Prime System Champion [A Multi-System Apocalypse LitRPG]

The weight of Elder Valerius' story — Aethelgard's tragic, eighty-year dance with the Kyorian Empire — settled heavily on me, a cold stone in my gut. It was a grim, undeniable mirror. It showed a potential future for other worlds, Earth very much included, if this cycle of fake kindness followed by ruthless domination was their standard way of doing things. The ten-year grace period, the initial act of helpful integration, then the swift, brutal shift to exploitation and culling… I suspected it was a playbook written in the tears and blood of countless species. My own weird awakening, skipping their "tutorial" entirely, felt less like a fluke and more like I was unknowingly walking a razor's edge. The Prime System's interest in me, my S+ Soul, my growing Sanctum — it all felt tangled up in this huge, terrible galactic drama.

For the rest of that first, sobering conversation in the sun-dappled pavilion, I listened way more than I spoke. I soaked up Elder Valerius' quiet wisdom, his sad memories that painted vivid, painful pictures of loss and survival, and his deep, weary love for his isolated people and the Verdant Mother they worshipped. He spoke of the subtle sadness that now seemed to fill Aethelgard's own ambient Essence — a lingering psychic wound from the Imperial occupation and Reyna's tragic end, a sadness that even their vibrant forest struggled to fully erase.

To his huge credit, Elder Valerius didn't press me for every last detail of my own story beyond what I'd carefully shared: that I was a human, a traveler from a world new to the Confluence, recently arrived through an unexpected Rift, figuring out this vast, new, and often terrifying reality mostly on my own.

The gems and glowing fruits Jeeves had offered, it turned out, were considered incredibly rare and potent by the elves. Their Loremasters, their Essence-sensitives, marveled at the purity of their energies. They said it was untainted by the subtle griefs and lingering shadows that seemed to soak into Aethelgard's own ambient Essence since the Imperial wars. They talked about how the crimson shard resonated with a primal fire long dormant in their deepest earth, how the sapphire pulsed with the clarity of untroubled starlight, and how the glowing fruits tasted like undiluted life-force — something their own delicately cultivated produce, while beautiful, now struggled to achieve. The Elder, and later other senior members of the Sylvandell enclave — a stern-faced but ultimately kind Loremaster named Lyraelle and a wizened old Seed-Singer called Faelan — felt we had "more than overpaid" for the historical information they'd shared. To them, it was just common, if sad, societal knowledge.

This perceived generosity on our part, coming from such a mysterious trio, along with the genuine curiosity my unusual arrival and unique companions had sparked, seemed to open doors within their guarded, insular community. We were offered guest quarters — not just a place to rest, but a gesture of tentative trust. They were elegant, airy rooms woven seamlessly into the living boughs of a giant silver-barked tree, whose leaves shimmered with an almost metallic sheen. The walls were living wood, guided into graceful curves, with wide, unglazed windows covered by intricately woven screens of translucent fibers that let the breeze and the dappled sunlight filter through. Furniture was simple but exquisitely crafted from polished pale woods, smoothed by generations of use. The beds were piled high with cushions of soft, springy moss-like material that smelled faintly of pine and wildflowers. It was a far cry from the stark, utilitarian setup of my Sanctum, [The Veiled Path] — a place designed for efficiency and defense, not comfort and beauty. Here, peace was an active ingredient in the air.

The next few days unfolded with a gentle, almost dreamlike rhythm that I hadn't realized I'd so desperately missed. The constant vigilance, the gnawing uncertainty, the pressing need to get stronger right now — all of that eased, just a little, in the tranquil embrace of Sylvandell.

Jeeves, with his impeccable manners and an almost supernatural ability to know what someone needed before they even voiced it, fit into the serene elven society with an ease that was both baffling and utterly delightful to watch. He had long, philosophical discussions with elven scholars, including that Loremaster Lyraelle, beneath the dappled sunlight in quiet groves. His silver eyes, usually reserved or glinting with dry humor when dealing with me, would light up with genuine intellectual curiosity as they debated ancient cosmological theories from before the Confluence, the subtle differences in Essence weaving within Aethelgard's unique biome versus other theoretical models, or even the linguistic evolution of pre-Imperial galactic trade languages. I once overheard him and Lyraelle in a spirited but respectful debate about the Prime System's non-interventionist policies. Jeeves argued from a standpoint of complex adaptive systems; Lyraelle from a perspective of moral duty and compassionate intervention.

He also, somehow — in a display of quiet diplomacy I still couldn't quite figure out — managed to charm the enclave's master weaver. She was a stern, elderly elf named Reyna (a common name, I learned, in honor of their lost champion). He convinced her to let him "observe and potentially offer minor assistive streamlining" to her ancient, hand-powered loom operations. This didn't mean he took over. Instead, he made a series of quiet suggestions about tension adjustments and shuttle trajectories that, to Reyna's initial skepticism and eventual astonished approval, increased her output of their shimmering leaf-silk fabric by a noticeable amount without messing with its quality. As a 'thank you' for his insights, or maybe just because his quiet competence was infectious, he was allowed to use some of the finer threads. Within a day, he'd produced a set of exquisitely embroidered guest linens for our rooms that looked fit for elven royalty, patterned with subtle pictures of Kaelen chasing starlight motes.

His cooking interventions were even more celebrated, though they were met with polite suspicion at first. He'd taken to subtly "enhancing" the communal meal preparations, adding tiny, almost invisible pinches of the strange, foraged spices and dried herbs he carried in countless pouches within his uniform. He'd explain, if asked, that these were merely 'trace elemental harmonizers' or 'digestive aids from a distant shard,' but the effect was undeniable. The already delicious elven food — roasted forest tubers that tasted faintly of sweet chestnuts, savory wild mushroom stews simmered with aromatic herbs, and sweet, lumina-berry tarts with flaky, nut-flour crusts — were elevated into something truly sublime. Each flavor was more distinct, more vibrant. The elven cooks, initially wary of this strangely formal human attendant offering unsolicited advice, were soon eagerly seeking his quiet, deferential suggestions on spice pairings and cooking temperatures.

Kaelen, however, was the true ambassador. He melted hearts with an ease that Jeeves' sophisticated charm couldn't quite match. After his initial, understandable caution around so many new, tall figures, his natural Glimmerfox curiosity and, frankly, his sheer, untamed cuteness, won over the younger elves, and eventually, many of the adults. They would watch, wide-eyed and giggling with delight, as he chased shimmering, butterfly-like motes of light that drifted on the sun-dappled air through the clearings. His obsidian fur, a stark, beautiful contrast to his star-like markings that seemed to pulse with their own faint light, flowed like liquid shadow as he moved. His plumed tail, tipped with white like a splash of moonlight, waved like a proud banner. His unique ability to teleport short distances with a soft pop and a shimmer of displaced shadow, appearing and disappearing in playful pursuit of imaginary prey or a tossed acorn, was a source of endless delight and wonder for the elven children, who had never seen such magic.

One sun-drenched afternoon, a small group of elven children, braver and more curious than their often-sad elders, shyly approached Kaelen as he was basking in a patch of warm sunlight near the roots of a great oak. One little elfling, a girl with hair the color of spun moonlight and wide, inquisitive eyes like fresh spring leaves — her name I later learned was Elina — hesitantly offered him a perfectly ripe, iridescent forest berry, held out on a trembling palm. Kaelen, after a moment of dignified sniffing, his feathery antennae twitching as he sized up the offering, accepted it with a delicate flick of his long, dark tongue. He then surprised them all by performing a surprisingly graceful, playful bow, dipping his head low, before teleporting a few feet away with a soft thump and looking back expectantly. His intelligent amber eyes were alight with pure, unadulterated mischief. Soon, a joyous game of chase and offering started up. Kaelen's happy, rumbling chuffs and the children's melodic laughter echoed through the glade, a sound of pure, untainted innocence. It was a scene of such simple, unrestrained joy that it brought an unbidden ache to my chest, a sharp, poignant reminder of simpler times on old Earth, of Anna's own childhood laughter — a sound I hadn't realized how desperately I missed until that moment.

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Even the older elves, initially reserved and keeping a polite, observant distance, began to thaw under the combined assault of Jeeves' quiet competence and Kaelen's disarming charm. They were a proud people, their history ancient, deeply connected to the Verdant Mother — their name for the sentient life-force they believed resided within Aethelgard's primordial forests — and understandably wary of outsiders after Reyna's fall and the subsequent, painful fracturing of their world. But beneath the layers of caution and sorrow, they were also profoundly kind. Their society was built on deeply ingrained principles of harmony, mutual respect, reverence for nature, and a deep, abiding appreciation for beauty and artistry in all its forms. They would, occasionally, share stories of their ancient traditions, of the songs the wind whispered through the great trees that only their oldest Seed-Singers could fully interpret, of the subtle ways the Verdant Mother communicated her will through the blooming of certain flowers or the flight patterns of sacred birds.

They admired Jeeves' quiet competence and the unexpected, almost encyclopedic depths of his knowledge on diverse, often obscure, subjects. "A truly remarkable attendant you possess, human Eren," Loremaster Lyraelle had commented to me one evening, her usually stern features softened by a rare smile. "His understanding of pre-Confluence stellar cartography, particularly the migratory patterns of the K'tharr Nebula Swarms, is startlingly comprehensive for one of his apparent station and species. One might almost suspect he has studied at the Imperial Archives themselves, were that not an absurdity." I merely nodded, offering a noncommittal smile, knowing the truth of Jeeves' Soul imprint from a 'Versatile Custodian, Erudite Support, Shadow Guardian' archetype was far stranger than any fiction.

They were also, I sensed, profoundly intrigued by my own quiet strength, the way I moved with an efficiency that spoke of training they didn't recognize, and the undeniable, if subtly veiled, power Kaelen exuded — a power that felt both wild and strangely disciplined.

I, in turn, learned much from them. Not just of their history, which was a vital, sobering lesson in itself, but of their deep, instinctual connection to Essence — a connection vastly different from my own more structured, System-guided understanding. They didn't speak of Mana or Spirit attributes, of Tier thresholds or Skill slots. They wove Essence into their songs, melodies that could soothe troubled minds or encourage plant growth. They guided it into the very growth of their living homes, shaping wood and stone with time and gentle persuasion rather than force. They imbued it into the intricate enchantments that protected Sylvandell, wards that felt less like constructs and more like living extensions of the forest's will. It was a more organic, intuitive form of magic, less about the raw, explosive power I was used to, and more about harmony, resonance, and a deep, symbiotic relationship with the world around them. When I tried to analyze their enchantments with [True Sight], the energy signatures were diffuse, interwoven with the natural Essence of the plants, almost impossible to isolate into distinct spells or effects. It was like trying to dissect a cloud.

There were moments, of course, that gently highlighted our cultural differences, often to everyone's amusement. During one communal meal, a younger elf, his brow furrowed in concentration, was struggling to open a particularly tough type of forest nut, its shell as hard as ironwood. Jeeves, watching this from his discreet position slightly behind me, silently produced a delicate, silver-handled nutcracker — from where, I still had absolutely no idea; the man was a walking pocket dimension — and with a single, almost imperceptible flex of his wrist, cracked the stubborn nut open with surgical precision. He then, with a polite nod, offered the perfectly extracted kernel to the astonished elf on a small, polished leaf. The stunned silence that followed, then a ripple of amused, appreciative laughter that spread through the pavilion, was a memory I knew I would cherish, a small spark of light in the often-grim tapestry of my new life.

This break in Sylvandell was a breath of fresh, clean air, a much-needed rest from the constant, grinding pressure of survival, skill acquisition, and the ever-looming threats of the wider Confluence. It was a precious reminder that beauty, kindness, and genuine peace could still exist, could still be grown, in this chaotic new universe. But the knowledge of Aethelgard's looming deadline — the unstoppable countdown to the end of their hundred-year Veiling in less than two decades — cast a subtle, persistent shadow over even the brightest, most joyful moments. Their isolation, their meticulously maintained peace, was fragile, dependent on a Prime System rule that was rapidly running out.

One evening, as the two moons of Aethelgard — the large, scarred silver disc they called 'Selune's Tear and its smaller, milky lavender companion known as 'Lyra's Whisper' — cast their ethereal, enchanting glow over the sylvan city, transforming it into a realm of silver and shadow, Elder Valerius sought me out. We sat by a gently gurgling stream, its waters catching the dual moonlight like liquid silver flowing over obsidian pebbles. The air was cool, fragrant with night-blooming jasmine and the damp scent of moss.

"Human Eren," he said, his voice quiet, almost blending with the soft murmur of the water, "your presence, and that of your companions, has been an unexpected balm to this old heart, and to Sylvandell. Your generosity with those remarkable gemstones — the 'Heart-stones of the Inner World' as our Loremasters now call them — allowed us to re-energize some of our oldest protective wards, wards that had grown weak with time and the lack of potent catalysts. They sing with renewed vigor now." He smiled, a rare and gentle expression. "And young Kaelen… he has brought a laughter to Sylvandell, particularly amongst our younglings, that has been absent for far too long. He reminds us of the joy that still exists, even in a world shadowed by past sorrows and future uncertainties."

He looked at me then, his ancient amber eyes holding a deep, searching gaze, a gaze that seemed to pierce through my carefully constructed veils. "You are strong, Eren Kai. Stronger than you allow the world to see, I think. There is a depth to your spirit, a resilience forged in fires we can only guess at. And your companion, Jeeves… he is far more than he appears, a scholar and a warrior wrapped in the guise of a simple attendant. His soul resonates with a power that belies his chosen presentation." He paused, the silence stretching, filled only by the crickets and the stream. "Why are you here, truly? Not just in Sylvandell, but on this path you walk? Drifting through Rifts, exploring these dangerous, forgotten corners of the Great Confluence, armed with such unique capabilities and companions?"

The question was simple, direct, and had no pretense. It deserved an honest answer, or as honest as I dared to be.

My gaze drifted upwards, past the silver leaves of the canopy, to the stars scattered across the indigo sky — so much brighter, so much more numerous and vibrant here than they had ever been through the polluted skies of old Earth. The burning desire for my family's safety, for Anna's well-being in her own perilous Kyorian tutorial… the strange, often incomprehensible path the Prime System had set me upon… the crushing weight and boundless potential of my Soul… the chilling hints of a galactic Empire's pervasive tyranny… it was too much to explain fully. Too complex and unbelievable for a simple answer to this wise, weary elf.

But for the first time in a long, long while, sitting in the peaceful, moonlit heart of Sylvandell, I felt a flicker of something beyond just the relentless drive to survive and get stronger, beyond the fear and the anger. I felt a connection, a fragile but real sense of shared purpose with these proud, weary, but ultimately kind and loving people, who were facing their own quiet, desperate existential threat. The Confluence had brought chaos, destruction, and unimaginable danger, yes. It had shattered worlds and scattered peoples. But maybe, just maybe, in the middle of that cosmic upheaval, it had also brought the seeds of new alliances, new understandings, new hopes — if one was brave enough, or perhaps desperate enough, to look for them.