Lucky God System

Chapter 20: The Light Novelists are all Liars!

Sable exited the meeting, his brows furrowed in irritation. The halls were black and white, their obsidian-polished floors gleaming like oil beneath the overhead lights. Each step echoed like a metronome— sharp, deliberate, and cold. The chill of the air-conditioning bit faintly at the back of his neck. He ran a hand through his brown hair, jaw tight, as he made his way toward his office. The meeting had been the same as always—a circle of vultures and hyenas waiting for him to slip. Keeping the power-hungry in line had become routine.

"Sable," came a low, melodic voice.

He turned his head. A roguish man with a black mullet and tattoos leaned against the wall, a lopsided grin on his face. His shirt hung loosely from one shoulder, only half-buttoned—more suggestion than coverage. The faint scent of musky cologne, nicotine, and leather clung to him and lingered in the air.

"Well, this is new. You usually breeze through those monkey suits without breaking a sweat. So what's going on? Playing weak to bait someone? Or…" The grin sharpened, sharklike. "Could this time actually be real?"

Sable adjusted his tie clip without looking at him. The metal was cool beneath his fingers. "Trying to pick a fight because I took away one of your favorite toys?" His gaze finally met Boar's—cold and unflinching.

Boar's smile vanished. "Yeah, you're right. And I don't remember you asking for my permission."

His voice dipped into a low growl, each word coated in venom. "So what do you need Datura for? What's so damn important about this mission you're keeping under wraps? I'd love to know. After all, I can't let my lovely Datura find opportunities to slip away while he's not under my watch."

The possessive edge in his voice was venomous. His pupils dilated, jaw tight—like a predator denied its meal.

Sable smiled faintly, slipping a hand into his pocket. His tone remained even. "Relax. You'll get him back when it's all finished. His talents are uniquely suited to this task."

Boar stepped closer. The pressure shifted. His iron-tier power rolled off him in heavy, suffocating waves. The air thickened—electric, like static clinging to the skin before a lightning strike. It pressed against Sable's chest like invisible hands, but he didn't flinch. He met the force with his own aura—calm, controlled, and immovable. Despite being a similar tier, his presence gradually overwhelmed Boar's, forcing the other man to take a reluctant step back.

"Fine," Boar muttered. "But if I don't get Datura back, I'll come for you myself." His eyes turned murderous, and a phantom scent of blood coiled into the air—metallic and faint, like rusted knives in a locked drawer. "And I'll uncover that little secret you've been hiding."

After a long beat, Boar pulled back his presence. He leaned against the wall, pulled out a cigarette, and flicked open a silver lighter. The flame caught with a soft flick and a trail of bitter smoke slithered through the corridor. He took a drag, exhaled, and disappeared around the corner. The oppressive silence rushed back in like a tide.

---

Sable exhaled slowly and resumed walking. Before he realized it, he was standing not outside his office, but in the lower-ranked dorms—at the door to the room that had once belonged to Jackal.

'No… Theodore.'

Since his son's death, he hadn't been able to bring himself to visit. But now, something had pulled him here. He didn't know what—grief, guilt, or something deeper. More than anything, he longed for another piece of his son—something more than just the locket.

He glanced around. The corridor was empty. The buzz of a flickering light fixture hummed faintly in the distance. He pulled out a master key and quietly unlocked the door.

A wave of stale humidity struck him the moment it cracked open. The air inside was thick and musty, steeped in the lingering stench of old whiskey, sweat, and smoke. It clung to the back of his throat. The floor creaked beneath his shoes—sticky in places, like spilled beer left to rot. A single fly buzzed lazily near the grimy windowsill. Dust motes hung in the stale light like floating ghosts. The silence was oppressive.

"I should've helped him find a better place," Sable murmured. "Should've assigned cleaning staff…"

The room was sparse. A few expensive watches. A closet of designer clothes and shoes. All of it untouched. All of it soulless. Too little for someone who should have had so much more.

He stepped into the bedroom—and froze.

A pinboard dominated the far wall. Dozens of photos were pinned to it—some of Sable, some of a woman he could never forget, no matter how plain her features. Red string stretched between them, tangled like veins—some pulled tight, others frayed and sagging. Wild, jagged handwriting filled the spaces in between.

Near his own photo, a word had been scrawled in bold, childlike writing and uneven ink—"Daddy"—carved so deep it had nearly torn through the paper.

Sable's breath caught.

He knew.

Theodore knew.

There was a crumpled paper note beside the crowded board. The page was old, the writing faded. It must have been from several years ago. The words were fragmented—each line more desperate, more unstable than the last, like a child searching for security:

"Why won't he acknowledge me?"

"Why?"

"Is he ashamed of me?"

"Why did you leave me here in this place? Aren't you my father?"

"This place is scary. Mommy lied. He didn't save me."

"I hate him. I hate him. I hate him!"

"Is it because I'm a failure?"

"How dare he look down on me. Coward!"

"I'm sorry, Daddy. Don't leave me like Mommy."

Each line hit like a hammer to the chest, the ache in his heart heavy as cement.

Failure. He was a failure as a father.

He reached out and brushed his fingers over one of the notes. The paper was soft at the edges—creased and worn, folded and unfolded too many times. His son had read these over and over. Obsessively. Alone.

Theodore knew.

And he had died with that knowledge. Still unacknowledged.

Sable's shoulders shook.

His knuckles trembled—not from pain, but from rage.

His fingers curled into fists. His nails bit into his palms until blood bloomed and trailed down his hand like red ink. But he didn't notice.

He just stood there, breathing shallowly, trembling in silence. 

"I'm sorry, Theodore. You're right. Your father is a coward."

He rubbed the scratchy pinboard with his calloused fingers. The rough texture scraped at his skin, grounding him in the moment.

His eyes narrowed.

"I'll do everything I can to make it up to you... in death."

He let his hand fall heavily from the board. 

—-

In contrast to the mood at the Assassin's Guild, the atmosphere at the Graves family house was rather cheery. Elias could finally put the obstacle course he'd built to use. His injuries were fully healed, and his sister was out of the house for a school competition. He could practice to his heart's content without having to worry about Eve spying on the secrets he was hiding.

He approached his creation with beaming excitement. While it was a little chilly, he didn't feel it too much thanks to his long-sleeved tracksuit.

First, he decided to test his normal speed outside the obstacle course by doing a few laps around the large backyard. After all, his agility had increased since the day he was running for his life. He wanted to see how fast he could go now.

As he ran, the cool wind danced through his hair, and the red, yellow, and orange colors of autumn blurred past him in a swirl of color. He'd never liked running before—maybe he'd just never been fast enough to enjoy it. Right now, he felt like he was on top of the world.

That illusion shattered about three minutes in.

"Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha!" Elias rasped for air.

Why the hell was he so tired?

His lungs burned with each breath, and his limbs began to ache and grow heavy. Despite the cool weather, he could feel streams of sweat rolling down his body under the suit. Eventually, he staggered to a stop and collapsed onto the grass, flat on his back. He sucked in oxygen greedily, his chest heaving up and down like waves.

When he finally caught his breath, he didn't immediately get up. His mind raced as he tried to figure out why he'd gotten tired so quickly compared to when he used the skill while running from Jackal.

"Could it be because it was a skill?" he muttered. But he shook his head. While he didn't completely rule it out, it felt unlikely.

His system panel popped up above him. He turned his eyes to his END stat.

[END: 8]

"Could it be because my endurance is too low?" he wondered, crossing his arms and furrowing his brows in deep thought. It made sense—the faster he moved, the more stamina he'd burn. Back when he was running for his life, adrenaline had probably made up for his lack of endurance.

He ran his fingers through his messy, sweat-soaked hair in frustration.

"Do I have to raise my endurance stat too now?" he groaned. He wanted to complain to every light novel that made leveling up through a system look easy and effortless. Why did he have to keep track of so many damn factors?

He sighed and slowly pushed himself to his feet. Complaining wasn't going to solve anything. Compared to a regular person, he still had it easier. If it required effort, then he'd just have to give it his all.

Since running would eat up too much stamina, he decided to save the obstacle course for later. He wanted to conserve his energy for another skill he hadn't had the chance to try yet: Mixed Martial Arts.

His eyes locked onto the fighting dummy he'd stolen from his brother's room. His gaze was so intense, it might've been mistaken for a love-struck stare. But in Elias's mind, martial arts was the true romance of men.

He stood in front of the dummy and closed his eyes. Different MMA moves flipped through his head like PowerPoint slides as he tried to decide which one to try first. Of course, he wanted something flashy—something cool. His mind finally paused on the spinning roundhouse kick. His lips trembled with excitement. He could feel it—his body knew how to do it.

He shifted into the starting stance, moving as if his body had done this a hundred times before. His excitement only grew. With great speed and uncanny familiarity, his body began following the images in his head. But just before his foot made contact with the dummy's head, something happened.

It wasn't the rush of adrenaline or the thrill of impact. It was pain. Sharp, blinding pain.

His kick landed weakly, the momentum lost as he dropped to the ground in a graceless heap.

Agony shot through his leg, hips—and worse, his groin. He rolled in the grass, groaning loudly, tears streaming down his cheeks as he clutched his family jewels. Even with his Minor Pain Resistance trait, the groin was a sensitive area.

A memory flashed through his mind.

When he was eleven, his brother used to drag him into morning stretches and exercise routines. At first, they were manageable. But Nolan gradually ramped up the intensity. Then he graduated, deployed, and Elias—left to his own devices—dropped the workouts completely. When Nolan returned and found him slacking, the scolding resumed. But by then, thirteen-year-old Elias had hit his rebellious phase and refused to follow orders.

Still, watching Nolan practice martial arts left him fascinated and jealous. Elias begged to be taught—but Nolan had flatly refused.

"You're out of your damn mind," his brother had said. "You don't want to put in the work, but you want the fancy moves? You've lost your muscles and flexibility. I'm not teaching you anything you're just going to hurt yourself with. Not unless you do some serious exercise and start stretching again."

"Then I'll just never exercise again!" Elias had declared, full of righteous teenage defiance. "You've just been forcing me this whole time, you damn meathead!"

That had earned him a hard knuckle to the forehead.

The present agony snapped him out of the memory.

"Damn it," he groaned. He wanted to go back in time and slap his younger self, but right now, he wanted to punch his current self more. His brother had been right. What the hell was he thinking, trying to pull off a move like that without the muscles or flexibility to back it up?

More tears streamed down his face.

"Seriously, all those damn light novelists really are liars!"