the last Trait was revealed and the Font of Revelation dimmed, a different official approached their miserable, shadowed enclave. This one was not a priest. He was clad in scarred, dark leather armor that had clearly seen hard use, and a heavy, iron-banded truncheon swung menacingly from his belt. His face was a roadmap of old scars, his eyes small, cold, and utterly devoid of compassion. His name, Kaelan would soon learn with dread, was Warden Grimsby.
"F-Ranks," Grimsby barked, his voice a harsh, grating rasp that scraped Kaelan's nerves raw. "Listen up, and listen well, you dregs. By solemn decree of His Royal Majesty King Theron IV, and the Holy See of Lumina, in light of your… profoundly limited potential and your negligible contribution to the great war effort, you are hereby designated as Crown Property." He paused, letting the words sink in, a cruel smile twisting his lips as he saw the dawning horror on their faces. "Essentially, you belong to the Kingdom, to be used – or disposed of – as it deems fit. Your lives, such as they are, are forfeit to the cause. Do I make myself clear, scum?"
Crown Property. The euphemism was a thin veil over the brutal truth. Slaves. The word screamed in Kaelan's mind, a silent, desperate protest against the crushing injustice. Whispers of fear and desperate, futile defiance rippled through the F-Rank group, but one hard, sweeping glare from Grimsby, and the sight of the heavily armed guards flanking him, their expressions implacable and bored, silenced them utterly.
Kaelan felt a hollow, aching emptiness in his chest. He had been summoned from his world, told he was a prophesied hero, only to be systematically assessed, judged, and discarded as less than worthless, a mere chattel. As he was roughly shoved and prodded along with the other F-Ranks, out of the chamber of revelation and into a dark, cold, descending corridor that smelled of mildew and despair, he caught one last, fleeting glimpse of Marcus Vayne. The S-Rank Hero, Aethel's golden champion, was surrounded by fawning nobles and admiring priests, already holding court, his laughter echoing with confidence and power. For a horrifying microsecond, their eyes met across the crowded chamber. Marcus's gaze, brilliant and golden, swept over Kaelan without a flicker of recognition, dismissing him as utterly insignificant, an insect beneath his heroic notice.
Kaelan clenched his fists so tightly his nails bit into his palms, drawing blood. A tiny, furious, utterly futile spark of defiance ignited in the abyssal depths of his despair. Minor agility boost, he thought, the priest's dismissive words, Marcus's contemptuous glance, Grimsby's cruel sneer, all burning in his memory. Twenty percent…
A heavy, iron-banded door slammed shut behind them with a resounding, final clang, plunging their small, wretched group into near-total darkness. The F-Rank Anomaly had arrived in Aethel, not with a bang of heroic potential, but with the quiet, soul-crushing click of a slave's cage door.
Just as the darkness threatened to consume him entirely, a soft, ethereal blue light flickered into existence directly before Kaelan's eyes, startling him so badly he almost cried out. Text began to form, crisp and clear against the gloom.
[Welcome, Otherworlder, to the world of Aethel.]
[The path ahead is fraught with peril, but also immense opportunity. Your growth will be tracked by the System, a divine framework gifted by the gods. Understand it well, for it is the key to your survival and, perhaps, your triumph over the encroaching darkness.]
His breath hitched. The System. The King had mentioned it.
[Character Status:]
[Name: Kaelan Richards]
[Level: 1]
[Trait: Fleeting Steps (Rank F)]
[HP: 100/100 (VIT * 10 + Base)]
[MP: 70/70 (INT * 10 + Base)]
[Main Stats:]
[Strength (STR): 5]
[Intelligence (INT): 5]
[Dexterity (DEXT): 5]
[Vitality (VIT): 5]
[Distributable Stat Points (DSP): 10]
Ten distributable stat points. His F-Rank starting allotment, a pittance compared to what the S-Ranks must have received. The High Priest's words echoed: "Minor agility boost… quicken your being temporarily… personal timeframe accelerated by twenty percent." Fleeting Steps. It screamed speed, agility. Speed was Dexterity. And the "ambient mana" connection, the "personal timeframe" acceleration – that implied a mental component, a need for mana. Intelligence.
Even as Warden Grimsby's harsh voice began to bark orders from the front of their miserable procession, Kaelan focused his will, a desperate, almost feral intensity gripping him. This was his. This tiny, pathetic pool of points was his only agency in this gods-forsaken world.
All ten points, he thought, his decision swift and certain. Five into Dexterity. Five into Intelligence. I need to understand this Trait, no matter how weak they say it is.
A faint warmth spread through him, almost imperceptible. The blue screen shimmered.
[Stat Allocation Confirmed.]
[Intelligence (INT): 5 -> 10]
[Dexterity (DEXT): 5 -> 10]
[MP: 70/70 -> 120/120 (INT * 10 + Base)]
[Derived Stats Adjusted: Evasion slightly increased, Accuracy slightly increased, Max MP Increased.]
His Mana pool had nearly doubled. It wasn't much in the grand scheme of things, he knew. Marcus Vayne probably had ten times that, or more. But it was his. A tool. A secret. In the oppressive darkness of his new reality, that small, defiant act of self-determination, that tiny flicker of numerical increase on a translucent blue screen, was the only pinprick of light Kaelan could cling to.