Chapter 1: The Loom of Spite

Luke should have been ecstatic.

The ceremonial mana-dust from AshTale Academy's graduation still clung to the collar of his black robes. It shimmered like the promise of a glorious future.

Yet, the reflection staring back from the polished obsidian wall was a portrait of absolute ruin.

His jaw was slack. His bright blue eyes were wide enough to swallow the pale glow of the floating text before him.

Years of grueling study. Years of bleeding in the Shadowfen Dungeon against nobles born with silver spoons and golden auras. He'd clung to that promise like a drowning man to driftwood—a whisper from the cosmos on the day he died in his old world and woke up here.

"The System activates upon graduation. You will receive a Golden Finger worthy of your struggle."

As a transmigrator, that had been his one solace.

He'd traded a life of traffic jams and fluorescent office lights for this. Surely the universe owed him interest on that karmic debt. Right?

He was a striking figure, this Luke Aurelion Vale.

Even in his previous life, his friends had called him "Slender Man" with a mix of affection and unease. He was tall, excessively so, with a frame that seemed to eat light rather than reflect it.

His skin held a pallor that bordered on the unnatural—a stark canvas for the unruly waves of jet-black hair that fell across the sides of his face.

Those piercing blue eyes were his only concession to conventional beauty. Vivid and arresting, they had always drawn lingering glances from women and wary stares from men.

But right now, those eyes held nothing but the reflection of a cruel, azure joke.

SYSTEM ACTIVATION
[Name: Luke Aurelion Vale]
[Class Designation: Apprentice]
[Occupation: Weaver of Death's Threads]
[Items: None]
[Skills: Summon Billy]
[Blessings: Dab Prodigy]

The silence in the dormitory room was thicker than the incense smoke wafting from the corner shrine.

Luke's eye twitched.

"What in the actual hell is this?"

The blue letters merely shimmered.

They were indifferent to the existential crisis they had just ignited. Luke ran a trembling hand through his sweat-damp hair. The dark strands stuck up in wild defiance.

"I didn't bleed out in the Shadowfen Dungeon for a Billy!"

His voice echoed off the cold stone walls, sharp and incredulous.

"I demand to speak to the manager!!"

He jabbed a finger at the glowing panel, half-expecting a hidden "Customer Support" tab to materialize.

It didn't.

Of course it didn't. This wasn't a faulty household appliance. This was cosmic sabotage with a sleek, minimalist user interface.

"Alright, Luke."

He muttered to the empty room, forcing air into his lungs. If he didn't talk to himself, he'd go insane. Actually, maybe he was already insane. This whole situation screamed 'padded walls and sedatives' chic.

"Calm down. Maybe there's still hope."

He paced the small room, his long shadow stretching across the stone floor.

"Maybe this Billy is some secret, ultra-badass dragon, right? Or an immortal Lich General? Why not? Stranger things have happened. I died and woke up here, for crying out loud."

Grasping at the flimsiest straw of self-deception, Luke focused his will on the skill icon.

Summon Billy.

"It's now or never."

He closed his eyes dramatically, as if to shield himself from the impending disappointment.

"Summon Billy."

A faint, sickly green light coalesced in the center of the room.

The sound that accompanied it was like dry twigs snapping underfoot—brittle, weak, and utterly unimpressive.

Luke opened his eyes.

His false hope shattered into a million jagged pieces.

Where he had envisioned shimmering scales or ancient, rune-carved armor, there stood a skeleton.

It was tall, lanky, and fragile-looking. The bones seemed more porous than solid, as if a strong breeze might scatter them across the floor.

Twin flames of pale green flickered weakly within the dark sockets of its skull. The light was so faint it barely illuminated its own nasal cavity.

Its jaw hung slightly askew, giving it a perpetual look of mild confusion.

Billy, somehow, managed to look even weaker and more pathetic than his Level 1 Necromancer master.

Luke stared at the shivering pile of calcium and feeble fire.

His shoulders slumped.

"Yep."

The Weaver of Death's Threads felt a profound sense of kinship with the worn-out broom leaning in the corner. At least the broom had a purpose.

"I give up."

He exhaled a long, defeated breath.

"I should just kill myself right now."

Billy's jaw clattered softly.

It might have been agreement. It might have been a plea for calcium supplements. Probably both. The skeleton tilted its skull, those dim green flames flickering with what Luke could only interpret as shared existential dread.

Luke sighed again, deeper this time.

It was the sound of a man who had just realized his second life was merely the extended tutorial level for an even bigger, more elaborate disappointment.