The air grew colder as Andrew stepped deeper into the ancient temple. The stone walls, once sacred and revered, now crumbled with the weight of centuries. Roots burst through cracked tiles, and spectral lights flickered above archaic symbols carved into the floor. He felt the pressure increase with each step—the weight of forgotten history pressing against his chest.
He had already bypassed a half-dozen traps. Pressure plates that launched spears. A corridor laced with illusion magic that made the floor vanish. Even a puzzle door requiring logical deduction about star patterns and ancient calendars. Every trap was a test, and his strategist instincts honed with every victory. But it was the last trial that shook him—a massive pendulum blade descending from the ceiling with no time to think. He'd dodged it with a hair's breadth, adrenaline numbing the fear.
And then he saw it.
A throne of blackened stone, cracked and sunken, stood at the heart of the inner sanctum. Upon it sat the corpse of a mage, still draped in once-regal robes now bleached white with time. The body was dry and preserved, as though even death dared not claim him completely.
A faint magical aura clung to the air like incense.
Andrew stepped closer, scanning the room for traps. None. He approached the throne with reverence and curiosity. At the base of the throne lay an ancient book, bound in dragonhide and sealed with a glowing glyph.
With a cautious hand, Andrew reached down and broke the seal. The glyph dissolved, and the book opened on its own—turning pages rapidly until it stopped.
Words etched in a forgotten tongue shimmered, then morphed into a language Andrew could read.
"SS+ CLASS: Strategist of the Eternal Mind."
His eyes widened.
The page detailed everything. A class so rare it had been forgotten by time itself. Its key trait: **Skill Replication and Tactical Amplification.** The user could observe or touch individuals—even the dead—and extract skills, permanently integrating them into their being. The copied skill would not degrade. Over time, the Strategist would gain passive buffs and affinities, forming the foundation of a personalized arsenal.
"I can copy skills... permanently?" Andrew muttered.
He looked at the corpse again. Something flickered above it—a ghostly blue flame hovering near the mage's chest.
The book glowed faintly in Andrew's hands.
He reached out slowly, unsure what would happen. As his fingers brushed the spectral flame, a surge of energy rushed into his body. He gasped, stumbling back. His interface lit up with a new notification.
**[Skill Acquired: Elemental Vein – Arcane Flame Affinity (Tier B)]**
**[Protection Source: Mage's Last Will (Auto-Shield once per day)]**
Andrew fell to his knees, breath shaky.
His fingers tingled. His veins felt like they were burning, yet no pain followed. Only warmth. His body had changed. He could sense the magic in the air, react to it, draw from it. He looked again at the mage, silent and unmoving.
"Thank you," Andrew whispered. "You were waiting for someone like me... weren't you?"
The book turned its page one last time on its own. A simple message was left in ink long dried:
"To the one abandoned—You are not broken. You are the future."
Andrew stood, the flame flickering faintly above his shoulder before fading into his chest.
He had a path now. A goal. And for the first time since being discarded, he held the edge.
"No one throws away a king and lives to rule the board," he said, walking toward the temple's exit.
The Strategist had begun his march.