...
In the far northeastern reaches of Moorgrel, where cold winds howled fiercely and pink-hued snow draped the towering mountains like a celestial tapestry, a city defied the untamed wilderness—Quitsunesteeth. With buildings of stone and wood, walls adorned with the fur of slain monsters, and dark smoke curling from chimneys into the sky, it appeared at first glance to be a small and quiet place of perhaps fifty thousand souls—puny compared to the giant metropolises in the south.
Yet, first impressions were deceiving. At the heart of Quitsunesteeth stood a grand arena hewn from ancient stone and timber. Upon closer look, the very air around it crackled with raw energy, ale, and blood.
This nameless arena was more than a mere battleground; it was a sacred crucible where legends were forged and fates sealed. Warriors, monsters, nobles, and even criminals stood as equals here, bound only by the honor of combat and the might of their prowess—a realm without discrimination.
Today, the arena thrummed with palpable excitement as crowds of spectators gathered, their voices rising in a wild chorus. The scent of spiced mead and roasted meats filled the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of packed snow.
"Bjoern! Bjoern! Bjoern!" roared one side of the crowd.
Cups of frothy ale sloshed over as they hoisted them skyward, toasting the impending clash. Cloaks of fur and leather rustled as the crowd jostled for a better view, faces flushed with cold and anticipation. The cacophony of their cheers shook the very foundations of the arena.
"Freya! Freya! Freya!" thundered the other side.
The occasion was simple: Merits. When the Leonandra Household announced a raid and summoned allies to join their cause, the Lord of the Iron-Claw Household called back his offspring from years of wandering. Bjoern and Freya had spent their youth traveling the wilds, battling monsters and outlaws, honing their skills far from home. Now, they stood upon the sacred ground to partake in the trial to decide who would lead their people into the coming war.
As tradition dictated, all were allowed to fight and vie for leadership—dozens of warriors, no higher than Tier 3 and without military merits—a way to promote the young and ambitious. Yet, after countless bouts, only two remained: Bjoern and Freya, siblings standing opposite each other in the heart of the arena. Though neither had seen their first mating season, their youth was masked by an unbreakable confidence that radiated from them as if they could single-handedly face an army of demons.
A teasing voice sliced through the noise, rough and laden with playful menace. "Ready to concede, little sister?"
Bjoern stood nearly two meters tall, a towering figure whose bushy, chestnut-brown, raccoon-like tail fluttered in the icy wind, peeking out from the gaps in his ornate yet battle-worn armor. Despite the confident smirk etched on his youthful face, his appearance told a different story—fresh blood trickled down from a gash above his eyebrow, stinging as it mingled with sweat. His muscles ached from the fatigue of the last days, but the familiar burn only fueled his adrenaline. 'She's gotten stronger,' he mused, watching curiously as his sister looked for any gap in his defense. 'Can't let her see any weakness, or else I'm done.'
Freya circled him with the grace of a snow leopard, her sapphire-blue eyes never leaving his emerald-green ones. Only half a head shorter than her brother, she moved with elegance, each step deliberate. "Yer tougher than a frost hound in winter, I'll give ya that," she taunted, a sly smile curling her lips. Her voice carried the rough dialect of their northern lineage, each word dripping with both affection and challenge. Beneath the grime and streaks of blood that marred her smooth caramel skin, her determination shone brightly. "But don't think fer a moment I'll be holdin' back."
Her heart pounded in her chest, but she reveled in the thrill. 'He's strong, but I've learned new tricks since we last sparred,' she thought. 'Time to show him what I've become.'
Bjoern's eyes followed her every move, noting the subtle shifts in her stance. 'She came back much stronger than I expected,' he acknowledged silently, a hint of pride mingling with caution. 'But I have to win—sorry, lil' sis.'
Freya paused in her circling, the wind tousling the stray strands of her dark hair that had escaped the leather cord binding back her long, fluffy ears and locks. She wiped a trickle of blood from her neck, smearing it across her jawline like war paint. Her smile widened, revealing a hint of fang. "Ready when ye are," she called, shifting her weight onto the balls of her feet.
Bjoern hefted his massive double-handed axe, the battered blades catching the pale sunlight and casting eerie reflections onto the snow. "No hard feelin's when I win, lil' sis," he growled, his grin fading as he tapped into his [Mystic Skills]. The air around him grew heavy, rippling as invisible currents of mana and raw energy coalesced around his form. Even the dark whispers of miasma seeped into the mix, sending a shiver through the onlookers. His muscles tensed, the weight of his axe now feeling as light as a feather in his hands. "Time to end this."
"Confident pup, ain't ya?" Freya shot back, her voice steady as steel despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "But it's me who'll be standin' victorious." She tightened her grip on her twin maces, the spiked heads glinting menacingly. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes for a heartbeat, feeling the familiar surge of her [Mystic Skills]. Her form began to shimmer, edges blurring as she became translucent—a ghostly figure against the stark backdrop of white. The crowd gasped, whispers of awe rippling through them. "Let's see how ye handle this," she mused aloud, a flicker of excitement igniting in her chest.
Both quitsune-kin warriors of noble heritage faced each other, their breaths misting in the frigid air. They settled into their stances. Muscles coiled like springs, every fiber of their beings honed for this moment.
The crowd's roar faded into the background; only the silent dialogue of their determined gazes mattered now. Victory and honor were not just words—they were the very essence of their being, the only possible outcome for both.
An eternity seemed to pass in that heartbeat. Then, with a roar that shook the very stones beneath them, Bjoern bellowed, "Come!" His voice reverberated off the arena walls, a primal call to battle.
Freya moved like lightning, her muscles propelling her forward in a blur of motion—a flash. The ground scarcely felt her footsteps as she closed the distance, appearing before him mid-air with feline grace. One mace arced toward Bjoern's head, the spiked metal aiming for a sure kill.
Bjoern raised his axe to parry, the handle intercepting her strike. But to his astonishment, the mace passed through as if her weapon were made of smoke. 'What the—' he thought, realizing too late that her ethereal form rendered her untouchable.
He twisted his body, attempting to evade a lethal hit while still figuring out the essence of her [Mystic Skill]. The shimmering veil around Freya dissipated, her solid form reemerging inches from him, a bloodthirsty smile on her lips as she drove her mace toward his neck.
The mace struck home, slamming with a sickening crunch. Agony lanced through Bjoern, stars exploding in his vision, fighting to stay upright. Freya didn't hesitate to continue, swinging her second mace toward his shoulder, aiming to cripple him and end the fight.
Seeing this, Bjoern leaned back just enough for the mace to graze past, the spikes tearing a shallow line across his armor. Seizing the momentum, he flashed a grin. "Hup!" he shouted, channeling his strength into a powerful upward kick. His boot connected with her torso, the force of the blow shattering her ribs and sending her further up. "Urgh!" Freya gasped—the wind knocked from her lungs as pain seared through her.
Gravity seemed to slow as Freya ascended, her eyes locking onto Bjoern below, readying himself for her next assault. 'I thought I got him,' she clicked her tongue silently, having deliberately saved that [Mystic Skill] until now to end the fight quickly.
'Again, he still doesn't know all it can do,' she mused, planning her next move. Ignoring the fiery pain in her ribs, she summoned her remaining strength. Her feet found ground in the very air. With a burst of energy, she propelled herself downward, her form shimmering and misting once more as she became an ethereal projectile aimed straight at her brother.
Bjoern wasn't just standing still as he aimed to finish the fight with the next attack—the ground cracked as the veins on his body popped, pressuring the screeching armor as his muscles expanded massively.
'All or nothing,' he had to risk it, knowing that every further continuation would be his loss—pulling back the axe, the following swing blurred due to the immense speed, carving through the space where Freya would be.
"Not gonna work!" she taunted, exhilaration flooding her senses as her plan seemed to work perfectly—she could taste victory, the thrill of finally besting her brother felt intoxicating.
But before triumph could bloom, an icy chill coursed through her. "What?!" Her ethereal form wavered as an unseen force disrupted it—in that split second, Bjoern's axe cleaved through the maces she desperately tried to use for defense, splintering them effortlessly. "Gotcha!" he roared, the blade's edge descending toward her neck.
Time seemed to slow as the axe neared her neck, the world narrowing to the gleaming edge of the blade. Just as the steel grazed her skin, a colossal hand shot between them, gripping the axe mid-swing. The force of the interception sent a shockwave rippling outward, snow and dust billowing into the air. Freya was pushed away, her life saved, eyes wide with shock.
She tried to stand up again, wanting to continue rebelliously, not believing the apparent outcome, but she couldn't—she collapsed to her knees, her legs unable to support her under the weight of exhaustion and fatigue.
Bjoern wasn't better as his muscles deflated. All strength left him as he staggered backward, chest heaving, arm numb from the sudden halt of his swing. He let go, knowing it was over. Standing between them, their Father held the axe effortlessly, his grip unyielding. The siblings exchanged glances, both humbled by his intervention.
Ansiques K. Iron-Claw towered above them, a titan among men standing three meters tall. Muscles like forged iron rippled beneath his armor, each scar a testament to battles won, and foes vanquished. His stern green eyes surveyed them, wisdom and authority radiating from his gaze. Fiery, charcoal-red hair cascaded over his broad shoulders, a wild mane befitting the title Titan of the East—the mere presence commanded reverence.
"Enough!" Ansiques's voice thundered, echoing off the arena walls and instantly silencing the roaring crowd. The spectators stood in awed silence, no one daring to move or speak. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Bjoern and Freya mustered what strength they had left to stand, wincing as pain shot through their battered bodies. They met their Father's gaze, a mixture of defiance and respect in their eyes.
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"The fight is over," Ansiques proclaimed, his voice carrying the weight of finality. "Bjoern A. Iron-Claw stands as the victor. He will lead our clan into battle for honor and blood. But mark my words—both of ye have shown exceptional prowess today. Ye bring pride to the Iron-Claw name." He fixed Freya with a piercing gaze. "Freya A. Iron-Claw, ye will stand beside yer brother, supportin' him with all yer might. Together, ye will forge a path to glory."
A heavy silence hung in the frigid air. Freya's fists tightened at her sides, knuckles white beneath the grime—a storm of frustration and respect churned within her. She locked eyes with Bjoern, who gave her a subtle nod—a silent acknowledgment of her Skill and his respect. But defeat pressed upon her shoulders, a bitter taste filling her mouth. 'All that effort, and still not enough,' she thought, a flicker of determination igniting anew.
...
Months passed—now, Bjoern and Freya found themselves seated in a rattling carriage, the unfamiliar landscape of Leonandra territory unfurling beyond the window. The endless stretch of rolling hills and dense forests blurred together, mixed with an abnormally high temperature—a stark contrast to the icy peaks of their homeland. The journey had been incredibly tiresome and long due to monsters invading the sea in large numbers, making travel by river impossible. Boredom and tension coiled in the cramped confines of the carriage.
Freya tore into a piece of beef jerky with unladylike enthusiasm, her sharp canines making quick work of the dried meat. Her elegant dress—a soft blue silk that matched her eyes—seemed ill-suited to her rough demeanor. Scars from countless battles traced silver lines along her caramel skin, visible where the fabric dipped at her collarbone and wrists.
"This is right nonsense!" she huffed, casting a fiery glare at Bjoern, who appeared wholly engrossed in the passing scenery. "Oi! I'm talkin' to ye!"
Bjoern sighed, tearing his gaze from the window. Dark circles shadowed his emerald eyes, resulting from his night watches, his attire sloppy but noble-like with the best suit he could afford. "Maybe Father should've let me finish the job and lop off yer head," he muttered, his tone half-joking but edged with genuine weariness.
Freya's scowl deepened, a flush rising to her cheeks. "Too bad ye didn't try. I'd be leadin' this mission then instead of playin' second fiddle to ye!" she snapped, crossing her arms defiantly—moping like a puppy.
He rubbed his temples, feeling a headache brewing. The first few weeks of travel had been tolerable, but Freya's relentless griping was wearing him down. He recalled when they'd compared their [System Windows], confirming what he'd suspected—she was stronger, her [Levels] and [Attributes] surpassing his own despite being younger. It was a bitter pill, but a [System Window] was always only a tiny part of the whole picture.
image [https://raw.githubusercontent.com/Chiruschka/Supersum/refs/heads/main/system_information/217_Bjoern.svg]
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image [https://github.com/Chiruschka/Supersum/blob/main/system_information/217_Bjoern.png?raw=true]
Bjoern's Mystic Skills and Divinity Line were quite common for the offspring of the Iron-Claw household.
[Divinity Line – Infernal Devourer]
He could break down all energy around him and absorb it into physical resilience and unyielding strength. Everyone with this Divinity Line did not have any energy veins or an energy core, so some attributes were gone. Still, a new one would appear—[Physical Enhancement]—which, as the name suggests, enhances the body and makes it easier to increase overall [Attributes].
[First Mystic Skill – Void Consumption]
This passive [Skill] allowed him to absorb energy and constantly enhance his physical power and resilience—this alone was why his lineage was far larger than many others, as his vitality was tremendously high, increasing his lifespan by a greater amount.
[Second Mystic Skill – Eternal Hunger]
The second Mystic Skill could only be used as a last resort. It increased the rate and range of absorption, boosting his strength manifold for a short time. But, the lengthier the usage, the stronger the backlash afterward. It was also why Bjoern could not move for a week after defeating Freya.
[Third Mystic Skill – Demonic Absorption]
This [Skill] made him impossibly strong in Kratikal, as he could slay one wild demon after another. Absorption of [Wild Demonic Energy] was twice as effective, while all his [Skills] and normal strength would deal twice the damage against beings with an energy core made of said [Energy].
[Fourth Mystic Skill – Nullification Field]
This [Skill] brought him to victory against Freya as it created a field around him, able to dissolve anything that had any [Energy], be it mana, [Aura], or even divinity. However, maintaining it was also almost impossible as the stamina cost was immense, and he could only use it momentarily.
image [https://raw.githubusercontent.com/Chiruschka/Supersum/refs/heads/main/system_information/217_Freya.svg]
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image [https://github.com/Chiruschka/Supersum/blob/main/system_information/217_Freya.png?raw=true]
Freya's [Mystic Skills] and [Divinity Line] were uncommon, explaining her higher [Level] despite her age, but most of them were the same as his.
[Divinity Line – Infernal Trickery]
The basis was the same as her brother's; it was just that the specialization led down another path. The same could be said about her [First Mystic Skill—Void Consumption].
[Second Mystic Skill – Spectral Form]
That annoying [Skill] made hitting her when she was in that translucent form impossible. Although she could change constantly, she could only move inside an area filled with [Energy], and the stamina costs were immense.
[Third Mystic Skill – Demon's Bane]
It was similar to Bjoern's third [Mystic Skill], except it transformed [Wild Demon Energy] into stamina, mana, and health but had no offensive capability.
[Fourth Mystic Skill – Demon à la Carte]
It was the weirdest Mystic Skill he knew and the main reason for her growth—Marisia from the Leonandra household apparently had a similar one, only available to those who valued and enjoyed delicious food—a gourmet. It meant that if his sister ate a wild demon, she could learn and understand skills that exhibited the demon's traits much faster. If the demon was focused on [Dexterity] and movement, she could—and did—learn skills like [Flash] and [Air Walk] much more quickly. Better yet, it was permanently active until she ate a new wild demon—that [Skill] was indeed legendary in every sense.
The growth went to Freya's head, and she challenged him at every opportunity, their duels becoming a daily ritual. She was relentless, pushing herself to prove her superiority. Bjoern, however, had the advantage of experience and strategy. He tried to teach her, to show that battles weren't won by [Levels] and [Skills] alone. But her stubbornness turned lessons into frustrations. Eventually, after a few close calls where he bested her decisively, she begrudgingly eased off, the reality sinking in that [Levels] didn't equate to victory.
'She's too naïve,' he thought, recalling their sparring sessions. She relied heavily on her [Skills], following patterns predictably, making her movements easy to anticipate. Bjoern had spent years training to transcend those constraints, using his instincts and experience to guide him rather than relying solely on the System's suggestions. 'Skills are tools, not crutches,' he mused.
Unfortunately, her frustration hadn't abated; instead, it redirected toward Alexander—their assigned leader for the impending military operation. Freya found it absurd that someone so young, someone who hadn't even undergone their legacy, was to lead them. Bjoern couldn't entirely disagree—it was unconventional, to say the least—but he trusted their Father's judgment.
For Bjoern, this mission was a stepping stone toward his own aspirations. 'Wait for me,' he thought, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he recalled the face of his beloved. Every merit he earned brought him closer to the day he could cast aside his noble name and live a simple life. Freya had no inkling of his true intentions; she likely still believed he was vying for the position of heir.
'Best to keep it quiet,' he decided. He could almost see Freya's face light up if she knew he had no interest in the heirship—a rare moment of unguarded happiness between them. But for now, his priority was to return safely and continue guiding her growth through their rivalry.
"Ye know what Father said," he replied, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery. "Ye can grumble all ye like with me, but mind yer tongue around Alexander. If ye think ye can do better, by all means, take it up with Father." His tone was light, but the underlying warning was clear.
Freya's eyes flashed. "I don't believe Mari is stronger than Father," she retorted. "And now ye expect us to follow some pup who hasn't even gone through the legacy? Are ye daft?" Her frustration bubbled over, spilling into indignation.
"We've been over this," he warned again, as he had countless times before, that disobedience could have dire consequences. The Lady of the Leonandra Household was fiercely protective of her pups, and any slight against Alexander could spell disaster—not just for them but their entire household.
"Father was clear," Bjoern said firmly, meeting her gaze. "Beside Mari, the Lord is a Druid of considerable power—a man ye don't want to cross. Do somethin' reckless, and ye might lose that pretty head of yers." His eyes held hers, the seriousness of his words unmistakable.
Freya huffed, leaning back and folding her arms tightly across her ample chest. "Maybe so. But I don't have to like it. We're Iron-Claws—the strongest there is. We shouldn't be bowin' to some Leonandra whelp," she grumbled, the words laced with bitterness.
Bjoern's expression softened slightly, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Ye forget, the Leonandras have always been a peculiar bunch. And they've got a mage now."
"A mage?" Freya scoffed. "So what? We're warriors, born and bred. Magic tricks won't save 'em in a real fight."
He shook his head, settling back against the cushioned seat. "Alexander's been undergoin' body enhancements by the Nightmare, ye know—the one who made Father shiver in fear. Alex's not to be taken lightly... ye know... the brutal... bitch..." His words trailed off as his eyelids grew heavy, fatigue finally claiming him.
Freya glared at him, a mix of irritation and resignation. Part of her wanted to shake him awake and continue the argument, but a small voice in the back of her mind reminded her of how tiresome she'd become. 'I hate this,' she thought bitterly. Losing to Bjoern, despite his lower levels, was bad enough. Now, they were supposed to play nice with the Leonandras? It was a bitter pill, one that stabbed at her pride.
She cast a sidelong glance at Bjoern, his features softened in sleep. A sigh slipped from her lips. 'Maybe I need to calm down,' she conceded silently. Despite her frustrations, she couldn't deny that her brother had always been there for her. He embodied the qualities of a perfect noble—honorable, selfless, and dedicated. Perhaps she had been too harsh, mistaking his guidance for arrogance. 'He sees me as his sister first,' she realized, 'not as a rival.'
'I've been actin' like a fool,' she admitted to herself after deliberating it momentarily. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, letting the tension ebb away. 'It's just one setback. Once this is over, I'll train harder. I'll reach a level where no tricks or mystic skills can best me.' Determination settled in her gut like a stone.
She allowed herself a small smile, picturing the day she'd stand victorious, her name chanted by the crowd—respected, admired, a true leader of the Iron-Claw household. The thought warmed her, igniting a spark of hope. 'One day,' she promised herself.
The rhythmic sway of the carriage lulled Freya into an uneasy sleep, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable. Hours later, a sudden jolt jarred them awake. The sounds of bustling streets and distant chatter filtered into the carriage. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, Freya glanced out the window—and her jaw dropped. Young commoners walked the streets in uniforms of fine fabric, garments so exquisite that even she would think twice about affording them.
"What in the realms..." Freya whispered, disbelief coloring her voice. She pressed her face closer to the glass. "Are those commoners wearin' noble garb?"
Bjoern leaned over to look, his own eyes widening slightly. "Seems Father wasn't lyin' about Alexander's eccentricities," he remarked, reminding her about the school he opened.
As they continued on, she suddenly saw something she couldn't ignore—without thinking, Freya rapped sharply on the carriage wall. "Marti, ye daft, halt!" she commanded. The carriage slowed to a stop, eliciting a groan from Bjoern. "What now, ye crazy lass?" he grumbled.
Freya didn't bother to reply, already pushing the door open and stepping onto the cobblestone street. A riot of colors caught her eye—a flower shop bursting with blooms she'd never seen before. "Look at these beautiful flowers..." she murmured, stepping toward them.
The north was constantly cold and had few to no beautiful flowers—thus, it was far more surprising to see numerous variations here, where the heat was scolding. Suddenly, she heard a collision behind her, followed by the roars of animals and monsters.
"I hate yer," Bjoern groaned as he exited the carriage, annoyed by the accident but knowing too well it was their fault. He was ready to apologize and pay for any damages. "Oh no," he muttered. When he saw who crashed into them, he saw three youths climbing out of the other carriage, even more pissed. Seeing their sigil, he immediately recognized it.
Two boys, looking eerily similar, helped the girl out—she had the same features as them—triplets, 'Fuckin' damn it,' he thought, 'the day couldn't be worse.'
The girl straightened up and huffed, fixing her cold stare at Freya. "I knew I smelled the scent of barbarians," she sneered, her lips curling in disdain.
Recognition flashed in Freya's eyes, quickly replaced by fiery anger. "Persephone, ye connivin' witch!" she spat, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
...
Post Author Note: Is it actually enough to show the system window like that? Because it is sometimes annoying to look through hundreds of skills if they are not that important.