I Acquire Overpowered Traits Just By Taking Damage

The sun rose softly above the water. I had never seen it shine with such a sad light before—like a sunrise carrying the spirit of a sunset. The light was pale, weak, and it cast long shadows over the deck, making the air itself feel heavy.

Under that dim glow, hundreds of figures stirred. Most stood solemn, not a word spoken, letting the waves play their rhythmic tune and enduring the raw cries of the grieving daughter. The ship itself seemed quieter than usual—no chatter, no footsteps rushing about, just the groaning of the timbers and the creak of the sails.

It was the first time I had seen Elena in days. Her cheery self, once so bright, now felt like some distant, forgotten past. She collapsed on the floor between Sir Lawrence and Edmund as her father's body was lifted from the hatch. The same blanket that once covered the baron in his chair now draped over his corpse, the outline of his frame stiff beneath it.

We stood not too far behind her, close enough to hear her lament. Most of it was wordless—just guttural sounds of sorrow and agony—but sometimes, between the noise, we caught a phrase. "It's all my fault."

And maybe, in a way, it was. I was certain she thought that if only she had listened and stayed behind, her father wouldn't have panicked in the chaos, wouldn't have burned through his mana pool until nothing remained.

But if the gods had been more merciful, then surely they wouldn't punish the mischief of a child so harshly.

I was tempted to compare her plight to mine. We were both just kids, both robbed of the innocence of youth, both forced to face grim truths of life far too early. But the comparison didn't feel fair.

I had been loved little, and so I lost little when I was thrown down that bridge to die. She, on the other hand, had been dearly cherished, and by losing her father, had lost much.

The port Edmund had mentioned turned out to be nothing more than a backwater settlement with a shallow harbor meant only for fishing boats and small merchant vessels. The larger ship could not enter. The passengers and the body had to leave offshore, crowded into smaller rowboats that rocked unsteadily with the tide before reaching land.

We were still in South Minotia, at the kingdom's westernmost edge. Even if the baron had lived long enough to touch soil, there would have been no bishop here, no healer skilled enough, no real alchemist's shop to buy the needed potions.

The roads were dirt instead of cobblestone, the merchants were few, the fishermen many. The town was nothing more than a clump of huts and cottages huddled together, protected by palisades of rough wood instead of walls of stone. Chickens scurried between the huts, and smoke from cookfires hung low in the air.

The burial was held in a small parish outside town, perched on a lonely hill where the wind howled through the silence. Nobles and gentry from the ship attended, led by Sir Lawrence, their boots caked in dust from the climb.

Somehow, Elena ended up beside me as the body was lowered into the ground.

She tugged weakly at my clothes, tears streaking her face as she leaned against my arm. This time, there was no smile on her lips, nor a waving, relieved father on the other bank.

"It's all my fault," she whispered again, as we both watched the baron disappear beneath the dirt.

---

The parish itself had little to see.

As expected, the altar held statues of the seven foremost gods, though the woodwork was so plain and splintered an overzealous inquisitor might have branded it blasphemy. The smell of candle wax lingered faintly in the air, though only a few were lit.

Two rows of simple wooden pews filled the rest of the chapel, enough for maybe fifty at most. Dust clung to the corners, and the wind pushed through the cracks in the walls.

I turned back to the window. Outside, the afternoon sun had sunk low, shadows of gravestones stretching long across the grass.

Elena still knelt beside the fresh mound of earth, motionless, hugging her legs against the cold.

She had been there since midday.

Edmund, who had stubbornly tried to stay with her the whole time, finally came inside, his cloak flapping in the wind. His steps were brisk, his voice slightly out of breath.

"She's not moving. The ship leaves tonight," he said. "I'm thinking of just carrying her back by force. Can you help?"

"You really are a brute, Master Edmund," Clifford muttered. "Would you drag away a grieving girl like that?"

"Well, what do you suggest we do then, Master Clifford? Leave her here, in the boonies of South Minotia?"

"I'll try convincing her," I said, before their argument could grow teeth. I wasn't exactly persuasive, but I would probably do better than tactless Edmund. And besides, Elena and I were the same age.

With a sigh, I left my comfortable post by the window and stepped into the biting wind. Without the cold-tolerance trait, I might have shivered instantly.

The air was sharp, cutting through my clothes, and the hillside itself looked bare and lonesome—perfect for the dead, but too empty for the living.

I followed the dirt path through the grass until I reached her.

"It's getting late, Lady Elena," I said quietly as I approached.

She didn't stir. She sat frozen, as unmoving as the gravestones. Her eyes were vacant, staring through the grave as though she could see the man below.

I sighed again and lowered myself into the grass beside her. Everything around us was green, except for that patch of brown earth in front of us. Surreal, that someone so alive only days ago was now reduced to this.

I thought of things to say—comfort, cheer, anything. But I had no words. I hadn't lived long enough, hadn't known enough life, to speak like some old man with his long moustache and wisdom.

"Do you want me to carry you again? Through the water?" I asked at last, impulsive and clumsy. Foolish, maybe, but it was all I had to offer.

She shook her head. At least it was something—finally a reaction.

"Do you want me to tell them you'd rather return to Castor?" I asked.

Honestly, I didn't see much reason for her to continue this voyage. She had suffered enough. She deserved to go home.

Her lips moved, silent at first. Then finally her frail voice broke through the wind.

"I don't… want to go anywhere."

"Why?" I asked.

She turned her face up to me, and the tears fell again.

"Because… then he'll be all alone here. I'm all… all he has."

Her lips trembled. With every word, she seemed closer to breaking into sobs.

"You mean you want to stay here? In the middle of nowhere?" I raised a brow.

"I don't care," she whispered.

"But then… we'll have to leave you behind. We have to go back to the ship."

She pressed closer, leaning harder against my arm.

"Can… we just stay here?"

I opened my mouth, but the words failed me.

How about the ship?

Did I really want to go back?