Rain fell like warm ashes over the slate rooftops, spreading a metallic scent through the capital's alleys. Valebris never slept, not even under gray skies. From the narrow backstreets of the Lower District to the opulent arches of the noble sector, the city pulsed with voices, blades, and contracts.
Fleck stared at the Adventurers' Agency building for the first time. His boots were worn, his toes already feeling the dampness seeping through the frayed seams. But this was where everything began.
"Last in line," said a man in hardened leather pauldrons, not even looking at him.
Fleck nodded silently. His green eyes were locked on the black columns that held up the Agency's main hall, carved with figures of ancient hunters and slain beasts. There was power in that place—not the kind that shouted in the streets, but the kind that sealed fates with a single signature.
It took two hours to reach the counter. By then, Fleck had memorized every word on the registration notice nailed to the wall.
"Name?" the clerk asked.
"Fleck."
"Last name?"
"…I don't have one."
The clerk raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. He was used to bastards, orphans, and drifters. He pulled out an arcane slate and slid it forward.
"Place your hand. It'll sting a bit."
Fleck obeyed. A warmth traveled from his wrist to his shoulder. A bluish light ran through his veins until a soft pulse throbbed beneath his skin. The system had recognized him.
A floating screen appeared before his eyes, visible to him alone.
S T A T U S S C R E E N
Name: Fleck
Age: 17
Race: Human
Class: Undefined
Adventurer Rank: Unregistered
Level: 1
XP: 0 / 100
Attributes
• Strength: 6
• Dexterity: 8
• Endurance: 7
• Intellect: 5
• Perception: 9
• Mana: 4
Affinities
• Physical (Light blades)
• No magical affinity detected
Known Skills: None
Hidden Skill: [???]
Fleck showed no surprise. He had expected low numbers. His childhood had been made of alley chases, stick fights, and salvaging old scrolls from trash heaps. No noble blood, no formal training, no clan support.
"Undefined class," the clerk muttered as he scribbled into the registry. "You'll start as 'classless'. Once you hit level five, you can request reassessment at the Class Division."
"Understood."
"Registration fee is thirty silvers. Five more if you want a focus bracelet."
Fleck placed a tattered coin pouch on the counter. The jingle of coins sounded far too small in that great hall. The clerk counted every piece twice. Then, with a metal seal, he branded the Agency's crest into a plain iron bracelet.
"This gives you access to missions, public dungeons, and low-risk contracts. Stay away from C-rank monsters and above. And don't die."
Fleck fastened the bracelet around his wrist. The metal was cold, like the gutters he'd slept in for the past three nights.
"Next!"
He left the hall with steady steps, feeling the rain outside fade into a damp mist. The city looked different now—not because Valebris had changed, but because he would now face it with a name and a number in the system.
His first entry would either be erased or remembered.
The rest, he would write with a blade.
The alleys of the Lower District reeked of stale steam and mold. Rain had stopped, but the stench from clogged sewers still rose like bad breath from the city's throat.
Fleck clutched his bracelet as he walked. The metal grounded him in reality. He didn't know where he'd sleep that night, but he had a number, and that was more than he ever had.
Across the street, two children fought over a stale piece of bread. A rib-thin dog growled near them. Above, on a cracked ledge, three hooded figures watched silently—not beggars, not guards. Likely gang scouts.
He ignored them.
He stopped in front of a crooked tavern called The Twisted Jug. Its sign hung by a rusted nail, and the door was ajar. Inside, the scents of old grease and fresh blood mingled.
He pushed it open.
There were few people inside: a broad-shouldered man scrubbing the inside of a mug, a woman chewing something by the window, and a short figure behind the bar.
"No coins, no bed," the barkeep said without looking up.
Fleck simply raised his wrist, showing the bracelet.
"Registered adventurer."
The man snorted but approached.
"Rank Iron, huh? I've got something better than a bed. Problem in the cellar. Something nasty with claws chewing through my wine barrels. Knocked over two shelves. I'll pay five silvers if you clean it up."
"What kind of 'something'?"
"If it were rats, I'd have stomped them. Either it's got iron teeth or it casts shadows. You tell me once it's dead."
Fleck hesitated. It was that or sleep on the rooftops.
"I'll take it."
"Good luck, kid. If you get scared, scream," the woman by the window said, smirking.
He descended the creaky stairs. The cellar was damp and choked with shadows. A pungent, acidic smell cut through the must. He lit a wax candle soaked in dryleaf oil—basic issue for dark, non-magic places.
Barrels lay toppled and leaking wine like old blood. Deep claw marks scratched the stone floor.
He drew his short sword—a secondhand blade, chipped but balanced.
He moved slowly.
A breath.
He turned left, between fallen shelves.
Nothing.
Then a snap to the right.
Too late.
Something lunged from the dark—a creature the size of a dog, its skin cracked like burned charcoal. Milky white eyes. Curved fangs. Not a rat. Not a stray. A Shadowgnaw, a sewer beast that fed on residual arcane fluids.
Fleck dove back on instinct. The beast's jaws slammed where his throat had been.
His chest burned. The bracelet vibrated. This was his first real fight.
He darted sideways, sliding under a broken beam. When the beast turned, he was already moving. He slashed from below—missed. It was fast. Too fast.
It lunged again.
He didn't retreat. Instead, he sidestepped and swung with low precision, catching the creature's side.
This time, the blade bit in.
A hiss. Dark fluid sprayed—vaporous, foul.
The creature screamed, high and wet, and staggered back. Fleck didn't hesitate. He charged, slashing downward, then pivoted into a side strike aimed for the neck.
Critical.
His sword trembled from the impact. The beast collapsed, twitching, then dissolved into shadow. All that remained was a dim, pulsing core.
Fleck panted, arm shaking. His whole body ached. Sweat ran cold down his back.
A notification blinked into his vision:
+72 XP
Shadowgnaw Core (Common) acquired
XP needed for next level: 28
He wrapped the core in cloth and climbed back upstairs.
"You kill it?" the barkeep asked, seeing the dark stain on his shirt.
Fleck dropped the core on the counter.
"Left a hole in the cellar wall. You might want to reinforce the beams."
The man stared at him for a second, then pushed over five silver coins and a bowl of soup.
"Got a cot in the back. If you die there, I'm selling your sword."
Fleck smiled. For the first time that day.
That night, lying on a thin, rancid mattress, something in him stirred—not fear, but hunger.
Not for food.
For more.
More missions.
More victories.
More strength.
Maybe even more monsters like that one.
His bracelet glowed faintly before going dark.
Outside, the moon barely pierced the city haze.
But for Fleck, the world had become a map—and he had just found the first gate.