The back corridor of the Adventurer's Association was narrower than Allen expected, dimly lit by hanging braziers and lined with racks of mismatched weapons. The air was different here—less chaotic than the main hall, more focused. Serious.A younger clerk met them halfway, exchanging a glance with the old man who'd led Allen in.
"Another applicant?" the clerk asked.
"He's awakened."
That was all the explanation given.
The younger man gestured. "Right this way."
Allen followed him into a side chamber—a circular stone room with walls carved in faint runes. At the center stood a pedestal holding a polished orb the size of a melon, clear as crystal but swirling with something faint and internal, like mist trapped beneath glass.The clerk stepped aside. "Place your palm on the orb."Allen did.At first, nothing.Then a slow shift. The orb pulsed once, faint blue light rippling through it like a wave. Then brighter. The glow intensified until the chamber itself was awash in azure hue. The mist inside coiled tighter, then cleared—revealing a thin, branching web of silver filaments flickering through the crystal, like veins of lightning.The young clerk's eyebrows rose. "Well. That settles it."The old man chuckled from behind. "You've got the touch, alright. Blue always means awakened. The webbing's a good sign. You've started threading."Allen withdrew his hand. The orb's glow faded, the mist returning to its idle swirl.
"Final step," the clerk said. "You fight."
Allen's brow twitched.
"Fight who?""Not me," the clerk smirked. "You'll face someone from the sparring ring. Think of it less like a duel, more like... a trial by fire."The old man nodded toward a different door.
"Sparring platform this way. Don't die before you register."
The sparring platform was raised, in the center of a wide hall, a wide circle of packed dirt and stone rings, enclosed by low rails. Torches flared from brackets overhead. Spectators leaned forward, some familiar faces from the main hall now sipping stronger drinks, eager for a show.
Across the pit stood Allen's opponent.A tower of muscle, bald, shirtless, covered in ritual scars and fresh bruises. Iron knuckles glinted on each fist.
He cracked his neck and grinned with yellowed teeth."The new one?" the brawler asked, voice like crushed gravel. "Looks soft."Allen didn't answer.A bell rang. The match began.The brawler lunged with surprising speed, fist swinging wide. Allen ducked, slid past, jabbed with the hilt of his blade—but it was like hitting a stone pillar. The man barely flinched.Then came the counter.A hook slammed into Allen's ribs.His body lifted, then hit the ground with a thud that echoed.Pain flooded his side. He rolled, barely dodging the follow-up stomp, and scrambled to his feet.Focus.He pivoted, staying low, letting the flow take over. His recent training with blades gave him precision—he dodged a blow and struck the brawler's temple with the flat of his palm. The giant staggered, but grinned."Feisty."The next strike was a shoulder tackle that nearly broke Allen's spine. He hit the ground again, hard. Blood in his mouth now.The crowd was starting to murmur.Allen coughed and pulled himself up, swaying. His thigh flared with pain—stitches threatening to tear—but he gritted his teeth and surged forward. One blade out, reversed grip, just a touch to the man's side.The brawler roared and spun, catching Allen square in the jaw.Darkness flared.He hit the dirt, head ringing.
The fight was over.
Allen sat against the wall afterward, cloth pressed to his lip, watching the brawler leave with a half-wave."That guy's an iron-ranked. You weren't meant to win," came a voice from behind him.It was the old man."You just had to show grit. Technique. Intent. You've got that in spades."Allen didn't reply. He spat blood into the straw beside him.The old man handed over a slip of parchment and a small leather pouch."Thirty silver for the registry fee. Pay it and you're in."
Allen filled the parchment of paper with his name, some details- vague ...he liked anonymity.
Allen dug the last of his coin from his cloak, handed it over without a word. The old man counted, nodded, and handed over a small object wrapped in black cloth.He unwrapped it slowly.Inside was a badge—rough iron, shaped like a fang piercing a moon. The insignia of the Duskwatch Adventurer's Association."Welcome to the game, kid."
"Remember three missions must be completed each month, else you'll lose your membership."
Allen gave a silent nod, his fingers curled around it. Despite the blood in his mouth, despite the pain in his ribs, despite the lingering ache of the past few days—He felt something solid settle in his chest.A beginning.Or maybe just the next stage of becoming.
He was informed of the Adventurer's Association training chambers and their archives, one could buy a skill directory scroll and practise them.
That perked his interest, he went on to check it out.
The moment Allen stepped into the Adventurer's Archive, a hush fell over his senses—not from silence, but from sheer scale. Vaulted ceilings stretched so high they seemed to vanish into shadow, and rows upon rows of ancient shelves climbed the walls like the ribs of some slumbering giant. Each aisle bristled with scrolls, bound tomes, etched slates—each humming faintly with dormant knowledge. The air smelled of ink, leather, and the dust of centuries. For a moment, Allen felt dwarfed—not just in size, but in presence. Like an ant scuttling beneath a cathedral built not for men, but for giants.
Allen approached the nearest librarian—a thin, pale man whose robes looked like they'd been pressed between two tomes and forgotten. The man barely looked up from the thick ledger he was annotating, but when Allen requested access to beginner skill scrolls, he pointed him toward a shelf marked with worn brass plating and a flickering glyph.
Allen sifted through the scrolls one by one. Basic Slash. Vital Strike. Iron Guard. Swift Stab. Most were muscle memory codified into script—moves he could teach himself with time and effort. They didn't interest him. His blades already whispered through flesh like wind through silk; what he needed now wasn't more brutality.
Then he saw it.
"Expanded Perception: Tier I"
He held it up. The title alone tugged at something quiet and calculating in him. Awareness—that's what he lacked in the drake fight. The ability to track movements, threats, openings—not just with the eye, but the mind.
He took it.
Minutes later, he rented a small, circular training room with nothing but chalk lines on the floor and a runed plinth at the center. He unrolled the scroll atop the pedestal. Glyphs shimmered faintly along its surface, reacting to his touch. The directions were straightforward: still the body, align breath, open the mind to the space around.
Easier said than done.
The first few attempts yielded nothing but strain—like staring too long at the edge of one's vision, hoping to see what wasn't there.
Then something shifted.
It began as a tingle in his temples, a buzzing hum that spread behind his ears. The room around him opened. He didn't see more, not with his eyes, but he sensed more. Every echo bounced with clarity. The dust swirling in a shaft of light had shape. The tick of metal cooling in the hallway outside struck like a drum. His awareness bloomed outward, wide and bright, flooding his mind with the subtle, invisible architecture of space itself.
His breath caught. It was beautiful.
It was unbearable.
The noise, the light, the endless stream of minute detail—it crashed through him like a wave. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a slap to the senses. The pulsing of his own heartbeat echoed like a war drum.
He staggered back, nearly falling.
"Too much..." he muttered, eyes wide. "It'll take time to adjust."
But it was working. And more importantly—it was his.
---
Later, Allen stepped out of the association's broad front gates, the world already feeling different under his shifting awareness. He turned back once, standing at the edge of the wide stairway, cloak tugged by the breeze.
The Adventurer's Association towered behind him, rising like a fortress of ambition and possibility. Even now, with a few scrolls in hand and a badge in his pocket, he felt like an insect crawling across its surface—insignificant, and yet… somehow, already inside.
He nodded once, then turned and walked into the dusk.