The decision is made. It has settled within me, not as a sudden idea, but as a cold, unshakable certainty. Every day spent sweeping up the filth of others, under suspicious gazes, is a day wasted. My gilded cage, protected by the silence and fear I now inspire, is still a cage.
The Adventurer's Guild of Kryndal. It is my way out. Their building is an imposing structure of gray stone and dark wood, nestled between the merchant district and the city walls. It's a place where dreams of glory and nightmares of death intersect daily. To enter as a simple laborer is already audacious. To ask to take the trial is almost social suicide.
I choose my moment. One afternoon, during a reluctantly granted break, I leave the barracks. I am wearing my worn work clothes, but beneath my tunic, the basilisk leather armor is a second skin, and the Shadow Throat-Cutter dagger is a silent promise.
Pushing open the heavy oak door of the Guild is like stepping into another world. The air is thick with the smell of spilled ale, leather, and steel, and the palpable tension of lives lived on a razor's edge. The main hall is an organized chaos. Groups of adventurers in mismatched armor drink, laugh loudly, or study the large quest board that covers an entire wall. Their levels, which I can perceive, vary wildly: from Level 5 or 6 novices to hardened veterans whose levels exceed 20.
No one pays me any mind. I am invisible, a mere lost servant. It's perfect.
I head for the long counter at the back of the hall. Behind it, a middle-aged woman with a stern face marked by a thin scar on her cheek handles requests with a weary efficiency. Her name tag reads "Deputy Guild Master - Lena."
I wait patiently for my turn. When I finally stand before her, she doesn't even look up from her ledger.
"Turning in a quest or taking one? Give me the number." Her voice is monotone.
"Neither," I say. "I'm here to take the admission trial."
Silence. She stops writing. Slowly, she raises her head. Her gray eyes scan me from head to toe, taking in my poor clothes, my calloused hands, my thin frame. A sneer of contempt forms on her lips.
"Are you kidding me, kid? This is an adventurer's guild, not a hospice. Go back to playing in the mud."
Her dismissive tone ignites an ember of anger within me. I contain it. "I'm serious. I have the right to ask to take the trial, don't I?"
My insistence seems to irritate her. Her gaze hardens. "The right? Yes, anyone can ask. Just like anyone has the right to jump off the top of the ramparts. The result is usually the same." She sighs, visibly annoyed. "The trial has a fee. Five silver pieces. Non-refundable. To cover the cleaning costs if you get gutted."
She expects me to back down, to not have the money. I pull a small purse from my pocket. In it are the few copper coins I've saved and the small sum Silas left me, as if wanting to sever all ties. It's not much, but it's enough. I place the five silver pieces on the counter.
The clink of the coins surprises her. She looks at them, then back at me, a flicker of curiosity replacing the contempt. "You can pay. Fine. Do you know the rules?"
"No."
"The trial is simple. We lock you in the Trial Arena, beneath the guild. We release a creature in there. You survive for five minutes. That's it. You can kill it, wound it, run around it screaming. We don't care. As long as you are alive and conscious when the time is up, you're in. If you fail... well, you fail." Her voice is devoid of all emotion. "The creature is chosen at random by the arena's mechanism, but it's always suited for a low-level applicant. Usually between Level 3 and Level 7."
Level 7. That's almost double my level. But after the Alpha Shadow Rat, the fear is less paralyzing. It's a calculated risk.
"I accept," I say.
She nods, pockets the coins, and picks up a form. "Name?"
"Reinhardt." I don't give my last name. It has no value.
"Reinhardt," she repeats, writing it down. "Follow me."
She leads me through a door behind the counter into a cold, damp corridor. The noise from the main hall fades, replaced by an oppressive silence. We descend a spiral staircase that seems to plunge into the city's foundations.
We arrive at a heavy iron door. Lena pulls out a massive key and turns it in the lock.
"Behind this door is a small antechamber," she explains. "You can leave any unnecessary belongings there. When you're ready, you'll open the second door, the one leading to the arena. Once you step through, it will lock behind you, and the trial will begin. A magic hourglass above the door will show the remaining time. Understood?"
"Yes."
"Good luck, kid. Try not to make too big of a stain."
With those words, she leaves me and heads back up the stairs, the sound of her footsteps fading.
I am alone in the silence. I push the iron door. The antechamber is a small, square, bare room, lit by a single magical torch sputtering on the wall. In front of me is another, even more massive door, barred with a heavy metal crossbeam. This is the entrance to the arena.
I have nothing to leave behind, except for the grime and the fear. I take a few moments to prepare myself. I check my armor, the fit of my dagger. I close my eyes and focus.
Name: Reinhardt Valdios
Level: 4
Experience: 152/400
Status: Normal
HP: 55/55
MP: 20/20
I am in peak condition. I take a deep breath and lift the metal crossbeam. It is incredibly heavy. I push the door. It swings open on its hinges with a long groan.
I step into the arena.
It's a large circular room, about twenty meters in diameter. The floor is covered in coarse sand. The stone walls rise high, and I can see a grated observation gallery above me. That's where the evaluators watch from. The door slams shut behind me with a metallic clang that seals my fate. Above it, the magic hourglass flips, and the luminous sand begins to flow. Five minutes.
At the opposite side of the room, a massive gate creaks open. From the darkness of the tunnel behind it, I hear a low growl, a wet, reptilian sound.
A creature crawls out. It's the size of a large dog, but its body is that of a lizard, covered in sickly green scales. It has six clawed legs and a maw that opens to reveal rows of needle-sharp teeth. Corrosive drool drips from its jaws, sizzling as it hits the sand.
Name: Juvenile Cave Basilisk
Level: 6
Status: Aggressive
Special Skill: Acid Spit
A basilisk. Level 6. My gut twists into a knot. This is no Shadow Rat. This is a magical predator, known for its speed and its deadly acid.
The creature spots me. Its pupilless, reptilian eyes fix on me. It lets out a sharp hiss and charges.
I don't just stand there. I run. Not fleeing, but using the space. I circle along the wall, forcing the basilisk to chase me. It's fast, but I'm agile. My silent armor and boots give me an edge.
It stops suddenly, puffs out its throat, and shoots a stream of greenish acid at me. I dive to the side. The liquid hits the wall behind me, and the stone begins to smoke and melt with a sizzling sound. A direct hit and my leather armor wouldn't have saved me.
The sand of the arena is my best cover. I kick out, sending a spray of sand toward its face. The creature cries out in rage, shaking its head to get rid of the irritating grains in its eyes.
It's a small opening, but it's an opening.
I draw my dagger and charge. I don't attempt a frontal assault. I slip to its flank and aim for the joint of one of its forelegs.
My blade strikes the scales. It doesn't penetrate. It's like hitting stone. The impact jars my arm.
The basilisk roars and whips its tail at me. I don't have time to dodge completely. The blow hits my legs and sends me rolling in the sand.
HP: 55/55 → 47/55
The pain is sharp. I'm back on my feet in an instant. Never stay down.
The sand in the hourglass flows. One minute has passed. Four to go.
I change my strategy. Its hide is too thick. I need to find a weak spot. The eyes? The inside of its mouth? Its underbelly?
It charges again. This time, I don't move until the last second. It opens its jaws to bite. I duck, the stench of its breath washing over me, and I strike upward, aiming for the underside of its jaw, where the scales look thinner.
I activate Precise Strike.
My blade finds its mark. It sinks an inch or two into the soft flesh. Not a critical hit, but a hit that hurts.
The basilisk howls in pain and backs away. Black blood trickles from the wound. I've injured it.
But I've also made it furious. It no longer just charges. It uses its acid, sweeping the arena with corrosive streams. I have to run, dodge, roll. It's a deadly ballet. I'm no longer trying to attack. I'm trying to survive.
Three minutes. The sand flows so slowly.
I'm out of breath. My hunger is beginning to kick in, an unwelcome ally in this situation.
Status: Normal → Hungry
The basilisk, too, is starting to tire. Its acid jets are less frequent. Its wound is bothering it.
One last minute. I can do this. I just have to hold on.
The creature, sensing that time is running out, gathers its remaining strength for a desperate charge. It runs at me, jaws wide open, acid bubbling on its tongue.
This time, I don't run. A crazy, survival-inspired idea comes to me.
I move toward the wall where its first acid jet struck. The stone there is melted, slick, unstable.
Just as the basilisk is almost on me, I leap to the side. It can't correct its trajectory fast enough. It slams headfirst into the wall, its head hitting the section weakened by its own acid.
There is a sickening crack. The basilisk collapses, stunned, a part of its skull caved in. It's not dead, but it's out of the fight.
The last grain of luminous sand falls in the hourglass.
A bell chimes throughout the arena.
I survived.
I stand there, bent over with my hands on my knees, short of breath, my body aching. I did it.
The iron door through which I entered opens. Lena stands on the threshold, her face holding an expression I can't quite decipher. It's no longer contempt. It might be... respect.
"Not bad, kid," she says. "Not bad at all. You used your head, not just your muscles. Welcome to the Adventurer's Guild."