Every person was born with an Inborn Trait. Even those not blessed were given one the moment they came into the world. Some traits were more useful than others, much to the surprise of no one. If you were lucky, life became a breeze. But if you weren't... your trait could become a curse.
Still, the most common story? Most didn't even know what their trait was. Without the system to guide them, every Forsaken wandered like a headless chicken—lost, frantic, hopeless.
'I might have been the same if it wasn't for the old man,' Azrael thought, not slowing down his running pace. Lips closed tightly, not willing to let the healing elixir in his mouth spill by doing something as stupid as muttering.
'Even if it's just a theory… it means there's still hope.'
Azrael hadn't been one of the lucky ones. With his sixteenth birthday approaching, the system still hadn't chosen him, time had run out. He would never be gifted. Forsaken was the way the unlucky ones like him were described.
His life was basically set in stone. No system, no wealthy family, nor lucky opportunities—he would die in the only job that promised to pay him a somewhat livable wage. A monster corpse gatherer.
'My Inborn Trait... it has to be connected to absorbing power from those I kill.' he mused. His black pupils narrowed, reminding him of the power he had gained from simply killing three mortal men. It was just a slight boost, but it was enough to feel it.
'So here's the theory… If I can steal power from them, what happens if I kill Chosen? Can I devour their system too?' He had to admit it was a reckless idea, one that wasn't even his. It was entirely the old man's theory.
But reckless or not, it was hope. And Azrael wasn't about to rot in some forgotten corner of the world, only to die at twenty-three to a monster he never sensed.
It was either a life of greatness, one where he would reach the very top… or a short one, dying here after failing to kill Chosen.
'An early end in pursuit of greatness sounds better than a slightly longer one filled with stagnation and regret.'
His thoughts were interrupted, his body tensed, his ears picking up the sound of a battle ahead.
Lowering his body even more, and relying on the passive effect of one of the potions he had drunk already, granting a boost in stealth, he neared.
When humans fought to close Rifts, they always split into two groups: those who entered the Rift to face the boss monster inside, sealing it forever… and those outside, fighting the lesser abominations.
Azrael, of course, was going for the weakest prey possible.
'Bingo,' he thought, gripping his scythe so tight that his knuckles turned white.
Elderly man with an average stature stood tall among a small mountain of corpses. The stench of death around him was worse than any graveyard.
Crouching low, using the nearby granary to hide, Azrael analyzed, 'He is an old one. No doubt he has a mountain of experience under his belt.'
Azrael could look at him without feeling overwhelmed or inferiority weighing over him. The old one hadn't ever cleared a Rift leaving him at the Marked Level and most likely at the Chosen Rank.
The corner of his lips curled upward. 'He is still at the Marked level, meaning he is just a lucky bastard that got gifted the system and made use of it… but never strived for better.'
'Marked and Chosen—the lowest possible when it comes to power. And he's stayed there all this time… without improving,'
'In other words, a coward,' Azrael concluded. With his mind made, he began to move slowly toward his prey.
The unsuspecting prey was staring into the sky, no doubt looking at his system interface.
'No alive monster in sight, meaning that he has killed the nearby ones… for now.'
Azrael's heart pounded, and mind began emptying, throwing away even the slightest hint of hesitation or fear.
'After the battle with the monsters, he is exhausted, thinking he has managed to subdue them.'
He moved faster. Colder. Quieter.
'Last but not least, he stares at his system, inspecting the gains of the hard-won battle.'
In an instant, Azrael shot forward, faster than any normal human could. His scythe blurred through the air, aiming directly for the Chosen head.
With the element of surprise, there was no way the attack could fail… if Azrael had been against a mortal, that was.
Something—an item, an ability, raw instinct, or sheer experience—alerted the Chosen. A longsword materialized in his hand just in time, intercepting the scythe.
He twisted and kicked Azrael in the chest, launching him several feet away.
'You bastard, that hurt!' he cursed inwardly, going for another strike.
The Chosen stared at him, not with hatred, but with something closer to pity. A boy. Just a boy. Too young to even drink, yet trying to kill a man chosen by the gods.
That didn't mean he would let the boy go through. He had broken the law. Committed the worst sin of all, attacked Chosen.
Unfazed, he met Azrael's attack, fireballs materializing around his fingers before sending them outright to his foe.
Azrael grimaced, his body managed to tank the fireballs. His skin sizzling, the pain screaming in his nerves.
'Not yet,' he thought, forcing himself not to swallow the healing potion. This was his one and only trump card. He wasn't going to use it unless the perfect opportunity for it came.
Three slashes appeared on his body drawing blood. Thankfully, they weren't in his vital areas, just his limbs.
'He plans to torture me to death,' Azrael realized. If the Chosen had been able to unleash slashes so fast that he wasn't even able to see them, he could have pierced his heart or brain long ago… but he didn't.
'He must be sure of his win… that arrogance will cost you your life.' His eyes darkened even further. Unfazed he stepped forward.
Seeing an opening, he raised his scythe, about to drive it deep in the Chosen body.
"Let me show you the difference between us Chosen… and you Forsaken," the old man spoke for the first time, a smile creeping upon his face.
An instant later, Azrael's pain receptors went into overdrive, his hands had been cut off. Blood fell down like a fountain, mixing with the one that was already on the soil left behind by the monsters.
The agony was worse than he imagined, but he didn't scream. Not yet.
Because he saw it, that smirk the Chosen had. That smug certainty that the fight was finished.
'Now.'
With no hesitation, Azrael gulped the healing elixir. This wasn't just a cheap knockoff. This was the real thing, the kind Chosen used to recover from fatal wounds.
And Azrael being just a Forsaken human… meant the effect would be that much stronger.
Bones sprouted from the devastating wounds, muscles grew, blood vessels stitched together, skin materialized over it all. A fraction of a second was all it took, so fast that not even the Chosen was able to react in time.
Azrael's arms were whole once more. Seizing his scythe again, he struck.
The blade tore through the man's body, from left shoulder to right hip. It wasn't clean. It wasn't elegant. But it was fatal.
Azrael, still fueled by adrenaline, reached for his belt and drew the hidden dagger he always kept for emergencies.
Without hesitation, he rammed it into the Chosen's eye, piercing the brain.
These bastards were always full of surprises. He wasn't going to take a chance.
His mouth opened wide, taking in hoarse breaths. He took a few steps back, the body of the Chosen toppling to the ground.
'Was the old man correct?' Azrael questioned, a few seconds passing in silence.
Then, a voice rang out in his head. One without any emotion, monotone.
[Inborn Trait activated]
[System devoured]
[Inborn Trait is fusing with the system]
[Devouring System has been granted]
"It worked," Azrael sighed in relief, feeling the built-up tension disperse. All this hadn't been for naught. All the things up until now had been worth it.
Now came the important part, his Inborn Trait, and more importantly, its Rank.
It had granted him a system, true but that didn't automatically mean it was among the strongest.
They were ranked the same way Purity was in humans, divided into six tiers, each possessing greater Divine power than the last: Chosen, Blessed, Cleansed, Radiant, Exalted, and Divine. While their natural enemy, the Corruption, was similarly classified into six ranks reflecting their level of Corruption: Warped, Twisted, Tainted, Profane, Malignant and Unholy.
Would his Inborn Trait be one of the lower tiers—Chosen, Blessed?
Or perhaps something higher? Radiant… maybe even Exalted?
'It would be best if it's the Divine Rank,' Azrael thought, though he doubted he'd be that lucky.
He didn't know of anyone who possessed Inborn Trait with such Rank, all he knew was that if someone had been lucky enough to receive it, their potential would be virtually unlimited.
With time, they might change the world itself... perhaps even free it from the tyrannical god.
Following the instinct that came naturally to him, he concentrated on himself. Indeed, working like magic, something inside him responded. Foreign, alien language flashed before his eyes. Not a single one of the symbols was familiar to him, yet he found himself able to understand every single word.
Name: [Azrael]
Race: [Human]
Inborn Trait: [Heir of Death]
Ascension Level: [Marked]
Purity Rank: [Chosen]
Corruption Rank: [Warped]
Skills: [Inspect]
Items: —
Remembrances: —
The first thing his eyes landed on was his Inborn Trait—the very reason he had managed to gain a system in the first place.
'Heir of Death?' he thought puzzled.
Focusing on it more, sub-menus appeared, giving him more insight.
Once he read the information, he felt the world spin.
Inborn Trait: [Heir of Death]
Inborn Trait Rank: [Divine]