The class master stood like a statue in the center of the training yard, arms crossed, eyes sharp beneath a worn iron helm.
"Again," he said.
Michael exhaled, lowered into stance, and struck.
The thrust was better this time — cleaner, more controlled — but the man still shook his head.
"You're not stabbing hay," he grunted. "Every motion in this world takes weight. Feel it. Anchor your lead foot. Your power's bleeding out with your balance."
Michael reset. Sword forward. Elbow tight.
Then he moved.
A flash of warmth surged from his core to his arm — not fire, not magic, but clarity.
Skill Acquired: Piercing Thrust (F-Rank)
A disciplined lunge that drives your blade toward the enemy's weak points. Scales with Strength and Agility. Moderate stamina cost.
The strike landed with a satisfying thud against the padded dummy. This time the class master nodded.
"There," he said. "Not good. But not disgraceful, either."
Michael managed a half-smile, his shirt damp with sweat.
"Thanks," he muttered.
"Don't thank me. It's a basic thrust. You've learned to walk. Try not to trip when you start running."
The old man walked off, leaving Michael alone beneath the open sky. The training ground emptied as other players filtered back into town. Michael stood there a moment longer, breathing hard, the tip of his sword pointed at the earth.
He'd done it. His first skill.
A real one. Not a tutorial move. Not some gimmick handed to him for free.
This one he earned.
He sheathed his blade and turned to the gate.
It was time.
The sun hung low as Michael stepped past the village's worn threshold, the dirt road ahead carved between swaying trees. Birdsong filtered through the canopy, and the faintest shimmer of insects traced the air.
The world beyond was waiting.
He followed the trail slowly, one hand resting on his sword. Piercing Thrust sat quiet in the back of his thoughts, like a loaded spring — there if he needed it.
His feet carried him across shallow roots, over dappled light. The land was peaceful, almost too peaceful. Which is why he noticed the movement immediately.
A shift in the grass.
Then amber eyes.
The creature that emerged was low to the ground, fur streaked with silver-gray and dark bristle. A Snarlkin. Michael had read about them in the guidebook — fast, territorial, low-level field monsters. No elemental tricks. Just fangs and fury.
It growled once, and leapt.
Michael moved instinctively, rolling under its pounce, drawing his sword in the same motion. The Snarlkin twisted mid-air and came again, quicker this time.
Piercing Thrust.
The strike connected mid-lunge, driving deep into its side. The beast yelped and skidded across the path.
Not dead.
Michael advanced before it could recover, slashing once, then twice. The second hit landed true. The Snarlkin collapsed, twitching once before going still.
+EXP
No fanfare. No system praise.
Just the sound of his breath and the wind brushing through leaves.
He looked at the beast, then at his blade. His arms ached — but it was the good kind of pain. Earned. Sharpened.
"One down," he muttered.
He turned to move forward.
And stopped.
The road was gone.
Or rather, it was there — but the terrain beneath had changed. Instead of packed earth, the path veered into old stone, faded carvings threading across its surface like veins. A ruin path.
He stepped closer.
The wind died.
And then, without warning, the world tilted.
No time to react.
The stone cracked open beneath his foot.
A shimmer of violet light spiraled upward — and something pulled him down.
No warning.
No prompt.
No escape.
He fell.
Not through air. Through something colder.
And landed hard on cut stone, breath driven from his lungs.
He staggered to his feet.
Dungeon walls surrounded him — old, wet, and echoing with distant movement.
His hand found his sword again.
And then he heard it — a dragging sound, somewhere deeper in the dark.
Michael turned, heart hammering, eyes narrowing.
He hadn't even left the starter zone.
And already, he'd found a dungeon no one had told him about.