With Remy gone to face the city’s lawmen, the Enforcers as they called them here, Vaan wandered through the guild hall like a lost dog looking for a bone.

  The image of Remy's cocky grin getting punched right off his face flashed in Vaan's mind. He shook his head - since when did he care what happened to some fast-talking stranger? But the knot in his gut remained. The man had walked off like he was going to chat with the baker, so maybe he had it all under control. But honestly, Vaan was a little worried.

  Remy had taken the heat for what he’d done, and it should have been Vaan with the Enforcers, not him. Remy had just waved him off earlier, all breezy and carefree, saying it was no big deal. Deep down, Vaan knew it was. He just wasn’t the kind of guy who could handle things like Remy did. Yet.

  People moved around him in waves: armored shoulders brushing past, boots thudding on stone, blades clinking at their hips. Contracts fluttered on scarred oak boards beneath glowing runes, the scent of oil and leather thick in the air, coating everything in a sharp, earthy tang.

  No one specifically bothered to speak with him.

  It was a new feeling—this loneliness. It surprised him. Back in Wragford, even strangers would share a drink. Here, he might as well have been invisible. Part of him wanted to shout, just to prove he still existed.

  Not that he didn’t understand. It was fine! He got it.

  He looked like he didn’t belong, and boy, did he sell this… provincial look. Not ragged exactly. His rucksack was in good shape, if a bit travel-worn… but the overall picture still screamed mud-road greenhorn, probably getting winded climbing stairs. His torn, blood-streaked shirt and dust-caked boots didn’t help. And the pièce de résistance: a sheath strapped to his hip that resembled something scraped off a butcher’s floor. Courtesy of Remy’s veil-grub-thingie.

  Whatever it was, the little monstrosity had glomped onto his blade and vomited illusion magic all over it… Which was perfect. The corrupted leech the “herbalist” had embedded inside was doing its job, masking the presence of the soulbound blade. It didn’t disguise the sword itself; merely suppressed its magical presence. Inspect would only see a filthy junk weapon in a filthy dirt-caked sheath.

  Most folk didn’t pay him much mind. A few shouldered past without a second glance, like he wasn’t even there. Whether they were ignoring him or just too focused on their own business was anyone’s guess, but at least no one seemed interested in probing deeper. With no one throwing him a curious glance, Vaan did what any sane, awkward man in a room full of dangerous people would do: he wandered… naturally, inexorably, toward the training yards.

  They lay tucked to the right of the main hall, through an open arch where sunlight filtered through a metal lattice, striping the dusty ground like prison bars. Rows of armor stood at attention, flanked by sparring rings, rune-bound dummies, and racks of battered weapons. The clang of steel rang out in rhythm.

  Vaan hovered near the sparring pits, trying to look casual and failing spectacularly, earning the kind of looks reserved for lost farm boys who mistook the city’s fountain for a wishing well. His wide-eyed amazement, coupled with his thoroughly village bumpkin demeanor, didn’t exactly help.

  Inside a pit, two swordsmen moved with the smooth, deadly rhythm of men who’d clean up a Wragford tavern brawl—then help themselves to your ale. They ran a flow, a choreographed sequence of slashes and footwork were smooth and graceful. A quick Inspect told him their levels were hidden. Most he could actually inspect ranged from six to fifteen.

  Others, he couldn't read at all. Inspect flickered and failed, likely because their levels were too high or hidden. A few drunkards in the tavern, red-faced and loud, had been in the upper twenties, and that had been the maximum he could actually see... probably because they were drunk and flaunting their stats?

  [Inspect] has leveled up! (Lv.1 → Lv.4)

  He did level up his [Inspect] thanks to all the gawking he did, not just at people but at the weapons and armor too, many of which he had never seen before. There were practice swords shaped like falchions and sabers, padded training armor reinforced at the joints, and chainmail vests meant more for endurance drills than real battle. One rack held blunted spears with carefully balanced weights. Another had round shields with faded guild crests, dented from use but still sturdy. Everything looked worn in rather than worn out, built for training rather than show, and far beyond anything he had seen back in Wragford.

  Vaan's fingers itched.

  He wanted to move. To do something. But the moment passed.

  The sheath at his hip was still leeching mana. That damn grub had turned it into a cursed sponge. Half his reserve was already gone, and he hadn't even drawn the blade. Sparring like this? Suicidal. Besides, who would want to pair with the guy who looked like he had already gotten beat up?

  He could grab a training sword. Smack a dummy around a bit. Might even help shake off the stiffness. But honestly? A bath sounded better. A hot soak. Some food.

  The inn was past the main hall, attached to the guild proper. He had seen the serving girl weaving between tables, juggling tankards and shouted orders. Some adventurers had paid coppers at the bar. Others, presumably those with guild rooms, just flashed their badges. He decided to march back.

  That was when he spotted a healer. Under a shaded awning near the training yard, she sat reclined on a bench, robes half-loosened and a book cracked open on her lap. Her staff leaned against the wall nearby, its crystal glinting lazily in the sun. First time he had seen a magical staff! First time he had seen a healer actually!

  Vaan remembered Remy's words and approached, raising a hand a little awkwardly. "Uh, hey. Remy said there's free healing for new folks?"

  The woman didn't even blink before looking him over, his torn tunic, the road-dust, the weapon that looked like it had been fished from a swamp, and scoffing.

  "Only for trainees, love. Not for loafers. Guild doesn't run on charity." She flicked a page in her book. "My mana pool is not infinite. Come back when you've got coin."

  A few lounging initiates sniggered nearby. One of them mocked Vaan's walk, clutching his tunic at side in a limp shuffle and murmuring something that made the others burst into laughter.

  Vaan’s jaw tightened. Part of him wanted to argue: I am a trainee, damn it. But the words died before they reached his tongue. No point wasting silver… or pride.

  "'S fine," he muttered, giving the healer a small wave. "Feels like it's closing up already."

  The puncture between his shoulder blade and spine still throbbed, but the blade’s bite had faded to a dull ache. His Mettle stat was pulling its weight, stitching him back together. Another day's rest and he'd be fine. Probably.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  He started to walk out.

  That was when a voice like silk stretched thin over broken glass cut through the yard.

  "You! Stop there. You're that mutt Remy's dragging around, aren't you?"

  Vaan turned. A youth, his age, maybe a year older, lounged against a weapon rack like the yard was his father's garden. Gleaming pauldrons. Fancy breeches. A pointy sword sheathed at his hip, polished to a mirror shine.

  Southern steel. Garix had forged a few like that. "Fancy rapiers," he used to call them, meant for snobby nobles who cared more about flair than grit. Vaan had helped, of course. He knew the balance of it without even needing to touch it.

  "Remy," the boy went on, rolling the name like a slur. "The guild's mongrel, pretending to matter these days. Heard he's trying to slip his little charity projects into our ranks." His smile bared too many teeth. "Tell him to keep his strays on a leash. We don't need rats sniffing through our cupboards."

  Vaan didn't flinch. He lifted his hands, easy and open. "Not looking for trouble."

  The boy's eyes narrowed, like that was disappointing. "What's your name, dirtface?"

  "Vaan Redbones. From Wragford."

  "Wragford?" The noble barked a laugh. "Sounds made up. Like something a pig farmer's bastard scrawled on a piss bucket."

  "It's northeast. A night's ride from—"

  "I didn't ask for directions, Redbones." His mouth twisted. "I was mocking you. Do they not teach sarcasm in whatever hole you crawled out of?"

  Vaan's hands curled into fists. Back home, this would've ended in a brawl - but back home, he wasn't staring down a Level 10 Duelist with half his mana drained. The oily haired bastard stepped closer, inspecting Vaan's gear like rotten produce.

  "What kind of name is Redbones, anyway? Sounds like something you'd name a dying mutt you found in a graveyard. Or a disease you catch after fucking one."

  A few chuckles rose nearby.

  Vaan turned and walked away. He'd met this type before. Back home, in the markets. At the town fairs. All mouth and gold.

  "Tell your leash master to stay in his lane," the boy called. "That whoreson's been sniffing around guild coin like a beggar chasing bread crumbs. Cheap favors. Cheap men."

  Vaan stopped.

  Remy had pulled him out of the fire. Literally. Joy had nearly gutted him. Remy got him out alive. He'd brought Vaan to the Roost, helped him hide the soulbound blade, even talked him through stat allocation like it mattered. If Remy had an angle, so be it, but he hadn't lied.

  He'd been straight.

  And that counted.

  Vaan turned back.

  The noble arched an eyebrow, amused.

  Level was too high. Vaan wouldn't win. Not with less than half the mana and without his soulbound sword.

  Didn't matter.

  This was stupid. Reckless. Exactly the sort of shit Ronald would cheer and Tal would facepalm over. It would be a shame if Wragford was remembered as the place that sent cowards.

  Vaan took a step toward the training ring.

  Then, without breaking stride, he swung a boot beneath a nearby glaive, an old iron thing with a blunted edge, and kicked it up into the air.

  He caught it clean.

  The metal rang as it landed in his grip, a flash of motion sharp enough to hush the snickering.

  The noble smirked. "Look at you. Level five and all fired up. What, been stuck there for a year?"

  "I got my class last week," Vaan said.

  More laughter, louder this time.

  "We strip liars in our estate," the noble said, stepping forward. "Let the guards laugh as they whip 'em. Maybe you'll earn a tip."

  Vaan's fingers twitched. The glaive's weight felt foreign, unbalanced compared to the soulbound blade hidden in his sheath.

  Vaan rolled his shoulders, slid into stance, and grinned. "Try me, fancy pants."

  Then the noble charged.

  Or tried to.

  His feet tangled.

  The next moment, he was on the ground.

  Flat on his back, breath knocked out, saber skidding from his hand.

  Everyone stared.

  A stocky man stood behind him, spear in hand, foot still half-lifted from the trip. Square jaw. Forehead scar. His armor was unadorned, but the way he wore it made it feel like a uniform. Broad, solid, still as stone.

  Vaan tried to [Inspect] him.

  No level. No class. Just weight. Nothing.

  The duelist fancy-pants scrambled up, red-faced. "What the hell do you think you're—"

  He stopped abruptly when he saw who it was.

  "Gregor," he said. Voice cracked halfway through.

  Gregor said nothing at first. Just looked him up and down like someone judging a half-rotted fish.

  "Sylas. Stop bullying the freshbloods," he said finally, voice flat and unimpressed.

  "I, I wasn't… saw this gutterborn bullying the healer for a free-"

  "Disgusting," Gregor muttered.

  "Exactly! I tried to stop,"

  "I meant you, Sylas," Gregor said, stone-faced.

  Sylas blinked.

  "Flexing on some village upstart trying to prove himself? Pathetic. Get lost."

  The Duelist's jaw clenched. He didn't talk back. He glared at Vaan, retrieved his rapier, and slunk off like a kicked dog.

  Vaan stepped forward. "Hey. Thanks for-"

  Gregor didn't even look at him. "You're holding the glaive wrong."

  "...What?"

  "Put it down before you embarrass yourself. And if you don't want to get hurt, stop lying and picking fights."

  "Wait, what do you…"

  But Gregor was already walking away.

  Around him, whispers spread through the yard like spilled gossip.

  'Level five in a week? Bullshit.'

  Scathing looks trailed after him as they dispersed, lingering on his attire again with that same judgemental stares.

  And then it sank in.

  They didn't believe him.

  Vaan’s heart pounded in his chest. It wasn’t just their disbelief. It was the look in their eyes, like he was some fool who'd wandered into the wrong place. They thought he was lying about his class last week. Just another brash idiot spinning tall tales.

  He clenched his jaw, his hands twitching at his sides. What the hell is wrong with these people? Priscilla had been Level 4, same as him—and she’d gotten her class the same damned day. So why were they acting like Level 5 in a week was impossible?

  Were the Level 6 - 15ish crowd last year’s leftovers? If so, where the hell were this year’s initiates? Or did the fucking guild only recruit once a decade?

  Why were they so shocked? What the hell kind of place was this?

  He stood there mana-drained, irritated, friendless and lost.

  And then he laughed. Friendless? His real friends were back home, probably grinding away for those hard-earned level ups: Tal, Ronald, even Risa. They had after all promised to level up and join him as soon as possible. He was just here smoothing things over for them first.

  Why the hell did it matter what a couple of fancy-pants thought of him? He hadn’t come here to play.

  Screw them. He had real enemies to worry about.

  He had a score to settle. Erik Veldrane already had it out for his head and the feeling was mutual. Vaan hadn’t forgotten the pain of loss. He hoped Erik felt it now. But he doubted it. Priscilla was probably just another investment to him, not a daughter.

  For a moment, he'd gotten distracted by petty squabbles. But he had a noble to gut and friends waiting in the wings. If Remy couldn’t scrape together a party? Fine, the guy had already done enough for him. Vaan would go solo until his crew arrived. Hell, it’d be better than suffering some noble-ass-licker grinning behind his back.

  Gregor and Sylas could go screw themselves. He smiled and strode toward the inn. Sure, the smile felt strange on his face - not quite honest, not quite fake. A work in progress, like everything else. But his steps came easier now.