Two weeks. I spent fourteen days doing things I’d only ever watched others do: eating regular meals that didn't come from a bin, soaking in water that was actually warm, and sleeping in a bed that didn't smell of damp rot.

  It turned out Mr. Braum was an agent for the Earls Malcom and Grahn. I knew their names—they were the giants who ruled this planet, the ones whose faces were plastered on the high-tier view-screens—but the politics of why they had authorized Braum to nurse a "parasite" like me back to health was a mystery. Honestly, those two weeks were a blur. Most of my time was spent back in a library, though this one didn't have a librarian who threw me out for the smell of my clothes.

  Delver Tax Codes for the Newly Awakened was agonizingly dull, but it felt like a survival manual I couldn't afford to ignore. The Benefits of Self-Made Skills in the Lower Classes was better; it offered a glimpse into the mechanical world I was about to enter. I read about [Lesser Fire Weapon] and its elemental siblings, even stumbling across more complex variants like [Lesser Steam Weapon], [Hand Shield], and [Solar Flare]. They were fascinating, but none of them felt right. They felt like tools someone else had designed for a job I hadn't been hired for yet. I knew I couldn't even begin the process of shaping my own skills until my Talent finally manifested.

  That was the only thing on my mind now as I stood in the long, sterile corridor, staring at the line of children ahead of me. We were all waiting for our turn to receive a single drop of Condensed Essence—the spark that would ignite our spirits—and for the Talent Reader to translate the raw energy of our souls into something understandable.

  Like everyone else, I was antsy. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. I was also, I realized with a sinking feeling, the youngest person in the room by a wide margin. The "Awakening Age" for most children in the Empire was fifteen—a biological safeguard I didn't fully comprehend. But the law allowed for "Extreme Circumstances" where a child could be pushed into adulthood early. Apparently, being ripped away from an abusive mother and left with a void where a life used to be qualified as "extreme" in the eyes of the Earls.

  I looked at the older kids—tall, sturdy, and confident. Then I looked at my own hands. I was thirteen, barely recovered from a decade of starvation, and about to be tossed into the deep end of adult life.

  "Next," a voice called out from the chamber ahead.

  My stomach did a slow, nauseating roll. This was the moment the well finally opened up to the sky—or so I thought. Instead of a grand hall, I was ushered into a sterile, reinforced room designed for absolute privacy. I felt the invisible hum of sensors washing over me. Once. Twice. Three times.

  “No recording devices present. No active [AI] interfaces detected. The boy is clean of all external interference, Boss. No one is tapping into this feed,” the technician on the left said, his voice muffled by a heavy surgical mask.

  “Good.”

  The man in charge—a broad-shouldered figure with eyes that had seen too many Awakenings—kneeled until he was at my eye level. He placed a heavy, grounding hand on my shoulder.

  “Alright, kid. Here’s how this works,” he said, his tone dropping into a practiced, fatherly gravity. “We’re going to hook you up to that manifold right there. The moment the Condensed Essence touches your system, the program will begin to map your spirit as the energy cycles through your core. Just breathe. Relax.”

  He leaned in closer, his expression darkening with a warning. “And listen to me: No one—and I repeat, no one—will be able to see your reading except for you. Once the data is generated, it’s yours alone. Tell no one. It is vital that you keep the specifics to yourself. The magic... it starts to fail, to lose its potency, if you explain exactly how your Talent functions to others. Do you understand? Keep it a secret, or you'll lose it.”

  I nodded solemnly, playing the part of the frightened, ignorant child. In reality, I knew he was lying. I’d spent two weeks devouring Delver Law and Beginner Guides; I knew that magic didn't just "stop working" because of a conversation.

  The truth was simpler and far more dangerous: information was the only true currency in the rifts. If an enemy knew the exact cooldown of your blink or the precise trigger for your shield, you were already dead. Even in the closest families, spouses often kept the finer details of their Talents shrouded in mystery. It wasn't about the magic failing; it was about keeping the upper hand. They probably assumed my "percieved age" made me a liability—a kid who might brag on the playground and get himself killed or exploited.

  I’ll keep your secret, I thought, looking into the man's eyes. But not because you told me to. I climbed into the chair, the cold metal biting through my new clothes. The manifold descended, a crown of copper and glass. As the first hiss of the Essence delivery system echoed in the quiet room, I closed my eyes.

  When I finally opened my eyes and looked at the floating holographic readout, the first thing I felt wasn’t power. It was a cold, sinking confusion.

  I had spent two weeks preparing for anything. I’d braced myself for a mundane crafting Talent that would keep me in a workshop for the rest of my life, or perhaps a simple utility skill—something that made day-to-day survival a little less of a grind. I was ready to be disappointed. I wasn't ready for the system to stutter.

  [Error. Processing….] [Critical Logic Gap Detected. Contacting Higher Authority….]

  My heart hammered against the restraints. The technicians leaned in, their hushed whispers sharp with sudden tension. The screen flickered, the standard blue interface bleeding into a jagged, authoritative crimson.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  [Processing…. Higher Authorization Granted.] [Talent Identified.] [Official Rating Designated: DANGEROUS.] [Instruction: Please Report Possible Danger to Nearest Local Authority Immediately.]

  The warning flashed twice, a rhythmic, silent alarm that felt like it was burning into my retinas. Then, the text settled, revealing the architecture of my soul in stark, clinical detail.

  [Primary Effect: Upon the death of a creature you have recently damaged, you may harvest and imprint a single Talent from its essence. Only Talents your spirit is naturally capable of manifesting are claimable through this method.

  Secondary Effect: All imprinted abilities are integrated into your personal network, utilizing your own mana pool for activation, maintenance, and scaling.

  Tertiary Effect: Capacity is currently restricted to 2 Active Imprints. Overwriting an existing Imprint requires a stabilization period of 24 hours.]

  I was prepared for my Talent to be almost anything after the way Mr. Braum had spoken to me. He’d told me there was no such thing as a "bad" Talent—only those who used them well, poorly, or not at all. Even "detrimental" Talents, he’d argued, weren't failures; they were just specific sets of rules that limited a person in exchange for a different kind of strength.

  But as I stared at the readout, a cold, hollow confusion settled in my chest. My Talent was... technically nothing. It didn't say I could conjure flames, knit flesh, or bolster my strength. It didn't give me an "X" or a "Y" to work with. It just said I could take an Imprint.

  What did that even mean? Was I "Dangerous" because the Talent itself was a threat, or was I dangerous because, without someone else to kill, I was functionally powerless? A void waiting to be filled.

  [Have a nice day.]

  The system blinked once, a cheerful, automated dismissal that felt jarringly out of place against the "Dangerous" warning still burned into my mind. The holographic interface dissolved into pixels, pulling me out of my stupor as the manifold hissed and retracted from my head.

  The technicians motioned for me to stand. My legs felt like lead, heavy and unsteady, as a kind-faced woman escorted me back toward the sunlight of the outer lobby. She spoke with the practiced, melodic tone of someone who had given this speech a thousand times to a thousand different children.

  “If you decide to join a guild, Wren, make sure you read over the contract perfectly. Imperial Law mandates that everything must be explained to you in full, with no hidden text or sub-clauses. Do not sign anything without bringing it to someone you trust first—or, ideally, a lawyer specializing in Delver contracts.”

  She stopped at the heavy oak doors, looking down at me with a soft, encouraging smile that made my stomach churn. She had no idea what the red text had said.

  “If you decide to delve into a rift, make sure you are fully prepared. We here at the Artillian Talent Reading Association want you to be the best you can be—for yourself, and for the Empire at large.”

  She patted my shoulder, a gesture meant to be grounding, and ushered me out. The heavy doors clicked shut behind me, muffled and final. I stood on the street, the air smelling of ozone and rain, feeling the weight of the two empty "slots" in my soul.

  ***

  The transition from the sterile, white-tiled halls of the Association to the lodging Mr. Braum had arranged was like moving between two different dimensions. We left behind the porcelain perfection of the civic center, descending into the belly of the city. As we moved, the air grew heavy, thick with the oily scent of roasted street meat, ozone from the transit lines, and the pervasive tang of industrial exhaust.

  The lodging was a "safe house" tucked away in an old-world district where the architecture felt more organic than constructed, as if the buildings had been grown from the stone and shadows themselves. To anyone else, it was a modest, unassuming apartment. To me, the heavy oak door and the reinforced steel shutters made it feel like an impenetrable fortress.

  Inside, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The light was a soft, protective amber, chasing away the grey dampness of the streets. Mr. Braum was already there, his large frame silhouetted against a sturdy wooden table cluttered with flickering holos and a physical map of the local rifts. He didn't look up immediately as I entered; he simply gestured with a scarred hand toward a chair, inviting me into the circle of light.

  “Well?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that cut through the silence. “How’d it go?”

  I stood there for a second, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, my hands trembling just enough for the fabric of my new sleeves to rustle. I had to muster every bit of courage I’d built up over those two weeks of regular meals just to find my voice.

  “I was…” I started, my voice cracking before I steadied it. “I was labeled 'Dangerous,' Mr. Braum.”

  He finally looked up, his eyes sharp and unreadable in the amber glow. He didn't flinch, and he didn't reach for a weapon. He just watched me, waiting for the rest of the truth to catch up with the warning.

  “A ‘Dangerous’ classification, Wren, generally implies one of two things,” Mr. Braum said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly hum as we walked. “Either your Talent encourages the sacrifice of others, or it is fueled specifically by the act of killing. It’s not a social death sentence, per se—provided you brought it to the attention of the right people. Which you have. We are, after all, the Earls’ eyes, ears, and hands.”

  He tapped his chin, his gaze drifting toward the shimmering spires of the upper district. “Hmm… this complicates the timeline. We might need to secure an [AI] for you sooner than anticipated to help manage the volatility. We were considering placing you on the Path but…”

  I shook my head immediately, the movement sharp and certain.

  “I’ve looked at their requirements, Mr. Braum. I don’t think I’d make it past Tier sixteen or seventeen at the pace they demand. I know how those tracks work; they push for early peaks. I’m way too likely to fall off the curve and burn out before I even hit the mid-tiers.”

  Mr. Braum stopped mid-stride, blinking at me in genuine surprise. “Wren. Most people from the lower levels would kill for a spot on the Path. If you have even a ghost of a chance of reaching Tier Five, it’s worth the risk. It’s security. It’s a life.”

  I let out a long, weary sigh, feeling the weight of every hungry night I’d ever survived.

  “Security for who? For them? Maybe,” I countered, looking him dead in the eye. “But consider this: I have zero training. I don’t know how to draw a bow. I’ve never held a sword, a dagger, a hammer, or a staff. I’ve survived thirteen years, yeah—but kicking a drunken man in between his legs and sprinting into a dark alley isn't the same as fending off a rift-crazed horror. On the Path, I’d just be a statistic waiting to happen.”

  I looked down at my hands, which were still thin, though no longer trembling from starvation.

  “I need a weapon that fits a scavenger, not a soldier. And I need a way to learn that doesn't involve being a pawn in someone else’s speed-run.”

  Braum watched me for a long moment, the skepticism in his eyes slowly giving way to a grim sort of respect. He realized I wasn't being lazy; I was being clinical. I was playing the long game because I knew exactly what it felt like to lose.

  “Well then, let’s get you in front of the Earls, who will decide just what they want to do with your dangerous Talent.” Mr. Braum said with a stern nod.