The streets shimmered with beauty, but neither of them slowed to admire it. They walked straight to a bar—or more like a hotel, really, with too many services to count.
At the counter, Sam leaned forward, flashing his easy smile. His brown hair caught the lamplight, green eyes bright with confidence. He wasn't flawless, but he was above average—enough to turn heads when he wanted.
"Excuse me, miss," he said, voice smooth.
The counter lady barely blinked. Not impressed. Not even a twitch of a smile.
"Yes, sir? What do you need?"
"Well…" Sam hesitated just enough to look sincere. "We'd like to make our identities. You know, become registered mercenaries. It's… hard. I'm just an orphan, and she's a noble. But we've decided—we'll work for ourselves."
The woman said nothing. No sighs, no scolding. Just silence. But their faces were pitiful enough that she didn't refuse outright. Sylvia, hiding behind Sam's shoulder like he was her only shield, only deepened the impression.
"You both ran away, didn't you?" the woman finally asked.
Sam's smile didn't falter. "No, no. Not like that. We just want a new start. Somewhere far away."
"Running away is what that's called," said a man a little farther down the counter, sipping his wine with a crooked grin.
"Haha, maybe so," Sam admitted easily. "So, can you help us or not?"
The lady sighed and pulled out a strange device that glowed faintly with magic. "Place your hands here.
Sam pressed his hand against the crystal first. A sharp peep. Rank C.
The lady raised her brows. Impressive. At his age, most boys barely scraped E rank. D, if they were lucky.
Sylvia placed her hand next. Rank D.
A murmur ran through the room. The difference between ranks was vast. After 5th rank, every step higher multiplied strength by tenfold. Sam—an 8th rank—stood on an entirely different plane than Sylvia, who was still at 9th.
There were only two known 4th-rankers in the capital: Duke Veirdan, and the King himself. And now… here was this boy.
Names were filled next.
Sam: simply "Sam." No surname—no family name—marking him as a commoner.
Sylvia: her full name, a baron's daughter, inked in careful strokes.
The lady peered at Sam's weapon of choice. "A spearman?"
"Yes." Sam's smile grew a little sharper. "The spear is the greatest weapon. Offense and defense together—it's the creed of battle itself."
The man drinking earlier chuckled. "So, you're saying a spear beats every other weapon?"
"I didn't say that," Sam replied coolly. "I just said it's one of the greatest. The greatest, if you ask me."
The man shook his head, still amused. "A weapon is only as great as the one who wields it. Even daggers can bring down a fool who thinks himself unbeatable. Remember that, boy."
Sam said nothing—only nodded faintly. "Ah. I see. You must simply not accept the truth of the spear."
The man spat outright with twisted face this time. "Arrogant kid."
A robed figure, sitting quietly nearby, finally stirred. "Well, well. Another spear-user, hm?" His tone was neutral, almost cold.
Sam straightened. "Yes. I am. And you are…?"
"Oh, I'm one too," the man replied. He studied Sam with unblinking eyes. "You've got options, boy. I could groom you, if you dare. Come to my estate in a week, and I'll sponsor you myself."
Sam bowed slightly. "I'd be honored. But first—could my friend finish her test?"
Sylvia's turn. The crystal hummed. Her path leaned not toward sword or spell, but alchemy.
"A mage? Or an alchemist?" asked the robed man.
"Alchemy," Sylvia said firmly.
"Idiot," muttered the wine-drinker. "A mage and an alchemist are the same."
The robed man only smiled faintly, setting aside his cup. His green hair shimmered under the lamp—revealing him as a noble.
"Perhaps fate led us to meet," he said lightly.
"Perhaps," Sam replied with a grin. Or perhaps it was all just a twist of destiny—or plot armor—guiding the "hero" into place. Who could tell?
The man left with only a promise: "One week. Same place."
Sam's smile lingered as he watched him go.
Moments later, chaos sparked. Sylvia had snatched five silver coins from a nearby desk. She thought it harmless—money for a greater cause—but the owner stormed back, shouting.
"You thief! Give me back my coins!"
Sylvia froze, clutching the coins, then darted behind Sam.
"Please, sir," Sam said calmly. "Lower your voice."
"If I don't? What will you do?" the man sneered.
Sam's voice rang sharp, like a judgment passed: "You accuse her without proof. She is a noble. Would she really steal from you? Perhaps you misplaced them. Accusing her without knowing? That is the true shame."
Sylvia clung to him, tears glimmering. "I didn't! He just yelled at me…"
The crowd turned against the man. "It's just five silvers," someone muttered. "Why fuss over blaming a girl?"
The accuser grit his teeth, but sat back down, humiliated.
Until his friends rose.
"What's this, Yolo? These kids calling you a liar?"
"Thieves!" Yolo spat.
Sam's hand slid to the spear strapped to his back. "If it's justice you want, then justice you'll get."
The clash was quick, brutal—
The men rose from their seats, chairs scraping harshly against the floor. Yolo's three friends circled, faces twisted in mockery.
"So," one sneered, "the little thief has a knight to defend her?"
Another spat on the ground. "What's that stick gonna do against real men?"
Sam's hand slid to the spear at his back. He unstrapped it in one smooth motion, the metal gleaming in the lamplight. His green eyes sharpened. "If it's justice you want, then justice you'll get."
Sylvia clutched his sleeve. "Sam—don't…" Her voice was small, almost drowned by the crowd's murmurs.
But he only stepped forward, calm, composed. His grip tightened. The spear seemed almost weightless in his hands.
The first man lunged, swinging a crude club. Sam pivoted, the spear's shaft flashing sideways—crack! The club snapped in half, splinters scattering across the floor. Before the man could blink, the blunt end of the spear rammed into his gut. He collapsed, choking for air.
"Wha—!" The second came in roaring, a dagger raised. Too close. Too fast.
Sam didn't retreat. He advanced. The spear's tip flickered like lightning, striking the man's wrist with brutal precision. Clang! The dagger clattered to the floor. A second strike cracked against his jaw—sharp, clean. The man spun, teeth flying, before crumpling unconscious.
The crowd gasped.
"Kid's insane—look at his control!" someone whispered.
The third and Yolo himself rushed in together, one swinging a chair, the other a short sword.
Sam's lips curled faintly—almost a smile.
The spear swept in a wide arc. Crash! The chair shattered to pieces, wood scattering like straw. With the momentum, the spear twirled back, the shaft slamming into Yolo's ribs with a sound like breaking branches. He flew backwards, smashing into a table, wine spilling everywhere.
Sylvia gasped, covering her mouth. Her wide eyes glimmered—not with fear now, but awe.
The last man, trembling, tried one final rush. Desperation burned in his eyes.
Sam didn't wait. His spear thrust shot forward, stopping just short of the man's throat. The tip hovered there, so close the man dared not breathe. Sam's voice was cold, unshaken:
"Enough."