CHAPTER 49 — Cooldown
Ray pulled up his status screen, the blue light bathing his face as he chuckled like a madman.
STATUS — USER: RAY MELBORNE
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NAME: Takahara Kenji (Ray Melborne)
AGE: 15
LEVEL: 8
EXP: 12 / 100
HP: 25 / 115
STM: 10 / 70
ATTRIBUTES:
? STR: 17 (+8)
? AGI: 14 (+4)
? VIT: 20 (+6)
? DEX: 12 (+4)
? INT: 13 (+2)
? WIS: 11 (+1)
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NEW TRAIT UNLOCKED:
ASH CIRCUIT — VEIN II: FOUNDATION
A corrupted/altered Fire Vein.
Type: Unknown
Effect: ???
Stability: UNSTABLE
Resonance: EXTREME
Synchronization: 12.00
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Skills:
[Analyze]
[AMATERION SURGE — Lv.1 (Passive)]
+20% to all stats for 60 seconds when triggered. Cooldown:12hr
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→ +20% to all stats for 60 seconds when triggered
→ Cooldown: 12 hours
→ Status: ON COOLDOWN (11:57:12 remaining)
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QUEST: Unknown Origin — Investigate
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His Wisdom stat had actually moved. If he could keep coming up with "genius" realizations like this, he’d be a sage in no time. But then, a thought struck him like a critical hit from a boss-level enemy.
煙拳?スモークガトリング！！
ENKEN: SUMōKU GATORINGU!!
Smoke Fist: Smoke Gatling!!
If that technique had done that much damage at his baseline... what would it look like with AMATERION SURGE — Lv.1 stacked on top of it?
His pulse spiked. His muscles tensed. The smoke stirred around his arms in eager, hungry curls.
“Oh,” Ray breathed, his eyes lighting up with a dangerous, golden hunger. “That would be absolutely disgusting. I’m talking illegal levels of damage.”
Without thinking—because, of course, he didn't think when a "Big Numbers" combo was on the line—he centered himself and reached for the skill.
[AMATERION SURGE — Lv.1]
Nothing happened.
Ray blinked. A window snapped into existence directly in front of his face, glowing with a cold, judgmental light.
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STATUS NOTICE
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AMATERION SURGE — Lv.1
Status: ON COOLDOWN
Time Remaining: 11:28:57
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“…No.”
Ray stared at the numbers. They stared back, unmoving and mocking.
“…NOOO!”
He slumped forward, his hands dropping to his sides. The smoke dispersed instantly as his excitement died a quiet, tragic death.
“That’s right,” he muttered, his voice echoing pathetically in the large hall. “I tested it earlier. For science. For baseline data. For very responsible, very intelligent reasons that now feel incredibly stupid.”
Ray dragged a hand down his face, the realization of his own incompetence weighing heavier than the Avery armor. “I should’ve saved the burst,” he groaned. “This was the moment. This was the combo video.”
He glanced at the shattered remains of the training dummy, imagining it being absolutely evaporated—atomized—under a Surge-boosted Gatling. The vision hurt. It hurt physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
Cooldowns truly were the greatest enemy of all protagonists.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself upright. “…Okay,” he said at last, squaring his shoulders. “That’s fine. That’s fine. It’s a learning experience.”
This wasn’t a failure; it was a lesson in resource management. He had learned how his Ash Circuit flowed and how to circulate it silently. He had learned that naming attacks amplified his resonance. And now, he had learned the most painful lesson of all: timing is everything.
Ray glanced once more at the cooldown timer, then dismissed the window with a flick of his will.
“Tomorrow,” he said quietly, his eyes narrowing.
Tomorrow, he’d stack the buffs properly and see just how far he could push this broken system. He rolled his shoulders, the smoke settling back into a calm, obedient presence beneath his skin. Cooldown or not, he was stronger than he’d been yesterday.
And for a guy who started with zero screen time, that was enough. For now.
“What are you doing?”
Ray jumped. He spun around so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“S–Sera?!”
She stood a few paces behind him, arms crossed, her eyes narrowed into silver slits. He’d completely forgotten she was there. In the rush of the level-up and the high of the "Gatling," he’d lost track of his surroundings.
Ray rubbed the back of his neck, forcing an awkward, shaky laugh. “I just… I got tired. Calling it a night.”
Her glare sharpened instantly. “…What did you just say?”
“I’m just tired?” Ray repeated, confusion creeping in.
“No,” Sera said flatly. “Not that.” She took a step closer, her gaze never leaving his face. “What did you say right before you attacked?”
Ray froze. Sera gestured sharply toward the ruined heap of splinters that used to be a training dummy.
“You spoke. Then your sigil reacted,” she said, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous register.
She remembered it clearly. The smoke hadn't merely appeared; it had burst forth. It had spiraled around Ray's arms, condensing into massive, ethereal fists that perfectly mirrored his own. Every punch had sent a spectral blur shooting out, a continuous, deafening barrage of power that hit with increasing, impossible force.
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Ray swallowed hard. “…I named my attack.”
Silence. Sera stared at him as if he had just confessed to speaking with demons. Then—slowly—her expression tightened.
“…You did what?”
“I named it,” Ray repeated, his voice getting smaller with every word. “The attack. I… I say it out loud. It helps.”
Her jaw clenched. “It seems,” she said carefully, “that you have a penchant for answering dishonestly.”
Ray broke into a cold sweat.
“That wasn’t any language I recognize,” Sera continued, her voice like grinding stone. “Not ancient script. Not regional dialect. Not even a ceremonial chant.” Her mouth turned into a thin, hard line. “What, exactly, did you say?”
Ray’s brain screamed. PANIC. Every excuse he’d ever prepared for this world evaporated at once.
“I—uh—” He laughed weakly, the sound echoing pathetically in the empty hall. “It’s… just something I say when I’m excited? A battle cry?”
Sera didn’t blink. “Repeat it.”
Ray’s soul attempted to leave his body. “…Here? Now?”
“Yes,” she said. “Right now.”
The silence stretched, agonizing and heavy. Ray glanced at the shattered dummy—the smoke was still faintly clinging to the stone floor like a witness to his crime. Then he looked back at Sera’s unyielding stare.
“…It’s embarrassing,” he muttered.
“That,” she replied coolly, “is not a reason to withhold information from your superior.”
Ray closed his eyes, praying for a sudden monster invasion to save him. “…I called it Smoke Gatling.”
Sera’s eyes flicked—just slightly. “…In what language?”
Ray opened his mouth. Closed it. Sweat trickled down his spine. “…One I made up.”
Sera stared at him for a long, unreadable moment. The silence was so thick it felt like it was crushing the air out of his lungs. Then, she exhaled slowly through her nose.
“…Of course you did.”
She studied him for several more seconds, her eyes sharp with skepticism, looking for the lie. Then—finally—she clicked her tongue and turned away.
“…We’ll leave it at that,” she said, her voice dismissing him.
Ray nearly collapsed on the spot. He forced himself to breathe normally, even as the relief flooded through him like a cool wave. He’d gotten away with it. Again. Somehow.
But he wasn't safe. Sera wasn’t stupid. Elaine definitely wasn’t stupid. And if he kept slipping up, someone was going to start asking the kind of questions he couldn't answer with a blush and a "shōnen" excuse.
Okay, Ray thought grimly, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead. New rule. Fewer mouth. More brain.
Ray knew he needed a better excuse going forward—something consistent, something believable. Saying he "invented a language" sounded cool in theory, but real life didn't work like that. Not with people like Sera or Elaine, who studied magic, meaning, and intent for a living.
He needed to shelve that excuse. Hard.
Sera turned back to him, her arms crossed over her chest. “So,” she said, her tone neutral, “how does it feel?”
Ray blinked. “Huh?”
“Using your power without yelling nonsense,” she clarified.
Ray pursed his lips, considering the question. “…It feels great,” he admitted. “Really great. I can move faster, and it doesn't take as much out of me to start the flow.”
Sera raised an eyebrow, sensing the 'but' coming.
“But,” Ray added quickly, rubbing the back of his neck, “it doesn’t feel as good.”
She frowned. “Explain.”
Ray sighed, the familiar heat of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “When you name your attacks… it’s different. It’s like you’re fully committing to the moment. Putting everything you are into that one strike.” He gestured vaguely with his hands, searching for words that didn't sound like a manga blurb. “It’s not just power. It’s intent. Emotion. Belief. When you name something, it feels... final.”
Sera watched him closely.
“And that,” Ray finished, his cheeks warming, “is what I call Shōnen Spirit.”
Silence. Ray froze. Another pitfall. Why did his mouth keep betraying him?
“Shōnen Spirit?” Sera repeated, one brow lifting. “What is that?”
Ray coughed and straightened his posture, buying himself time to translate. “It’s… uh… it’s when you fight with absolute intent,” he said slowly. “When you put everything you are into a single moment. It’s believing—really believing—that this strike is the only thing that matters. That it’s not just muscle or instinct, but pure will.”
He looked at the shattered dummy. “When I name an attack, I’m not just moving. I’m deciding that this is the moment I don’t hesitate. I’m saying, I don’t care what happens after this—this is my answer.”
Sera’s eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but in deep focus. “…That,” she admitted, “does sound like a form of extreme combat focus.”
Ray internally fist-pumped. Success.
“And yelling helps?” she asked.
Ray winced. “…Emotionally, yes.”
Sera's lips twitched—the closest he’d seen to a smile. “So you’re telling me that your power responds better when you dramatize your intent.”
Ray spread his hands helplessly. “I wish it didn’t. But yeah. It really does.”
Sera huffed quietly. “Ridiculous,” she muttered. Then, after a pause: “…But not unheard of. There are warriors who sing before battle. Priests who recite vows mid-strike. Some knights even shout their house names like idiots.”
She glanced toward the doors. “It’s time for you to leave,” Sera said, her voice firm.
Ray realized the hall had grown dim. The torches were burning low, and the sky beyond the doors had deepened into a dark, pre-dawn indigo.
“Three hours until sunrise,” Sera noted. “You’re running on fumes. You’re attending the festival with Lady Elaine today. If you collapse halfway through, she’ll notice. And I don't feel like explaining your lack of sleep.”
Ray snorted weakly. “Noted.” He hesitated, then bowed his head slightly. “…Thanks, Sera. For helping me figure this out. I mean it.”
Sera studied him for a long moment before giving a small, sharp nod. “Don’t waste it.”
Ray smiled, tired but genuine, and headed for the exit. His footsteps echoed briefly before fading into the corridors of the estate.
Sera remained exactly where she was. She stared at the space he’d vacated—at the scorch marks on the wood, at the wisps of smoke still clinging to the air like a living memory. Slowly, she raised her hand. One of her rings pulsed with a soft, pale glow.
“My lady,” Sera said quietly, her eyes narrowing into the shadows. “I have something to report.”
Ray woke with a groan. His eyes cracked open to the pale morning light creeping through the heavy curtains, feeling less like a hero and more like a man who had been run over by a carriage.
“Ugh…” he muttered, rolling onto his back. “Why do I feel like I lost a boss fight in my sleep?”
His body ached with that deep, heavy soreness that came from pushing the "Surge" too hard on three hours of sleep. Last night replayed in fragments: the training hall, the spectral fists, the silent circulation of smoke. Sera’s sharp, assessing eyes.
Ray sat up slowly, rubbing his face. Today was the Festival. Crowds. Politics. Mandatory smiling.
“Note to self,” he muttered, swinging his legs off the bed. “Next time I unlock character development, schedule more sleep.”
“RAY!”
A voice rang down the hall, bright and relentless. Ray winced. That much cheer this early in the morning should have been illegal. He splashed cold water onto his face, gasping as the shock cleared the fog from his head. If he was going to survive a day with Niva, Alden, and—somehow—Elaine, he needed to be awake.
Today was the opening day of the Founders Festival. It meant street food, mini-games, and a mandatory pilgrimage to the heart of the Empire to hear the King’s speech. But first, he had to get out of the house.
Ray straightened his collar, wiped his face, and reached for the door. The moment it opened—a giant, multi-legged nightmare filled his vision.
Ray screamed.
“WHY—WHAT—NOPE—!”
He recoiled so fast he nearly executed a backflip into his own nightstand.
“Niva!” he shouted, bolting down the hallway as the small comet gave chase.
Behind him, delighted giggles echoed. “Ray! Look! Look at it! It’s HUGE! I think it likes you!”
“I DON’T CARE IF IT LIKES ME, GET IT AWAY!”
He burst out into the courtyard, gasping, heart pounding, his dignity in shambles.
Elaine stood near the carriage, her hands folded neatly in front of her, watching the spectacle with the calm amusement of a goddess observing a particularly frantic ant. Alden stood beside her, eyes wide, clearly torn between awe of the bug and concern for Ray’s soul.
Niva skidded to a stop, holding up a beetle the size of a dinner plate like it was a holy relic.
Elaine raised a brow. “…It seems you’ve finally decided to join us,” she said smoothly. “I was considering leaving you behind if you didn’t appear in the next five minutes. I didn't realize you were occupied with... zoology.”
Ray bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. “YOU—” he wheezed, pointing weakly at Niva, “—are a menace. An absolute menace.”
Niva beamed, taking it as the highest compliment.
Alden tugged at Elaine’s sleeve, his voice a stage whisper. “Is Ray scared of bugs?”
Ray snapped upright, adjusting his tunic. “I am not scared. I am strategically avoiding surprise invertebrates. It’s a tactical retreat.”
Elaine’s lips quirked—the briefest glimpse of a real smile. “Get in the carriage, Ray. I have errands to run before we are permitted to enjoy the festivities.”
Niva didn’t wait for a second invitation. She sprinted forward and vaulted into the carriage, beetle still clenched triumphantly in her hand. “Alden, look! Its legs are tickly!”
Alden scrambled in after her, immediately abandoning all his Avery dignity to peer at the insect with wide-eyed fascination. Ray followed last, pressing himself into the far corner of the plush seat, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in deep suspicion of anything with more than four legs.
The carriage lurched forward. Ray exhaled through his nose, his gaze shifting from the beetle to Elaine, who sat across from him, looking perfectly composed despite the chaos.
The festival had begun.
