Lucien did not choose immediately.
The blue window remained in front of him as Vela carried him down the southern road, her hooves striking the packed earth in a steady rhythm that matched neither his heartbeat nor his thoughts. Behind him, House Valehart slowly vanished beneath the slope of green hills and late afternoon light. The estate's silver stag banners were no longer visible from here, but Lucien could still feel them at his back, proud and doomed, fluttering above a house that did not yet know how close it stood to ruin.
Ahead lay Prav.
A city of coin, knives, debts, and convenient sins.
The window followed him as if nailed to the air.
[Deck of the Dead King.]
[Part 1/40.]
[The Fool has been obtained.]
[Choose One.]
[Knight.]
[Band of Swords.]
Lucien held the reins in one hand and stared at the two options.
In another life, he would have chosen Knight without hesitation. The memory of the hollow armor standing on that bridge still lived in him with irritating clarity. It had appeared when he was bleeding, exhausted, and too terrified to be ashamed of running. Smoke wolves had poured between the trees, their bodies half-formed, their mouths glowing with embers, and the Knight had stepped between Lucien and death with a silence that felt almost noble.
A guardian was never a bad thing.
Especially for a man who had no right calling himself strong.
But Lucien had learned something bitter in his first life. Shields saved you when danger reached your throat. Blades changed whether danger dared approach in the first place.
Knight meant survival.
Band of Swords meant possibility.
And Lucien was no longer interested in only surviving.
He lifted his finger and touched the second option.
[Band of Swords has been selected.]
The other name faded.
The window collapsed into a thin line of blue light, then unfolded again with new text.
[To obtain Band of Swords, fulfill the following condition.]
[Be in a situation where more than five blades are pointed at you.]
Lucien stared.
Then he laughed.
It was not loud. There was no one close enough to hear it, but the horse Vela did not seem impressed by human amusement. Still, the sound escaped him, low and genuine, carrying more relief than it had any right to.
"Perfect," he murmured. "For what I'm doing, that's practically generous."
The condition would have terrified him once. More than five blades pointed at him meant danger, threat, betrayal, or an execution circle. It meant being surrounded by men who had already decided violence was an acceptable answer. It meant one mistake could turn him into meat on the road.
Now, it was almost convenient.
Prav would provide blades easily.
The city had never lacked for men willing to point steel at someone.
The blue light dimmed, but did not vanish completely. Another pane appeared beside it, smaller and colder.
[Class: Death Dealer.]
[Rank: S.]
Lucien's amusement faded.
He had not grown used to seeing that yet.
Death Dealer.
Not Tarot Draw. Not Fortune's Beggar. Not charlatan. Not a noble stain with pretty cards.
Death Dealer.
An S-rank class, hidden behind an F-rank awakening so thoroughly that not even the altar crystal had understood what stood before it. Or perhaps it had understood and simply lacked the courage to say so. Lucien did not know. The system, or whatever had been born from his final draw, had not explained everything. It offered scraps of clarity wrapped around larger mysteries.
He had the Black Arcana. He had the Deck of the Dead King mission. He had Carrion Before the Snare, Inspector, and Death Jester: The Last Laugh. He had one card draw per day.
That last part still annoyed him enough to sour the victory.
"One card," he muttered, guiding Vela around a bend in the road. "I die, return from the gallows, awaken an S-rank class, and you still give me one card a day."
The window did not answer.
Of course it did not.
The cards had never been kind. Even when they saved him, they did so with the attitude of a creditor throwing scraps at a debtor so he would live long enough to pay interest. In his first life, the one-draw limit had been the greatest weakness of Tarot Draw. A single warning could save him from an ambush in the morning, only for him to walk blind into a monster den by night. A single manifestation could help him escape a duel, only for him to spend the rest of the day powerless against the consequences. He had learned to stretch one card until it screamed. He had learned patience, cowardice, improvisation, and the sacred art of running before the odds finished introducing themselves.
But now the cards had three options.
Omen. Manifestation. Vestment.
Upside Draw. Downside Draw.
The shape of the power had changed, but the limit remained.
One draw per day meant he could not rely on the deck as a sword always at his hip. He needed strength that stayed after the card faded. He needed a body that could endure. He needed technique that did not vanish at midnight. He needed a foundation not dependent on whether fate felt generous before breakfast.
That was why Prav mattered.
Not because of the gambling dens, though his first life had wasted enough coin in them to purchase a small village's loyalty. Not because of the redlight districts, though half the noble sons in the province spoke of Prav with the reverence priests reserved for saints. Not because of mercenaries, smugglers, fake prophets, or the old black-market auction beneath the tanners' quarter, though all of those had their uses.
No.
Lucien was going to Prav because of a dungeon that did not yet exist.