The Sol: I Ascend Using System In Game-Like Arenas

Raen sat beside the boy's corpse, his breath shallow. His fingers worked the edge of a dull blade against a fragment of jagged bone, scraping until sparks flickered in the gloom.

The metallic rasp echoed through the underground chamber. His hands trembled, but not from fear.

Hunger gnawed at him, exhaustion clawed at his mind, yet he forced himself to focus.

Tools meant survival.

The boy's face was eaten by parasites. Raen swallowed the knot in his throat.

No time for grief. Not now.

He sheathed the barely sharpened blade into the torn remnants of his belt and stood. Darkness pressed close, thick and heavy, but his eyes had adjusted.

The underground stretched into winding tunnels, some natural, others carved. The air smelled of dust and old stone. Holding the blade tight, Raen ventured forward.

His footsteps crunched over debris—bones, shattered ceramics, scraps of cloth long decayed.

His gaze flitted over the walls. Symbols etched deep into the stone seemed to shimmer when he passed, some twisting into shapes that hurt to look at for too long.

Veins of faint luminescence ran along the ceiling, casting everything in a sickly green hue.

He walked. And walked.

Time lost meaning. Hunger clawed again. His throat was dry, tongue like sandpaper.

He stumbled into a larger cavern, breathing ragged. His gaze caught something half-buried in rubble. Kneeling, he brushed away dirt and stones, revealing a leather-bound book.

The leather was cracked, pages yellowed and fragile. Flipping it open, he found spidery handwriting filling the pages.

If you're reading this, you've lasted longer than most. Gods help you.

Raen sat back. The writer's words pulled him in.

The Trials aren't tests. They're cruel amusements for beings beyond comprehension. The first truth? Sol is a double-edged blade. To wield it is to burn yourself.

His fingers tightened around the diary.

Sol.

The word flared in his mind, bright and dangerous.

I watched a man ignite himself trying to harness it without restraint. Conduit Ascension... seven steps to godhood, they say. Lies. Or half-truths. You climb those steps, you leave humanity behind. The first step? Survive yourself.

Raen read on, each entry a descent into madness and clarity alike. Notes on rituals, on sacrifice. On how Sol wasn't just energy—it was will, belief, cost.

Some could transmute it into fire, others into shadow, creatures, even concepts.

Shape your Sol. Shape your death, one note warned.

He closed the diary, pulse. Answers. Or at least, hints.

Stuffing it into his satchel, Raen pressed on. The tunnels narrowed, then opened into another chamber—this one filled with shelves.

A library. Books stacked haphazardly, scrolls crumbled with age.

He pulled one book free. The script inside spiraled and twisted, unreadable. Frustration grew.

Dozens of tomes, all unfamiliar to him. He searched shelf after shelf, hoping for something familiar, but found none.

A sound. Wet and skittering.

His head snapped toward the darkness beyond the shelves. Breath held, he stepped back, blade ready.

The noise grew louder, limbs scraping stone slowly and slowly. Then it emerged.

A monster.

Pale flesh stretched too thin, its elongated limbs ending in clawed fingers that clicked against the ground. Its face was worse—if it had a face. Hollow eyes, too many teeth in a twisted maw. It hissed, saliva dripping as it walks.

Raen's heartbeat surged. Run? No time.

The creature lunged. Raen dodged, his shoulder grazing a shelf. Books toppled.

He slashed with the blade, grazing its arm. It shrieked, claw swiping toward his head.

He ducked and rolled away. His body screamed in protest, but adrenaline pushed him.

Think, Raen!

Then it happened. Instinct, or desperation. Something inside him flared.

Heat in his chest, like a spark catching kindling. His hand burned—not with pain, but with something else.

Light, pale and flickering.

Sol.

He thrust his palm forward. The light shot out, wild and uncontrolled. It struck the monster, sending it reeling with a screech.

Raen staggered back. The light sputtered out. The creature shook itself, growled—but backed away. Eyes locked on him, it hissed one last time and fled into the dark.

Silence. Except for his panting.

He stared at his hand.

Sol.

Not just stories. Not anymore.

Pain bloomed in his head—a sudden, sharp pressure.

His vision blurred.

Symbols from the walls flashed before his eyes, swirling, converging into lines of text.

Then—words. Clear. Inescapable.

---

[Sol System Menu]

- Name: Raen Solmere

- Age: 14

- Gender: Male

- Sol Status: 60%

- Conduit Progression: Locked

- Transmutation Potential: Unstable

- Physical Integrity: Moderate (Injury detected)

- Mental Stability: Fluctuating

- Environmental Adaptation: Low

- Potential Abilities:

-Not Available

---

Raen blinked. His head throbbed. What... is this?

He rubbed his eyes, but the words hovered—burned into his vision, impossible to ignore.

Sol Status... sixty percent? Abilities?

His fingers curled into a fist. Is this what they meant by the Trials?

He didn't understand—but he didn't need to, not fully. Not yet.

Whatever this system was... it was real. And it was his.

Shaking off the dizziness, he dismissed the display—or tried to. His mind flicked toward the thought of it vanishing, and the words dissolved like mist.

Focus. Survive first, questions later.

He glanced back toward where the monster had fled. No sign of it returning. For now.

His body ached, fatigue settling deeper into his bones. Lingering in one place was a risk he couldn't afford.

Pushing himself to his feet, Raen pressed on

Alright...

The tunnels stretched endlessly. He wandered through twisting corridors, the walls adorned with more symbols—some familiar from the diary, others new and unsettling.

They seemed to shift when he looked away.

His fingers brushed over them. Some symbols radiated faint warmth; others sent cold shivers through his skin. He didn't linger on those.

Eventually, the narrow passage opened into a vast cavern. His breath caught. Before him stood a massive iron gate, its surface rusted but still imposing.

Intricate carvings of coiling shapes and faceless figures covered it, many worn beyond recognition.

Faded inscriptions lined the edges—letters twisting into the same alien language from the library. He placed a hand against the cold metal and pushed. It didn't budge.

Raen searched for a mechanism, a latch—anything—but found nothing.

The diary's words echoed in his mind:

"Some doors are meant to stay closed. If you open them, be ready to pay."

His gaze drifted to the carvings. One figure stood taller than the rest—arms outstretched, head crowned with spirals. Something about it unnerved him. He stepped back.

A row of statues flanked the gate—eight in total, weathered and crumbling. Despite the erosion, their forms were eerily human.

Cloaked, faces hidden beneath hoods, hands clasped over what might've been weapons or staffs. Their eyes—deep-set hollows—seemed to watch him. He shifted uncomfortably.

Statues shouldn't feel alive.

Then—a sound. Scraping. Wet clicks echoing in the dark.

His blood ran cold.

He turned. White eyes glimmered in the shadows. One pair. Two. Five. More. Mancrawlers. Dozens.

Emerging from the darkness, limbs skittering, claws scraping the stone floor. His pulse quickened. No time to think.

He ran.

His boots pounded against rock, heart hammering. The creatures shrieked, the sound slicing through the air.

He twisted through tunnels, barely avoiding jagged rocks and debris. Claws swiped at his back—too close.

Breath burning in his lungs, he spotted an ascending passage. Hope flared. He scrambled up the slope.

The passage narrowed into a staircase spiraling upward. He didn't hesitate.

Feet pounding against each step, he climbed.

Faster. Faster.

The creatures followed, their clawed limbs scraping against stone. His legs screamed for rest, but he pushed on.

A trapdoor appeared above. Adrenaline surged. He leapt, grabbed the iron handle, and yanked. It creaked open.

Light—pale and dusty—poured through. He hauled himself up. Fingers clawed at his boots—he kicked them off. A screech echoed below.

He slammed the trapdoor shut.

No lock.

Panic flared—then he remembered the femur from earlier. He wedged it through the latch. Just as a clawed hand struck from beneath, the door shuddered—but held.

Raen collapsed backward, chest heaving. His ears rang with the monsters' screeches, fists pounding against the trapdoor.

But it didn't give. Not yet.

He sat up, gaze adjusting to his new surroundings. His breath caught.

Books. Everywhere.

Shelves spiraled upward and downward beyond sight, twisting into the darkness above and below. The entire room—if it was a room—was a vertical maze of shelves, ladders, and dangling bridges.

Dust motes floated in the dim light from glowing stones embedded in the walls. Ancient tomes, scrolls, and artifacts lined the shelves, some covered in webs and dust. Others looked untouched, pristine.

The library stretched into infinity.

Raen's exhaustion momentarily faded, replaced by awe—and dread. Questions flooded his mind. Who built this place? Why?

His gaze drifted to a nearby book, its cover embossed with a symbol matching the diary's pages. He reached out—

A distant creak echoed through the spiral.

He froze.

He wasn't alone.