NOVPUBDing.
[Rolling…]
The sound was clean—too clean. For a moment, it all felt familiar.
Then—
[Error!]
A jarring crack split across Damien's interface like a digital fracture. The glow around the ticket flared, stuttered, and then pulsed violently as the entire display began to distort.
[System Alert: Authority Interference Detected.]
[Host is currently outside permitted access tier. Error 301-K: Plane Enforcement Breach.]
[Attempting to stabilize reward channel…]
Damien's eyes narrowed.
"…Here we go again."
The lights in the room flickered. Not physically—just perceptually, like reality itself was trying to sync with a different rhythm and failing. He sat up, slowly, and the edges of his vision swam.
The system interface twisted, locking up mid-reel. Static bled through the golden script. Then—
[Reward Rejected by Plane Authorities.]
[Skill Registration Denied.]
[Non-Awakened Entity Cannot Receive Advanced Skill—]
The air shifted.
He didn't breathe. He didn't move.
Because something inside him did.
A sharp crack echoed in his skull—not physical pain, but like a thought splitting open. His mind reeled, eyes flaring with something ancient and wrong and true.
[Trait Triggered: SINGULARITY.]
The system screamed in silence. A burst of raw white light tore through his vision.
Reality bent.
For a heartbeat, Damien saw everything in layers. Muscle fiber. Reaction time. Joint angles. Emotional ticks. Micro-expressions. Lines of tension drawn over every person he'd ever fought.
And then—
[Passive Skills Detected: Neural Synchronicity + Tactile Perception.]
[Processing Overlap…]
[Cognitive Efficiency Breach.]
[Trigger: Intelligence stat exceeds calculation threshold.]
[ERROR: System does not recognize this combination as legal.]
[Override in progress…]
The two passives collapsed inward, their data compressing into a single glowing point in Damien's mind.
And from that point—
A new construct formed.
Ding!
[Custom Trait Acquired: Neural Predator]
—----------------------------------
Trait: Neural Predator
Classification: Custom | Type: Passive-Active Hybrid
▶ The host's brain adapts to combat patterns in real time. Every enemy is a data source. Every movement, a signal.
Effects:
→ Weakpoint Trace: Host can highlight physical and psychological vulnerabilities of any target within line of sight.
→ Combat Echo: When engaged in repeated combat, the host can register enemy techniques.
→ Stolen Flow: Exposure to a combat art allows partial mimicry. The more the host sees, the more complete the imitation.
Special Condition:
→ The more intelligent the host becomes, the faster the system adapts.
→ Intelligence stat is currently: [???]
Synergies:
→ [Singularity], [Predatory Focus], [Neural Synchronicity]
→ Unique boost when target is a former threat or emotional
—----------------------------------
Damien's breath left his lungs in a slow hiss.
His hands were trembling—but not from fear. From power.
This wasn't just a skill.
It was hunger.
A system that would feed off of his enemies, learn from their strength, tear off their limbs and wear them.
And he had made it.
Not from mana.
Not from fate.
Not from some Awakened bloodline certification.
The interface faded from his vision, but its presence still lingered—etched into the back of his thoughts like a brand burned into the folds of his mind. Damien stood in the shifting stillness, letting the last pulses of white system-light fade behind his eyes.
And then, slowly, a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.
'Neural Predator, huh…'
He turned the name over in his mind like a blade in his hand—feeling the weight of it, the intent behind the edges.
'Of course I'd get something like this.'
He didn't flinch. Didn't gloat. Just stood there, steady, letting the realization settle like gravity reborn.
'Adaptation. I've always had it. Always.'
School, fights, business lessons he didn't care to remember—he'd never needed to study something twice. Never needed months to master a pattern. No, all it ever took was exposure. A glance. A beat. A few seconds of real attention, and he understood.
People thought it was just arrogance when he stopped trying.
They didn't realize trying was unnecessary.
He reached up, brushing a hand along his jaw. The lights were still flickering slightly—more metaphysical than real—but his thoughts were clear. Clean. Sharpened by the new wiring being written inside him.
'This isn't a gift.'
His gaze drifted to the last shimmer of system residue still floating in the air.
'It's recognition.'
The system hadn't granted him something foreign—it had refined him. Taken the scattered fragments of his instincts and welded them together under a single banner. Made them efficient. Official.
'It just took the ceiling off.'
He chuckled softly to himself.
'Weakpoint Trace… Combat Echo… Stolen Flow.'
Each effect played across his mind, vivid and real.
'It's not mimicry. It's consumption.'
His smirk sharpened.
'Like I was always meant to devour their techniques and use them better than they ever did.'
For a moment, he let the quiet hang there—just him and that thought. Then he exhaled through his nose.
"…What a beautiful thing."
And he meant it.
Because this wasn't some heroic skill meant to protect the innocent or restore balance.
It was predatory. Cold. Clinical. Efficient.
A system built not for defense but for absolute domination through intelligence, perception, and the dismantling of others.
'Fits me too well, doesn't it?'
The thought lingered like a whisper of smoke in a still room.
Damien's smirk widened, slow and self-assured. He brought a hand up, brushing a lock of damp hair from his forehead as he turned his focus inward again.
'Let's see where we stand…'
The interface responded to his unspoken will, flickering into view with seamless fluidity. White-gold text traced across his vision, clean and confident in its presentation.
--------------------
[STATUS – Expanded View]
▶ Name: Damien Elford
▶ Level: 5
▶ SP: 345
▶ Available Attribute Points: 8
[Attributes]
→ Strength: 9
→ Agility: 9
→ Endurance: 9
→ Will: ??
→ Intelligence: ??
→ Charm: 8.5
→ Luck: 9
----------------
His gaze swept over the list.
The numbers were starting to catch up with the truth of who he was becoming. Each one a declaration, not of natural talent, but of sharpened intent.
Strength. Agility. Endurance. They'd climbed—steadily, purposefully. No longer weighed down by laziness or hesitation. The only stat left that lagged was Charm, and even then… 8.5 wasn't low.
But none of that mattered right now.
Because one number drew his eye more than any other.
Luck: 9
He let the silence stretch, a smile playing at his lips.
'The silent architect of chaos. The hidden hand that turns impossible into inevitable.'
Luck had always been underestimated. A gambler's stat, people said. A background modifier. But Damien knew better. He could feel it—how it shifted the current just enough to make the improbable fall into his lap. It was subtle, untraceable.
And it was his.
'Let's push it.'
He thought it without hesitation, selecting the Luck stat and sliding a single attribute point toward it.
From 9 to 10.
Ding!
But instead of the smooth chime of confirmation, the interface stuttered.
Then:
------------
[ERROR: Luck Stat Threshold Reached]
→ Luck cannot be increased further through standard means.
→ Current Stat: 9… (Locked)
→ Manual override attempt detected: Access Denied.
→ System Message: "Nice try."
→ Explanation: The host has reached the current potential for Luck under existing parameters.
→ Host's Fate is limited.
------------
His eyes narrowed on the final line.
Host's Fate is limited.
'There it is.'
He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as the pieces fell together in his mind—clean, simple, inevitable.
'So I was right. Pushing it to 10 would break the ceiling.'
That number—10—wasn't just a stat increase. It was symbolic. A threshold. The line that divided mortals from something more.
A Child of the Plane.
A Favored Soul.
A Wielder of Divine Probability.
Not someone like him. Not yet.
Not while his fate remained what it was.
Damien's smirk didn't falter. If anything, it grew.
Because while the message had delivered a wall, it had also offered something else.
Hope.
Currently.
One word. Small. Easy to miss.
And yet so heavy with meaning.
'Not permanently locked… just currently.'
He tilted his head, thoughts spinning like blades behind his eyes.
'Meaning… if I break this fate. If I redefine my standing—if I step out of the script this world has written for me—then even that number… even that divine barrier… will be within reach.'
The system had confirmed as much before. Fate, destiny, the so-called "world algorithm"—he had already begun tearing those bindings apart. The Trait [Reforged One] alone was proof of that.
He just needed time. Growth. More chaos. And more victories.
He exhaled slowly, dismissing the grayed-out Luck stat with a flick of will.
'Fine. We'll leave that for later.'
He shifted his focus.
As for the Attribute Points—he had eight. Enough to make real progress. But Charm? He wouldn't touch it. Not yet. Not with numbers.
He had promised himself—that one, he would earn.
With presence.
With precision.
With every word that made people forget what they thought he was.
So, instead, his gaze drifted to the trio that had carried him so far:
Strength: 9
Agility: 9
Endurance: 9
He smirked to himself.
'For now… let us wait.'
