Alex met his first friend by accident.
It happened on a day that refused to be remarkable.
The sky was overcast, not threatening rain but dull enough to flatten shadows. Work at the quarry ended early due to a cracked support beam, and Alex found himself with unexpected free time and sore muscles that argued against training.
So he wandered.
The market near the east canal was quieter in the afternoon—less shouting, more routine. Vendors leaned against stalls, chatting idly. The smell of bread and fried onions lingered in the air.
Alex stopped at a small food cart selling skewered meat. Cheap. Filling.
As he reached for his coin pouch, someone else reached at the same time.
Their fingers brushed.
"Ah—sorry," the other person said quickly.
Alex looked up.
The man was about his age—maybe a year older. Brown hair tied back messily, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms marked with faint burns and cuts. Not from battle. From work. His mana signature was weak and unrefined.
F-rank. Low.
"Go ahead," Alex said, stepping back.
The man blinked. "You sure?"
"Yes."
"Well… thanks." He paid and took his skewer, then hesitated. "You want one? They're better than they look."
Alex considered. "I already planned to buy."
"Right," the man said, scratching his cheek. "Habit. Sorry."
There was no tension in his voice. No calculation.
Just awkward politeness.
Alex bought his own skewer and moved to the canal's edge, leaning against the stone railing. A moment later, the man drifted over and leaned beside him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm Bren," he said, mouth half-full. "Dock worker. Sometimes warehouse, if they need hands."
Alex nodded. "Arlen."
"Nice to meet you, Arlen." Bren squinted sideways. "You're new, right?"
"Yes."
"Thought so. You walk like someone still counting exits."
Alex paused.
"That obvious?"
Bren shrugged. "You stop at corners. People who grew up here don't."
Alex filed that away.
They ate in silence for a few moments, watching barges drift past.
"So," Bren said eventually, "where'd you come from?"
Alex chose his words carefully. "The empire."
Bren made a face. "Ah. That explains the exits."
Alex waited.
"Too many rules," Bren continued. "Too many people pretending birth means something."
Alex blinked.
"You don't like the empire?"
Bren laughed. "I don't care about the empire. That's different."
That… was new.
"No interest in politics?" Alex asked.
"Why would I?" Bren said. "They don't feed me."
Alex studied him.
No bitterness.
No fear.
Just practicality.
"What about nobles?" Alex pressed.
Bren shrugged again. "They pay better sometimes. Sometimes worse. Same as everyone else."
No reverence.
No resentment.
Just indifference.
Alex felt something twist in his chest.
Unsettling.
Comforting.
Both.
"You're an awakener?" Bren asked, nodding at Alex's posture, the faint discipline in how he held himself.
"Yes."
"F?"
"Yes."
"Same," Bren said easily. "Low. Don't plan on changing that."
Alex turned to him sharply. "You don't?"
Bren shook his head. "Costs too much. Training halls, instructors, time. And for what? Break my body faster?"
Alex stared.
"No ambition?"
Bren grinned. "I want a shop someday. Somewhere quiet. Maybe marry if I find someone patient enough. That ambitious enough for you?"
Alex didn't answer right away.
System silence pressed gently at the edge of his awareness.
No prompts.
No warnings.
Just observation.
(He is unremarkable,) Chaos noted.
"Yes," Alex agreed.
And the agreement surprised him.
They walked together for a while after that—no destination in mind. Bren talked about mundane things: which foremen were tolerable, which streets flooded after heavy rain, which taverns watered down their drinks.
Alex listened.
Not because the information was useful.
But because it was… normal.
No destiny.
No tragedy.
No shadow looming behind every sentence.
"You don't talk much," Bren observed eventually.
"I listen," Alex replied.
"Fair." Bren kicked a loose stone into the canal. "You planning to stay long?"
Alex hesitated.
"I don't know," he said honestly.
"That's fine," Bren said. "Most people don't."
They reached a crossroads and stopped.
"Well," Bren said, adjusting the strap on his worn bag, "I work mornings. You ever want cheap food and worse conversation, dock's east side."
Alex nodded. "I might."
Bren waved and headed off without another word.
Alex stood there longer than necessary.
The system finally spoke.
{Social interaction logged.}
Alex snorted softly. "You log everything."
{This interaction deviated from expected patterns.}
"How so?"
{No transactional motive detected.}
Alex smiled faintly.
"No manipulation," he said. "No fear. No reverence."
{Correct.}
He resumed walking.
(Why does this trouble you?) Chaos asked.
"Because he's free," Alex replied.
(From what?)
Alex stopped.
"From the things that defined me," he said quietly. "From empire. From rank. From expectation."
Chaos considered.
(And you?)
Alex looked out at the city—at its narrow streets and quiet lives.
"I don't know if I can ever be that," he admitted.
But the thought didn't hurt as much as it used to.
Later that night, lying on his bed, Alex stared at the ceiling.
No quests had updated.
No warnings had triggered.
Just a quiet log entry sitting somewhere in the system's memory.
A person with no importance had entered his life.
And somehow—
That felt more dangerous than any assassin.
Because it made him want something that couldn't be measured.
And that, Alex realized, might be the one thing no system could ever predict.