The Path of the Achiever

Part of me wanted to stay sprawled out like this forever, but it was time to move.

I'd finished one task, yet a mountain of work still loomed ahead.

"Haa..."

I tensed my core and sat up like a corpse lurching upright. Stiff muscles loosened with a satisfying series of cracks, and I rose from the ground, cycling through tension and release in the pleasant haze of residual drowsiness.

Even that brief rest was enough to restore a body that had been filthy with exhaustion.

I was riding the full effect of Subjugator, sure — but my recovery had never been this fast before. That meant I was reaping the benefits of the newly acquired skills.

New summons were nice, but I needed to understand myself first if I wanted any real sense of direction going forward. I reopened the status window I'd closed earlier and set about examining the new skills.

I checked them from the top down, one by one.

The first thing that caught my eye wasn't a skill at all — it was my class.

"It changed."

What had been Researcher was now Seeker. I didn't know the exact difference, but there had to be a reason for the shift.

Every skill generated under Researcher had been consolidated into a single skill: Book of Investigation.

On top of the combined effects of the previous skills, it had gained the ability to automatically gather and interpret information. If I put my mind to it, I could probably build a search engine that would put any encyclopedia to shame just by skimming the data on my device.

Given how similar the name was, I wondered whether this one might sprout a sense of self the way Book of Summoning and Book of Combination had. If it did, I'd have a secretary that put any artificial intelligence to shame.

Beyond that, one of the sections of my main class that had been filled with ■ symbols had decreased by one.

That was good news. It was practically the discovery of a possible solution to a problem that had been gnawing at me with no apparent way forward.

But of course, lose one and gain one — a brand-new stat had appeared next to Luck. A glitched one, no less, its letters corrupted beyond reading.

One mountain after another. That phrase existed for situations exactly like this.

I skipped the sigh and moved on to the skills that actually mattered.

Book of Investigation, as I'd already noted, was a fusion of the skills from my former subclass Researcher — Record and Speed Reading — along with Observation and Dissection.

It hadn't been born as something entirely new through combination. Instead, it had been carefully fused to preserve each skill's strengths and specialties, so I should be able to use it the same way I always had without any real sense of dissonance. If anything, the burden had lightened — what used to require me to juggle and fine-tune each skill separately was now unified into one.

Next was Spirit.

By the dictionary definition: "the drive to accomplish even the most difficult of tasks."

This one was a fusion of Charisma, Combat Focus, Endurance, and Mental Attack Resistance.

Given the skills involved, the effect went well beyond simple guts — it let me imbue my mana with presence. On top of that, the energy itself carried a baseline effect that soothed physical and mental fatigue.

So that was why my body had recovered faster than I'd expected. This skill was going to be useful going forward; I'd need to use it often and level it up.

Next came the unique skills section, where the greatest number of skills seemed to have been absorbed.

Subjugator had been there from the start, so I skipped it and tapped the skill sitting right beside it — Battle King — to check the detailed description.

Battle King. An arrogantly named skill if there ever was one — but its efficacy was rock solid.

At its core, it applied overwhelming correction to every action classified as "combat," and let me wield any weapon as naturally as my own hands and feet.

The "correction" in question meant exactly what it sounded like: the success rate of the act itself. In other words, so long as this skill was functioning properly, I could physically execute the ideal "combat" I envisioned in my mind.

What had been absorbed into it were weapon skills across the board, plus the title Versatile.

I'd checked because the title I was wearing had changed — and it was simply gone. Looking at the effect nested inside Battle King — growing stronger with every swing of a weapon, a slight mutation of what Versatile originally offered — it was clear the title had been merged into the skill.

Being able to free up a title slot for something ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠else was a net gain, if you looked only at the results.

Next was Reaper. Same as with Battle King, I tapped the skill to check the description.

Battle King had absorbed a lot of skills too, but that was more a matter of quantity. Reaper had numbers as well — but the quality was on another level entirely.

First, it had absorbed skills that were no exaggeration to call my mainstays: Sadism and Torture. On top of those came Spirit Eyes, Spirit Sense, and Spirit Power — all obtained the moment I'd opened that forbidden grimoire — along with Inscription.

And above all else, this skill had absorbed the very core of my equipment, Doteron's Masterpiece – Black, as well as Agony of Arsan — the source of every spirit-related skill I'd gained, and the cause of this entire turning point.

In practical terms, every one of my primary tools had been poured into a single skill.

The tattoos that had covered my wrists had all merged into the one along my side. The design ran all the way down to my hip, fundamentally shaped like a skull, with a flickering shadow draped over it like spilled ink — enough that a casual glance could mistake it for the figure of a reaper. The addition of thorned vines coiled around it made the influence of Doteron's Masterpiece – Black unmistakable.

Where Battle King and Subjugator were rooted in the body, Reaper was rooted in my soul.

Perhaps because of that, the combined power of the absorbed skills had significantly altered the nature of my mana.

Where my mana had once been ordinary stuff with only the faintest hint of fire, it now carried the quality of craftsmanship — ideal for creating things. Within that, the dominant elemental foundation was shadow — darkness — with fire claiming the next largest share, tied to pain and the soul.

The end result, looking purely at my magical attributes, was a pure black flame.

Deepen the concentration of darkness further, and I could craft all manner of things with the same feel as when I'd used Doteron's Masterpiece – Black; add more mana, and I could layer on hardness and edge. Because the conversion now ran directly from my mana rather than through an intermediate piece of equipment, the implementation was far more refined — and the subtle penalties, like shadow constructs completing faster only for armor, were gone.

If anything, the aggression had grown a little too thick. Managing that balance would be my next assignment.

Beyond the power inherent in my mana, the Reaper skill itself had gained a passive that harvested a target's soul or fragments of it. The amount seemed to scale with how close the target was to death — another thing that looked difficult to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fine-tune.

The other thing worth real attention was the effect of Inscription.

Simply put, I could take one of the powers I possessed, engrave it like a tattoo using my mana as the medium, and permanently bestow it on a target. The concept felt like a universal version of Magic Armor. I hadn't tested it yet, but if I put my mind to it, I was fairly sure I could create something superior to Magic Armor itself.

The reverse was possible too. I could mass-produce disposable weapons that were deliberately inferior to Magic Armor — something closer to a lesser version of the concept — without much trouble at all.

Either way, it didn't overhaul my existing fighting style, but the changes were real and undeniable.

Somewhere along the way, nearly every original trace of Agony of Arsan had been erased. I didn't mind. If I kept wielding this power, I was certain I'd eventually be able to create something from the souls I harvested.

"That's all the skills."

I could roughly see the end of it. The only thing left was the skill I'd gained when the status window changed: Achiever.

Judging by the name, it was probably a title awarded for reaching some ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠kind of threshold. What mattered wasn't the acquisition path — it was the benefit of equipping it. If it did nothing, I needed to swap it for a more effective title as soon as possible if I wanted to call this a real gain.

I quickly tapped Achiever in the title slot and checked the information.

"...Hmm."

Not bad. But for something labeled Unique, it felt a little vague. I couldn't quite get a handle on what this "mental image" even meant.

I knew the dictionary definition. Written as mental image, rewritten as a mirror reflecting the heart, read as Image. A thought woven from the mind — that was a mental image.

The problem was that I had no awareness of having achieved any such thing. All I'd done was create a set of scales and pay the price that matched the conditions. I'd gritted my teeth through pure spite, half-passed out, and gotten back up. That was the whole of it.

I'd read enough novels to know that this kind of "mental image" was usually tied to some form of enlightenment. I had nothing of the sort.

And yet the system had recognized it as "reaching" something.

I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd lucked into it. It sat wrong with me — but I was already enjoying the effects, so there wasn't much I could say about it.

Just because the skills had been integrated didn't mean the old methods of using them had vanished. But there was no need to cling to the weaker fighting style of the past when I had stronger skills to work with.

No — holding my current position while sitting on superior power was nothing short of waste. Letting strength rot when I had the means to advance was the height of laziness.

In my present position, that kind of luxury was unforgivable. The day it became acceptable would be the day this damned world's game board finally ended.

I stirred my mana, and shadow seeped into the flow as naturally as breathing. The darkness shifted freely in form and density at my will, writhing like some unidentifiable living thing in the dark.

I clenched my fist hard, scattering the shadow that had bloomed in my palm, and let out a breath. I still didn't even know what my own power was.

When you first acquired a skill, a brief summary of it was branded into your mind. These had none of that. If anything, even the impressions of the old skills seemed to have been wiped clean.

And then there was the dissonance of actually using them.

In this world, using a skill was simple. Just think of it, and your body moved first, showing you the way. From there, you spent effort and time making that sensation fully your own. It was a kind of guide — and a teacher, too.

I couldn't speak for anyone else, but for me, that had been true.

I'd known next to nothing, and on top of that I carried a viciously difficult mental condition called distrust of people, so I couldn't even credit the information I managed to obtain. The sensory feedback skills provided had been the one lifeline I had.

That was only true in the early days, of course. The further I went, the more I moved on my own terms — but that didn't mean the guidance had been worthless. Looking back, I'd been relying on it more than I'd realized.

But now there was no teacher, no help. To understand this, I would have to figure it out alone, without anyone else's assistance.

And that made sense. This was my power now — and at the same time, it was an expression of who I was.

There was nothing more foolish than entrusting your own career to someone else. You might take a little advice writing a personal statement, but no one volunteers to have it ghostwritten for them. Even if you did, all that would remain of "you" was the shell of a name. The inside would be occupied by some stranger you'd never met — and after a few encounters, the dissonance would be impossible to hide with words.

It was going to take an absurd amount of time and effort. My emotions would be spent down too. Just imagining the process already had me sighing heavily.

...Still. I had to do it. What choice did I have?

I'd thought I might finally get a weekend off for once. That was clearly not happening.

If I was going to do this, I'd do it at full power — and produce the best possible result.

I raised mana through my entire body. The shadows that had scattered when Doteron's Masterpiece – Black vanished rapidly reconstructed themselves, settling over me in the form of clothing.

A plain, utterly unadorned black coat — no ornamentation, no flair, nothing. Where before it had reflected my preferences while still carrying someone else's tastes, it was now built entirely by my will alone.

I gave a bitter smile at that and added a few accessories as I saw fit. Pursuing pure practicality, the result ended up looking something like a long military coat at a glance — with maybe a spoonful of fantasy mixed in.

A fusion military uniform, if you will.

The balance still tilted toward my previous life, probably because that portion of my existence still outweighed this one. Time would sort that out on its own. Still, for the sake of variety, I should probably learn a thing or two about armor design.

The Sirogane Union handled equipment crafting as well — setting aside a day to go learn from them didn't sound like a bad idea. And while I was at it, I could check on the condition of the Union's head, Shirogane Ichiro.

That was enough planning for now.

"...I'll keep this title equipped for the time being."

I didn't have anything else to swap it for anyway — and the only way to get a handle on this damned "mental image" business was to keep wearing it and using it until it became familiar.

I dismissed every status window in front of me, and the frozen world came back into view — along with the goblins standing in it like statues.

They had me surrounded. Exactly thirty of them. Roughly the size of a single village's worth.

Among them was one draped head to toe in black cloth, and another with a larger frame than the rest, gripping a stone axe made of bone. A low-ranking goblin must have spotted me and rounded up every warm body it could find.

That far into the thought, I remembered something I'd completely forgotten.

"Ah."

Right. I was inside a goblin dungeon.

I'd been so absorbed in self-reflection that I hadn't even noticed them arriving. ...Well, I'd trusted my summons to handle things — and they were such small fry that I hadn't felt so much as a flicker of danger.

That's how much stronger I've gotten.

It hadn't even been half a year. And I'd still managed to grow this far.

Should I be happy about that? Or should I feel disgust and pity for the pathetic creatures of this world who couldn't manage even this much when I was capable of it?

Doesn't matter.

Thinking of myself as a little special was probably better for my mental health. The fact that I could look at a scene like this and think that way already made me "special" enough. Or in this case, maybe just "peculiar."

A wind rose, and the frigid air scraped roughly across my cheek.

At a glance it looked like nothing more than a light frost on a cold dawn — but it wasn't ordinary frost. It was a kind of anomalous phenomenon, born from souls of objects being affected by an overwhelming density of yin energy.

The culprit behind that cold was Shiz, endlessly circling the area and scattering her lingering thoughts. Those goblins had probably gotten a firsthand lesson in the expression "chilled to the bone." Of course, the price was falling into a sleep from which they would never wake.

Crack, pop.

I rolled my stiff neck — too long spent staring at system windows — and immediately raised my mana.

A heavy weight settled naturally into my hand: a magnificent tome bound in black leather, adorned with gold-leaf embroidery and ornamentation.

The Book of Summoning, which I no longer even needed to call by name to draw forth. It flipped open of its own accord, turned its pages, and began writing in letters the color of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠blood.

Taken on its own, it looked like nothing so much as a cursed book — but in reality, it was simply preparing to summon. I answered by stirring my mana. Materials were scattered all around me, conveniently enough. This time, I intended to try out another function of the Book of Combination.

"I feel like there was a manga with this kind of vibe..."

It had been popular enough to get a game adaptation, if I remembered right. You mixed completely different creatures together and pulled out something new. As a kid, driven by nothing but the hope of getting something stronger, I'd hunted down combination recipes and mashed monsters together without a second thought.

That was the era when I was completely obsessed with fusions, dinosaurs, and robots — and that game had satisfied a child's needs so thoroughly it overflowed.

Of course, looking back with adult eyes, there had never been a mad scientist quite so unhinged. Hollow-eyed, clicking the mouse with nothing but success in mind. Remembering the monsters I'd ground through and crossbred over and over just to crack a 0.5 percent success rate sent a sudden chill down my spine.

Or maybe it wasn't just my imagination — there was a creature that could fairly be called a gathering of ghosts wandering around me in plain sight.

"...Hey. That's enough. Hive and Haze can handle the perimeter. You stand by."

A long, low wail drifted through the air.

Feeling vaguely guilty, I scolded Shiz, then silenced her with a transfer of mana as she keened with something like wounded indignation.

"Haa. Let's get started."

As if answering me, the Book of Summoning fluttered and flipped its pages — and beside it, the Book of Combination appeared of its own accord, standing by.