The crystal's light faded, and with it, the echoing voice that had spoken into Andrew's mind.
The tower's silence returned.
But Andrew no longer stood as a boy flung from comfort into chaos. Something had changed. The swirling system of glowing runes that had enveloped him seconds ago had etched something deeper than knowledge—it had given him perspective. His breathing slowed, sharpened. He looked around with new eyes.
The room wasn't just a ruin. It was a map.
"Three entrances," he muttered, eyes scanning. "Cracked foundations on the south side. Wind enters from the east—that'll be my blind zone. No soundproofing. No traps—yet."
His fingers brushed the stone floor. Smooth and cold. Likely runework had once connected this chamber to a greater network, long collapsed.
In his peripheral vision, a faint shimmer appeared. System text.
Class: Tactician of the Unseen
Title: The Variable
Abilities unlocked:
• Tactical Insight [Passive]
• Predictive Pathing [Active]
• Fog of Deceit [Locked]
• Command Channel [Locked]
You have awakened a class forgotten by time. Your presence shifts fate.
Andrew exhaled slowly. No sword. No fire. No divine blessing. His weapon… was his mind.
He moved toward the far wall of the chamber, where old iron racks lined the sides. Rusted weapons, cracked shields—most were worthless. But his eyes caught a long rod-shaped tool resting beneath some loose cloth.
A spear shaft. Intact. Hardwood, with a reinforced tip.
"Not elegant, but better than nothing."
He tested its weight, gave it a spin, and nodded to himself. He had always been above average in sports—not a champion, but sharp, adaptive. That wouldn't win battles here. But it might keep him alive until the real game began.
He stepped out into the open again. The dead air greeted him like a vice. The monster was gone—its tracks still fresh in the dirt—but Andrew had no intention of testing his luck again.
His eyes drifted toward the horizon. From the tower's peak, he could make out low ridges to the north. Forests to the west. East and south? Just wasteland—dry, broken, sun-bleached terrain where nothing but carrion birds thrived.
And there, a flicker—smoke.
"Civilization? Or just a bandit camp."
He closed his eyes. Let the information settle.
"Tactical Insight activated."
Predicting regional heat signatures…
Probability of intelligent life: 48%.
Threat rating: moderate.
Recommended route: 12 degrees west-northwest. Approach through forested shadow to reduce detection.
Andrew blinked.
The world had just given him an advantage. And he planned to use it.
Five hours later, the sun dipped toward the horizon. Andrew moved through dense trees, low to the ground. Every branch broken behind him was deliberate. Every pause timed.
By now, most people would have succumbed to panic. But Andrew was running on calculation and adrenaline. The new instincts weren't just helpful—they were intoxicating.
He had outwitted two patrol beasts. Set up a distraction trap using bones from the ruin. And now, hiding behind a fallen log, he watched a group of figures by a smoking campfire.
Five of them. Armed.
Humanoid. Not monsters.
Andrew narrowed his eyes.
"Armor's mismatched. Scars on the leader's face. One missing a boot—probably a recent fight. No discipline. Raiders."
And then he saw it—something that made his stomach twist.
At the edge of their camp, shackled to a post, was a young man. Wounded. Dressed in part of a school uniform — the same kind of shirt Andrew had been wearing before his own exile.
"One of us."
His pulse quickened. He didn't know the guy personally, but it didn't matter. The priestess had thrown Andrew away like garbage. And now her 'heroes' were being tossed to wolves?
He couldn't let that stand.
Active Skill: Predictive Pathing – Engaged
Calculating success route…
1 optimal plan found. Estimated success rate: 64%.
Deploy diversion. Strike support. Free captive. Exit northeast slope.
Andrew smiled.
"Alright then," he whispered. "Let's begin."
Fifteen minutes later, the camp was chaos.
A sudden flare of light—a reflection from polished armor tied to a swinging branch—had drawn the raiders' attention. One had chased after it. Another tripped Andrew's tripwire and took a rusted blade to the thigh.
While they scrambled, Andrew slipped behind the tents.
He made it to the prisoner, cut the ropes with a shard of metal, and caught him before he collapsed.
"You're Andrew…" the boy croaked, blood on his lip.
Andrew didn't flinch. "Can you walk?"
The boy shook his head. Andrew hauled him over his shoulder.
They moved.
One raider noticed. Too late.
A sharp jab of the spear to the throat silenced him. Another emerged—Andrew threw the last of his small stones into the fire. Sparks burst upward, blinding light. A scream. And then nothing.
By the time the rest of the camp was aware, Andrew had vanished into the tree line.
They didn't stop until nightfall.
The boy—Luca, second year—was still too weak to move on his own. Andrew built a quick shelter under a tree's roots, covered them with scavenged cloth and brush, and settled in with ears sharp for pursuit.
Luca spoke first.
"They said you died," he rasped. "That you were a broken summon. That you were devoured by the Disposal."
Andrew didn't answer for a moment.
Then: "Let them believe that."
"You're… not like them anymore, are you?"
Andrew looked up at the stars breaking through the clouds.
"No," he said. "I'm not."
Luca shivered beside him.
"What are you planning to do?"
Andrew didn't smile, but his voice was calm, confident.
"They summoned a tactician and tried to discard him."
He looked toward the dark horizon.
"Now I'll do what tacticians do best: learn the terrain. Build a force. And outmaneuver the gods."