A Map, a Task, and a Name Without Weight
Ren left at first light.
The unnamed woman—half-mercenary, half-hermit—had pointed him northeast again. She said Irelan was still days away. A real city, not a farm village. It had walls, a market, a Guild branch, and jobs that didn't involve crawling into monster-infested holes with strangers who didn't bother to share their names.
He didn't argue. She'd saved his life once already—by not interfering when he fought.
And she fed him twice. That made her practically a saint in his book.
"You'll want to follow the merchant path," she had told him that morning, stabbing her dagger into a rough outline of the terrain she scratched into the dirt. "There's no road, not this far out, but caravans leave ruts deep enough to follow. Bandits will stay clear. Monsters, too. Unless you're slow."
Ren had nodded and shouldered his pack. "Thanks."
She'd grunted something that might have been "good luck" or "don't die." Then turned away without looking back.
---
He found the track by midday. Shallow grooves in the dirt, some still fresh. Broken wheels had left clean marks through patches of grass, and hoofprints sank deep into a stretch of dried mud near a creekbed.
He followed them.
The land opened up, greener here than in the jagged hills where he'd fought the skin-thin creatures. No trees, but long grass rolled across the fields, swaying in the wind like waves on a sea.
The sun was bright. Too bright. His clothes itched with sweat before long. The jerky in his pack was already gone.
But he had water. The woman's waterskin hung from his belt—half full. She said he could keep it. Or maybe she'd just forgotten to take it back.
He walked for hours without seeing another person.
By the time he reached the first waystone—a crudely stacked pile of carved rocks with a faded symbol etched into the flat face—his legs ached and his throat burned. But there was a bench nearby. Someone had placed it beneath a patch of shade formed by stacked crates and barrels, half-covered by canvas.
A supply stop. Meant for passing travelers.
He sat.
No one approached. No footsteps in the grass. No sound but the breeze and distant birds.
Still, he kept his spear nearby as he took a slow drink.
That's when the message appeared.
> Passive Skill Activated: Traveler's Instinct
You automatically recognize safe rest points and neutral zones on known paths.
Ren froze.
He hadn't taken a nap. Not this time.
So how did he get a new skill?
Then he remembered something the woman said, about blessings—how not all came from sleep, or even battle. Some, she claimed, simply grew on their own. Lived inside you. Waited for the right time to wake up.
He sighed. That sounded poetic. Probably nonsense.
Still, the bench felt safer now. The pack on his back didn't weigh so much. He leaned into the shade, let himself breathe for the first time that day.
And then he heard footsteps.
Not loud. Not fast.
But real.
He turned.
A man approached. Tall, older, wrapped in a green cloak. No armor. Just walking staff, boots, and a tired look.
Ren stood but didn't draw the spear. Not yet.
The man raised a hand. "Rest stop's public," he said. His voice was calm. Neutral. "I won't crowd you."
Ren nodded. "It's fine."
The man stepped into the shade and lowered himself onto the other side of the bench. His staff leaned beside him.
For a while, neither spoke.
Finally, Ren broke the silence.
"Is this the road to Irelan?"
The man nodded. "You're on it. Another three days, maybe four on foot."
"That far?"
"You'll see the watchtower after the second river. They'll stop you if you look suspicious."
Ren frowned. "Do I?"
The man looked him over. "You look new."
Ren didn't answer.
The man smiled slightly. "Not an insult. Just an observation. You've got that look—the one fresh drops have when they haven't learned what matters yet."
That word again. Drop.
Ren lowered his eyes. "You've seen a lot of us?"
The man shrugged. "Enough. I work contracts. Sometimes escort. Sometimes cleanup."
"Cleanup?"
"Monsters. Bandits. Wraiths. Things that eat the unprepared."
Ren tensed, remembering the pale crawler in the woods.
The man noticed. "First kill?"
Ren nodded.
The man didn't push. "You live long enough, you'll get used to it. But don't let that turn you into something else."
Ren raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"
"Like a man who enjoys it."
They sat in silence again.
Eventually, the man stood and shouldered his staff.
"Name's Brann. If you reach Irelan, look for the north tavern. Ask for the board with copper ink. That's where the low-rank jobs go."
Ren stood too. "Thanks."
Brann nodded. "Don't waste your energy climbing fast. The ones who rush to gold get buried under it."
And with that, he walked on, staff tapping the dirt.
Ren stood in place for a moment longer. Then checked the road again.
Still three days away.
But now he had a name to use, a place to aim for, and a road to walk that wasn't trying to kill him.
That was enough.
He kept moving.
Part 2: Stranger's Advice, Copper Boards, and the Cost of Guild Entry
The next morning started the same way as the last: Ren waking up sore, stiff, and sweating under the canvas tarp he'd strung between two wooden stakes. The grass underneath was dry enough now that it didn't soak through his cloak, and he'd chosen high ground to avoid nighttime damp. Still, it wasn't a bed.
His stomach rumbled.
He broke the last piece of dry root he'd found the day before and chewed slowly. It didn't taste like anything. His teeth hurt more than his stomach did now.
But hunger wasn't the worst part.
It was the quiet.
Even after two days on the road, the silence still pressed on him—louder than battle, thicker than fear. No wagons passed. No caravans. No footsteps but his own. Just wind and the rustle of tall grass as the road to Irelan unfolded like a ribbon of dirt that nobody cared to travel.
Brann hadn't lied about the distance. Ren saw the river the next afternoon. And just beyond it, a wooden tower jutting up from the hills like a spike against the clouds.
Two guards waved him through after checking his name.
Which was strange. He hadn't even given one.
He didn't ask questions.
They didn't seem interested in explanations.
Just pointed him toward the gate and warned him not to swing any weapons in the market unless he wanted to sleep in a cage.
The city, if it could be called that, wasn't huge—but compared to the wild, it was noise and light and humanity. Irelan's outer walls were thick, cobbled together from wood and stone. The main street was packed with carts, donkeys, peddlers, mercenaries, adventurers, and children sprinting barefoot in between.
Ren kept his head down. Not out of fear—just habit. He'd been alone too long.
He found the north tavern easily. A crooked sign out front read: The Gallows Rest. An odd name for a place where people drank and laughed, but nobody else seemed to mind. Inside smelled like bread, spilled ale, and wet boots. He spotted the board the moment he entered.
Copper ink. Just like Brann said.
It hung beside the hearth, nailed to a thick beam. Dozens of slips of parchment fluttered in the breeze from the open door. Low-rank quests—hunting pests, escorting carts, gathering herbs. Most offered silver pieces, maybe copper if they were desperate.
He stared for a long time.
One slip read:
> Request: Collect 15 storm beetle shells from southern marsh.
Reward: 2 silver, 5 copper.
Rank Requirement: F
Another:
> Request: Escort cloth merchant to Crosshollow (2 days' ride)
Reward: 8 silver.
Rank Requirement: E+
He reached out to take one—but stopped.
He wasn't ranked.
Ren turned to the bar and waited for the older woman polishing mugs to notice him. She didn't, so he spoke.
"I need to register."
She looked up. One eye was cloudy white.
"Guild?"
He nodded.
She pointed through the back door. "Wooden building across the street. Green banner."
Ren muttered thanks and left.
The building wasn't large. A man outside slept on the steps, one boot off. A sword rested across his knees. Ren stepped around him and pushed open the door.
Inside smelled cleaner—ink, parchment, and something like dried herbs. A single desk sat at the center, and behind it, a boy no older than sixteen looked up and blinked.
"You here to post a job or take one?"
"Register," Ren said.
The boy reached under the counter and pulled out a slate board and stylus.
"Name?"
"Ren."
"Ren what?"
"Just Ren."
The boy didn't argue. Just scribbled.
"You look healthy enough. Got a weapon?"
Ren showed the spear. The shaft had been sanded smoother, the blade tied down tighter since his first fight. The boy gave a small nod.
"Alright. Basic registration's one silver. You'll start at Rank F."
Ren paused. "That's it?"
"No background check, if that's what you're asking. But we'll mark your name. You cause trouble, it follows you."
Ren fished a silver from his pouch—one of the last he had left from the old woman's gift. He handed it over without a word.
The boy stamped something onto a parchment slip, then copied it to a thin wooden plate.
"Here," he said. "Guild token. Don't lose it. That's your license to take posted jobs. You want better pay, raise your rank."
"How?"
"Complete contracts. Get evaluated."
"And if I die?"
The boy shrugged. "Then someone else gets your job."
Ren exhaled slowly and pocketed the token.
Outside, the man on the steps was still asleep. Or dead. Hard to tell.
Ren went back to the tavern, pushed open the door, and walked straight to the copper board.
He took a slip.
F-rank. Five silver to gather razor-worm husks from the southern plain. Two-day round trip.
It would have to do.
Ren left at first light.
The contract said "razor-worm husks," but nobody explained what that meant. He figured they were either dangerous or already dead. Probably both. The slip said to bring five, whole if possible.
The southern plains started just beyond Irelan's outer farms. Wheat turned to thistle, dirt roads faded into rough footpaths, and the sound of hammering and gossip gave way to wind and insect buzz. Nothing attacked him. Yet.
By noon, he spotted the first one.
It didn't look like a worm. More like a snake crossed with a saw blade. Its body shimmered faintly with a dusty coating, and small ridges along its sides glinted when it moved.
It didn't see him. Or hear him. Or whatever worms did.
Ren crouched low, gripped his spear tight, and waited for it to move closer.
When it did, he stepped in.
The first strike missed.
The second caught the worm along its side, slicing open a crack in the husk. It screeched and curled—razor rings around its middle snapping like a trap. Ren yanked back just in time. The edge of his cloak tore free, fluttering behind him.
The worm coiled again, lunged, missed.
He thrust.
A clean stab through the top of the head. The creature twitched once, then stilled.
Ren exhaled.
The husk, now limp and bloodless, was heavier than it looked. He stuffed it into the sack he'd borrowed from the inn.
Four more to go.
The second worm came quicker than expected—near a boulder, hiding in weeds. It didn't coil like the first. Just spat something sharp and fast. Ren ducked. Whatever it was hit a tree behind him and left a long, steaming gash.
So they could spit.
Good to know.
He moved slower after that. Careful steps, eyes scanning the grass. By dusk, he had four husks—one slightly torn, one with a broken tail, but still counted.
He built a fire that night and sat with the spear across his knees. No thoughts. Just tired limbs and dry bread. His hands had blisters now. His back ached. But nothing followed him.
At dawn, he found the fifth.
This one was bigger. Older? Maybe.
It didn't attack. Just circled, keeping distance. Ren watched, not sure what it was waiting for.
Then he realized—there was a second one.
Behind him.
He turned just in time.
Two worms at once wasn't fair. Not to a rank F beginner. But nobody said this world was fair.
He leapt sideways as one charged, rolled on his shoulder, came up with a grunt and drove the spear forward. It caught the worm along the middle, cutting deep. It writhed, flung itself sideways.
The second struck from the left.
Ren ducked again—felt the air split above his head—and kicked out wildly. The toe of his boot hit something soft. A crack.
He scrambled to his feet. No time to think. Just fight.
The rest was noise.
The next thing he knew, he stood alone. The grass was torn. The two worms lay twitching on the ground. He'd kept one husk mostly whole. The other was shredded.
Still, five.
He limped back to Irelan the next day, sore and sweating.
The guild accepted the husks. Barely.
The boy behind the counter looked surprised to see him.
"Thought you'd be gone a week," he muttered.
Ren didn't answer. Just took his reward and sat down on the wooden bench outside the door. He stared at the street for a long time. No smile. No pride.
Just breathing.
That night, he rented a room with part of the silver. No fire. No bath.
But it had a bed.
He didn't even remember falling asleep.