Arthur logged in on the second day like he had something to prove.
Day one had been chaos. Players shouting about Synth, cultivation, new classes, and "why the game feels heavier." Most people treated it like a trend.
Arthur didn't.
Because for him, it felt personal.
He spawned in Frostvale village, snow crunching under his boots, beginner chat already loud. The same place every newcomer appeared… but the air didn't feel the same as old Frostvale.
It pressed back.
He opened his interface and scrolled straight to classes.
Artist.
Arthur's thumb hovered for a second.
Then he picked it instantly.
In-game name: ART.
The starter kit dropped into his inventory: brush, ink, and a thick stack of paper. Fifty sheets.
Players nearby complained.
"Paper? Seriously?"
"How am I supposed to fight with this?"
Arthur didn't complain.
He grew up in a home full of artists. Brushes and ink weren't "tools" to him. They were normal. And even outside art, he had some basic martial arts training too. Nothing insane, but enough to give him balance, breathing control, and clean movement.
That mattered now.
Because Phase Two turned breathing into power.
He moved away from the plaza noise and slipped behind one of the storage sheds at the edge of the village, where the wind was quieter and people stopped bumping into each other every two seconds.
He opened the Phase Two manual again and reread the same line.
Synth is power. Stamina is control.
Arthur smirked. "So the nerd stuff matters now."
He sat down and did what he used to do for fun in real life after reading cultivation novels—except this time, he did it seriously.
Inhale.
Hold.
Guide Synth down.
Exhale.
Circulate.
At first it felt like nothing.
Then a thin cold pressure slid through his chest like a thread of clean electricity.
Arthur's eyes snapped open.
His interface pinged.
Basic Circulation: 0.3% proficiency
He didn't even breathe out properly before he started doing it again.
And again.
Not because he was desperate.
Because he was excited.
By the time he stopped, his Synth reserve had changed.
10/10 → 15/15
Arthur stared at the number like he'd caught the system lying.
"Okay," he whispered. "So you can really grow it."
Now he tested the class.
He walked to the stone wall behind the shed, pressed a sheet of paper flat against it, dipped his brush into ink, and drew fast.
He didn't try to make it pretty.
He tried to make it functional.
A stick warrior.
Simple body, sword stance.
The moment he finished the final stroke, Synth drained from his chest and into the drawing like fuel.
The ink peeled off the paper.
Then stood up.
A small black stickman with a blade made from the same strokes, standing in the snow like it was waiting for orders.
Arthur froze.
Then exhaled, slow.
"Go."
The stick warrior sprinted and struck a nearby practice dummy.
Wood cracked.
Arthur watched his Synth drop hard.
15/15 → 5/15
He didn't panic. He understood immediately.
So this was how it worked.
Not just ink