Ezra blinked. A twisted, bitter smile formed on his lips, lacking any real humor. He felt mad, completely losing his grip on reality. It almost felt like a relief to slip into a false dream rather than face the harshness of the real world. With fingers he didn’t want to move—but did—he mentally clicked "YES."

 

The screen flickered, and suddenly, streams of light filled the space around him. Ezra recoiled, instincts warning him of danger, but this light felt safe. It enveloped him, warm and gentle, like a cocoon. Strange symbols danced before his eyes, transforming into grim options.

 

"Choose your path: Warrior. Berserker. Liberator. Mage."

 

Ezra gazed at the options, each glowing with its own allure. Warrior seemed straightforward, a choice his father might have made. Berserker, with its fiery glow, promised raw power and destruction, a way to unleash the anger he felt. Mage appeared distant and intellectual, requiring calm and thoughtfulness—traits he no longer possessed.

 

Then, he heard his father's steady voice echoing in his mind: "True strength does not just shatter chains; it sets others free."

 

Liberator resonated deeply within him. This wasn’t about revenge, as he had initially thought; it was about freedom, the very thing his family had been denied. He chose Liberator.

 

The void shifted again, revealing a new screen filled with probing questions that delved into the depths of his soul.

What do you hold dear?

 

Ezra paused. He thought of family, but they were no longer with him. Their absence still hurt too much. Instead, he quietly murmured, "Freedom."

 

What is your view on the world?

 

The question felt odd, almost sarcastic. He was unsure what the world meant to him now. "I don't know," he confessed. "It's harsh, I guess. It takes everything and gives nothing back."

 

The system processed his answer and asked again:

 

What is your aim?

 

This time, he replied without delay, "Honestly, I don't know. I just want to live in a peaceful world, free from all this pain, the betrayals, the plots…"; he paused. "I also want revenge. I want them to pay!"

 

Another screen appeared as the void throbbed. It read, "Path confirmed: Liberation. You have been chosen as the Warrior of Liberation."

 

As the words settled in his mind, he felt a strange power ripple through him, like gentle waves. It wasn't overwhelming, but it was there—a distant energy beneath his skin, ready to ignite. The next message appeared, cold and impersonal, yet full of meaning:

 

"The one who knows freedom is the one who has faced oppression."

 

Ezra reread the message, frowning. Before he could understand it, another prompt showed up:

 

"First Greater Mission: Train under captivity for three years."

 

The words struck him hard. Three years? What kind of training was this? Wasn't captivity what had shattered him before? He wanted to shout at the system for answers, but the void remained quiet. The screen faded, leaving him in darkness again.

 

It wasn't until Ezra's eyes snapped open that he felt himself back in the dungeon—the cold, damp air that filled his lungs was what did it—but something had changed. The soreness in his body was gone and replaced by an unfamiliar lightness. He flexed his fingers, then his arms, and realized, with a start, his strength had returned—not just returned, but increased. His muscles were taut and ready; his senses sharper than ever.

A faint, bluish glow surrounded him, flickering like an aura. He sat up slowly, his head spinning. "What. is this?" he muttered, his voice still raw and hoarse. The system—the strange series of events—was it all just a dream? Yet the power running in his veins told him otherwise.

The dungeon door creaked open, and two guards stepped inside, their faces twisted with contempt. "Look at this one," one sneered. "Crying like a baby earlier, and now he's just sitting there, looking lost."

"Pathetic," the other spat. "No wonder they kept this one alive. He's useless.

Ezra's fists clenched, his nails biting into his palms. The old Ezra would have flinched and would have let their words cut him. But something about the system's presence—a faint hum in his mind gave him an eerie sense of calm. He didn't rise to their taunts, though his blood boiled beneath the surface.

One of the guards kicked him in the ribs hard enough to send him sprawling. "Get up, runt. You're lucky we even let you live."

Ezra didn't stir for a moment. The kick had hurt, but not as much as he had expected. His enhanced body seemed to absorb the pain, dulling it to a mere sting. Slowly, he rose to his feet, his eyes locking onto the guard's. There was no fire in his gaze, only a cold, measured intensity that unsettled the man.

What are you staring at?" the guard snapped, raising his hand as if to strike again.

Ezra said nothing. He didn't need to. The hum of the system seemed to vibrate with his feelings, feeding his silent defiance. The guard hesitated then scoffed and shoved him toward the door. "Move it. You're not worth the effort.”

They dragged him down the corridors, dimly lit, Ezra's thoughts churning inside his head. The words of the system seemed to ring within his head: Train in captivity. Was this the training—to stand their jeering, their beatings, and their contempt? He didn't know, but he did know one thing for sure: he wasn't going to let them break him this time either.

When they threw him into yet another cell, he fell to his knees but was up quickly. Now a bluish aura that diffused around him shook faintly, like a reminder of the strength at his fingertips. Unpredictable was how to use it yet a force grew in him, a storm in the brewing, waiting for release.

With the guards gone, still their laughter echoed down the corridor; Ezra leaned back against the wall, eyes shut. The images of the deaths of his family still tormented his mind, but now, amidst pain, there was something else: a spark of determination. Ezra didn't know what this system wanted from him, but whatever that was, he could go through all of that. For my father, for my sisters, for my mother. And for himself.

The faint hum of the system's presence still lingered, a constant reminder of the contract he had entered into. He didn't quite trust it, not completely. But if it gave him strength to survive, to fight back, then he would accept it.