Lin Yan’s calloused fingers tightened around the worn hilt of his makeshift knife. A scrawny forest boar lay dead at his feet, its demise yielding nothing but the satisfaction of a full belly for the first time in days.
This was Aethelgard, a world where the fall of a foe usually meant a tangible reward – an Essence, a shimmering fragment of power that could manifest as a potion, a useful material, or even the spark of a new skill. But for Lin Yan, there was only meat on the empty forest floor.
He was a quick study, though. From the way the boar lunged, he’d already begun to internalize its clumsy aggression, filing away the knowledge of its predictable movements. That was his gift, his curse, his only means of survival. He learned the hard way, through relentless observation and practice, mimicking the skills he witnessed in the world around him.
His early years were a blur of fleeting alliances. He’d joined a band of grizzled mercenaries, eager to learn their brutal efficiency in combat. He’d watched their powerful swings, the unwavering stances, and through tireless repetition, had gained a rudimentary “Power Strike.”
Later, he’d traveled with a cautious mage and his apprentice, memorizing the incantations and gestures for a weak but versatile “Minor Arcane Bolt.”
Each party offered a new curriculum, a fresh set of skills painstakingly acquired through his sharp eyes and relentless dedication. He learned to nimbly evade attacks like the forest creatures, to pick simple locks from a shifty rogue, and even the basics of repairing his worn gear from a traveling tinker.
He also learned why his welcome was always temporary. The whispers started subtly, then grew louder. “Fewer drops when he’s around,” or “It’s like the magic just vanishes.”
The tangible rewards that fueled adventurers’ livelihoods dwindled in his presence. Parties, initially drawn to his growing repertoire of skills – a quick repair here, a surprisingly effective spell there – soon found their coffers emptier after every encounter. They’d leave him with a mix of regret and necessity, his diverse skills a poor substitute for the lost profits.
He’d often overhear them mentioning the Shadowfang Mountains, a place they’d avoid at all costs, a place whispered to be the domain of the dreaded Soros the Undying. They spoke of a lingering dark mist that clung to the peaks, a sure sign of his malevolent presence.
Years passed in this lonely rhythm of learning and leaving. But slowly, Lin Yan adapted. He found hidden springs and learned which berries were safe. He built a rough shelter beneath the roots of an ancient tree. His skills, though learned through hardship, were his own. He could track game with surprising accuracy, his “Predictive Evasion” had become second nature, and his “Minor Arcane Bolt,” though weak, could deter smaller predators.
He had carved out a fragile stability in his solitary existence, a quiet competence born of necessity. He still heard the occasional traveler speak of strange occurrences, of a chilling dark mist seen in the distance, always with a fearful mention of Soros the Undead.
One day, while exploring a crumbling ruin in search of salvageable materials, a palpable shift in the atmosphere occurred. The air grew heavy and cold, and a faint, oily dark mist began to swirl around the moss-covered stones.
An ancient dread permeated the air, a feeling Lin Yan had never encountered before. Then, a figure materialized from the mist – gaunt, spectral, with eyes that burned with an eerie green light. It was Soros the Undying.
Soros’s hollow laughter echoed through the ruins. He fixed his gaze on Lin Yan, a flicker of recognition in his ancient eyes.
“Ah, Lin Yan, is it?” he rasped, his voice like the scraping of bone. “The outcast. My handiwork continues to bear strange fruit. The clan thought they could appease me, didn’t they? Some curses, it seems, have a twisted sense of irony. Carry on, little skill thief. You are a testament to unintended consequences.” And then, as quickly as he appeared, Soros dissolved back into the swirling mist.
Lin Yan was left shaken, the cryptic words echoing in his mind. The mention of his clan, a memory long suppressed, stirred a cold dread within him. He spent the next few weeks haunted by the encounter, the image of Soros’s glowing eyes seared into his memory.
He found himself drawn back towards the lands he had once fled, a desperate need for answers pulling him towards the ruins of his former home.
There, hidden beneath a collapsed shrine, he found it – a weathered scroll detailing the history of his clan and their desperate pact with Soros. The horrifying truth unfolded: his infant self, believed to be cursed, was offered as a sacrifice to appease the powerful undead spirit.
And Soros, in his malevolence, had indeed cursed him – not with bad luck, but with the inability to gain any material reward from the world. Zero drops. The reason he was abandoned.
The revelation hit Lin Yan like a physical blow. The years of loneliness, the constant struggle, the reason for his outcast status – it all clicked into place with brutal clarity. He was a pawn in a dark bargain, a victim of both his clan’s fear and Soros’s malice.
Days later, as Lin Yan navigated the desolate landscape, he felt that familiar chill in the air, the subtle shift that heralded Soros’s presence. A dark mist clung to the gnarled trees ahead. He walked towards it, a strange calm settling over him.
Soros materialized, his spectral form shimmering in the dim light. He seemed almost amused to see Lin Yan again.
Lin Yan stopped a few paces away, his gaze steady. The initial shock and anger had given way to a strange understanding. He looked at the powerful undead spirit, the source of his lifelong hardship. A faint, almost bitter smile touched his lips.
“So, Soros the Undying,” Lin Yan said, his voice surprisingly steady. “My clan thought they were saving themselves by giving me to you. They failed. And you cursed me to be worthless, to gain nothing. I remember.”
He gestured to himself, a subtle shift in his stance, a barely perceptible flicker of the “Minor Arcane Bolt” forming at his fingertips. “But you also failed.”
He looked directly into Soros’s glowing eyes. “Because of your curse, I learned to survive. I learned more than anyone else. In a twisted way,” the pause hung in the air.
Then, Lin Yan said, with a strange mix of defiance and a dark, unsettling understanding, “thank you.”
No Items, Only Insights: The Boy Who Learned Everything Because He Gained Nothing
