In terms of the vocabulary from his previous life, this was a classic sword-and-magic world.

  Here, legends spoke of colossal dragons soaring through the cloud tops, mages who could summon roaring flames or arctic blizzards with a wave of their staves, bloodline knights who rode exotic mounts, swung door-sized greatswords, and possessed strength capable of shaking mountains, and alchemists who could transmute stone into gold or craft miraculous artifacts…

  Yet this was not the kind of world depicted in traditional fantasy novels or stories — one where steady progression came purely from diligent study of magic or relentless physical training.

  Here, power and status originated from a single, decisive event at age eighteen: the Profession Awakening.

  Every person underwent a specific ritual, receiving what was called divine revelation and awakening their unique Innate Profession.

  That profession became an indelible brand determining the course of their entire life. Awaken as a mage, and you stepped onto the noble, powerful path of spellcasting. Awaken as a knight, and you charged toward a life of glory and combat. But awaken as a farmer, blacksmith, cook, or any other mundane livelihood profession, and your existence would likely remain forever severed from the transcendent, bound to ordinary days.

  Fate was decreed by the heavens. No one could defy it.

  Professions not only shaped personal futures but rigidly stratified society.

  Those who awakened combat- or mystery-oriented classes like [Knight], [Elemental Mage], or [Arcanist] — beings capable of wielding immense destructive or arcane power — naturally occupied the ruling and elite strata. They were the untouchable “superiors” in the eyes of common folk.

  Those who awakened production-oriented professions like [Farmer], [Stonemason], or [Herder] spent their lives tied to soil, craft, or livestock, forming the silent, enduring foundation of society.

  Even within transcendent professions, a strict hierarchy of rarity and superiority existed.

  Above ordinary mages stood rare, formidable specialized classes such as [Holy Mage], [Nature Speaker], or [Dragonblood Sorcerer] — individuals who commanded powers closer to the world’s origin or divine authority, vastly outclassing peers of the same level.

  Among knights, similar elites existed: [Bloodline Knights] who had awakened even a trace of ancient magical beast or legendary creature heritage, granting them physical potential and unique abilities far beyond standard knights.

  They were the elite among elites, objects of awe and reverence.

  Everyone, without exception, yearned to awaken as a transcendent professional.

  The fortunate found perfect alignment with their dreams: those who craved to incinerate all things awakened as [Flame Mages]; those fascinated by elemental transmutation became [Alchemists]. Their paths shone brightly.

  But far more people were like dice carelessly tossed, landing in cruel opposition to their desires.

  Faced with a system where a single ritual and one “divine revelation” sealed lifelong destiny, Rune — a product of modern society — felt deep, instinctive rejection.

  Yet he was also coldly lucid about reality: as an infant, and later as a growing child, he lacked any power to resist rules embedded in the very fabric of this world.

  What no one knew, however, was this:

  When his soul pierced the dimensional barrier and descended into this newborn body, he had not arrived empty-handed.

  A silent, undetectable “foreign object” accompanied him — a faintly glowing, semi-transparent system interface, an extremely simplified game panel.

  Shortly after he gained the ability to focus his vision clearly, he “discovered” it in the lower-right corner of his field of view.

  It hovered perpetually at the edge of his consciousness, only manifesting in the bottom-right when he deliberately willed it to appear.

  Its design was primitive in its simplicity: a pale blue, softly glowing translucent rectangle. Most of the frame was empty, save for a slightly recessed, more solid-bordered square at the center — like an empty card slot awaiting insertion.

  The moment Rune first successfully “opened” the panel, understanding flooded his mind wordlessly.

  He comprehended its nature: an independent, gamified skill-upgrade system. That single central slot was the Skill Slot.

  Its function was pure and overwhelmingly potent: unlimited level elevation for whatever skill was locked into the slot. No cap. No end.

  Moreover, any skill — whether tangible combat techniques, production crafts, or abstract conceptual abilities such as cooking, debate, or architectural theory — as long as it could be cognitively recognized as a “skill,” could be placed into the slot.

  But the restriction was mercilessly absolute: only one slot. Once occupied, it was permanently locked. No replacement. No removal.

  In this world, skills obtained through the awakening ritual were essentially fixed in power and form afterward. Practice could only improve proficiency and casting speed; no qualitative evolution was possible.

  To grow stronger, most had only two paths: continue offering sacrifices to the gods in hopes of being granted higher-tier new skills, or invest decades and immense effort mastering additional skills from others of the same profession.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Rune understood with piercing clarity: this seemingly crude blue panel would become his greatest asset — the key to shattering convention.

  No matter what profession he awakened at eighteen — transcendent combat class or mundane livelihood — this panel preserved the infinite potential to elevate any single skill to unimaginable heights.

  Rune was far from foolish.

  A soul from the information-saturated modern era, reborn here, possessed a maturity and caution far beyond any child of this age.

  After the initial shock and repeated cautious testing, a grand — and audacious — plan quietly took shape in his mind.

  “This single opportunity, this single slot… must not be wasted on anything ordinary or mediocre.” At six years old, Rune lay on a haystack gazing at the alien stars, his eyes sharp as a seasoned gambler’s.

  He had once tested bringing the conceptual skill “quick running” near the slot; it glowed faintly in response — clearly acceptable. But at the last moment he restrained the impulse.

  Not optimal.

  “It must wait until the day of profession awakening. It must be the core skill granted by the world’s laws — my innate profession’s foundational ability. Only then will I fill this slot… and begin the path of unlimited ascension.”

  Rune knew perfectly well: this lone skill slot was his sole weapon against predestined fate. It had to be used on the most critical core.

  Thus began a twelve-year wait — solitary, silent, and absolute.

  He buried the secret deep within himself, like a dragon hoarding its most precious treasure.

  Rune was born in a remote village on the empire’s frontier.

  The village survived on hunting and farming; the hunting teams were its economic lifeline and primary food source.

  Both of Rune’s parents had once been hunters. His father died in a perilous expedition when Rune was very young.

  His mother, devastated by grief, soon fell ill and followed her husband in death.

  At five or six years old, Rune became an orphan.

  Such children were not uncommon here. The village maintained a dedicated courtyard where elderly residents who had lost their own children cared for and raised the orphans collectively.

  Resources for their upbringing came mainly from the hunting teams — since Rune’s father had perished on a communal hunt, breaking his family, the teams felt a shared responsibility.

  Ever since learning that this world featured “awakening at eighteen” — the day that would decide his entire future — Rune, as a transmigrator, made no conspicuous moves.

  He behaved exactly like any ordinary child of this world: eating, sleeping, learning the local language and common knowledge, occasionally helping villagers with small chores he could manage.

  He blended into normalcy, growing quietly — waiting, in the depths of his mind, for the turning point of his fate.

  …

  But on the day of Rune’s eighteenth birthday, fate played a near-absurd joke on him.

  First came the profession awakening.

  Divine revelation descended!

  He awakened a prestigious profession: [Fire Mage].

  This meant he was destined to enter the ranks of the transcendent — to become a respected mage.

  In this world, merely stepping through the transcendent gate — even if one remained stuck at the lowest Tier 1 or 2 for life — automatically granted the lowest noble title under imperial law: usually baron, along with a modest hereditary fief.

  For someone from his previous life who could barely afford a cramped rented room, the allure of owning hereditary land and ascending into the ruling class was unimaginable.

  In the instant the awakening light enveloped him and profession information flooded his mind, Rune even involuntarily began sketching mental plans: the layout of his future manor, tax management, perhaps marrying a refined lady, and gradually improving this world using his prior scientific knowledge…

  What believer in science never fantasized about changing the world with it? Rune was no exception!

  Yet that fragile dream was swiftly and brutally shattered by the cruel reality that followed.

  The issue lay in acquiring his initial skill.

  By the laws of this world, every person who awakened a profession at eighteen received one immediate opportunity to perform a prayer sacrifice to the corresponding domain deity.

  By offering precious tributes and sincere devotion, they beseeched the god to bestow initial skills suited to the profession. The quality of offerings, the awakener’s talent, and the depth of faith together determined the number and caliber of skills granted.

  Under normal circumstances, even the most mediocre awakener received at least one basic skill matching their current low rank, plus one higher-tier “trump card” skill for future use — though advanced skills required reaching the appropriate level to fully master.

  Those with slightly better talent obtained more.

  In short, fresh 0th-Tier professionals typically prayed for one 0th-Tier profession skill and one 1st-Tier profession skill.

  As a mage, Rune’s skills would naturally be spells.

  His awakening carried the hopes of the entire village.

  This remote settlement had produced no full-fledged mage since the era of the guardian knight Roland decades ago.

  The villagers pooled everything they had: heirloom silverware, precious magical beast cores from hunts, long-stored mana herbs — piling them into a small mountain before the altar.

  Rune, filled with profound gratitude and resolve, offered his utmost sincerity, hoping to gain sufficient power to one day repay the land that raised him.

  But fate’s jest followed immediately.

  “… Fireball.”

  That day, on the ancient stone slab of the ritual ground, Rune furrowed his brow and uttered the words in a low voice.

  He had received his spell.

  But it was only [Fireball].

  What was [Fireball] in the grand scheme of magic? In the skill hierarchy of this world, it wasn’t even formally counted among a mage’s tiered abilities — classified instead as a “cantrip,” below even 0th-Tier.

  Its common uses: lighting a hearth (requiring sustained casting for several seconds), igniting a campfire in the wild (time-consuming and vulnerable to dampness), or entertaining children with a glowing trick.

  Its flame temperature was low, its structure highly unstable — scattering after traveling mere meters in a breeze.

  Even if it struck a target, it served mostly to startle; actual damage was negligible, barely enough to ignite dry burlap.

  For comparison: a standard disposable lighter’s flame core could reach around 1,100–1,900°F (roughly 600–1,000°C) depending on conditions. This Fireball topped out at approximately 572°F (300°C).

  In practical terms, its combat utility was inferior to a cheap lighter from his previous life.

  It was regarded as a pre-school exercise in mana control — a cantrip-level spell, not a combat skill.

  The village had poured all its resources and hopes into the ritual, only to receive a cantrip so basic that even apprentice mages felt embarrassed to use it. Everyone was stunned.

  Theoretically, no matter how poor the talent, the outcome should never have been this abysmal.

  Fireball hadn’t appeared as an awakening spell for fresh mages in decades.

  Something was deeply wrong.

  And it wasn’t just that.

  Rune had awakened only this one spell.

  Nothing else.

  That was even more abnormal!

  The title “Mage Who Can Only Cast Fireball” spread like wildfire from the village to nearby towns. Rune plummeted from anticipated prodigy to the butt of every joke and casual mockery.

  In taverns, adventurer guilds, even passing other professionals on the road — he felt the stares laced with pity, sarcasm, and schadenfreude. True mages viewed him as an embarrassment to the profession; ordinary people saw him as a lucky fool whom the gods had promptly abandoned.

  Dreams of a fief, a noble title, a respected life… they all seemed to evaporate with the appearance of that feeble spark. What he held was not a key to the halls of transcendence, but an awkward matchstick that couldn’t even warm his own hands.

  Yet Rune cared little for the gossip or the looks.

  Because to him, none of that mattered.

  What truly concerned him was whether this would strip him of the right to explore the deeper mysteries of magic.

  That was what he valued most.

  And the answer was yes.

  A mage capable only of Fireball naturally lacked qualification to probe the profounder realms of magic.

  ......

  （Author's Note: For the sake of scientific precision, all temperatures from this point forward will be expressed exclusively in Celsius.）