The bunkhouse was quiet. Arin sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the brass tag the clerk had given him earlier. It caught the light from the window, dull and heavy.
He had a rank now. That opened doors, but not the ones he needed. A Lord without people was just a boy with a title. If he wanted strength, he needed trust. And trust didn't come from words. It came from work.
Riverdale had an Adventurer's guild. That is a good way to earn coins legally. More than that, jobs put your name in a place where others can see it. If he wanted a party, that was the place to start.
He stood and headed for the square.
The guild hall was a block of stone with a wide door and a board outside covered in papers. Adventurers leaned against the wall, checking contracts. Some wore leather, some chain. Most carried blades that looked used.
Inside, the air smelled of oil and ink. A clerk sat behind a counter, pen tapping against a ledger.
"Registration?" the clerk asked without looking up.
Arin nodded.
"Name?"
"Arin."
"Age?"
"Fifteen."
"Rank?"
"Soldier."
The pen scratched. The clerk turned the ledger so Arin could see. "Sign."
Arin signed. The clerk slid a thin brass tag across the counter. "Bring this when you take jobs. Lose it, and you pay for a new one."
Arin picked up the tag. It felt heavier than it looked.
"You, as a newbie, start at Iron Rank III," the clerk said. "Board's outside, Jobs update at dawn."
Arin nodded and stepped out.
The board listed work in neat rows:
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Escort cart to East Gate.
Gather herbs near the stream.
Clear pests from the grain store.
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He scanned the list, then looked down at the sword on his hip. Rust and weight. No skill behind it.
He wasn't ready.
If he wanted to survive long enough to build trust, he needed more than luck. He needed training.
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There was a Blade Yard two streets over, tucked behind a row of shops. The yard was packed dirt, scuffed and grooved by countless footsteps. Men and women moved in pairs, wooden swords clacking with sharp thwacks and occasional grunts. An instructor's voice cut through the air, harsh and urgent: corrections, shouts, encouragement, or threats.
Arin lingered at the edge, eyes tracking the swings, the shifts in stance, the way feet pivoted, and arms flexed. He understood none of it yet—only the rhythm of danger.
Finally, he stepped forward.
"I want to learn," he said, voice steady.
The instructor, a broad man with arms like iron, gave him a long, assessing look. Then he snorted.
"That sword's seen better days," he said, gesturing at Arin's chipped sword. "You planning to kill rats or scare rabbits with that?"
Arin said nothing.
"Fine." The man tossed him a wooden practice sword. "Show me your grip."
Arin caught it awkwardly. The instructor shook his head, voice sharp. "Feet on the line. If you fall, you get up. No whining. No excuses."
He adjusted, feet fumbling, grip stiff. The man shoved him. "Lower. Weight forward. Don't lock your knees. Eyes up. Breathe with your strikes, not before."
The first hour was agony. Sweat ran down his back; his arms trembled after every swing. Every movement was wrong, too rigid, too slow, too eager. The instructor corrected him constantly, smacking the wooden blade to show him the angle, tugging on his shoulders to shift his stance.
By the second hour, his legs burned like fire. He collapsed to a crouch for a moment, breathing harshly, teeth clenched. The instructor didn't relent. "Quit whining. Feet on the line. Move before it's over."
He did. Over and over. Block, step, cut, block, step, cut.
The next day he returned, and the next. Days bled into weeks. Weeks into months. Each session, the motions became muscle memory, instincts sharpened, and reflexes honed. He learned grip, guard, step, and cut, not flashy, not showy, but enough to keep a blade between him and death.
He learned the way the weight of the wooden blade shifted with every strike, how to twist his wrist just enough to deflect, how to let a blow hit the armor instead of bone. Every bruise, every scrape, every shouted correction etched itself into his body. Pain became a teacher. Exhaustion became a teacher. Fear became a teacher.
He sparred with others, often falling, often being hit, often biting back a cry of frustration or pain. But he learned to take it, to use it, to let the soreness and sting sharpen his awareness.
Two months later, the screen blinked again.
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Name: Arin
Core Talent: Lord
Rank: Soldier(0%)
Core Skills: Lord's Eyes, Lord's Imprint
Regular Skills: Basic Swordsmanship
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He stared at it, then closed the panel. Regular skills could be learned, improved, and refined, but only with repetition, with sweat and blood. Core skills grew with him naturally; regular skills demanded effort, discipline, and pain.
"Oof… mostly done," he muttered to himself, rolling his shoulders.
His savings? Gone. All spent on lessons, gear, and food. Typical stuff.
Time to pick up work. Anything that paid. Anything that didn't kill him first.
Arin flexed his fingers around the hilt, muscles still aching, legs tight with effort. The first step into survival beyond the Blade Yard would be the hardest, because out there, no one corrected mistakes, and every slip could be the last.
But he had the blade. He had the instinct. And he had months of pain carved into muscle and bone.
He would live. He had to.