The rats were fearless now.
Three of them had crept from the broken floorboards during the night, drawn to the sour smell of curdled milk and human waste. One sniffed Baelgar's bare foot. Another perched near his ear.
He didn't move.
He hadn't for hours.
His body was too weak. But his will—his will had hardened like steel left in ice.
His crimson eyes opened, glowing faintly in the darkness.
Then he moved.
A twitch at first. Then a curl of his fingers. Then both hands.
His arms trembled under his weight as he pressed against the rotten straw mat. He managed to lift his chest—barely.
The rats scurried away.
Baelgar collapsed again, sucking in a quiet breath through his nose.
Again.
He turned his head, rolled slightly to one side, and began again. Elbow, palm, chest.
Tiny bones shook. Weak tendons stretched like wires in mud.
But he crawled.
Centimeter by centimeter. Across the piss-soaked straw.
Toward nothing—but forward all the same.
The System responded immediately.
[Quest Complete: Crawl Before You Rule]
You have taken your first command of the body.
Reward: +1 Stat Point
New Skill Gained: "Micro-Movement Mastery (F)"
Fine motor control increased. Actions become more deliberate.
A soft mechanical tone echoed in his mind, crystalline and low.
He pulled up the Stat Screen.
[Baelgar – Level 1]
Strength: 3
Stamina: 4
Agility: 4 (+1)
Magic: 3
Charisma: 2
Intelligence: 3
Luck: 1
Free Points: 11
He stared at the number.
Eleven.
From the God's pity… he thought, remembering that cold divine voice.
"You may begin your conquest with twelve points. A small gesture of apology."
He'd used one already.
Now, with his new crawling ability and motor control unlocked, a plan formed.
I must master this body fast. Build it. Break its limits. I will not remain an infant longer than needed.
He sat upright—slow, steady, with the caution of someone carrying a crown on their back.
He crossed one leg beneath the other.
Then rested his small chin in his palm again.
A mimic of his pose from the day before.
It had become a habit. Almost ceremonial. A statement of will.
His father was awake again.
Slumped near the fire pit, still shirtless, still smelling of blood and drink.
His cracked lips curled as he watched Baelgar sit.
"Demon," he muttered again. "Watching me like I'm a damned bug. Think you're royalty, huh? Little freak."
He stood, bottle in hand.
Baelgar didn't blink.
The man stomped toward him—but Mirka shouted from the far cot.
"Don't hit him again, Karst. I ain't dealing with another burst lip. They look, they heal. Who cares."
"You don't tell me what to—"
"I do when you're too drunk to piss straight."
Karst growled, but stopped.
He pointed a crooked finger at Baelgar.
"You think you're special? Just 'cause you look like some noble's brat? This ain't the palace, boy. This is the Gutterrun. You'll be shit or nothing."
Baelgar tilted his head.
The Gutterrun.
So that's what this slum is called, he thought.
A name mattered. Even for filth. He'd remember it.
He turned his gaze away from Karst and focused on the room.
The layout was simple:
One cot for each parent.
A broken hearth with no fire.
A rusted pot used for water or soup—or piss.
Walls made of warped wood and old fabric.
A hole in the corner where rats scuttled freely.
Through a broken shutter above, Baelgar could see gray sky. The light outside was dim. Early morning.
It's always gray here, he thought. No warmth. No life.
But that suited him just fine.
Later that day, a knock came at the door.
Karst stumbled over to open it.
A child—ragged, maybe six years old—stood outside. He held a bundle of rags tied with leather string.
"Meat," the boy said. "Scrap goat shoulder. Four copper."
"Four? It was two yesterday."
"Market's worse. More patrols."
Karst grumbled, threw him three coins, and snatched the bundle.
The boy's eyes wandered inside—toward Baelgar.
He stared.
Baelgar stared back.
"That yours?" the boy asked, nodding toward him.
"None of your damn business."
"He looks... weird."
Karst slammed the door.
Baelgar had absorbed every word.
Every posture. Every change in tone.
The System pinged.
[Conquest Alert]
New Passive Unlocked: Observation (F)
Your mind remembers what others forget. Voices, faces, footsteps… patterns.
Charisma increased by +1
Updated Stats
Charisma: 3
Free Points: 11
Baelgar smiled.
Just slightly.
It wasn't joy. It was progress.
That night, Mirka began to hum. A broken melody. Out of tune.
She held a cup of old wine and rocked in place, half-conscious.
"Heard it in the temple, once," she muttered. "Used to be a hymn. A pretty one."
Baelgar turned toward her.
"...Temple?" he whispered.
His voice was cracked. Dry. Barely audible.
Mirka froze.
Then stared at him.
"You... spoke?"
Baelgar didn't answer.
Mirka rose suddenly and grabbed him by the arm.
"Say it again. Say it."
Baelgar remained silent.
"I said—say it!"
Karst looked over, startled.
"What are you doing?"
"He spoke, Karst. He—he said a word. A real one."
"He's a baby, Mirka. You're just hearing things again."
"I'm not!"
She shook Baelgar violently.
His body flopped like a rag.
But his eyes—those cold red eyes—never changed.
They locked onto hers. Judged her. Reduced her to nothing.
And again… she stopped.
Breathing hard. Hands trembling.
"Demon," she whispered.
She set him down.
Baelgar inhaled slowly.
That had been intentional.
The word "temple" was bait.
He wanted to know more.
Where it was. What it meant. If the God of Worlds had a physical form here. Or if the people worshipped other gods.
The System pulsed once more.
[New Pathway Unlocked: "Cultivation of the Self"]
You have asked the right question.
"Temple," "faith," and "divinity" have awakened a dormant path.
This path will allow the rise of your personal religion.
Name: Unchosen
Followers: 0
Symbol: None
Scripture: None
First Commandment: Not Yet Written
Baelgar leaned back slowly.
Hands folded behind his head. Eyes to the ceiling.
He would remember this.
The moment when power began to shift.
Even slightly.
From slum-born child… to something greater.
They may call me demon now.
But soon… they will call me god.