By the time Rylan reached the bottom of the watchtower, the campfire still burned low, orange embers breathing quietly in the night. The man who had been telling the story earlier, alongside the handful of adventurers listening to him, were nowhere to be seen. It seemed the camp had finally surrendered to sleep.

  Probably for the best, Rylan thought, glancing around the clearing.

  The abandoned tower stood crooked at the edge of the campsite, its crumbling base surrounded by scattered tents. A few horses slept tethered to a wooden rail nearby, their occasional snorts the only sound besides the fire.

  Rylan adjusted his cloak and began walking toward his own tent.

  The job that had brought them here had been simple enough. With war erupting along the western border, the kingdom had begun hiring independent adventurers to transport smaller batches of supplies toward the front lines. It was cheaper than assigning trained soldiers or court mages, and the risk was low enough that expendable adventurers were considered perfectly adequate.

  He suspected the real reason was even simpler: the kingdom evidently did not want to waste its full-fledged mages or cultivators on mundane logistics, and so had resorted to commissioning adventurers, like himself.

  Earlier that evening, their group had successfully delivered the supplies to the nearby fortress. However, the garrison had refused to let them stay within the walls. Civilians—especially transient ones like adventurers—were considered a liability inside a military installation. Thus, the group of adventurers had been directed to camp here instead, at an open patch of land beside the crumbling watchtower, a short walk east of the fortress.

  Well, Rylan wouldn’t complain. The enemy lay to the west, and the farther away he was from that direction, the better he could sleep. Though, it was debatable if he would even get a wink of sleep with this fox nearby.

  Hey! I can hear you, you know! The indignant voice popped into his mind instantly.

  Rylan’s steps slowed for half a second. He resisted the urge to glance toward the fox perched on his shoulder, and instead kept walking as if nothing had happened.

  Akane’s tail flicked against the back of his neck in what felt suspiciously like retaliation at his disregard, but she didn’t say anything else.

  He cast a look back toward the distant silhouette of the fortress. Its walls rose dark against the horizon, faint torchlights tracing the battlements like a crown of dying stars.

  Two months—that was how long the war had lasted so far.

  Officially, the kingdom insisted everything was under control. Unofficially… everyone knew the truth: they were losing (badly).

  The cause was quite straightforward: the Varkessian Empire possessed power the Kingdom of Lythara could not hope to match. Within its borders stood one of the continent’s top hundred cultivation sects, one rumored to harbor a cultivator who had already stepped into the Dao Integration Realm. Even the weakest cultivators at that level could shatter magically reinforced stone walls with a casual strike.

  The empire also maintained two fully established magic towers—institutions dedicated to the study and development of magic. It also just so happened that they specialized in the two most offensive (and destructive) types of magic: fire and lightning.

  Rylan exhaled quietly.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  It made a certain kind of sense. After all, the empire was almost always at war with someone. And when war never stopped, neither did improvement.

  As they like to say, practice makes perfect.

  As he arrived in front of his tent, he slowed.

  The canvas flap swayed faintly in the night breeze, the small oil lantern beside the entrance long since burned out. Someone had kicked a boot-print into the dirt near the rope stakes earlier in the evening, and the mark had already hardened into the dry soil.

  Rylan stood there for a moment, simply looking at it.

  It felt strange how normal everything still seemed.

  It was the same worn tent. The same quiet camp. The same distant fortress looming on the horizon.

  And yet, only minutes earlier, he had summoned a fox spirit with a title that sounded like something pulled from an ancient epic.

  His life, it seemed, had developed a taste for absurdity.

  Akane shifted on his shoulder.

  Her small fox form stretched lazily, front paws pressing against his collarbone as she arched her back in a languid motion. The warmth of her fur seeped through the fabric of his cloak.

  You’re thinking very loudly, she commented in his mind.

  Rylan sighed quietly and finally lifted the tent flap.

  The inside was dim, illuminated only by the faint glow of the campfire outside filtering through the canvas. A rolled blanket lay in one corner beside his pack, along with a small wooden crate that held the few personal items he owned.

  He ducked inside and let the flap fall shut behind him. The outside world immediately grew quieter.

  For a moment, he simply stood there, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Then, he sat down on the blanket.

  Akane hopped off his shoulder without ceremony and landed softly on the canvas floor. Her tail swayed slowly behind her as she looked around the tent with curious red eyes.

  How modest, she mused.

  Rylan ignored the comment (once again). Instead, he leaned back against his pack and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  “Seven draws left,” he muttered quietly.

  Akane’s ears perked up.

  Oh? Her tone carried immediate interest. Continuing already?

  Rylan stared at the tent ceiling for a few seconds. Statistically speaking, he had already burned through a lifetime’s worth of luck—the probability window had made that painfully clear.

  A one in a million SSS-rank draw.

  Even if he performed a hundred more draws, the odds of seeing something remotely close to that again were effectively nonexistent.

  Which meant the most likely outcome was either more pebbles or something equally useless.

  He exhaled slowly.

  Still.

  Akane had made one thing clear: no draws meant no progress. And to him, progress was infinitely more valuable than hesitation.

  System.

  The familiar sky-blue panel unfolded in the air before him like a sheet of glowing glass.

  [Name: Rylan Ash]

  [Level 1: 7 Draws Available.]

  [Draw]

  [Inventory]

  [Probability]

  Akane’s eyes reflected the light of the panel like twin crimson coals.

  You know, she said thoughtfully, most people would hesitate after seeing those odds.

  Rylan’s finger hovered over the [Draw] button.

  Most people didn’t just summon you.

  Her tail swished smugly: Fair point.

  Rylan pressed the button. For some reason, it felt more satisfying interacting with the system than it did thinking or talking to it, and who knows, maybe his finger was the reason his luck had turned.

  The panel dissolved instantly into swirling strands of pale light. The circular vortex formed again, spinning slowly at first before tightening into a glowing spiral.

  Pop.

  Something dropped out of the light and hit the canvas floor with a soft thud.

  The panel stabilized.

  [Item Obtained]

  [E-Rank Equipment]

  [Level 1 Left Shoe]

  [Description: A perfectly ordinary leather shoe. Unfortunately, it is only the left one; perhaps the right shoe exists somewhere in the vastness of fate. Try not to think too hard about it.]

  [Dismiss]

  Silence filled the tent.

  Rylan slowly looked down.

  A single leather shoe sat on the ground. Just one—not a pair.

  Akane stared at it as her tail began to shake. Then—

  She burst into laughter inside his mind.

  Oh, no. If someone’s inner voice could wheeze from laughing, this was it right now. That is incredible.

  Rylan pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “…It’s just the left one,” he muttered flatly.

  Ah… Master~ your luck truly is legendary.

  He stared at the shoe and back at the system panel.

  Six draws remaining.

  Akane’s voice carried unmistakable delight.

  This is going to be fun.