The day ends in a haze of exhaustion and tension. Every time I cross paths with Caelan in the barracks, his gaze is a promise of pain. He can do nothing to me openly, not after Roxis's intervention, but his hatred is a physical presence that follows me like a shadow. He will bide his time. And I must be ready when it comes.
As soon as my chores are finished, I collect my evening pay—a tasteless soup and a piece of bread that I slip into my satchel—and leave the barracks before anyone can stop me. I don't head for the sewers. Tonight, my hunt takes place on the surface.
I plunge into the labyrinth of streets in Kryndal's common quarter. Here, the opulence of the noble district is a distant memory. The buildings are pressed together, their facades gray and dirty. The air is thick with the smell of fried food, coal, and poverty. It is a different world, a world where survival is negotiated daily. It is my world.
Roxis's purse weighs heavily in my pocket. It's a modest sum for a noble, but to me, it's a fortune. A fortune I am about to spend.
I'm looking for a specific shop, a stall I've heard the guards mention in hushed tones. A place that doesn't ask questions. I find it at the end of a blind alley, marked by a simple, rusted iron sign depicting a broken hammer. "The Chipped Forge."
I push open the heavy wooden door. A bell jingles lazily. The interior is dark, cramped, and smells of cold soot and metal. Weapons hang on the walls and are piled in barrels: chipped axes, short swords with worn edges, spears with bent tips. It's a cemetery for lost or abandoned weapons, tools for those who cannot afford new steel.
Behind a cluttered counter stands a massive man, as wide as he is tall. A bushy black beard hides half his face, and one of his eyes is covered by a leather patch. His single good eye sizes me up with professional indifference.
"What do you want, kid? You don't look like you can afford a toothpick in here." His voice is a hoarse rumble.
I approach the counter, trying to appear more confident than I feel. "I'm looking for a weapon. Short. Discreet."
He lets out a short laugh that sounds like stones grinding together. "Ah, discreet. Everyone wants discreet. To cut a purse or your neighbor's throat?"
"For hunting," I reply without flinching.
He stares at me for a long moment, then seems to decide I'm not worth questioning further. "Hunting what? Rats?" He leans down and pulls out a wooden box from under the counter, filled with blades of all sizes. "Daggers, throwing knives, stilettos... Take your pick. But know that quality has a price."
My eyes scan the weapons. Most are in poor condition, rust eating at the metal. But a few stand out. I pull the purse from my pocket and place it on the counter. Not hard enough to seem arrogant, but enough to show I'm serious.
The blacksmith's eye lands on the coins. His attitude subtly shifts. He pushes the box toward me. "Help yourself."
I examine them one by one. I'm looking for something solid, reliable. Not necessarily beautiful, but effective. My iron pipe taught me the value of pragmatism.
My choice lands on a dagger that doesn't look like much. The hilt is simple worn leather, with no guard. But the blade is what draws me. It's made of a dark steel, almost black, and though it's covered in a thin layer of grime, I can see that the edge is intact, without a single nick. It is short, easy to conceal, and perfectly balanced.
I take it in my hand. It feels like an extension of my arm.
Name: Shadow Throat-Cutter
Type: Dagger
Rarity: Common
Attack: +8
Special: Damage increased by 10% on a stealth attack.
A reliable dagger, favored by thieves and assassins for its discretion and effectiveness.
+8 attack. That's a considerable improvement over my iron pipe. And that stealth bonus... it's exactly what I need.
"This one," I say, placing it on the counter. "How much?"
The blacksmith takes it, examining it with an expert eye. "Good choice, kid. That's Old Guard steel. They don't make it like this anymore. It's seen better days, but it'll still cut what needs cutting." He weighs it in his hand. "Twenty silver pieces."
I swallow hard. That's almost everything Roxis gave me. I expected a high price, but not this high.
"That's... that's steep."
"Quality is never cheap," he retorts. "Take it or leave it. I'll have another buyer before the night is out."
I look at the dagger, then at the coins in my purse. Twenty pieces is food for weeks. It's security. But the dagger is power. It's the promise of never having to depend on the charity of others again. Food is eaten once. Steel, however, feeds the hunger for power again and again.
"I'll take it," I say, counting out the coins.
The transaction is swift. The blacksmith pockets the money without another word. He hands me the dagger, along with a simple leather sheath that I can attach to my belt, under my tunic.
"One last piece of advice, kid," he says as I turn to leave. "A weapon doesn't make the warrior. It only speeds up the death of a fool. Learn how to use it."
I leave the shop, the reassuring weight of the dagger against my hip. The blacksmith's words echo in my mind. He's right. Having a weapon is one thing. Knowing how to use it is another.
I head for the sewers, but not to hunt. To train.
I find a small, isolated cavern, far from the main passages. The spectral light of my Night Vision is more than enough. I draw the dagger. The dark steel seems to drink the faint light.
I start with simple movements. Slashes, thrusts. I mimic the motions I've seen the guards, the recruits, and Roxis make. My movements are clumsy, awkward. Finding my balance is difficult.
I spend hours repeating the same gestures. Slowly. I try to feel the weight of the blade, to anticipate its path. I'm not a knight. I don't need noble techniques. I need efficient, fast, lethal movements. The moves of a survivor.
The hunger returns, familiar. My body, having barely recovered from the previous night, begins to protest. But I ignore it. I focus on the blade, on the whistle of the air it cuts.
Suddenly, a notification appears.
Through repetition, you have learned a new active skill.
[Precise Strike (Lvl. 1)]:
Cost: 2 MP
Effect: Your next melee attack has a 10% increased chance to inflict a critical hit.
A skill. I unlocked a skill just by training. So it is possible. The system doesn't just reward slaughtering monsters. It rewards effort, perseverance.
A smile forms on my lips. It's a revelation. I am not defined solely by my cursed skill. I can learn. I can grow.
I look at my MP bar. 10 points. I can use this skill five times before I run out. It's a new resource to manage.
I feel reinvigorated. The fatigue seems to have vanished. I know what I have to do.
I am three experience points away from Level 3.
I leave my training cavern and begin the hunt. With the dagger in hand, I feel different. I'm no longer just some guy with a piece of metal. I am armed.
I find my prey quickly. A Level 2 Shadow Rat, prowling alone in a tunnel.
I don't face it head-on. I use the darkness, the silence. I press myself against the wall, my breathing barely a whisper. It passes in front of me without noticing. The perfect opportunity to test my dagger's bonus.
I slip out from the shadows, as fast and silent as a ghost. I activate my new skill.
[Precise Strike] activated.
A faint blue light, visible only to me, envelops my blade. I strike. The dagger sinks into the monster's flank, just behind its ribs. The blow is fluid, perfect.
A bright red number explodes above the monster's head. CRITICAL!
The Shadow Rat collapses, killed instantly, without even having time to cry out.
I stand there, short of breath, adrenaline pumping through my veins. That was... clean. Efficient. Lethal. This is the power of stealth, of precision. This is my path.
You have defeated [Shadow Rat]!
25 XP
Experience: 147/150 → 172/150
EXPERIENCE SUFFICIENT. YOU HAVE REACHED LEVEL 3!
The wave of power is even more intense than the last time. I feel my muscles densify, my senses sharpen.
Name: Reinhardt Valdios
Level: 3
Experience: 22/250
Status: Normal
HP: 50/50
MP: 15/15
Unallocated Stat Points: 5
Level 3. In the span of a few days, I have made more progress than in my entire life.
I devour the monster's core, no longer out of need, but out of habit. Out of principle. The energy it gives me is a welcome bonus.
I look at my dagger, its dark steel now stained with the blood of my prey. It cost almost everything I had. But what it gave me in return... is priceless.
The blacksmith was wrong about one thing. A weapon doesn't make the warrior. But it can turn prey into a predator. And my hunt has only just begun.