Eron stood stiffly at the front desk of the Adventurer's Guild, clutching the wooden clipboard with both hands. The guild hall was larger than he expected, filled with rows of tables, notice boards, and noisy groups of adventurers clanking mugs of ale. Lamps glowed faintly on the walls, fueled by some kind of crystal. The scent of sweat, metal, and roasted meat hung in the air.
The receptionist, a woman with round glasses and a half-bored expression, looked up at him.
"Name?"
"Eron Vale."
"Age? Skill awakened?"
"Fireball," he admitted quietly.
Her quill scratched against parchment without even a flicker of interest. Clearly, she had written that same word dozens of times today. "Rank: Basic. Type: Elemental." She sighed, stamped the page with a carved seal, and slid a small wooden token across the counter. "This marks you as a novice adventurer. Don't lose it. Show it when taking quests or claiming rewards."
A few adventurers lounging nearby smirked, their whispers cutting through the background noise.
"Another Fireball kid."
"Hope he brought marshmallows."
"Maybe he can light our cigars when we're done with real work."
Laughter rippled across a nearby table. Someone even mimed flicking a matchstick.
Eron's face heated, but he swallowed his pride and slipped the token into his pocket. There was nothing to do but move forward.
---
His first assignment was pinned to a side board: Slime Removal – Outer Field.
It was simple, safe, and embarrassingly low-paying. Exactly the kind of task they gave to rookies.
He accepted it immediately.
---
The slime field wasn't far, just a fenced patch of rocky ground with scattered puddles. The afternoon sun glinted off the faintly translucent bodies of four slimes squelching lazily across the dirt. Their gelatinous forms shimmered in green and blue hues, each bounce releasing a faint squish that made his stomach churn.
Eron stepped onto the grass, his token clipped to his shirt like a badge of shame.
"Okay… Let's try this."
He focused, calling forth that familiar warmth from his awakening.
A spark flickered in his hand.
He hurled it at the nearest slime.
Puff.
The flame bounced off like a soap bubble. The slime jiggled once and kept inching forward.
Eron stared. "What the hell..."
He tried again. Another weak spark. Another bounce.
The slimes didn't even notice. One slid closer and slapped lazily at his boot with a wet splat, leaving a smear of sticky residue.
Eron yelped and leapt back.
"Oh no you don't. I'm not failing this."
He summoned another fireball.
Then another.
Then five more.
He kept throwing.
Tiny pingpong flames soared through the air, poof, poof, poof, bouncing harmlessly off the gelatin. Finally, after ten hits, the first slime sizzled and collapsed into a puddle of foul-smelling goo. The others quivered, rippling as though annoyed.
The scent hit him: burnt algae mixed with sour rot. Smoke rose faintly from the scorched ground, stinging his nose.
But Eron didn't stop.
He planted his feet, clenched his jaw, and cast again.
And again.
And again.
The slimes began to falter, their once-lazy bounces slowing into sluggish ripples. With relentless rhythm, Eron hurled fireball after fireball until the field glowed orange and waves of heat shimmered across the air.
A strange thought crossed his mind. Why am I not tired?
He should've been gasping for breath. His arms should've been trembling, his chest burning. But instead, his heartbeat was steady, his lungs calm. The only thing he felt was a constant, comforting heat building inside him, as if his body itself had become a furnace.
His eyes narrowed. Fireball after fireball shot from his hands, rapid and precise, until the last slime hissed, popped, and collapsed in on itself.
Within minutes, the field was silent.
Ash floated gently in the breeze, the grass blackened in wide circles. The air carried the acrid tang of burnt muck.
Eron stood still, blinking.
He wiped his forehead. Barely sweating.
"...I cast over fifty. Maybe more. And I'm still fine?"
He looked at his hands. No tremble. No ache. Just warmth, steady and endless.
Bottomless, he thought. Is it because of the Time Pocket?
The memory of the glowing moss flashed in his mind. The same one he'd stuffed into his backpack. The same one the Child of Time had warned him about.
Maybe… just maybe…
He flexed his fingers, sparks twitching faintly across his knuckles.
His Fireball was weak, sure. But what if he didn't need just one?
What if he could cast a hundred?
What if he could rain them down like arrows?
He clenched his fist and exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the smoldering field. He didn't need to say it aloud. The answer was already burning inside him.
---
Back at the Guild, Eron handed over a small glass vial containing what was once a slime.
The receptionist barely looked up. "Proof accepted." She reached under the counter and slid over a tiny pouch. It clinked faintly.
"Reward: Five copper."
Eron blinked. He opened the pouch and counted. Yep. Five.
"That's it?"
"That's standard rate for entry-level slime extermination," she replied, tone flat. "Come back tomorrow if you want more work."
He gave a half-hearted nod and stepped aside, clutching the pouch.
Five copper... Barely enough for a meal. Definitely not enough for a room.
He tried his luck at several inns. The first innkeeper apologized, claiming they were full. The second gave him a suspicious glance, eyeing his clothes before shaking his head. By the fourth rejection, the message was clear: nobody wanted to rent a room to a penniless, dirt-smudged newcomer with nothing but a weak Fireball skill to his name.
In the end, he gave up and trudged back toward the west gate. Outside the town walls, a sparse cluster of trees offered a small clearing.
From his backpack, he pulled out a compact camping set: a folding tarp, collapsible stove, and his old hiking kettle. The familiar weight of the items grounded him, a reminder that at least some part of his old life was still useful here.
"Back to the basics," he muttered with a wry smile. "Guess not much changed after all."
He set up camp under a tall tree, lit a small flame for warmth, and leaned back against his pack.
Above him, the night sky stretched wide. Stars glittered across the heavens, brighter and stranger than any he had seen back home. Two faint moons hovered at opposite ends of the horizon, their glow painting the clearing in pale silver.
Twenty years, he thought. That's how long it would feel inside the Time Pocket.
He stared upward for a long while, imagining endless days of training, perfecting his Fireball until the world stopped laughing. His fists tightened at the thought, but then he sighed and shook his head.
"Nah... not yet."
The stars blinked softly overhead as his eyes grew heavy.
Slowly, quietly, Eron drifted to sleep.