“I leveled up,” Vaan said quietly. “Got five free attribute points. Suggestions?”
Remy blinked, half exasperated, half amused. “Now? You want to talk stats now?”
But his expression shifted. Maybe it was the blood still wet on Vaan’s blade, the way he gripped the now-red tunic too tightly over the spot where Priscilla’s pin had punctured him, or just the dull flatness in his voice, like he needed a distraction more than real advice.
Remy snorted and shook his head. “Fine. I’m not going to tell you where to put them. That’s on you. But I’ll correct your thinking if it’s off.”
That was fair. Vaan hadn’t asked him to decide, just to help him think.
“Tell me your stats. Where yeh think you need ‘em points… before Lisa comes back.”
Remy had wanted them gone before Priscilla’s mercenary friends showed up. Lisa was off gathering whatever belongings and scrap she could carry, though with the fortune from Priscilla’s coin purse, she’d have no trouble starting fresh.
Vaan still didn’t understand why Remy kept the coin if it really had a tracking rune. It felt like walking around with a flare burning in his pocket.
Vaan just nodded and laid it out: what Garix had told him, what had worked so far. Finesse and Vigor. His class, his skills, how they’d played out in the last fight.
Remy listened, arms folded. “Your da wasn’t wrong. Melee folk don’t fall apart when their mana runs dry. Not like those drycast mages. You can still swing, block, bleed a little, stand and fight. But you see the trouble, don’t you?”
“I won’t be able to use skills,” Vaan said.
“No skills, no edge. Back to swinging steel like it’s year one again. And sure, melee types survive that fallback better than most. But you aren’t just a run-of-the-mill swordsman, are you? That ‘Orderly Judgment’ of yours, fancy flames and all, eats mana like a starving hound. One use and you were tapped. And that flame? It’s not coming from your biceps.”
“I still held my own with just sword and stats,” Vaan defensively.
“As you should. That’s your backbone. But spare mana gives you choices. Use it smart. That ‘Unwavering Blade’ may not drink deep like Judgment, but it isn’t free either. Pretty much turns you into a berserker, like those rage-drunk marauders from the north, minus the screaming and broken knuckles side effects. That’s rare, boy. You’ll want a bit in the mana reserve for that. Always.”
Vaan nodded. Unwavering Blade didn’t just make his strikes stronger and quicker; it also sharpened his precision, like his blade and body were in perfect sync. On top of that, it had a built-in neutralizer against mental debuffs. Garix had warned him that in big group fights, there were often hidden debuffers lurking in the crowd. The skill might be useful in those cases, but it could also drain more mana if it also had to counter mental attacks while boosting his physical stats.
Garix also didn’t straightaway rule out Flair and Muse, as the villagers did, but he didn’t hold them on a pedestal either.
“Garix used to call ‘em secondary attributes. Stuff that isn’t really tied to your class, but it can still make a difference if you used right.”
“Ah, that’s what he calls it, eh? Secondary attributes,” Remy muttered, scratching his chin. “Makes sense. They ain’t your focus, and your class won’t boost ‘em on its own. But now and then, you get a bonus point or two to toss their way. Most folks don’t bother. Why feed a well that doesn’t fill itself? Stick to your strengths, that’s the usual advice. Guild calls it min-maxing. But look, little missteps before your awakening milestone at twenty-five aren’t the end of the world. That’s how you live and learn a little.”
That felt like Remy’s happy-go-lucky take, not some universal truth. But… maybe it was enough to help him think straight.
He wasn’t thinking about Priscilla now. Not her gasp. Not the blood. Just numbers. Choices.
In the end, he put two points into Flair, bringing it to eight. Two more went into Vigor, rounding it out at thirty. The last one, he slid into Finesse. He couldn’t justify pouring everything into one flashy, charged-up attack. He’d get the chance again at Level 10 and he might reconsider dumping more then.
The cotton bandage Lisa had slapped over Priscilla's puncture wound itched beneath his tunic. Cheap battlefield dressing, already staining red at the center. "Guild healer'll fix that proper," Remy had grunted while she had done a quick job wrapping it. Vaan shifted in the saddle, feeling the fabric pull at the clotting blood. He’d do it after registration.
By the time they slipped out the back, Remy had already finished tying Tomas’s body securely behind the ringhorn. Lisa, mounted on Remy’s own mount, gave them a mournful nod but didn’t say a word. She rode off without looking back. Remy had told her to stay hidden and she hadn’t argued. Since it was Remy’s personal beast, there were no soul-ink sigils to track her—no records, no trail.
Remy watched her go, a touch of sadness in his eyes. Vaan couldn’t tell if it was the goodbye that got to him or the fact, he’d just given up his favorite mount. From what little he knew of Remy, probably both. Maybe more the ringhorn.
They rode steadily towards Darven’s Roost, but Vaan’s nerves remained taut. Every shifting shadow along the roadside felt like it hid steel and vengeance. He couldn’t shake the worry that Joy might be tracking them, lying in wait ahead. Erik Veldrane might have arranged for others to kill him, too.
Instead, the road opened calmly into the outskirts of Darven’s Roost, a strange contrast after the weight of what they’d just done riding on, after murdering a scion of the Veldrane house.
The magnificence of Darven’s Roost could be seen even before they neared the gates, the first rays of sunlight revealing it in full. What struck Vaan first wasn’t the towering gates in the distance, but the life in front of them. Stalls. Actual market stalls were set up even before the city walls. He’d never seen anything like it. Vendors hawked everything from cured meats and fried dough to animal feed and travel charms. Smoke curled up from roasting pits. A baker rang a bell to draw attention to warm loaves just pulled from the stone oven. All this, and they weren’t even inside the city yet.
“How is it this busy already?” Vaan muttered.
“Darven’s Roost’s got trade routes runnin’ through all the way from Falcázar to the southern coast,” Remy said with a yawn. “This ain’t even the busy hour.”
His words were cut off by the sharp snap of corn husk being peeled. He was already at a stall, paying for a steaming cob dripping with spiced butter.
Vaan blinked. “You’re stopping to eat now?”
Remy gave him a flat look. “We’ve been riding since before dawn. You got a better idea?”
Vaan opened his mouth to argue, but his stomach interrupted with a louder growl. He grumbled, fished out a few coppers, and joined Remy at the stand. The corn was hot, smoky, and laced with peppery salt. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the first bite nearly made him groan. He got two more.
By the time they finished eating, the sun had crested the horizon and the city’s northern gate loomed ahead. Flanking the entrance was a broad dual-wing stable, half set outside the walls, half running in under a vaulted archway. That made sense, Vaan realized; travelers could drop off their beasts without entering the city proper, but those staying longer could arrange for care inside the walls.
They handed over the reins to the outer stablehand. Quickstride passed the Level 9 Stablemaster’s Inspect quickly, earning back two silvers from the deposit. The man had barely looked up.
Then Remy brought forward his ringhorn - Sturdyhorns.
The moment the stablemaster saw her, his brow furrowed. “You’re not Priscilla. Uhm. are you? We would need to see identification if that is the case”
Remy didn’t flinch. “She’s dead.”
The man stiffened. “Wait here.”
Remy cracked his knuckles casually, then reached into his coat and produced a badge. It was not the standard adventure guild silver and blue insignia stitched on his breasts but a golden metal badge with a four-star. The stars formed a half circle on top of the blue compass, a silver axe, and a conch.
“Remiel Cortan. Provisional Rank Four.”
Remy's voice carried the weight of bored authority as if he'd recited this line a hundred times before. Vaan stiffened. He hadn't seen that title during his earlier [Inspect], nor the man's full name. Had Remy been hiding it? Or was this something the system concealed unless the target permitted it? Maybe the skill worked like digging through the mud. What he already knew was solid ground, and his meager 3 levels in it let him claw up only shallow fragments before the walls collapsed. Enough to glimpse shapes, never the whole buried thing.
The stablemaster stiffened. “Central Registry of Ashwa,” Remy added, flipping the golden badge between his fingers before tucking it away. “Take it up with the Adventurer’s Guild if you’ve got a problem.”
Stolen novel; please report.
The man hesitated, then waved over a senior handler without another word.
Vaan triggered [Inspect] before the newcomer could speak.
Beast Whisperer – Lvl 7
Two levels lower than the stablemaster, yet clearly in charge. The man moved with quiet assurance, his boots silent against the packed earth. He ran a glowing hand along Sturdyhorns’ neck and Vaan suspected some kind of assessment skill was active. Then he nodded.
"Beast's sound," the Whisperer announced. "We'll mark her returned." His eyes lingered fleetingly on the blood on Vaan’s cloth before resting on Remy’s identification. "The deposit remains with the Beastmaster’s Guild, as you're not the registered rider. Regarding the former owner's... situation, the Enforcers will follow up." A beat. "I'd recommend being available when they do."
Remy shrugged. “I’ll be at the Adventurer’s Guild.”
No argument. No further questions. The Beast Whisperer walked off.
Vaan glanced back.
They passed through the massive gates, their arched opening wide enough for three merchant wagons to enter abreast. A caravan rumbled ahead of them - two massive ringhorns in polished harnesses pulling a cargo platform laden with crates, the driver perched on the front bench snapped his reins, calling to his beasts in a low tone.
A sharp whistle cut through the morning bustle. "Hold there." The gate woman's armor clanked as she stepped into their path, her halberd's blade catching the dawn light. [Inspect] flared instinctively to reveal:
Paula Grenley - Lvl 24 Spear Guard
The class was unusual to him, neither pure Guardsman nor battlefield lancer or Spearman, but something hybridized. He wondered what his friends would make of it back in Wragford. Tal would probably pester her with questions until she stabbed him.
"You know me, Paula," Remy sighed, scratching at his stubble. "Still mad about the-"
"Purpose of entry?" she interrupted, flipping open a ledger. The quill in her other hand glowed faintly with verification magic.
Remy sighed as he produced his golden badge again. "Guild business. And vouching for the kid here." He nudged Vaan forward. "First-timer registration."
Paula's quill hovered. "Full name. Origin. Combat designation."
"Vaan Redbones, hailing from Wragford," he said, then hesitated. Would she press for his actual class? But the quill was already moving. "Melee combatant. With... supplemental magic."
The gatewoman studied him for half a heartbeat longer than necessary, then jerked her chin toward the city. "Keep your weapon sheathed until registered. City ordinances apply to guild rats the same as anyone."
And just like that, they were in. No shouts. No sudden alarm. Just the distant clatter of carts and the smell of fresh bread, a city too busy to care about two men who might have blood on their hands.
Remy hooked a thumb in his belt, surveying the waking city as if he were returning to familiar ground. "Stick close, kid. The first rule of fitting in is to look like you belong, and no one questions you." He set off at a casual pace, weaving through the morning crowds with practiced ease.
Darven's Roost unfolded before Vaan in layers of wonder. The cobbled streets thrummed with energy as shopkeepers rolled out awnings, their wooden signs creaking to life with glowing runes that shifted prices throughout the day. A street vendor's cart steamed with mana-infused skewers, the smell of seared ‘thunderbird meat’ as he claimed cutting through them. High above, crystalline shards embedded in rooftops caught the rising sun, casting prismatic patterns across the bustling squares. They seemed both decorative and like part of something much larger, though Vaan had no idea what they did.
"First things first," Remy said, steering Vaan toward a shadowed alcove. "Let me guess. You didn't take Conceal Weapon."
Vaan bristled. "I'm no back-alley rogue."
Remy shook his head as they passed a pair of imperial enforcers. "Kid, you've got a soulbound sword and already one noble house wanting your head on a spike. You want to flash that thing around here?" He gestured to the crowded plaza where mercenary bands mingled with imperial soldiers in crested armor.
"I..."
"You need a sheath. A proper magic one that'll hide that from Inspect." Remy rubbed his fingers together. "Guild shop would do it for a discount, but... how much are you carrying?"
"About seventeen silvers now that I got my deposit back."
Remy snorted. "Not even close." He veered toward a dingy stall tucked between a rug merchant and a fortune-teller's tent. The sign read "Brom's Botanicals" in peeling paint, though the wizened man behind the counter looked more like a traveling drug peddler Brenda had always warned him about than an herbalist. Yet [Inspect] revealed:
Herbalist - Lvl 15
If Vaan needed herbs, he'd have asked Brenda back home. The booth reeked of fermented roots, and the man's hands were stained purple from crushing dark berries in a mortar.
"Got anything that'll hide a sword from Inspect?" Remy demanded, blocking Vaan from view as an imperial patrol passed.
The herbalist didn't look up from his pestle. "Mana or blood price?"
"Cheapest that won't kill him."
A grimy jar slid across the counter. Inside, a leech-like creature pulsed against the glass, its needle teeth clicking. "Veil-root-grubber. Seventy coppers. Eats mana first, blood if you're dry." The man finally looked at Vaan's sword arm. "It'll hurt less if you feed it voluntarily."
The moment Vaan drew his sword, the creature latched onto the blade with a wet schlck, dissolving into what appeared to be a cracked leather sheath crusted with dirt and old salt stains. His sword vibrated with disgust at the grimy sheath.
To [Inspect], it now showed:
Uncleaned Iron Sword (Poor Condition)
Uncleaned Leather Sheath (Worn)
A cold ache spread up Vaan's arm as it began draining his mana. He could already feel the siphoning effect… maybe four hours before he'd be tapped dry.
"Parasite," Remy confirmed. "Veil-root-grubber, level one. Bring it back at level five and he might trade you a fresh one. Assuming you don't mind helping... cultivate his stock." He shot the herbalist a knowing look as Vaan hastily unhooked his old, now-redundant sheath and stuffed it into his rucksack.
The herbalist's grin revealed three gold-capped teeth as he handed Vaan a care scroll that unrolled to reveal animated instructions: Feed daily (mana preferred). Blood acceptable if depleted. No saltwater baths.
From the market square, Remy led Vaan up a spiraling ramp of fused stone, where glowing runes pulsed beneath their boots with each step. The merchant quarter's cacophony faded behind them.
"Eyes forward," Remy muttered as Vaan nearly tripped over a gutter rune. "Save the gawking for later." He pointed toward the clustered spires ahead where floating lantern-wasps swarmed in colored formations. "Guild district. Blue for Adventurers, blood-orange for Mercenaries, green for Beastmasters, and a dozen others."
Vaan followed his gaze to an ivory monolith that dominated the skyline. "The Imperial Tower. The whole thing's a masterwork—rune-smiths, artificers, and enchanters spent twenty years singing its bones into being. The Emperor visits whenever he tires of capital politics at Silverbell. Built by the Court Architect's own grandson after the War of Sundered Wings." His finger traced the majestic bridges arcing between spires, all connected to the imperial tower. "And those? Darven's legacy. No ropes. No pillars. Just three hundred thousand interlocking runes singing in harmony. The old Darven's Roost housed the rebellion. When the loyalists won, the Emperor gave young vel'Arun one command: 'Make the traitors' perch into our watchtower.'”
Wide boulevards radiated outward like spokes, each leading to tiered districts that climbed toward the central spires. Remy steered them onto a raised walkway where glowing runes pulsed beneath their boots with each step as they began their steady ascent to the guild district. "Mind the gaps," Remy said as Vaan hesitated at a junction where the walkway segmented. The stones rearranged themselves with a grinding hum, forming a path toward the guild district.
The bridge beneath them thrummed with dormant runes that looked like they were floating by themselves despite what Remy had said about runes powering them. "There are so many guilds?” Vaan said in genuine awe.
Remy merely kicked a pebble off. "Officially, we all serve the Empire. Unofficially? Adventurers and Mercenaries are scorpions in a jar, kept circling each other so neither gets ideas. The rest just buzz around the edges."
They ascended slowly toward the guild district. Vaan kept close to the centerline, unnerved by how the pathway curved steeply. "Quit staring at your feet," Remy said, yanking Vaan forward. "The bridge won't break unless the locked runes are powered off by the emperor himself. And if that happens..." He nodded toward the bottom. Below, Vaan could see the market square they'd just left—now dwarfed by the city's scale, its colorful awnings like petals on a pond. There were other cloistered buildings and a running stream that probably flowed into the big river Tibra westwards.
Ahead, the Adventurer's Guildhall dominated the spire's summit, its massive doors framed by its glowing insignia.
They passed under an archway where stone sentinels stood vigil at the entrance of the guild district, their hollow eye sockets flickering with faint blue light. Vaan's [Inspect] itched to be used, but Remy's warning glance kept it in check. Instead, he noted the way seasoned adventurers moved—their gear subtly enhanced, their steps measured against the flow of foot traffic. A woman in scaled armor drank from a flask that refilled itself between sips.
As they crossed into the Adventurers' sector, Remy’s guild token flared in his palm, the compass design glowing with a sharp, otherworldly blue light. "Means we're recognized not just in Ashwa, but even at outposts across the borders," he muttered, watching the glow fade as quickly as it had come. As if to undercut Remy’s boast, an imperial patrol passed by at the exact moment, their polished crests gleaming in the morning light. The sound of their heavy footsteps was the only acknowledgment of their presence, a silent reminder of who truly ruled the Roost.
The massive oak doors swung inward, revealing the Adventurer's Guild in all its chaotic glory. Three stories of vaulted space hummed with activity, the air thick with the scents of oiled steel and spiced ale. Light streamed through stained glass windows depicting legendary quests, painting the worn stone floor in shifting colors.
To the left, a dozen quest boards pulsed with glowing notices, their runes rearranging in real-time as contracts were claimed or updated. Clusters of adventurers argued over rankings, their gear as varied as their specialties, while a man argued with a clerk about dungeon classifications. To the right, the training yards lay open air, the clang of sparring blades punctuated by shouted advice.
"Registration's this way," Remy said. “And for fuck’s sake, don't mention Priscilla until you're registered.”
This was the moment he'd imagined a hundred times in Wragford's muddy lanes. Straight ahead, the counter dominated the hall’s heart, a fortress of dark walnut stacked with ledgers, their spines stamped with guild seals. Behind it, a clerk with ink-stained fingers was immersed in a piece of scroll.
Every adventurer within twenty paces turned to look as they approached the counter. Hard eyes appraised him from ale-stained tables and weapon racks. Two women in black cloaks interrupted their dice game to give him identical up-and-down looks. Even the serving girl slowed as she passed, her tray of empty tankards tilting toward his direction.
The collective interest died like a snuffed candle as adventurers turned away, lips curled in distaste. Then she cut through the crowd, a woman in pristine white robes, the faintest trace of rosewater trailing behind her.
"Remy." She smiled. Silver threads along her sleeves caught the light as she nodded.
Her gaze flickered to Vaan with fleeting curiosity. Her expression hardened the instant she noticed his grimy sheath. A sharp intake of breath. A hand rose to cover her nose. Then she was gone, robes whipping around the corner like a retreating stormcloud.
That last dismissal cut deeper than any blade. Vaan's proud stance faltered just as Remy's calloused hand clamped onto his shoulder. "Eyes on the clerk, kid. Not the audience."
The bored clerk glanced up from his ledger.
“Name?”
“Vaan Redbones.”
“Class?”
“Uhm... Orderly Blade.”
A faint shimmer crossed the clerk’s eyes. A curious [Inspect], no doubt. He gave a curt nod. “Current level?”
“Five,” Vaan replied, though the clerk had already scribbled it down.
“Previously registered with any guild?”
Before Vaan could answer, the man scrawled No and moved on.
“Residence?”
Vaan opened his mouth, but Remy cut in. “He’ll take a bunk at the guild inn for the first week. After that, he’s moving into party lodgings.”
The clerk raised an eyebrow. “Party lodgings? Already have a team?”
Remy grinned. “He will.”
The clerk glanced at Vaan’s worn boots, and his dirty sheath, and snorted. “Of course.”
“Come on, George. Don’t be an arse before lunch,” Remy muttered, leaning on the counter.
George sighed and kept going. “Any magical ailments? Curses, bindings, contracts? Special licenses from other guilds?”
Vaan shook his head. He didn’t mention the soulbound sword, of course.
“Combat experience?”
“Green,” Remy said, “but promising.”
George shrugged. “You’re the expert.”
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small iron badge etched with the guild insignia. A blue compass flanked by a silver axe and a conch. Then he retrieved a tiny rune chisel and a pin.
“Finger,” he said.
Vaan pricked his thumb. George caught a drop of blood on the iron and pressed the rune in. The badge pulsed faintly as the blood-bound sigil flared to life.
“Now it’s keyed to you. Lose it and you’ll need a witness or blood match to get another.”
He slid it across the counter. “Provisional Rank One. Keep it visible. No high-risk contracts above iron level.”
“Registration fee and inn deposit,” he added, holding out a hand.
Remy tapped the counter. “Take in my word as the scout and add the newcomer discount. With referral.”
George raised an eyebrow. “That’s new.” He scribbled something, then said, “Five silvers.”
Vaan fished the coin out and handed it over.
“Welcome to the Roost,” George muttered, already looking at the next form. “Try not to die in the first week. It’s bad for our numbers.”
As they stepped away from the desk, Vaan turned the iron badge over in his palm. “That’s it?”
Remy smirked. “That’s the start. And don’t knock it. Half the Roost started with less.”
Vaan looked up. “You vouched for me. What do you get out of it?”
Remy gave a half-shrug. “Referral perks aren’t bad. If you stick around and don’t embarrass us, I get a few things. It adds up if you’re clever.”
Vaan frowned. “So, you’re betting on me?”
Remy chuckled. “Not exactly.” He motioned for Vaan to keep walking, voice lowering as they merged into the steady buzz of the guild hall. “My real bet isn’t with George or the Guild. It’s with the party I’m brokering. You already—”
“Oi! REMY! Come over here! The ENFORCERS... they want to have a word with you!”
“Fuckin’ gloomrats. They were quick. Hang in there, kid.” And he was gone.
The pacing is too
