I awoke on a bed, the scent of herbs and something faintly metallic lingering in the air. Around me, rows of wounded men lay in silence, their breaths labored, their bodies wrapped in bandages.
I sat up. Pain flared through me, sharp but manageable. My wounds were still there—but they had healed faster than they should have. Unnaturally so.
The door creaked open.
An old woman stepped inside, dressed in flowing robes marked with religious symbols. She paused mid-step upon seeing me upright, her eyes widening in surprise.
"Sir, you shouldn't be up. Your wounds were severe,"
She said, concern lacing her voice.
"What happened? Where am I?"
"A guard found you collapsed at the city gate. He brought you here for treatment."
She stepped closer, eyes scanning me, searching for the wounds she had tended to. Her brow furrowed.
"How is this possible? Your body… it's almost completely healed."
I didn't answer.
It was a surprise to me too.
She led me to a desk, settling down behind it with a tired sigh.
"I need to make a record of you,"
She said, picking up a quill.
"What is your name?"
I hesitated.
I hadn't thought that far ahead. I couldn't just say the Narrator—that wouldn't make sense. Then, something surfaced within me, something I had long forgotten. A name.
"…Veyr."
She gave me a skeptical look, as if expecting a lie. But when she saw the certainty in my eyes, she wrote it down.
"Alright, Veyr then… Since we only bandaged your wounds and provided shelter, I'll give you a fair price. Ten gold pieces."
I stared at her.
"…I don't have any money."
She sighed, as if she already knew.
"…Figured as much."
She was about to say something else, but the sound of a commotion outside drew her attention. With a furrowed brow, she set down the quill and made her way to the door.
"Wait here,"
She instructed before stepping out.
The moment she was gone, I slipped away.
As I stepped out of the building, I caught a glimpse of her—searching for me. I melted into the crowd before she could spot me.
I needed money. Fast.
The city was vast, filled with narrow alleys and towering stone buildings. My eyes scanned for opportunity. Eventually, I came across a run-down structure. The wooden sign above the entrance was cracked and faded, barely holding onto its letters: MRC.
A mercenary guild.
Since I could still summon the Usurper's sword, taking on a mission seemed like a good way to earn some gold.
Inside, the place was quiet. A few rough-looking men sat around, their conversations low and wary. I approached the counter, where a young woman stood, looking thoroughly uninterested in her job.
"I'm here to take a mission,"
I said, though I knew I didn't exactly look the part.
She barely glanced at me before sighing.
"Let me see your badge."
"Eh… I don't have one. Can I register?"
At that, she actually looked up. Her gaze met mine, and for a brief moment, I saw something close to irritation—or maybe outright disdain.
"Listen, mister,"
She said, voice flat,
"we don't take in just any random hobo off the street. So do yourself a favor and leave before someone gets pissed."
Well, isn't she a rude little bitch, I thought to myself.
"I know there's some kind of test for new members,"
I pressed.
"Just tell me where to go, and you won't have to deal with me anymore."
She sighed again, long and suffering, before lazily pointing to a door on the left.
"Through there."
I nodded and walked off without another word.
The moment I stepped inside, I smelled blood.
A young man clutched his arm, crimson seeping through his fingers. Others lay groaning across the floor. At the far end of the room, a makeshift fighting ring had been set up.
Inside, an old man—rough-looking and battle-worn—stood over a rookie who lay sprawled on the ground. His wooden sword had struck true. The way he moved—fluid, precise—made it clear he was no ordinary instructor. The rookie, on the other hand, never stood a chance.
The old man sighed, his voice tired.
"Next."
A taller recruit stepped forward. His fate was no different.
One by one, they fell.
And then, it was my turn.
I stepped forward. The old man's eyes narrowed slightly, as if something about me caught his attention.
I exhaled and called the Usurper's sword into my hand. The moment my fingers wrapped around the hilt, something inside me shifted—muscle memory flooding back like a tide.
The old man struck first. I barely dodged, my body moving before my mind could catch up. His wooden blade came at me again, and this time, I blocked—but the force sent a jolt through my arm.
Too slow. My reflexes felt off, like a body waking from a deep sleep.
I struck back, and for a moment, I had the upper hand—but then I overextended.
The old man's sword slammed into my ribs. I staggered, barely keeping my balance. The pain wasn't unbearable, but it snapped me into clarity.
He came at me again. This time, I read the movement, reacting on instinct. I sidestepped, my sword lashing out. Our blades clashed, and for the first time, he grunted in effort.
His stance shifted. He struck again, and my body dodged—too late. The strike clipped my shoulder. I lunged, but miscalculated the distance. My foot landed wrong.
I stumbled.
Not from clumsiness. From misjudging my own speed.
The old man didn't hesitate. His wooden sword slammed into my gut, sending me to the floor.
A heavy silence followed.
Then, a low chuckle.
"Haven't seen someone like you in a long time."
I looked up. He extended a hand. After a moment, I took it.
"You pass,"
He said simply, pressing a small badge into my palm.
"Go see the girl at the counter—she'll make your ID. Then come back. I need to speak with you."
I nodded, hiding my embarrassment behind quiet satisfaction.
The girl's face lit up the moment she saw the badge. A flicker of embarrassment crossed her features—though she quickly masked it with indifference.
"Seems like you misjudged me,"
I said, smirking.
She shot me a sarcastic glare.
"Don't think you're hot shit just 'cause of that."
Still, she took the badge and got to work. As she scribbled onto a parchment, she asked for my details.
—Name?
"Veyr."
—Age?
"Twenty-eight."
—Rank?
"Grunt-level MRC member,"
She muttered as she wrote it down.
Once finished, she slid the freshly printed ID across the counter.
"If you want better pay and higher-ranking missions, you'll need to prove yourself."
"Whatever that means,"
I murmured, pocketing the card.
I returned to the old man, who was busy testing more rookies. Instead of interrupting, I stood by and waited for him to finish. When the last recruit limped off in defeat, he gestured for me to follow.
Inside his office, the old man signaled to the girl at the counter.
"Bring some appetizers."
A short while later, a plate of cheese and bread was set before us. The sight alone made my stomach twist—I hadn't eaten since I incarnated. I didn't waste time. While he settled into his chair, I tore into the food, stuffing my face without shame.
He watched me for a moment before speaking.
"That sword… I can feel divinity from it. Where did it come from?"
I swallowed a mouthful of bread, barely pausing.
"Someone gave it to me."
He stroked his beard, eyes narrowing in contemplation.
"And your fighting style… it's unlike anything I've ever seen. Where did you learn it?"
"That same person taught me,"
I said, unsure of how much to reveal.
His gaze lingered.
"And this person's name?"
I hesitated.
"Eh… I don't really know."
"Is that so…?"
He let out a low hum.
"Well, I suppose even if you did know, you wouldn't tell me."
I said nothing.
After a moment, he leaned forward slightly.
"The reason I called you here,"
He said,
"is because I want to train you. Your potential is too great to ignore."
I blinked, caught off guard.
"This is a big offer… but I don't need your help to get stronger."
I expected irritation, maybe even anger, but he only chuckled.
"Oh? High-spirited, aren't you? That's a good trait."
He leaned back in his chair.
"Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me."
The conversation drifted into lighter topics before he eventually led me downstairs to the mission board. After some discussion, it was decided—I would depart tomorrow for the Capital, escorting a noble's carriage. The mission was above my rank, but with his recommendation, I was allowed in.
I thanked the old man and went on my way. Judging by the sun's position, it was a bit past noon. With nothing else to do, I spent the rest of the day wandering the city.
Misery was everywhere. Beggars lined the streets, wrapped in rags, their hollow eyes scanning passersby for mercy. Others lay curled in alleyways, bodies thin and frail. I pitied them—though I wasn't much better off myself. I had no money, no place to sleep.
As I turned a corner, a commotion caught my eye. Three masked men sprinted down the street, pockets jingling with stolen gold. Behind them, a group of guards shouted, struggling to keep up. The thieves had just robbed a fruit vendor and were making their escape—right toward me.
I didn't think. As the first one passed, I struck him in the head with the hilt of my sword. He crumpled before he even realized what had happened. Without hesitation, I dragged him into a dark alley.
His companions skidded to a stop, eyes wide with panic. For a brief moment, they hesitated—then abandoned him, choosing their own freedom over his fate.
The guards rushed past, unaware of the unconscious thief hidden in the shadows.
I crouched down and rifled through his belongings. A dagger—well-crafted, but nothing special. A small pouch of gold, likely stolen. And most importantly, his clothes. They fit far better than the oversized rags I'd been wearing.
Without hesitation, I took them, leaving him with nothing but the cold stone beneath him. A cruel fate, perhaps—but I didn't care.
With this, I had enough for food and a shabby inn for the night. Maybe even a little to spare.
With the gold tucked away, I stepped back onto the street, blending into the flow of the crowd. The city was dense, its streets twisting into a labyrinth of stone and filth. Buildings leaned together, their wooden frames groaning under the weight of time. The air reeked of sweat, rotting produce, and something acrid I chose not to identify.
I kept my head down, my pace steady. The last thing I needed was to attract attention.
A few turns later, I found myself in a marketplace. Stalls lined the streets, their owners shouting over one another, each trying to draw in what few customers they could. The goods ranged from dried meats and stale bread to trinkets of dubious origin.
I approached a vendor selling roasted skewers of something vaguely resembling chicken.
"How much?"
The vendor, a wiry man with a patchy beard, barely glanced at me.
"Two coppers apiece."
I handed him a coin from the stolen pouch and took a skewer, biting into the tough, overcooked meat. It was dry and salty.
I didn't linger. Food in my stomach, I moved on, weaving through the narrow streets until I found what I was looking for—a rundown inn with a half-broken sign swaying above its entrance. The paint had long since peeled away, leaving only faint traces of its name.
The inside was no better. The wooden floor sagged, and the air was thick with the scent of old ale and damp wood. A few patrons occupied the tables, their faces obscured by hoods or shadows, murmuring among themselves. The kind of place where no one asked questions.
Perfect.
I approached the counter, where a burly innkeeper stood wiping a mug with a cloth that looked dirtier than the cup itself. He eyed me lazily, then grunted.
"Rooms are five silver a night. No trouble, no questions."
I slid the coins across the counter.
"Fine."
He bit one of them, nodded, then tossed me a rusted key.
"Upstairs. Last door on the left."
I took it without a word and climbed the creaking staircase.
The room was exactly what I expected—small, damp, and barely furnished. A straw mattress on a wooden frame. A single window, its glass cracked. A washbasin with water that had likely been sitting there for days.
It would do.
Locking the door behind me, I sat on the bed, exhaling slowly. It had been a long day. My body still ached from the wounds I shouldn't have survived. My mind, from everything else.
For the first time since arriving in this world, I allowed myself a moment to rest.
Then, with a tired sigh, I laid back, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, I would leave for the Capital.