003 The Boy’s Story
Bret picked up the manuscript with deliberate care, its modest binding deceptively ordinary for something supposedly built on conviction. His eyes narrowed behind round spectacles as he flipped through a few pages, weighing not the thickness of the paper but the intent behind every word. “Now that I’ve seen your resolve,” he muttered, “let’s see if it can measure up to your skill with the pen.”
He had made no promises to Ron, and he would not lie to himself now. If the manuscript failed to meet his standard, he would reject it outright. Dreams were a luxury, and true literature demanded more than simply wanting to write. Even as a commoner, Bret held himself to standards higher than most. He had trained at the College of the Arts, and although he had not earned fame among aristocratic collectors or wealthy curators, he considered himself a man of taste and judgment. There existed a line… a cruel, immovable line… between those who merely enjoyed the arts and those who understood them. And while Bret lacked the generational wealth or noble blood that often accompanied true artistic influence, he had never let that stop him from learning to judge work with a ruthless eye.
He stared at the front cover again. Paladin System: The Hidden Code of Swords. The title alone gave him pause. The Hidden Code of Swords carried a certain rhythm, a whisper of mystery that suggested purpose beneath the flash of blades. “Catchy,” he murmured. But Paladin System was odder… less lyrical and more mechanical. Paladin sounded fabricated, a coined word perhaps. And System? That sounded academic, maybe even bureaucratic. Taken together, the title almost read like an essay delivered at one of the Great Towers or submitted to an arcane guild’s research arm.
Curious but skeptical, Bret flipped to the first page. Instead of a prologue or introduction, he was met with something more peculiar: two entries, each formatted like a dictionary definition. He raised an eyebrow, adjusting his spectacles as he read the first.
Paladin (noun):A righteous knight dedicated to the protection of the weak and the pursuit of justice. A paladin serves a moral ideal above law or crown, wielding sacred power not granted by birthright, but by oath. Known for their unwavering discipline, incorruptibility, and commitment to greater good, paladins act as chosen agents of balance between light and law.
Bret nodded slowly. “Ah, so that’s what a paladin means…” he murmured, eyes scanning the elegant script with a grudging note of respect. The idea was easy to grasp and noble in concept. The word had sounded foreign, but the essence was something he could understand… an ideal knight, a warrior priest of virtue.
Then he turned to the second entry.
System (noun):A supernatural framework, often invisible, which grants individuals structured abilities based on defined rules or paths. Manifesting as an internal interface, a system monitors progress, assigns titles or ranks, and delivers incremental powers. The system is impersonal, impartial, and bound by logic, often perceived as a higher construct of fate or divine machinery guiding human potential.
Now Bret frowned. He reread the definition, lips pursed. His mind immediately went to the feudal system… the structure of lords and vassals, the gears that held society together. That was a system. But this? This spoke of something intangible, something more abstract and layered in metaphor. Powers, ranks, an internal interface? It sounded like a magical contract if someone had rewritten it using legal jargon and arcane diagrams.
“Now I’m just confused,” he muttered, scratching his chin.
It was strange. The word paladin had become clear with the author’s careful explanation, but system… a word Bret had believed he understood… had transformed into something alien. It unsettled him. Yet, that very discomfort spurred a flicker of intrigue. Was that not what art did at times? To unsettle first, and then invite understanding?
He continued reading, fully expecting to lose interest after the first few paragraphs. Instead, what he found surprised him. The opening scene… a boy climbing a cliff, his hands raw and breath ragged as he reached for a wooden sword wedged into stone… was written with vivid detail. The air felt sharp, the stones wet with moss. He could hear the distant call of birds and the scraping of fingernails against rock. There was a rawness to it, a clarity that didn't rely on florid language but knew how to frame emotion through tension.
And then, when the boy slipped and fell, and the sword glowed, and the world halted mid-collapse, Bret stopped reading for a moment. Not because it was hard to follow, but because it was precisely the moment where the story stopped being mere words and began becoming something else. Something with structure. With system.
Slowly, he began to understand. The System, as Ron had described, wasn’t a government or a church. It was a silent force… an unseen framework, something like divine judgment combined with mechanical precision. It was what chose the boy. It was what rewarded justice. It was fate, but quantified.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Bret turned the next page. Then another. His pace quickened not because he had decided the manuscript was brilliant, but because it refused to let him decide anything so easily. He still wasn’t sure if he liked it. But he was definitely reading.
The deeper Bret read into the manuscript, the harder it became to stop. What had begun as cautious curiosity had transformed into genuine engagement. For all its strange terms and unfamiliar structure, the story offered something he hadn’t experienced in a long time: fun.
What fascinated him most was how the boy’s growth could be observed—measured, even!—as if the tale were written with a merchant’s mind. This “System” awarded experience points, tallied them like coin, and granted “level ups” as the boy defeated enemies or performed virtuous deeds. There was a certain rhythm to it, a satisfying loop of progress that gave the reader a thrill. Watching the boy’s numbers go up… his strength, agility, and arcane sensitivity… all marked with numeric precision, felt surprisingly natural despite the foreign concept. Bret never thought he'd enjoy arithmetic wrapped in fiction, yet there he was, flipping pages with increased pace, eager to see what came next.
Then there were the skills… small at first, almost laughably minor. “Basic Sword Swing.” “Focused Breathing.” “Alertness I.” But as the story continued, those humble beginnings became cornerstones of strength. There was a clear line of advancement, a feeling that each battle, each trial, brought the boy closer to something greater. It was oddly addictive, and not just for the boy… Bret found himself wanting the numbers to rise.
Even more intriguing was how the System itself wasn't just a lifeless tool, but a companion. It had a voice, not exactly human, but warm and unwavering. It praised the boy when he succeeded, offered calm advice when he faltered, and even scolded him gently when he acted recklessly. There was comfort in its presence, something Bret hadn’t expected. It gave the whole story a dual character dynamic, as if the boy was never truly alone, even when the world around him crumbled.
And yet, there was one thing that gnawed at him.
The boy had no name.
From the first page to the halfway point, and then past it, he was only ever referred to as the boy. Not even a nickname. Bret found it frustrating and needlessly evasive. Why avoid giving your protagonist an identity? A name was a root. A tether. Every time the boy survived a trial or pushed past his limits, Bret felt the absence of that anchor like a missing tooth.
But he kept reading. Because somehow, even without a name, the boy’s journey didn’t feel hollow. It felt deliberate.
He didn’t realize he was nearing the final pages until the city bells began to ring the noon hour. The shop had long since grown quiet, the morning sun now a noon blaze filtered through dusty windows. Bret turned another page, blinked, and found himself in the final scene.
The battlefield was charred and broken, a crater of scorched earth and shattered stone. Smoke curled in lazy trails toward the darkening sky, and the boy, battered and bloodied, fell to his knees, gasping for air.
He had won.
He had slain the demon-possessed knight who had haunted his dreams and murdered his family.
And yet, the tears would not stop.
His heart ached with a pain far deeper than any wound, and then, slowly, the truth began to unearth itself.
The demon knight… had been his father.
The revelation shattered everything. Memories, long buried and locked away, returned like shards of glass. A small house in the woods. A pair of loving arms. A mother’s laugh. A father’s strong hands, calloused but gentle. The wooden sword… the very one he now wielded… had once been his father’s practice weapon, used in games and lessons now lost to fire and time.
His System flickered, glitching in the middle of a congratulatory message. The words that followed were uncertain and halting.
“You’ve done well. But… fate always catches up.”
Bret felt a strange pressure in his chest as he read those lines. For a moment, even he forgot it was fiction.
In the final clash, when the demon’s blade had nearly claimed the boy’s life, the System had intervened, not just calculated probabilities or projected outcomes, but acted, conjuring a magical barrier that saved him. That moment was the first time it had broken its cold and unfeeling neutrality. And now Bret knew why.
The System had been more than a magical construct. It had been someone.
The boy cried, the full weight of his past crashing over him as the memories became whole again. He had been so small. So young. His name… his very name… had vanished, swallowed by trauma and time.
With a strangled voice, he called out to the System.
“Don’t go… don’t leave me alone…”
The System’s words shimmered faintly in the air, its usual measured tone now tinged with warmth and grief.
“Everything is going to be fine. You’ve grown so strong…”
And then, the truth surfaced. It was quiet and heartbreaking.
The System had been his mother all along.
A powerful mage, she had used the last of her soul to form a blessing, binding herself to her son through the practice sword left behind by the man she had once loved and been slain by. She became the System not just to protect him but to guide him and make sure he survived a world that had stolen everything else.
As the boy wept in the ruins of his victory, a soft light gathered beside him. A mirage formed… the ghost of a woman with gentle eyes and hair like firelight.
“I love you, Lancelot,” she whispered.
And then, she faded into motes of light.
So did the sword.
Only silence remained.
Bret stared at the final line, breath held.
“Thus, the boy remembered his name, the one given to him by his parents.”
He closed the manuscript slowly, his hands resting on the cover, as if afraid that touching it too firmly might break the moment.
It was a whole darn complete book, and could not just be called a manuscript…
He had read dozens, if not hundreds of novels in his lifetime, most forgotten within weeks, their prose too hollow or contrived. But this… this wasn’t just a story.
It was a wound and a balm.
He sat in silence, staring at the cover again.
Paladin System: The Hidden Code of Swords.
For the first time in years, Bret Beck felt something rare stir inside him, not just appreciation, not just surprise, but belief.
“Ah shit, am I crying?”
Bret sobbed quietly, resisting the tears from existence.