In A Fantasy World I Can Absorbs Abilities

The shadowy vines converged on a spot, where the frozen ground began to shift. Two corpses emerged from the snow, their lifeless forms animated by an unseen force.

Michael felt like he was dreaming. He remembered sitting with Henry, sipping the tea Clara had brought, but now he was somewhere unfamiliar.

The air around him was a swirling red mist. Dizzy and disoriented, he stumbled, eventually losing his footing and falling. In the haze before him, a massive face emerged.

The face tilted curiously, its features eerily beautiful yet disturbingly grotesque. The corners of its lips curled into a sly smile as soft, mocking laughter filled the air.

Then the mouth began to open—wider and wider until it encompassed the entire face. Sharp, jagged teeth glinted ominously in the crimson light, and a snake-like tongue darted out, slick with decay.

The laughter grew louder, almost taunting, as the tongue flicked pieces of rotting flesh onto the ground.

A rapid, jarring voice suddenly filled Michael's ears:

"Look at me. Look now. Can you see me? Isn't this what you wanted? I've come just as you wished. Isn't it good? Don't you like it? Answer me. Speak. Speak now. Why aren't you answering? Why won't you speak? Why won't you—"

The words poured forth in a torrent, overwhelming him. Yet the voice was familiar—dry and emotionless, like the one he'd heard before.

As Michael staggered back, his vision expanded. A towering, pale figure stood before him, her body unnaturally tall. Even standing, Michael barely reached her ankles. In her hand, she clutched a colossal, severed head—the same one that had first appeared to him.

Why hadn't he recognized it sooner? The woman held her own decapitated head, and Michael felt his breath hitch. His lips quivered as he realized the truth: he was nothing more than a plaything, and she could destroy him with the flick of a finger.

Michael's scream tore through the silence as he jolted awake.

Clara and Henry were at his side, their faces etched with concern.

"Are you alright?" Clara asked, brushing a hand across his forehead. "You're drenched in sweat. Did you have a bad dream? You should rest."

"I'm fine," Michael said, forcing a smile. "I just nodded off."

"You probably had a nightmare," Henry teased, though his eyes held a hint of worry.

Michael chuckled nervously. Was it truly just a dream? Deep down, he knew it wasn't. The eerie encounter felt linked to the voice he'd heard earlier that day.

Pushed by his relatives to rest, Michael returned to his room, locking the door behind him. Sliding down against the wall, he clutched his chest, feeling the frantic pounding of his heart. No matter how much he tried to calm himself, the terror lingered.

After a long while, he finally stood. But as he did, the voice returned, resonating in his mind.

[The function creation is complete. Settings can now be adjusted. Please assign a name.]

No matter how tightly Michael covered his ears, the voice continued to echo.

[The function creation is complete. Settings can now be adjusted. Please assign a name.]

The demand grew sharper and more insistent.

[Assign a name.]

[Name.]

[NAME!]

Fear gripped Michael. It felt as though the towering woman from his dream might appear if he didn't comply. Panicked, he shouted the first name that came to mind.

"Penelope! Your name is Penelope!"

A satisfied sigh followed, and the voice finally subsided. Michael's hands were clammy with sweat. What on earth was that?

As the fear ebbed, he began to think more clearly. Whatever Penelope was, her abilities were undeniably useful. Despite her terrifying appearance, she hadn't harmed him—if anything, she seemed oddly pleased with him.

Driven by a strange compulsion, Michael closed his eyes and whispered, "Penelope."

[Yes, state the desired setting,] the voice replied.

"Show me how much mana is left for revivals or ability extractions."

[Setting applied as requested.]

A graph appeared before Michael, showing his current mana level at half capacity. The clear visualization calmed him slightly, the tension in his body dissipating. Exhaustion overwhelmed him, and he fell asleep where he sat.

The next afternoon brought shocking news.

Lincoln, Michael's older brother and heir to the Crassus barony, was dead.

When the news of Lincoln's death arrived, Michael was tending to the injured daughter of the village blacksmith. The wound—a deep gash on her shin—was serious but not life-threatening. It would have healed quickly with healing magic, but such luxuries were beyond the reach of commoners.

In this land, only the wealthy or noble had access to healing magic. Most villagers sought aid from the executioner's family for injuries or ailments that couldn't be managed at home. For those even poorer, the only option was the unlicensed barbers who performed crude surgeries for as little as nine coppers, with a survival rate of barely 20%. And yet, even those services were out of reach for many serfs, who could only pray not to succumb to infections or sickness.

Michael carefully stitched the girl's exposed muscle, bandaged the wound, and advised her to keep it cool with cold compresses. The shy girl nodded repeatedly, thanking him profusely as she handed him three silvers before limping out of the treatment room.

Watching her leave, Michael sighed. The treatment fee was far too low, but he had no choice. Raising the price would drive away those in need.

The people of the barony lived on the edge of subsistence, praying for enough food to eat and for their families to stay healthy. Though two years had passed since the last territorial war, the village's condition had barely improved. Last summer's storm had destroyed many fields, and several workers were swept away while attempting to clear clogged riverbanks. The recent accident at the logging site only worsened the community's already dire situation.

By contrast, Michael's family lived comfortably enough to keep their fees low. The real problem was that Michael's personal finances were painfully light.

Back in the castle, Lincoln's death had caused an uproar. A courier reported that Lincoln had died during a beast subjugation mission. While camping with his unit, he was allegedly attacked and killed by a bear. Witnesses claimed to have seen a hungry-looking bear lingering near the campsite, even approaching a cooking pot before being chased away with firewood.