The scene shifts to the edge of Harrowick Forest, mist curling low across the undergrowth. Birds have long since stopped singing. The woods are still—too still—until a blur of motion cuts through the trees.
A pack of wolves, usually the predators of this domain, comes sprinting through the brush. Tongues out, eyes wild, they run like prey. Not far behind them, crashing through the bushes like a lunatic possessed, comes a blood-drenched figure.
The protagonist.
Covered in cuts, filth, and the blood of beasts, his chest heaves as he barrels forward with a rusted sword held high. His eyes burn with a wild fire as he roars:
"GET OVER HERE! I'M GOING TO SKIN YOU ALIVE!"
His voice echoes like a curse through the forest.
His hair is a tangled mess, dirt caked across his worn face, and a manic grin splits his features wide. His tattered shirt flaps with every step. Despite his appearance, his movements are precise—unorthodox, brutal, like a street dog that's survived far worse.
He's not fighting like a trained knight. He's fighting like a cornered animal that's learned to bite back.
The wolves scatter, yelping and diving between trees, but one stumbles—too slow.
The protagonist lunges. With an animal snarl, he swings the rusted blade downward with all his weight.
Squelch.
The forest is silent once more, save for the sound of heavy breathing and the drip of blood hitting leaves.
He stands over the corpse, panting, the fire in his eyes dimming just slightly. Then he drops the sword, raising his hands in triumph as he yells to no one:
"SKILL LEVEL UP: BRAWL LV. 11!"
A half-crazed laugh bubbles from his chest as he slumps against a tree.
"God... I'm not gonna survive this world with my sanity intact."
He pulls out a small rag, wiping some of the blood from his face.
"But hey... EXP is EXP."
reached Level 5!
Stat Gains (Randomized):
+1 Intelligence → "...Fuck."
+1 Strength → "Okay, I can live with that."
+1 Dexterity → "Finally, something useful."
Welcome to Harrowick
The gates of Harrowick loomed ahead, a patchwork border of worn timber and rusted iron spears. Morning mist still clung to the cobbled road like breath on glass, and just beyond it, life was already stirring: market stalls opening, wagons rolling in, a distant clang of hammer on steel.
And then… they saw him.
Drenched in blood, shirt torn, dragging three gutted wolves behind him by the tail, a rusted blade slung over his shoulder and a grin that could kill crops, Darian strode down the road like a vengeful spirit.
A merchant unloading a cart froze.
A guard at the outer gate reached for his spear.
Someone screamed, "Monster!"
"Relax," Darian growled, blood dripping onto the stone. "They started it."
One of the guards, a stocky man with a reddish beard and decent chainmail, stepped forward, holding up a gauntleted hand. "Oi! Stop right there. You can't just come walking in covered in blood and dragging corpses."
"They're wolves," Darian said, voice flat. "I skinned them. Want to check?"
The guard squinted, then leaned forward slightly to inspect the carcasses. The rough leatherwork was shoddy but functional. No mistaking the animal forms.
"You some kind of hunter?"
"Sure," Darian said. "Let's go with that."
The second guard leaned toward the first. "He's got the look of a bandit."
"He's got the smell of a brewery," the first whispered back.
Darian sighed, tired, blood-caked, and very much not in the mood for red tape. "Look, I've been in the woods all night chasing these mutts. I want to sell the pelts, maybe buy a better sword, get something in my stomach that's not raw rage. You going to let me in, or am I sleeping in a ditch with my new furry friends here?"
There was a pause. The first guard held up a finger. "You cause trouble, we throw you out."
Darian gave a mock bow. "Wouldn't dream of it."
The gates creaked open.
Inside Harrowick
The streets were narrow but bustling—wooden shops, crooked chimneys, and signs swinging in the morning breeze. The Embersteel Smithy spat sparks into the sky. A quest board hung just outside The Red Mare Tavern, curling with papers. A guild branch, tucked between a tanner and an apothecary, stood like a forgotten monument.
Darian's eyes moved quickly, scanning shops and alleyways. People gave him space—some out of fear, others out of plain disgust.
"First stop…" he muttered, cracking his neck. "Let's get rid of these damned pelts."
The Adventurer's Guild stood at the corner of two intersecting cobbled streets, the emblem of two crossed swords above its arched oak door. It wasn't as grand as the capital's, but it looked solid—stone base, wooden upper floor, and a faint scent of alcohol and ambition wafting from the windows.
Darian stepped inside.
The lobby was modest but clean. A long desk at the front was manned by a bored-looking young woman with dark eyes and short black hair. Around the room were notice boards, benches, and a few adventurers in worn leather armor chatting over mugs.
The girl at the counter blinked as Darian approached, blood-stained and still reeking of the forest.
"Uh… can I help you?"
"Yeah," Darian said, dropping the pouch of silver on the desk. "Name's Darian. I want to register."
She stared for a second longer before pulling out a form.
"New registrants pay two silver. Basic license. You'll start at Bronze Rank. You'll need to check in every month to keep your license active, and don't take quests above your clearance or you'll be fined—or killed."
She pushed the form toward him.
"Name, age, combat specialty."
Darian leaned over and scribbled with the provided quill.
Name: Darian
Age: …Mentally 17, Physically 24
Combat Specialty: Improvised melee / unorthodox swordplay
He handed it back.
The girl squinted at his "Combat Specialty" line but said nothing. She stamped the paper, then handed him a worn leather tag with a small bronze emblem etched into it.
"There. Congratulations, Darian. You're now a registered adventurer."
Her tone was flat. "Don't die."
Outside the Guild
Darian walked out into the sunlit street, flipping the bronze tag in his hand.
"Alright," he muttered. "Step one: survive. Step two: don't screw this up. Step three: figure out how to keep those kids alive…"
He trailed off, looking toward the forest he came from.
"…Guess I should get back soon."
But as he turned to leave, he glanced at the quest board beside the guild hall. A small piece of parchment caught his eye:
"Wolf Sightings Near the Eastern Woods — Reward: 8 Silver"
Contact: Harrowick Guildhall
He smirked.
"They're already late."
The quest board was riddled with scraps of parchment, most yellowed and curling at the edges. Darian scanned over them quickly, looking for the easy ones—the kind that wouldn't get him killed while still giving him something to sharpen his skills.
"Clearing Rats from a Cellar – 3 Silver"
"Chop and Deliver Firewood – 2 Silver"
"Escort Farmer's Daughter to Southern Field – 5 Silver"
"Wolves in the Eastern Woods – 8 Silver" (Already done, technically)
He grabbed the rat job and firewood delivery, figuring they'd give him a decent warm-up before trying anything like escorting someone's daughter through monster-filled grasslands.
Quest 1: Rats in the Cellar
The old innkeeper who posted the rat job was waiting outside his cellar with a scowl and a heavy key in hand.
"You're late," the man said.
"I just picked the job five minutes ago."
"Still late," the old man muttered, unlocking the creaky trapdoor and motioning below. "They've been eating my grain and shitting in my wine barrels."
Darian descended, drawing his rusty sword. The cellar was pitch black and smelled like mildew and death. He adjusted his grip, crouched low like a feral animal, and waited.
SKITTER—SKITTER—SQUEEEE
The rats were the size of housecats, nasty, wiry things with blood-red eyes. But Darian didn't hesitate.
With a mad grin, he lunged, swinging wildly, moving more like a brawler than a swordsman—low, fast, unpredictable.
Splat.
Splat.
Splat.
Five rats later, the cellar was quiet again.
He climbed back up, blood dripping from his sleeves. "Done."
The innkeeper blinked. "…Did you have to scream like a lunatic while doing it?"
"Yes," Darian said flatly.
The man handed him three silver coins and shut the trapdoor behind him.
Quest 2: Chop and Deliver Firewood
This one came from an old woman who had more firewood than anyone should reasonably need—but none of it was chopped.
Darian rolled up his sleeves, took the axe, and got to work. His muscles burned. His Strength and Endurance helped a little, but he was used to fighting—not farm work.
Still, he powered through.
Chop. Chop. Chop. Stack. Repeat.
Several hours later, drenched in sweat, he dropped the last bundle of split wood on the old woman's porch. She offered him 2 silver and a questionable cookie.
He took the coins. Not the cookie.
Skill Unlocked!
[Basic Woodcutting] – LVL 1
You're not a lumberjack, but you could fake it.
Back at the Guild
With 5 silver heavier and two completed quests under his belt, Darian returned to the Adventurer's Guild to report in.
The same bored receptionist raised an eyebrow. "You're bleeding again."
"Different blood this time," he replied.
She stamped both quests as completed and added a note to his adventurer record:
"Completed: Rodent Extermination / Labor Task"
Reliability: Pending Evaluation
"Looks like your Bronze Rank is off to a messy start," she said, handing back his tag.
"I'll take messy over dead."
He turned to leave, flipping a silver coin in his palm, thinking to himself:
This isn't much… but it's better than being the drunk bastard those kids remember. Step by step, I'll build something better… or die trying.
A Farmer's Daughter and a Rusted Sword
Quest Accepted: Escort the Farmer's Daughter
Objective: Safely guide Sera to the southern grazing fields.
Reward: 5 Silver Coins
Penalty: Emotional damage, legal trouble, public shame.
"Her name's Sera," the farmer grunted, chewing on straw. "She's got a smart mouth and doesn't like listenin'. Just make sure she doesn't get dragged off by wolves or bandits, and we're square."
Darian stood at the gate, arms crossed, rusted sword slung over his back, eyes still faintly bloodshot. "Got it. Keep the loud one alive. Easy."
The door to the farmhouse creaked open, and out stepped Sera—a girl no older than thirteen, wearing patched boots, carrying a stick like it was a royal scepter.
"This is my bodyguard?" she scoffed. "He looks like he got kicked out of a tavern brawl."
"I was the brawl," Darian muttered.
The Road to the Southern Field
The road was a dirt path lined with overgrown bushes and the occasional suspicious rustle.
Sera, of course, didn't shut up.
"So are you, like, a famous adventurer? You don't look famous. Why's your sword so rusty? Is that dried blood on your pants? Are you even awake right now?"
Darian blinked slowly. "You ask a lot of questions for someone who could get eaten at any moment."
"Why would they eat me? You're the one who looks like a chew toy."
Then came the rustling again.
Darian's hand shot out in front of her, silencing her instantly.
Two goblin scouts emerged from the bushes, small, hunched, armed with rusted knives and hungry eyes.
"Stay back," Darian muttered, stepping forward.
Combat Begins
No strategy. No stance.
Just Darian, a rusted blade, and a grin that should've belonged to someone institutionalized.
He rushed the first goblin, feinting low and then bringing the sword down like an axe. It shrieked—dead before it could react.
The second tried to circle around—until Darian kicked dirt in its eyes and slammed it into a tree with his elbow.
Sera blinked. "That… was kind of cool."
He turned back to her, brushing goblin blood off his sleeve. "Cool is relative. Let's move."
Quest Complete
They reached the southern field with no more interruptions.
Sera, now oddly quiet, looked at him as they reached the marker post. "Thanks, I guess. You're kind of weird, but… not useless."
"Put that on my tombstone."
They walked back in relative silence. The farmer handed over 5 silver coins without a word—though he looked mildly impressed at the lack of bruises on his daughter.
Skill Unlocked!
[Intimidating Presence] – LVL 1
You don't need to say much when your face does the talking.
Back at the Guild, the receptionist actually smirked for once.
"Didn't think you'd finish that one. Kid usually gets people mauled."
"She's not that bad," Darian muttered, placing his rusted sword on the counter. "Just needs to talk 30% less."
"You want a harder job?"
"I want more money."
She pointed to a new quest pinned to the board:
"Cave Troubles: Something's stirring in the ruins outside town."
Bronze Rank Minimum. Danger level: Moderate.
Darian's grin returned.
The walk to the ruin was quiet—too quiet.
Darian, sword resting on his shoulder, stared down at his Status Screen, hoping for something new to show for the goblin pelts and escort missions.
[STATUS – LEVEL 5]
Strength: 13
Endurance: 16
Dexterity: 8
Agility: 7
Perception: 6
Intelligence: 3
Wisdom: 2
Mana: -1
New Skill: Intimidating Presence – LVL 1
"Still dumb as a bag of rocks," he muttered. "But damn if I'm not built like a brick wall with a sword."
He paused at the entrance to the ruined cave, a jagged scar in the earth.
Then he saw them — two figures in black robes, slipping quietly into the darkness.
[Perception Check: Pass]
His instincts screamed: Something's off.
He crouched low and followed quietly, keeping to the walls, stepping only where the shadows were thickest.
New Skill Acquired: [Sneak – LVL 1]
You walk like a rat. But hey, it works.
Darian: "Oh nice."
Deeper In
The deeper he crept, the more the rot hit his nose—burnt flesh, old blood, and mana twisted into something foul.
He peeked around a corner and his breath caught.
Cages. Dozens of them.
Goblins.
Kobolds.
A displacer cub.
A wyvern chick.
And in one cage—elf children. Pale-haired, sharp-eared, terrified.
He swallowed hard. Why would elves be here?
Then it clicked.
"Elves are loved by mana. Perfect mana batteries. Especially for dark mages.
And kids? Even more potent. Easier to break. Easier to bind."
Darian's fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked.
The Dark Order.
He remembered them now—a cult of twisted mages, banned across all known continents. Worshippers of death, decay, and despair. The kind of people who don't just kill you—they experiment first.
"HEY YOU! What are you doing here?!"
Darian froze.
One of the black-robed mages stood at the hallway's mouth, eyes glowing with cursed runes. He raised a hand.
"Dark Flame!"
A wave of black fire shot forward.
WHOOOOM
Darian's world went white-hot as flame consumed his face and chest.
"AHH—FUCK!! I'M ON FIRE!! FUCK FUCK FUCK—"
He rolled, slapped at his chest, and then—charged.
The mage reeled, surprised. "You're insane!"
Darian screamed like a demon, eyes wild, mouth twisted into a grin.
The rusted sword swung in a wide arc, eating magic blasts with sheer rage.
One hit. Two hits.
**Third hit—**the sword slashed across the mage's chest. Blood exploded as the cultist collapsed, choking on his own black magic.
Darian stood panting, shirt smoking, face scorched and cracked with black burns.
New skill Acquired: [Dark Magic Resistance – Minor]
You've survived what should've killed you. Barely.
Resistance to dark flames, curses, and necrotic mana +10%
Darian: "Thank god for my high END… Otherwise, I'd be a fried steak by now…"
More footsteps echoed through the cavern.
Four. No—five black-robed mages appeared from the shadows, their hands already glowing with sickly dark energy. Their eyes fell on the fallen cultist, his chest split open, leaking blood and cursed smoke.
Darian, still steaming from the burns, stood over the body, sword in hand.
He slowly turned to them, face cracked and singed, and said in the driest, deadpan voice:
"It wasn't me. I found him like this."
The mages exchanged glances.
"Kill him."
A barrage of dark spells flew through the air, twisting into black tendrils, spikes, and waves of flame. Darian had no time to dodge. The magic slammed into him.
BOOM – One hit his side.
CRACK – Another cracked against his shoulder.
SPLASH – A bolt grazed his face.
His body burned. His lungs screamed.
[Dark Magic Resistance – LVL 2… 3… 4… 5…]
He staggered back, gritting his teeth.
"STOP IT—" he roared, as another blast threw him against the cave wall.
[Dark Magic Resistance – LVL 6… 7… 8… 9…]
"I'M GETTING ANGRY!"
The cultists hesitated.
[Dark Magic Resistance – MAXED: LVL 10]
You have gained full resistance to Tier 1 Dark Magic.
Tier 1 spells now deal negligible damage.
Warning: Physical pain tolerance increased. Check for long-term trauma later.
Smoke cleared.
Darian rose from the cracked wall, shoulders steaming, face contorted in a mix of agony and joy.
"You guys are done…"
He lifted the rusted blade, and for a moment, it seemed to glow—no magic, just blood, ash, and rage.
"It doesn't hurt anymore."
The cultists threw more spells, desperate.
The magic hit him—but did nothing. He walked through it.
A slow, steady pace. One foot after another.
Like a beast unchained.
Then he charged.
The first cultist barely raised a shield before Darian's blade split his skull in half.
The second screamed, trying to flee—only for the rusted sword to swing horizontally, severing his head clean off.
The last three turned to run.
Too late.
Darian was on them like a wolf among sheep.
Screams. Blood. Bone.
One's torso was opened from shoulder to hip. Another's spine was crushed beneath a boot. The last begged for mercy before Darian drove his sword into the man's throat and twisted.
The cavern fell quiet.
Darian stood among the dead, drenched in blood not his own, chest heaving.
His hands trembled—not from pain… but from something else.
[New Trait Gained: "Unyielding Fury"]
When under heavy magical assault, gain stacking resistance and increased physical strength.
+5% Strength per hit taken (cap: 50%) while enraged.
He wiped the blade against a fallen robe and muttered, "Guess I'm not the tutorial protagonist after all."
Then he turned toward the cages. The monsters hissed. The elves stared. Silent. Scared.
Darian cracked his neck and whispered to himself:
"Alright... Let's break some chains."
-perspective of the elven children
The bars were cold.
Three elven children, no older than ten, sat huddled in a cramped iron cage. Their silver hair tangled. Their emerald eyes dim.
The air reeked of blood, filth, and old magic.
They hadn't spoken in hours. Not since the last child—a younger boy—was dragged from the cage and never returned.
The oldest among them, Elariel, pressed her tiny body in front of the others, her jaw tight. She hated humans. All of them. Even the half-bloods. Greedy, violent, filthy things, her mother said.
They sell us.
They cage us.
They experiment on us.
And then…
They heard him.
Footsteps. Fast. Unsteady.
Then a voice. A human one.
"It wasn't me. I found him like this."
Elariel leaned forward. Through the bars, she could barely make out the silhouette of someone—not robed, not chanting, not like the others.
Disheveled. Bloodied. A rusty sword.
Another mage shouted. And then—
BOOM
CRACK
FWOOSH
The stranger screamed.
One of the younger elves began to cry. Elariel wrapped her arm around her, whispering sharp words in Elvish to hush her.
They watched as the man was battered, burned, and blasted.
But he didn't fall.
He screamed louder.
He got angrier.
"STOP IT—I'M GETTING ANGRY!"
His body was blackened with burns. His clothes torn. His face half melted. But he didn't stop.
He rose.
He moved.
Through the pain.
Through the spells.
Like a creature from one of the old stories—the kind the elders whispered about when they spoke of monsters born from hatred, not magic.
"He's not human…" one of the children whispered.
"He's… something else."
They watched, eyes wide, as the man tore through the robed mages like an animal.
Heads flew. Blood sprayed. Limbs cracked.
It wasn't graceful.
It wasn't heroic.
It was brutal. Primal. Horrifying.
But something inside Elariel stirred—not fear. Not hate.
A flicker of something else.
And then it ended.
The man stood there, surrounded by corpses, panting.
His eyes flicked toward the cages.
Elariel stiffened.
Their eyes locked.
He wasn't glowing with power. He didn't bear a crest or a noble name.
Just burnt skin, a cracked sword, and the blood of their captors on his boots.
He didn't say anything.
But something about that silence was louder than any war cry.
Elariel's hand slowly uncurled from the cage bar.
Maybe… not all humans.
Just maybe.
The last echo of a body hitting stone faded. The cave finally fell silent, save for the crackle of dying embers and dripping blood.
Darian stood there, panting, his arms trembling. He glanced at his sword—it had done its job well…
SNAP
The blade cracked in two as he brought it down on the final cage lock.
Darian:
"Ffffffff—DAMMIT! You held on this long, and now you give up?"
He tossed the broken hilt aside and rubbed his palm, fingers numb from the force. With a groan, he shoved open the bent cage door, revealing the three elven children huddled at the back.
For a moment, they didn't move.
Their eyes locked on him—wide, unblinking, both scared and cautious.
He knelt, arms open slightly, voice lower now. A bit gentler.
Darian:
"Hey. It's alright. I'm not one of them. I mean, clearly—unless those cultists are also covered in their own friends' blood."
No response.
He sighed, glanced around at the corpses, and muttered under his breath.
Darian:
"This is gonna look great if anyone walks in now…"
One of the kids, the smallest boy, peeked out. Then another. Finally, the oldest—Elariel—stepped out with a slow, careful gaze that felt like a dagger. Regal, even now.
Darian stood up, slowly, giving them space.
He noticed a decent-looking sword on one of the dead mages. He yanked it free, wiped the blood off on the mage's cloak, and gave it a test swing.
Shing!
"Not bad. Little flashy for my taste."
He turned back to the kids.
The silence was thick. The kind of silence that makes you question your life choices.
Then finally…
Darian:
"Soooo… what a day, huh?"
Blank stares.
Darian scratched his head, sheepish.
Darian:
"I mean, don't get me wrong, I love spontaneous death cult ambushes before breakfast, but this is a bit much even for me."
The small boy gave a tiny giggle.
The older girl elbowed him.
Darian:
"You guys got names? Or should I just call you Elf One, Two, and Tiny?"
Elariel's voice was clipped and formal.
Elariel:
"Why did you help us?"
Darian blinked.
Darian:
"Why…? I mean… you were in a cage. That's a pretty bad place to be."
Elariel:
"We are elves. You are human."
Darian shrugged.
Darian:
"You're kids. And I'm a guy who was bored and angry and thought, 'Hey, why not ruin a bunch of cultists' day?' Lucky you."
She stared at him like she didn't believe a word.
He looked toward the cave exit.
Darian:
"Alright. Enough standing around. We gotta move. That fight made enough noise to wake the whole forest."
The smallest boy tugged his arm timidly.
"Mister… are we safe now?"
Darian paused.
He glanced down at his bandaged hand, the ash on his coat, the blood-soaked ground, the new sword in his grasp.
He forced a half-smile.
Darian:
"As long as you're with me? Yeah. You're safe."
He turned toward the exit, the flickering light of early dawn filtering in faintly through the cave mouth.
Darian:
"Let's get out of here. I know a place we can rest, and if I'm lucky, they might have something that isn't mushrooms or dried meat."
The kids followed.
Behind them, the corpses of robed mages lay silent in the cave.
Darian pushed aside the last of the hanging vines that shrouded the cave entrance. A faint breeze brushed against his face, cool and earthy. The sky outside was stained with the earliest blush of dawn—grey with streaks of orange.
He turned over his shoulder.
Darian:
"Alright, come on—light's up. We'll head through the woods and—"
THWIP.
CRACK.
Something sharp stung his neck. His hand flew up too late—he felt a needle, metal, maybe wood, buried shallow into his skin.
Darian:
"Wha—ah hell no—"
His vision blurred. Limbs went heavy, as if his own blood had turned to stone. He collapsed to one knee.
Darian:
"Okay... okay... new rule... never say it's over until you're in a bed with a locked door..."
He crumpled to the ground with a grunt.
The elven children gasped. The oldest shouted:
"Stop! He's not one of them!"
But it was too late.
Two cloaked figures in muted green and gold dropped from the treetops, landing silently like phantoms. One was already by Darian, hoisting him up effortlessly.
The other—a tall, stern-looking elf with short silver-blonde hair and sharp emerald eyes—glared toward the children.
"You were rescued by this? A blood-soaked human? Likely a slaver or their buyer."
The kids shouted in protest, but were ignored.
The older elf tied Darian's arms behind his back, checked his pulse, and muttered:
"Still breathing. Paralyzing toxin worked. Let's bring him to the Grove for questioning."
"Wait—"
"No time. If the Dark Order was here, we move now. Now."
And just like that, they vanished into the trees, leaping from branch to branch with impossible grace, dragging Darian's limp body with them.
Back in Darian's Head – A Fuzzy Mess
Somewhere between consciousness and a blackout, Darian's thoughts floated like broken planks on dark water.
"Wha… again? I just… saved those brats…"
"Is this a kink thing? This better not be a kink thing…"
"I hate elves…"
Then everything went dark.
A faint warmth on his face stirred him.
Birdsong.
Wind.
...Leaves rustling overhead.
Am I dead?
No... if I were dead, I wouldn't feel like I was drooling on wood.
Darian's eyes creaked open. The world spun.
He was tied to a post. Wooden. Decorated with vines. The ground below was soft moss and white stone—an open glade enclosed by a circle of twisted, towering trees. Their branches curled unnaturally inward, forming a sort of dome above.
Dozens of elves stood in the distance, murmuring among themselves, some glancing toward him with narrowed eyes.
His arms were tied behind his back. Ankles bound. A vine-stitched blindfold had been pushed up on his forehead, likely after they'd seen he was awake.
"Well... this sucks."
He tested the ropes. Tight. Magic-infused, likely.
Then:
[New Skill Acquired: Paralyzing Toxin Resistance - Level 1]
"Oh, great," he muttered aloud. "Just what I needed. Another reminder that my life sucks hard enough to warrant resistance skills."
From the side, a voice snapped at him.
"Silence, human."
A group of elves approached.
At the center of them was Vaelyndor, a high elf captain by the look of his ceremonial armor—gilded, leaf-etched, polished like glass. Beside him stood a younger elven woman with long violet hair, silver tattoos on her cheek, and a staff shaped like a twisted branch. A druid, judging by her attire.
Vaelyndor frowned.
"You awoke faster than expected. That particular toxin has kept ogres under for days."
Darian smirked lazily.
"Yeah, well... maybe I'm just built different."
The druid looked to the captain.
"His body developed resistance in a matter of hours. That's… abnormal. Possibly cursed."
"Or trained," Vaelyndor muttered darkly. "Human. Who are you working for? Why were you at the Dark Order's site? Speak."
Darian groaned.
"Oh, I dunno. Just sightseeing. Heard the Dark Order had a killer 2-for-1 deal on cage-rust removal."
No one laughed.
Darian sighed and leaned his head back against the post.
"Look, Vaelyndouche or whatever your name is—I wasn't with them. I killed them. You know, like a responsible neighbor."
"You expect us to believe that? A human, alone, untrained, somehow infiltrates a dark mage stronghold and walks out with elven children?"
"Well... I ran, mostly. Screamed a lot. Took a fireball to the face—don't recommend it. Oh, and I leveled up. That was neat."
A younger elf rushed into the grove just then, breathing heavily.
"Captain! The children confirmed it. He saved them. Fought a dozen mages. One child said… he laughed while on fire."
Darian grinned through his bloodied face and cracked lips.
"Told you."
The druid lowered her staff slowly, brows raised.
"Strange man."
Vaelyndor's scowl didn't fade, but he nodded at the guards.
"Untie him. Slowly."
"Sir?"
"He's still human. But he risked his life for elven children. That… earns some measure of courtesy."
The ropes loosened. Darian rolled his stiff shoulders with a hiss.
"Oh thank god. I was starting to get rope burn in places I didn't know I had nerves…"
After a brief, tense goodbye with the high elves—who were polite enough not to fully apologize but gave him a pouch of rare herbs and one very awkward "thank you"—Darian finally left the grove behind.
He'd been walking through the forest trail for nearly an hour when it hit him.
"Wait a damn second…"
He stopped, eyes wide, then quickly brought up his status screen.
[Status Screen]
Name: Darian
Race: Human
Level: 8 (↑)
Title: None
Mana: -1
HP: 163
Stamina: 92
Strength: 13
Endurance: 16
Dexterity: 9 (↑)
Agility: 8 (↑)
Intelligence: 4
Wisdom: 3
Perception: 7 (↑)
"Huh… I'm level 8? When did that happen?"
He scratched his head.
"Guess killing half a cult will do that…"
"Great. Dexterity and Agility went up—nice. Luck? Could use that. But—Intelligence went DOWN?!"
He nearly tripped on a root.
"How does that even happen? What, am I getting dumber the more I fight?! Is that normal?!"
A beat.
"...Actually, yeah. Yeah, that tracks."
He sighed and marched on toward town.
Scene: Harrowick Adventurer's Guild – Debriefing
The town gates of Harrowick creaked open just as the sun began to lower behind the trees. Darian, still partly bloodstained and carrying a new elven-forged short sword, made his way down the main street toward the Adventurer's Guild.
The receptionist, the same half-orc woman from before—Gelda—raised a brow when he walked in.
"Back already? Thought you were dead."
"Yeah, well... I considered it, but it didn't stick."
He plopped down in front of her, sliding a bloodstained insignia from one of the dark mages across the counter.
Her face stiffened.
"Where did you get this?"
"Cave west of town. About two dozen black-robed lunatics, cage full of monsters, child elves, dark rituals, cult nonsense. I cleaned house."
Gelda's eyes narrowed. She stood, signaling to someone in the back.
"Wait here."
"What, no 'Good job, Darian'? No cookie? This place is cold."
Moments later, a man in chainmail and a blue tabard appeared—Guild Inspector Oram. Tall, broad, and with a scar across his nose, he looked at Darian like he was a spilled drink.
"You telling me you alone took out a Dark Order nest?"
"Well, me and my charming personality."
"...Right."
The man leaned in.
"You got witnesses?"
"You mean besides the dozen traumatized elf kids I rescued?"
There was silence.
Then Gelda sighed and muttered:
"He's not lying. We got reports from elven scouts. They described a 'mad human with a sword on fire screaming like a demon.' One of the kids said he was 'scary but funny.'"
Oram looked stunned.
"...Guess we'll be adding a new rank request."
He handed Darian a stamped confirmation form.
"You just qualified for Iron Rank. Barely. But still."
[New Rank: Iron Adventurer]
Darian's Thoughts:
"Level 8. Iron Rank. A decent sword. And only mild brain damage."
"Yeah. I'm on my way up."
Time to go back to the twins