Hector stumbled into the room, his mind ablaze. Memories from a life not lived swamped him. They were his memories, but they weren't. It was like he was another person. "Who am I," he muttered, dragging his feet as he stumbled around.
He rested a hand on the wooden wall, part of the run-down building he called home. The smell of the Digby St sewage leaked in through the open window, and Hector gagged. The open sewer running down the middle street usually didn't bother him, but today, it hit him like a truck.
He wobbled over to the window, grabbing the frame and slamming it shut.
These memories can't be mine; I've never seen a building like that anywhere in Middlec.
He thought back to when he had briefly visited the outskirts of central Middlec—his father had been visiting a friend. The buildings there were numerous and grand but nothing like the steel and concrete behemoths in his memories—nothing like Earth.
Sighing, Hector wobbled over to his bed. He slumped down, the bed groaning beneath him and the wood screaming in protest. Hector had had the bed for many years; it should break any day. At least, he hoped it did; then, he could place the mattress on the floor and sleep on that.
Hector grabbed his head and shook it. It wouldn't help, but he had to do something; the pain was annoying—and sadly this world didn’t have paracetamol, the only thing that came close was quite root. Something they didn’t have. As he considered dunking his head into the bathtub, his vision flashed, and a screen popped up in front of him.
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///: Welcome… Talent Cultivator system loading.
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"A system," he mumbled. A white, almost translucent text box appeared before him with the title Talent Cultivator written on it. "This can't be happening."
From the memories that flooded his head, throbbing head, knowledge about what a system was surfaced. But that was all fiction. People didn't get systems in real life; that was stupid. And yet, he sat in his room with a crisp white text box in front of him.
I must have a concussion or something; I'll have to ask Lincoln's mum to have a look at me.
Healers were hard to find in the slums of Middlec, let alone one as skilled as Catherine. The image of a cheery old lady entered his mind, and Hector groaned. Catherine was also an expensive healer for someone in the slums. In the wealthier areas of Middlec, she wasn't much—or so he'd been told.
Hector frowned at the proposition of paying for healing—especially for a headache. A headache that could be linked with something not seen in this world before—at least he’d never heard of anyone within middlec with a similar ability. The screen shuffled.
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///: New user binding complete… profile screen opening…
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///
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Hector Jacaranda
———
Cultivation level: [Gravity Forging - 1]
Spirit Root: Moon
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STATS
├─ Body │ Tier 0 │ Level ( I )
├─ Mind │ Tier 0 │ Level ( - )
└─ Spirit │ Tier 0 │ Level ( - )
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EQUIPMENT
└─ None
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TALENTS
└─ Tough Body +1 [••○] (2/3)
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TECHNIQUES:
└─ [Orion Fist] (Journeyman: 90%)
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///
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"A user screen? I must have a concussion, this can't be real. But then again, maybe that's what these memories are." In the stories that contained systems in his past life, the main character had often been a transmigrator—a person from a different world, taking over someone's body in the new one. "Maybe I've transmigrated."
Hector's eyes wandered around the room, landing on the purple necklace atop his bedside table—He couldn’t be a transmigrator he had memories of the here and now, and it wasn’t like he’d died. His father had told him the necklace was the last thing his mother left behind and it was the only thing that could comfort Hector.
He reached forward, picking it up, and gazing at it briefly before slipping the necklace on. He needed the comfort provided and the strength it would give.
The system and the knowledge of his transmigration, while not scary in itself, still left him on edge and unsure of who he was. Hector Jacaranda, the slum rat, digging through garbage in the Middlec trash heap. Or Hector Smith, the fast-food employee from Earth.
However, thinking about it, my old identity doesn't matter anymore. I'm stuck here, and there's no going back. But would I even want to go back; my life wasn't exactly going anywhere.
He gripped the necklace, its tooth-like form biting into his palm. A wave of certainty washed through him. He didn't need to decide on anything; all that mattered now was moving forward, and the system would help him do that.
The pannal floated before him; his stats laid bare on its surface. Everything it said made sense. Hector's cultivation level and spirit root. Even the fact that he wasn't wearing any equipment. But he didn't understand what it meant by the word Talents.
There were many people in this world with unique abilities, the Frostkeep Family being an example. Everyone knew that many of them had an incredible ability to control ice that went beyond a mere spiritual root affinity. It was as if ice had given birth to them; was that Talent or something else?
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Hector sighed. Getting distracted worrying about what was and wasn't a talent was pointless. The system would explain it, at least they did in the stories he read in his old world. He raised a thin finger and tried to press the Talent link but found his hand passing through the screen.
He frowned at the screen, leaning back and sinking one hand into the dirty old sheets of his bed for support. If his hand went through it, it had to be voice-activated. Hector glanced towards the crappy old wooden door to his room, its hinge barely holding on. Marie, his sister, was downstairs; she would most likely call him any second once dinner was ready. His sister wasn't one to judge, but the sight of him talking to himself would be hard to live down.
"Screw it, if she hears me, I'll say I was thinking out loud." He looked towards the screen and took a deep breath. "System, open Talents."
Another white screen, smaller than the first, appeared next to the first and displayed Hector's Talents.
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///: Tough Body: This Talent makes the wielder slightly more resistant to physical harm. [••○](2/3)
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Hector smiled as memories of previous fights surfaced. Getting into a scuffle was a common thing in the Middlec slums, and Hector had found he'd always been just a little bit more resistant than some of the other kids growing up. "Father always said I was a tough kid; I guess he was right."
The Talent explained where his toughness came from, and Talent Cultivator was the system's name, so that must mean he should be able to gain more talents. But how? And was there a limit? And what do the numbers mean?
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///: "Once the user has subjugated a target, they may begin the Talent collection. Due to the user currently being in the Gravity Forging realm, the Talent capacity is set to 6 active Talents. But, the user may have an unlimited amount of non-active Talents. The number beside the Talent is the stack of said Talent. Once the stack is maxed, it can be fused allowing the Talent to evolve. "
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Hector jumped in fright as the system spoke directly into his mind. He hadn't been aware that it would respond, not by voice. But this did clear things up, though only just a bit. What did it mean to subjugate the target; if he had to kill someone, this system wouldn't be too effective. He didn't want to become a murderer just for some strength; he wasn't an evil person.
Hopefully, he didn't have to kill anyone; fighting would be doable. "[Tough Body], huh? Judging by what the system said if I find another one I should be able to evolve the Talent—but how do I find another one, it’s not like a Talent’s just going to fall on my lap. Hector pressed his lips thin, bouncing off the bed, and getting to his feet. The crunch from the bed following his action were not too reassuring—collapsing was one thing, but he did need a stake through the back.
He walked over to the window and looked through the cracked glass. Outside, a slow procession of people walked by. It was a cool day with the sun partially hidden by the clouds. The slums weren't crawling with people, but for inner Middlec slums, this was quite dense. Hector spotted a man stalking across the street, no different from usual vagrants—he looked sturdy.
Maybe I can just ask the system and it will tell me?
"System, does that man have a Talent?"
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///: No talents found.
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Hector frowned and decided to pick a different target. A young brown-haired boy wearing slacks sat on the broken pavement across the street. He was poking at something between his legs with a frown on his face—Hector had a hunch it was something dead... "System, what about him?"
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///: No talent found.
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Hector continued for a few minutes, looking from person to person until eventually he found one.
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///: Talent found: [Warding Charm].
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Hector heaved a sigh of relief, shifting his weight and leaning against the window frame. It wasn't easy to find someone with a Talent—if anything, from this small sample size, it seemed that having Talent was rare.
He flicked his white hair out of his eyes as he watched the haggard woman cradle a Deli fruit. It was a fruit similar to cauliflower in his old world but with a more sweet taste—he didn’t like them much. Not that he could even afford one. The woman looked like she was bringing it home from the market. "She has the Talent [Warding Charm]; I wonder what that does?"
"System can you explain to me how [Warding Charm] works?"
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///: “Not possible. The user must acquire the Talent to find out the function.”
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Hector sighed. He couldn't just jump out his window, run across the street and start attacking some random woman. Sure. He may acquire one Talent from it, but his father wouldn't be pleased to hear about his son acting like a thug. Always do good because it's too easy to do evil, and we should never do the easy thing, his father's words.
He had shown Hector the good and evil in this world and always pushed him and his sister to do good. And he couldn't agree more—with all the gangs, crime, and poverty, there was too much suffering in the slum. The woman carrying the Deli fruit was one such example. Dressed in dirt-covered clothes that fit her like a sack, her hair was a mess, covered in what looked to be brown chunks.
Hector didn't want to know what they were. Her eyes, her sad sunken eyes, spoke of depression commonly seen throughout the slum—though they didn’t call it depression in this world. If people did acknowledge it, they’d call the feeling hollowed—and a quick trip to the tavern would fix that.
Hector sighed, squinting his eyes as he regarded the woman. He could probably beat her in a fight if he had to. In the Mono-fist dojo, he'd been coming along nicely—though that was only in technique mastery, and one technique at that.
He glanced at a heavy wooden cart being pulled by three men. Mess movers—they had the unfortunate job of tending to the sewers. The smell was bound to decrease a little soon—not that Hector would notice. Going up one level in cultivation had made his sense of smell that much stronger. He looked back over to the woman.
I don’t even know how strong she is. So I guess it’s a bit bold of me to assume I could beat her.
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///: Acquiring target stats…
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///
Cultivation level: [Gravity Forging - 2]
Talent: [Warding Charm [•○○] (1/3)]
///
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Hector's eyes went wide. The woman wasn't as defenceless as she seemed. A second-level gravity-forging realm, while not rare, was still out of the ordinary. The common folk in Middlec—especially in slums—tended not to cultivate. The process could be excruciatingly slow if you didn't have a pure enough spiritual root—sadly something he’d experienced first-hand.
It had taken him just over four years to break through to the first level of gravity-forging, and it would probably take him another four and a bit to go to the second level—the lack of access to mana pills played a huge part. And to make things worse, he didn't have time to sit and cultivate all day like he'd heard some of the noble families did, with their resources and whatnot.
A knock on the room door brought Hector from his thoughts. He turned his had away from the window, focusing on the room door. Raising an eyebrow, he called out, "Who is it?"
"Are still feeling ill," his sister said through the door. "If you're feeling better there's some food in the kitchen… it's grime-grain porridge—I've sprinkled some dried plums on it so it should taste good."
Hector cringed, shaking his head, but smiled shortly after. He hated grime-grain, but it was the only thing the family could afford in bulk—so it was a wonder Mirae paused like she was delivering bad news. The fact that they had dry fruit to sprinkle onto it today was a small mercy.
Mirae had no doubt been talking to old lady Margaret down the street—the old herbalist would always give them something from time to time. She was a good woman. "I'll be out in a minute, and yes I'm feeling much better thank you for asking," Hector replied.
He stepped away from his window and glanced around one last time. A plank, towards the back of the room, jutted upwards out of the ground at an awkward angle—something he’d been meaning to get around to. He would have to fix it at some point if he didn't want to be impaled by a rather large splinter. Later. Hector sighed, waving away the system and moving across the room to open the old rickety door.
Upon opening, he met his sister's gaze. Her purple eyes—matching his own—locked with his as she played with the ends of her long, flowing white hair. She wore the same dirty tanned shirt she had worn yesterday and the same dirty brown shorts. Hector had told her she could wear the rest of her clothes, but she insisted that she needed to get the full use out of them before changing. It was a poor excuse, but they didn't have the money to go out and get a new set. They had to make do with what they had and repair what broke.
His sister greeted him with a warm smile. "Are you okay? You aren't just saying you are because you're worried I’ll worry."
"Or tell Dad and he'll worry," Hector added.
"And that's what makes me think you're lying," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Dad can be overbearing, but if you're ill, please say."
"Trust me. I’m fine, little one." Hector reached a hand forward and ruffled her hair before stepping by her and heading to the kitchen. "Is dad back yet?"
His sister huffed as she fixed her hair and followed behind him. "I keep telling you to stop that—and yes. He just got back a few moments ago. Though…"
Hector stopped, turning back to face his sister. "What is Mirea, Is everything okay, did something happen with him at work?"
"I don't know. But he's biting his lower lip and tapping the table."
"Crap," Hector closed his eyes and massaged his forehead—his father was stressed. Something must have gone wrong, but it didn't make sense. Last week, his dad was raving about a promotion at the death trap people called a refinery. "I'll talk to him about it. But you know how he is?"
"Please," she said, gesturing for Hector to continue to the kitchen.