The following morning, Allen woke up sore and tired.
The echoes of his battle with the nightdrake still lingered in his bones.
His wound on his thigh had scabbed over already, still healing.
There was shuffling of feet on the streets down below, pious believers of the Sunctum heading for their prayers, even before the rays of the sun had licked the surface.
Allen snicked,
They were ignorant, and oblivious on the inner workings of the Sunctum.
There was nothing that irked him more than blind faith.
Maybe he was just wired different; ever questioning, analysing and calculating.
Such a logical mindset would never allow blind faith- it was not that the Sunctum didn't perform miracles, they did infact;healing, purifying from malevolent entities.
Maybe Allen was being hypocritical, or maybe not.
Was it really fair to judge a faith solely on its flaws?
The Sunctum also helped to keep other cults in check, else things would be chaotic.
"Balance. It's all about balance." Allen muttered to himself shutting any further thoughts on the matter.
***
Back in the shared room, Allen was busy glimpsing truths on Draemurgy- poison concoction would serve him well- he had seen its effectiveness in battle.
"Oh shit. Shardu's going to throw a tantrum."
He just remembered; Shardu had given him two days, then their appointment.
It had been three days already, that morning would count as the fourth.
Allen then shrugged his shoulders, Shardu would have to understand.
He stopped reading the tomes, He was curious to know what elemental energy he would be bestowed upon.
It was so hard to know at the lower stages of awakening.
He had clues- nothing substantial- he really hoped it would be what he had in mind, if not atleast let it be the wind element, that would complement his build and fighting technique.
His full attention was on his shadow, it had become even darker.
He had noticed that after every kill, the slain victim's shadow always dissolved into his own, its significance- he had no idea, not yet.
But still, he knew it would be game changing once he understood it deep enough.
There were a lot of things he needed soon, to raise his utility- it was good that he didn't have to worry about weapons and armour anymore-
His coin had taken a dent—he barely had half his original amount left.
The next logical step was to enlist into the adventurer's association- it would solve some of his problems, give him more utility and breathing space.
He wouldn't have to worry about the hassle of disposing his slain beasts- earn some coin, also get more options in missions- there would be posted there,he would just have to pick whichever suits him.
Back to his shadow- he did some experiments on it, try to move it, extend it past its normal range- he felt light headed after doing a series of tests on it.
The near-total lack of arcana in his blood proved to be a serious limiter.
***
Lost in his world of thoughts Allen couldn't hear Irvin getting back.
"Hmm...how's the little drake slayer doing?."
Allen, turned his head, puzzled, his eyes squinting
"Well I'm from Ortolan's ...the dwarf is quite impressed, singing your conquest like some bard ...heh."
Irvin replied, with a little laugh.
He then threw a black marble- like orb.
"Your spoils of war."
How could he forget, the most important item from the beast's corpse- the beast core.
He could sale it- it would fetch quite the coin.
But coin was not something he urgently needed.
He would absorb its essence.
***
In a lotus position, Allen was focused, absorbing and circling ambient arcana. It came as a trickle, barely making a diference- now that he was in sync and the flow rhythmic he crushed the beast core in hand- it took some effort but he crushed it nevertheless.
The surge of essence and arcana billowed next...he had to tame the essence and absorb it- that wasn't so hard, with unyielding will, he managed.
Ahh the euphoria, it was so addicting, even just the act of breathing had become pleasing. It was a new high.
It took a few hours before Allen was done, he stood up from the lotus position, stretching and clenching his muscles, there was a significant increase in strength, his movements more fluid and deliberate, as if something deep within him had been unlocked.
The air around him felt different-charged, yet still. Each breath he drew in seemed richer, more purposeful, as though the act of sitting in stillness had rewritten something fundamental in his body. The tension that once coiled in his shoulders and spine had evaporated, replaced by a coiled readiness, a quiet power waiting beneath the surface.
Allen flexed his fingers and rolled his shoulders. The sensation was subtle at first—an awareness of balance, of connection between mind and muscle. When he moved, it was like the world adjusted around him, not the other way around. The floor didn't creak beneath his weight; it accepted him.
He glanced down at his hands, once ordinary, now vibrating faintly with a phantom warmth he couldn't explain. It wasn't heat—it was presence, a dense, centered gravity that made every gesture feel intentional.
He took a step forward, and the motion was like silk drawn over stone—smooth yet grounded. A low hum echoed in his chest, not sound exactly, but resonance. Awareness.
He wasn't just stronger. He was attuned. Something ancient had taken root during those long hours in stillness. Not magic, not exactly. But something close. Something earned.
And whatever it was... it was only beginning to wake.
***
Later in the evening, Allen was seen ascending a flight of stone steps, each one worn from countless boots before his. Above him loomed a wide double-door marked with the sigil of crossed blades and a broken crown—the seal of the Duskwatch Adventurer's Association.
As the doors creaked open, a wave of sound and scent spilled out into the night.
Inside, the air was thick—a stew of sweat, oiled leather, cheap ale, and the faint tang of blood. It clawed at his nostrils, mingling with the iron tang already clinging to his cloak. The floor beneath him vibrated with life: boots thudding, tankards slamming, laughter rising in drunken crescendos. The low murmur of bartering clashed with the sharp clang of sparring steel.
His entrance went mostly unnoticed—just another shadow through the threshold—but Allen felt it in his bones: this place breathed survival and brutality in equal measure.
The hall was cavernous, lit by hanging brass lanterns that cast flickering orange halos over the worn wooden beams. The far-left corner housed a makeshift tavern—adventurers clustered there with hollow laughter and half-full mugs. A raised sparring platform in the center drew a loud crowd. Cheers rang out as one man hit the ground hard, knocked unconscious by a spinning heel.
A ring of gamblers barked bets, shoving coins onto a cracked table, some with bruised knuckles and dried blood on their tunics.
Allen's eyes swept the chaos, instinctively noting exits, blind spots, and potential threats. Not fear—just habit. He didn't belong here yet, but he might have to. His presence was muted, deliberate, as he moved toward the right wall where a line of counters stood beneath faded banners and mission boards.
Behind the counters, a handful of older staff worked with slow, practiced indifference. Allen stepped up to the nearest one.
An old man with silver eyebrows and a yellowed scroll in hand looked him over, not bothering to hide the scrutiny. His focus flicked between Allen's face, his stance, the way his cloak parted just enough to show the grip of a sheathed blade.
"How may I help you, lad?" the man asked, his voice gruff, half-distracted by a particularly loud cheer from the sparring ring.
"Enlist," Allen replied, voice even, eyes locked on his.
The old man turned fully now. Whatever part of him had been watching the match was gone. He was measuring Allen—not just his body, but the weight of something else. That quiet gravity that sometimes followed killers.
"You awakened yet?"
Allen gave a single, silent nod.
The man tapped the counter twice, slow and firm.
"Follow me to the back."