A familiar emerald glow fluttered at the edge of vision—the interface only he could see:
Essence: 312
Next Threshold: 400
Task Log: — Purchase personal lodging (open)
— Acquire basic armour (open)
— Register with Mars Guild (open)
Simple goals, yet each promised a pulse of Essence toward the following fragment of the Blessing of Chaos. The Hidden Pantheon had broken his chains; now it seemed eager to see what he would do with the gift.
Lucian squared his shoulders, adjusted the drab traveller's cloak Finley had pressed on him that morning, and strode down the cracked flagstones toward Sereve's Lower Market. First order of business: a second-hand hauberk and a bunkhouse room where he could sleep without dreaming of iron fetters.
The registrar's final warning rattled in his memory, but he only smiled. "You'll be back," the man had said. Maybe. Yet as ash from his former life scattered on the breeze, Lucian Rook felt certain of one thing:
If the world tried to chain him again, his wrists would be far less willing— and his will forged in stranger fires than before.
The Lower Market of Kalkata was a cacophony of iron clanks, livestock bawls, and hagglers cursing one another in six dialects. Lucian threaded the stalls with purposeful haste, cloak hooded against the harsh noon glare.
He halted before a weather-scarred sign: GAVON ODDGEAR – SURPLUS & MAIL**. The proprietor—a burly, one-eyed veteran—leaned against a crate of dented helms.
"Need a hauberk," Lucian said, lifting a chain shirt that still reeked faintly of troll blood. "Something that won't shear if a goblin sneezes."
"Three silver," Gavon grunted. "Take it or limp off."
Lucian winced; that was half his remaining purse. He set the mail down and reached to shake Gavon's hand—activating Revelator's Touch beneath the guise of greeting. Emerald script flared behind his eyes:
Gavon Oddgear
Old scaphoid fracture · Arthritic thumb
No wonder the man favored his right side. Lucian pressed a thumb into the juncture of Gavon's wrist bones; the veteran hissed.
"Hurts to grip coin, doesn't it?" Lucian murmured. "Let me reset that bone—gratis—then you knock a silver off the price."
Gavon's brow climbed. "You a bonesetter or a con?"
"Ten heartbeats, and you'll know."
The veteran extended his arm. Lucian palpated, then jerked the scarred thumb with a sharp twist—crack! Gavon swore a tide of sailor's oaths, then flexed experimentally. Shock melted to wonder.
"Saints strike me… pain's half gone."
"Two silvers," Lucian reminded gently.
"Done." Gavon clapped him on the shoulder, nearly buckling his knees. "Need a helm too? On the house."
Essence + 5 pulsed in his vision; the counter rose to 317.
Next he found The Stonemason's Rest, a crooked bunkhouse perched over a tannery vat. The keeper, Mrs Thropp, eyed his coin and his plain cloak before offering a thin mattress, a water basin, and a padlockable chest for one copper a night, five in advance. Lucian paid gladly—cheap, smelly, yet wholly his.
He stowed the new chain shirt, dagger, and a pair of fingerless gloves; then, donning a clean tunic, he marched uphill toward the hulking red-brick edifice of the Mars Guild of Free Lances.
Inside the guild's columned atrium, a queue of hopeful sellswords waited beneath banners of griffin and hammer. A clerk with quill-inked fingers pushed Lucian toward a side chamber marked PROBATION EXAM. Within, three assessors sat:
Captain Brevin – a square-jawed veteran in mail
Adept Limu – a bespectacled mage with ink-black tattoos
Physic Sister Meryl – healer robes identical to Finley's order
A half-smashed training dummy and a small puzzleboard lay on the floor; a ledger upon the table.
"Name?" Brevin barked.
"Lucian Rook."
"Experience?"
"Military levy on the Border March, porter for Silver-rank company."
"Magic?" Limu asked.
Lucian hesitated. Reveal the Chaos Blessing? Better to show something small. "Minor healing & anatomy," he said.
Brevin tossed Lucian a blunted short-sword. "You'll face Recruit Torma. One solid strike."
Torma—a hulking farm boy—charged. Lucian ducked low, chain shirt clinking, and jabbed pommel into the lad's ribs. Torma wheezed and dropped. Brevin grunted approval.
Next the puzzleboard: wooden runes slid into slots to form a glyph sequence. Limu timed him with a sandglass. Lucian recalled Elfriede's endless rune lessons during campfire watches; his fingers flew. Sand still fell when he locked the final rune in place.
Lastly, Sister Meryl lifted her sleeve, revealing mottled bruises. "Treat that with whatever skill you claim."
Lucian touched her wrist. Revelator's Touch lit her status: Torn forearm tendon. A deft press on three points sent blood humming; he wrapped a compression bandage, murmuring the tendon-sheath remedy Father once taught. Pain eased from her face at once—clear as sunrise.
Meryl flexed her fingers, astonished. "Proper technique," she said to the panel. "Better than half our field medica."
Brevin scratched a note. Limu blew dust from the ledger and stamped a brass seal. "Probationary Bronze License granted."
A small rectangle of bronzed parchment slid across the table: GUILD CERTIFICATE – L. Rook, Bonesetter / Explorer.
Essence + 15. Counter climbed to 332.
"Report any contract earnings within forty-eight hours," Brevin added. "And—Rook—don't die. Bad for guild numbers."
Lucian bowed. "I'll try to disappoint you."