"Oi, Sylas! Look over here!"
The voice cut through the buzz of the crowded market, sharp and familiar. It echoed in Sylas's ears, and in that instant, he felt the weight of dozens of eyes turning toward him.
He didn't need to look to know what they were thinking.nIt wasn't the first time.
He remembered the same silence—the same wide-eyed stares—back when he walked into the hall for the Specialist Exam. Whispers had followed him then, just like they did now. He hadn't asked for attention, but it always came. It wasn't his fault his peers were still playing catch-up.
"Congratulations on becoming an Expert!"
A tall, muscular woman called out from within the group, her voice full of genuine pride. Her armor plates clinked slightly as she stepped forward, a grin stretching across her face.
From beside her, a boy with a sword strapped across his back broke into a jog toward Sylas and raised a hand.
"Doesn't even feel like training for you anymore, huh?" he said, giving Sylas a solid high-five.
Sylas offered a faint smile—not out of arrogance, but habit. He stood before them with practiced ease, his posture calm, almost distant. The group of six gathered around him, a mix of warriors and mages, their expressions somewhere between admiration and envy.
Ryze was the first to step forward, flipping his white hair back with a lazy smirk.
"Don't forget to breathe, Captain," he teased, resting a hand on the hilt of his blade.
His sharp, silver eyes flickered with mischief, always watching, always calculating. At just twenty, Ryze had already mastered more weapons than most soldiers learned in a lifetime. He was the group's Weapon Master—a swordsman with unmatched versatility and a devil may care attitude that often clashed with Sylas's discipline.
Alisa let out a short laugh, the sound booming like her punches.
She folded her arms across her broad chest, towering just slightly over the rest.
"Ryze, give it a rest. Our boy just passed a milestone. Let him enjoy it before you challenge him to another duel."
Her bronze skin shimmered with sweat from a recent session, and the chain-wrapped gauntlets on her wrists told stories of fists that had shattered bone and steel alike. She was their Brawler, and while her muscles drew attention, it was her spirit that held the line together.
Leaning against a stone pillar nearby, puffing lightly on a cigar he wasn't supposed to have lit in a public space, stood Ibris—or as everyone called him, Major.
"You're making too much noise," he muttered in a gravelly voice, "It's a damn market, not a parade."
He was older, mid-thirties perhaps, but no one dared question his experience. Once a decorated military officer, Ibris now served as the team's Gunner and Artillery specialist. Scars crisscrossed his arms and neck, relics of battles that most of them only read about in history scrolls.
"You say that like you don't enjoy the attention, old man."
That was Shin, the group's primary Mage, who spoke as he appeared beside Major, robes fluttering despite the lack of wind.
He pushed his glasses up with a sigh, a small arcane sigil still glowing faintly on his hand. At twenty-two, Shin was as calm and intelligent as he was dangerously efficient. His magic was sharp, precise—more like surgery than spellcasting.
Before anyone could speak again, a shadow darted into the circle—swift, silent, but with a grin that betrayed the stealth.
"Captain Sylas! Did you see me earlier? I vanished behind Alisa before she could even blink! That's gotta be a record, right?"
Lynx, the youngest in the squad at just sixteen, beamed like he hadn't just terrified half the shop owners across the street. His twin daggers were sheathed across his back, their hilts worn from overuse. Despite his role as the team's Assassin, Lynx was anything but quiet talkative, extroverted, and constantly bouncing with untamed energy.
A few steps behind Lynx, half-hidden by his energy, was Luna.
The team's Healer, Luna barely made eye contact, her soft blue cloak trailing behind her like a shadow. She gave Sylas a quiet nod, the corners of her mouth twitching upward for just a second before fading again. She was a year younger than him, and though she rarely spoke, her healing magic was second to none. Gentle, steady and absolutely vital.
Sylas looked at them, one by one. His team. Each so different. Each irreplaceable.
And then there was him—Captain Sylas, the team's Frontliner, shield and spear in hand. He didn't have the showiest magic or the loudest voice. But when it came to holding the line, leading charges, or standing firm when the world crumbled—he was the one they followed.
"Alright," he finally said, adjusting the strap of his shield.
"Enough noise. Let's head back. Each of us has more trials coming and every time, they won't be dummies."
Just as the group began to move, Sylas bumped into someone—a boy in an old-fashioned green robe.
The boy barely staggered. His dark, frizzy hair hung low, almost covering one of his eyes, and he peered up at Sylas with quiet intensity.
Normally, such a minor collision would earn nothing more than a nod or muttered apology. But not between two egos. The boy stared up at Sylas, unflinching. Sylas, equally proud, met the gaze without a word. Tension crackled in the space between them.
Ryze, sensing the sudden weight in the air, stepped forward, arms slightly raised.
"Hey, kid. Just let it pass."
Sylas snapped his head toward Ryze, giving him a look—somewhere between confused and disgusted. But Ryze held his ground. He knew Sylas too well. He also knew the type standing before them: calm on the outside, proud on the inside. This wasn't a one-sided flame.
The boy's gaze moved across the team, eyes narrowing as he studied each member as if etching them into memory. When his eyes returned to Sylas, he smirked—a subtle, provoking smile—and walked away without saying a word.
Sylas exhaled sharply.
"Did you see that? I'm being mocked by kids now. You'll be the death of me, Ryze," he muttered.
The group disappeared into the crowd, their presence fading from the busy market.
The town buzzed with activity. It was a Hunter's haven—a market overflowing with weapons, enchanted gear, spell scrolls, potions, and everything a combat unit might need. Cheap, rare, and always in demand.
Hunters roamed in squads. Loud, armored, confident. But that same boy in the green robe wandered alone.
He looked out of place. Not in fear or awkwardness, but in solitude. His satchel looked empty, and he moved with a kind of weightless purpose—as though he didn't have a plan, but didn't need one either.
What caught everyone's attention, however, was the sword strapped to his back.
It stretched from his shoulder to his lower back long-edged, sharp, and uniquely adorned. The handle was wrapped in silk, the cloth flowing faintly with each step.
One glance told you: this was not an ordinary blade.
Eventually, his wandering led him to a small, tucked-away fruit stall one of the few in this town filled with weapons and magic.
"Took forever to find a fruit shop around here," he muttered.
The elderly shopkeeper chuckled,
"Not many folks come to this town looking for apples, boy."
The town wasn't built for comfort. It was an administrative hub tied to the Hunter Academy home to pupil trials, expert trials, recruitment, and military outposts. This was not a place to live. It was a place to be tested, measured, broken, or made.
The shopkeeper squinted at the boy.
"You look strong... Are you a Hunter?"
At first glance, few would call the skinny teen strong. But no one could ignore the sword.
The boy took a bite of an apple, then answered between chews:
"I prefer the term Adventurer. I don't think hunting should be anyone's life goal."
The old man raised an eyebrow.
"Where's your group? I mean your team."
The boy shrugged. "I'm alone."
The shopkeeper's expression twisted in shock. He looked as if he'd seen a ghost.
"Alone? Are you insane? Entering the wilds without a party is suicide. You won't last a day."
The boy just grinned, chewing lazily.
"Relax, old man. I'll make a team. From scratch. People I meet, people I trust. Not some academy-form party."
The shopkeeper shook his head.
"You should make the team first, lad. You step into that territory alone, you're dead in minutes."
The boy chuckled, finishing his apple.
"Don't worry. I'm not here to survive. I'm here to change history."
He tossed the core aside and turned to leave.
"Remember my name, I am Avilio."
And with those words, the seventeen-year-old adventurer took his first step into legend.