"Why should I care?"

What does it mean if the world goes to shit?

What does it mean if I can't reach the true end where all evils are liberated?

This isn't my own real world.

I don't have any lingering attachment to it...

What do I in the body of Luke truly want?

Revenge...Thrill...Strength...Life.

And to this question, I couldn't find the answer.

Revenge is what truly occupied my heart and soul to the point that it blinding everything. Luke's immense hatred against ill omen, and mine against the guy that brought me made it hard to look past.

"Enough!"

I slapped my cheek and got up.

"All these thoughts are crucial but what crucial than this is to get stronger. Here I am thinking about the protagonist and main cast but who knows how would be there true behavior. Maybe all of them appear quite shitty."

Assuming the worst, I already set the first goal which was to get Class and occupation.

A class was very important as it not only carved the path ahead of you but also granted you a boost.

"Let's see my ranking."

I mused taking out the smartwatch.

.................

Name:Luke Star

Age:17

Department:Hunter Combatants

Class: AB214

Rank:18924/20000

...................

Looking at the panel in front of me, I nodded my head. It was just as in my memories.

If you are wondering how weak are the ones behind me then you need to be reminded that rank 18000-20000 constitutes support class students which means they are noncombatants who pursue their talents like research, alchemy, blacksmiths, and all others.

This just shows how weak I am.

'This must be the reason why they had the courage to target me. Also, having a Star as the title was nothing but an ominous attraction of danger,' With that thought, I stood up.

The one who saved me really fucked up for good.

Reflecting on my memories as Luke and my observations, one fundamental flaw stood out that was I I had been unable to control my emotions.

Emotions are always an integral part of life, adding vibrancy and depth to our existence. However, they could either imbue our lives with radiant hues or plunge them into darkness. It was the very essence of our human experience.

Especially the emotion of guilt and hatred.

The very reason why Luke was unable to cope up the loss because he thought that it was his fault his mother ended up possessed and died.

If he awakened earlier just like other noble family heirs, things might have gone different so he blamed himself for being a late bloomer.

This feeling also harboured within him that lowered his self esteem but as I took over there all I wanted to run and crush and slaughter that guy but I was weak.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

So before deciding to head out, I decided to get familiar with this body and weapons.

...................

The noises around of the academy settled down around me as I waited for everyone to fall asleep.

Shadows cloaked the corridors outside, and at

exactly 11 PM, I slipped from my dorm room, moving steadily through the dark hallways toward the training fields exceeding excessive caution to make sure I didn't meet anyone.

The night air was cool as I stepped outside, casting a glance around to make sure no one was watching. The training field was empty as expected—just how I wanted it. I made my way over to the shooting range and slid my identification card through the scanner.

[Luke Star rank #### confirmed.]

A robotic voice echoed in the silence, and the gate slid open. I stepped into the wide, futuristic training hall, with sleek metallic walls lined with automated training dummies and targets. Bright lights hummed softly overhead, casting an almost sterile glow over the empty space. The place felt cold, and mechanical, like a machine built for efficiency.

I picked up a bow from the rack nearby. Its polished surface felt slightly unfamiliar in my hands as I adjusted to the strength and muscle memory of this new body.

By no means I was a novice, I had practiced archery, and swords and even mastered martial arts.

As I said, I was all rendered, not the best in the world but certainly, I was the best in my College.

"Huuh!"

I nocked an arrow aaimedaim, feeling a strange disconnect, like a slight lag between mind and body.

Stretching the string, and drawing the arrow I aimed at the dummy that was 100 meters ahead.

"What a phenomenal eyesight-like camera of Samsung phones.The people of this world are of different breed."

The first few shots went wide, arrows landing awkwardly off target. I gritted my teeth, letting the frustration drive me as I forced myself to focus and recalibrate.

Slowly, I began to settle into a rhythm, the feel of the bow starting to mold itself into my grip. I drew back, aimed, and released. The arrow struck the target dummy’s head with a satisfying thud. I shot again, this time at the heart, then again at various points along the dummy's vital spots. Each hit was precise, striking areas that would be lethal in a real scenario. I kept going until the rhythm felt smooth, and my hands knew the weight of each draw and release as if it was second nature.

Once I felt comfortable with the bow, I walked over to another part of the training hall—one designed for more advanced, moving targets. I gave a voice command, activating the system.

“Start sequence.”

Almost instantly, a disc-shaped object shot out from a hidden compartment in the wall, whizzing by so fast that I could barely register it. I blinked, momentarily losing track of it. The disc whirred past me again, zigzagging unpredictably. It was fast—faster than anything I'd been prepared for. My eyes struggled to keep up, darting around the room to lock onto it. I forced myself to breathe and concentrate, tuning out everything but the movement of the disc.

After a few tense moments, I began to pick up its rhythm, catching its movement patterns as it looped and twisted through the air. Drawing the bow again, I timed my release, letting an arrow fly just as the disc sped past. The arrow clipped the edge of it, causing a small flash of light as it registered the hit. Encouraged, I continued, watching and adjusting, trying to anticipate its movements.

Hours passed in this relentless repetition—draw, aim, release, adjusting my timing with each shot. Each strike brought me a little closer to mastery. With every arrow fired, I felt more and more like I was beginning to own this body, to shape it to my will.

I practiced for few hours

After countless shots with the bow, my hands felt raw, and my mind buzzed with focus and exhaustion. But I wasn’t done yet. I set the bow back on the rack and headed across the training hall to a smaller, dimly lit room designed for close combat practice. Here, a variety of weapons lined the walls, all carefully calibrated for different styles and abilities.

I selected a dagger, feeling its weight in my hand. The blade was sleek and well-balanced, the handle cold against my palm. I took a moment to adjust my grip, rolling my wrist to test the movement. Unlike the bow, the dagger felt more familiar, like an extension of my arm.

I started with a basic stance, raising the dagger in front of me as I tested a few simple slashes through the air. The blade cut through with precision, leaving an almost invisible arc in its wake. I lunged forward, slicing diagonally, then pulled back quickly, spinning the blade in my grip. The motions were fluid, my hand reacting naturally as though the blade was made to fit. This was different—something about the closeness of a blade made every movement feel sharper, each swing a dance of instinct and calculation.

I tried a series of quick stabs, twisting the blade on impact, imagining the target flinching with each strike. My hand was steady, and my aim was on point. A part of me almost smiled at the familiar feeling—here, at least, I knew what I was doing.

But as I continued to move, I began to notice something was off. Each time I lunged or shifted position, my feet felt heavy, clumsy. My balance faltered as I tried to pivot, my footwork falling just short of the fluidity I needed. I could feel the dagger flowing with precision in my hand, but my steps were just a beat too slow, a fraction out of sync with the rhythm of my strikes.

"I understand now.My footwork is like piece of shit."

After a few more attempts, it became clear.

Though I had the dagger skills down, my footwork was sloppy, dragging behind like an anchor pulling me off course. I stopped, catching my breath, staring down at my feet as if they were to blame. This wasn’t going to work—not like this.

I straightened, gripping the dagger with renewed determination. If I was going to make any real progress, I'd have to fix my footing and learn to control my body as seamlessly as the blade itself.