Chapter 3: Experience Gained!
"Experience gained!"
The notification echoed crisply in Michael Willson's mind, and his eyes lit up like stars.
He clenched his fists, the faint warmth of the potion still spreading through his veins. So this is what it feels like… Just a few gulps, and his talent had grown stronger.
Direct. Simple. Beautiful.
But as the glow of excitement faded, reality crept in like a cold shadow.
Potions. They were medicine for the soul precious, refined, worth their weight in gold. He glanced at the empty glass bottle in his hand, its faint fragrance still clinging to the rim. His chest tightened.
Emily…
He knew exactly what it meant. His sister Emily Martin, already a second-year at Eclipse Academy, wasn't wealthy. She wasn't some heiress or prodigy showered with resources. She had worked tooth and nail, carrying him along since their parents' deaths, smiling through her exhaustion as though the world owed her nothing.
That bottle… it must have cost her dearly.
Michael set it down carefully, as though it were a sacred relic.
"No," he whispered to himself, voice low but firm. "I won't burden her again. If I want strength, I'll earn it myself."
Tomorrow, he decided, he would find a way.
---
Morning at the Market
The marketplace buzzed with energy. The air was heavy with the tang of herbs, the metallic scent of refined ores, and the faint hum of spirit stones powering the many stalls. Signs flickered with glowing runes, advertising everything from cultivation manuals to protective charms.
Michael weaved through the crowd, wide-eyed but focused.
His gaze snagged on a glass case, inside which gleamed a row of shimmering vials. His heart thumped—ordinary soul-strengthening potions.
"800,000 Ū per bottle," the vendor crooned, voice oily and practiced. "Guaranteed to raise your level within days."
Michael froze. Eight hundred thousand?
His mind raced. He had only 200,000 Ū left.
The inheritance his parents had left behind. Barely enough to live on, certainly not enough to compete with the scions of Avalora's great families.
A bitter laugh escaped his throat. No wonder people said it:
The poor write books; the rich wage war.
While children of noble houses drank potions like water, students like him were meant to accept their lot, clawing at scraps of knowledge while others crushed dungeons underfoot.
"Little brother!" the vendor suddenly called out, noticing Michael's hesitation. "You're a student, right? Just awakened your talent? I'll give you a discount. This here"—he waved a vial under Michael's nose—"normally 800,000. But for you, 790,000! Special price."
Michael gave him a flat look. A ten-thousand discount? Does he think I was born yesterday?
Still, he lingered. The vendor leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
"You see, young man, leveling is everything. Talent and profession, sure, they matter—but without levels, you're nothing. Primary warriors range from Level 1 to 100. Want to join a guild? Want to clear dungeons? You need levels."
Michael's brow furrowed. He pulled up his inner panel.
[Talent: Strength Amplification (E-rank)
Level: 3]
Just from Emily's potion last night. And the effects hadn't even fully faded.
His strength continued to climb—hour after hour. Even now, it surged past 1,140 pounds.
Level doesn't matter much to me, he realized. His strength grew whether he fought or not. But to advance his Talent? To upgrade Strength Amplification? He needed potions.
And potions cost money.
"I don't have the funds," Michael said flatly, shaking his head.
The vendor sighed, then his eyes gleamed slyly. "If money's the problem, I've got a solution. What department are you in, boy?"
"Physics. Strength major."
"Oh-ho!" The vendor slapped his thigh. "Perfect! All the guilds are recruiting right now. Join one, and you'll get a million up front. The Asura Guild, for instance—fierce, rich, and very generous. Just pass their test, and you're set."
Michael's pulse quickened. A million? Enough potions to flood his system, enough EXP to push his Talent to the next level.
"Thank you," Michael said earnestly, and for once, the vendor wasn't lying.
---
(Aurelia Frost's POV)
At that same moment, a sleek red sports car purred past the market square. Inside, two young women watched the crowds.
"Hey—wasn't that Michael?" Ren Nelson squinted, pointing at a familiar figure headed toward a tall obsidian building marked with a crimson crest.
"The Asura Guild?" Aurelia Frost's brows rose slightly.
Ren snorted. "Impossible. Only A-level talents or powerful Bs get in. Michael's E-rank. He won't even pass the front desk."
Aurelia didn't reply. Her eyes lingered on the guild's dark facade. She hadn't followed Michael here—she had come to watch James Stonefang's assessment. His Berserker talent made him a reliable main attacker for her dungeon team.
Still… she found her gaze drifting back to where Michael had vanished.
She shook her head. No. He was finished. Their paths were diverging.
---
Entering the Asura Guild
The Asura Guild loomed like a fortress at the heart of Aurion City's martial district. Blackstone walls rose three stories high, crowned with crimson banners stitched with the snarling maw of a horned beast. Spiked iron gates guarded the entrance, and just inside, two armored warriors stood watch, their auras sharp enough to make ordinary civilians lower their heads and scurry past.
Michael stopped for a moment at the base of the steps. Compared to the grand guild headquarters, he looked almost laughably out of place—just a student in a standard academy uniform, no weapon at his hip, no entourage at his back.
But his eyes were steady.
This is where it starts.
He climbed the steps. Every movement of his body, every clack of his shoes on the stone, felt like it echoed the beat of his heart.
Inside, the hall opened wide. Chandeliers of glowing spirit crystals cast a pale light, illuminating polished marble floors etched with runic wards. On the walls hung portraits of guild champions—men and women who had carved their names into Avalora's history.
The place reeked of power. Everywhere Michael looked, warriors moved with purpose.
There was a swordsman, blades strapped across his back, the steel glinting with faint enchantments. A pair of mages in dark robes argued heatedly over spellcraft, runes sparking faintly between their fingers. Further down, a squad of armored berserkers laughed as they dragged a newly captured beast carcass toward the testing yard, its blood leaving streaks across the floor.
This was not a school playground. This was a world where the strong were currency.
Michael ignored the glances that slid over him. Some were dismissive, some curious, a few openly mocking. To them, he was just a boy out of his depth.
Let them think so, he thought calmly. I'll show them soon enough.
He strode to the counter.
The clerk barely looked up, clearly used to students wandering in with foolish dreams. His tone was flat, perfunctory.
"Purpose?"
"I want to join the Asura Guild."
The words carried no hesitation.
That made the clerk glance up properly for the first time. He studied Michael, noting the plain uniform, the lack of equipment, the steady expression. After a long pause, he reached under the counter and slid over a thick form. "Fill this out."
Michael took the pen. His handwriting was crisp, confident. Name. Age. Department. Talent. He didn't sugarcoat it, didn't twist the truth.
When he handed the form back, the clerk's brow furrowed. He read once. He read twice. Then his eyes nearly bulged out of his skull.
"Support… Strength Amplification… E-rank?" The clerk's voice cracked halfway through the sentence.
Michael's lips twitched faintly. "Yes."
The clerk stared at him like he was a lunatic. He tapped the paper with a finger. "Kid, this is an auxiliary talent. Do you even know what kind of guild this is? The Asura Guild doesn't raise healers or support buffers. We're warriors, killers, frontline berserkers. People who bleed on dungeon floors."
"I know," Michael said.
The clerk leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Then you know you're signing your own death warrant. E-rank supports don't survive long. If you want safety, go try a logistics guild. They'll teach you herbs, potions, supply routes. That's where people like you belong."
Michael's gaze sharpened. "You're wrong. Strength is strength. And mine doesn't end where your charts say it does."
The clerk opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had seen arrogance before, but this kid wasn't posturing. His tone was calm, almost frighteningly so.
Finally, the man exhaled and shoved a new form across the desk. "Then at least sign the waiver. If you die in the test arena, the guild isn't liable. Not for your life, not for your broken bones. You'll be another corpse on the floor, nothing more."
Michael didn't even blink. He signed his name in one stroke, the ink sinking deep into the parchment.
The clerk studied him for a moment longer, then shook his head and muttered, "Another iron-headed fool."
"Follow me."
---
The training arena was vast, its stone floor scarred by countless battles. Three puppets stood in the center, eyes dim until activated.
White: Elementary.
Blue: Intermediate.
Red: Advanced.
The clerk explained patiently, though his tone was edged with disbelief.
"Pass the elementary test, you'll get 1 million and a junior membership. Intermediate gives 3 million, senior rank. Advanced? 8 million, and you'd be a steward. Monthly salary of 100,000. But…"
He gestured grimly at the red puppet.
"That one punches with 800 kilos of force. Enough to kill a cow."
Michael's eyes gleamed. Eight hundred? My current strength is 1,200. That's steady.
He stepped forward. "Advanced."
The clerk nearly dropped his clipboard. "You're insane."
But the waiver was signed. He could only shake his head and start the sequence.
The red puppet's eyes blazed to life, crimson runes crawling over its metallic frame. It straightened with a hiss of gears, then marched toward Michael, fists clenched.
Michael's stance shifted, muscles coiling like steel cables. Boxing class. Full marks. Time to test it for real.
"Bring it on," he muttered.
---
The puppet lunged, its fist a blur.
"Bang!"
Michael's knuckles collided, the shockwave rattling the arena walls. He grinned. Not bad.
The puppet swung again, faster. Michael met it strike for strike.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
The rhythm was relentless, fists crashing like hammers, echoes bouncing through the guild.
Outside the arena, curious heads turned.
"What's that noise?" a pony-tailed girl asked, pausing at the counter. Her presence radiated confidence, her eyes sharp as blades.
The clerk groaned. "Miss, it's just some iron-headed kid. Student, newly awakened, insisted on challenging advanced. Probably gonna get himself killed."
The girl arched a brow. "Student? Hmph. Young men and their recklessness. Make sure he doesn't die. Pain teaches better than words."
She strode upstairs, dismissing the matter.
---
Inside, Michael ducked under a brutal swing, countered with a jab that dented the puppet's chestplate. Sparks flew.
His blood surged, not with fear, but exhilaration. Each strike sent energy coursing through him. His Talent hummed, feeding off the clash.
Then
"Bang!"
A thunderous impact shook the arena. The puppet staggered. Silence fell.
The door creaked open as the clerk rushed in, pale-faced.
"Could this kid really…" he whispered, horror in his eyes.
---
To be continued…