The Road to Ironmarch
Ren walked with his spear across his back and a loaf of bread under one arm. He wasn't sure what time it was anymore, but the sky was clear, the sun was out, and there were actual footprints in the dirt path ahead—boot prints, wheel ruts, a broken twig here and there.
Civilization. Finally.
It had taken him days to find it. Not counting the detour through a nameless ruin full of pale freaks with glass bones and bottomless eyes. He hadn't asked for that.
The woman—who still hadn't given him a name—left him two mornings ago after they reached a trader's route. No goodbyes. No advice. Just tossed him a coin pouch with a single silver inside and said, "If you make it to Ironmarch, don't say I helped."
Ren figured that meant he owed her.
He didn't plan to.
The path led through gentle hills. Grasslands slowly gave way to fences and crooked posts—some bearing old charms of twine and feathers, others hung with rusted bells that jingled when the wind was strong. He passed a patch of tilled soil with nothing growing, then a cottage half-sunk into the hill behind it. Smoke curled from the chimney.
Someone lived here. He didn't stop.
He followed the cart tracks for hours. Ate the rest of his bread while walking. And by midday, he saw it: a palisade wall in the distance, wooden and uneven but tall enough to matter. A gate stood open. Two guards in chainmail leaned on spears, talking.
Ren adjusted his grip on the spear and walked toward them.
They saw him coming. One stepped forward. "Name?"
He hesitated. "Ren."
"Family?"
"None."
The man squinted. "Profession?"
Ren thought for a second. "Adventurer?"
That seemed to be the right word. The guard looked him up and down, noted the weapon, the worn boots, the tired eyes.
"You registered?"
"No."
"Then you're a drifter."
Ren stayed quiet.
The guard sighed. "We've got too many already. Fine. No trouble inside the walls. And don't go near the east quarter unless you want to catch fire rot."
He stepped aside.
Ren entered Ironmarch.
It wasn't much of a city—more like a fortified town—but compared to the past few days of forest and monsters, it might as well have been paradise.
Stone roads, even if cracked. Wooden shops with hanging signs. People walking in groups, armed and unarmed. He saw children, mages with glowing staves, a man selling boots from a cart, a woman riding a two-legged beast that looked part chicken, part demon.
He kept moving.
There was too much to see. Too much he didn't understand yet.
What he needed was a place to sleep. A place to think.
And food.
He ducked into the first inn he found. The sign had a faded image of a flame and a fork.
Inside, it smelled like stew and old ale. Wooden tables. A barkeep with a scar across her cheek and arms like a smith.
She looked up.
"Room?"
Ren nodded. "How much?"
"Five bronze."
He fished out the pouch. Counted. He had enough.
"Meal's extra," she added.
"Fine."
She handed him a key. "Upstairs. Third door. If the mattress bites you, bite back."
Ren blinked.
She didn't smile.
He climbed the stairs. The hallway was narrow and crooked. His room was small—just a bed, a stool, and a window that didn't close properly. He dropped his pack. Sat.
Then lay down.
And slept.
No hesitation. No plan.
Just rest.
Guild Paper and Rotten Teeth
Ren woke to a knock. Sharp. Not polite.
He opened one eye. The room was dark now, lit only by a streetlamp flickering through the warped glass window.
The knock came again.
He rose quietly. Grabbed his spear. Opened the door.
A boy stood there—ten, maybe eleven. Dirty cloak. Thin arms. Eyes that had seen too much.
"Message," the kid said, holding out a crumpled scrap of parchment. "From below."
Ren didn't take it. "From who?"
"Didn't say. Paid for fast feet and quiet lips."
Ren took the paper. The boy was already gone, vanishing down the stairwell like a rat slipping between stones.
The note said one thing:
"Come to the Hall. Bring steel, not friends."
No name. No seal.
Ren sighed. Crumpled it in his hand.
Hall could only mean the guild.
---
He asked the barkeep on his way out. "Guild hall?"
She pointed with her chin. "Stone building with red windows, past the well. Smells like sweat and fraud."
She wasn't wrong.
Ren found it nestled between a blacksmith's forge and a dried-up fountain. The building looked old, but reinforced—new doors, fresh chains on the windows. Torchlight flickered inside. A sign above the door read: IRONMARCH GUILD: LICENSE, FIGHT, SURVIVE.
He pushed the door open.
The hall was louder than he expected. Dozens of people inside—mercs, mages, scouts, odd-looking people with horns or tails, even a man with a pet slime clinging to his leg. Tables crowded the space. A job board covered the far wall.
No one paid him much attention. Which was fine.
He walked to the counter. A woman sat there behind a stack of papers, sorting coins into a lockbox.
She glanced up. "New?"
Ren nodded. "Just arrived."
"Looking for work?"
"Eventually."
"Then you'll need a license. Bronze-tier to start. Ten bronze fee. No refunds if you die."
Ren placed a silver on the counter.
She made it vanish.
She handed him a form. "Name. Skill type. Weapon preference. Sleepwalkers get a separate page."
Ren hesitated. "Sleepwalker?"
She pointed to a sign on the wall.
> SLEEPWALKERS
Those blessed by post-drift skill gain (dream-evolved)
Must declare unique trait.
Must pass combat verification.
No liability held by guild in event of unstable power expression.
Ren filled it in.
Name: Ren
Skill Type: Sleep-derived
Weapon: Spear
Trait: Gains 1 new skill after each rest. Randomized.
He handed it back.
The woman raised a brow. "Every nap?"
"That's what it's been."
"You'll need to prove that. And survive three ranked contracts before silver tier."
"Fair."
She filed it away. "Trial's tomorrow. Come early. You'll fight against summoned constructs. No one dies unless they're stupid."
She motioned him aside.
Ren stepped back and watched the room.
People came and went. Contracts were taken, bets were placed, drinks were spilled. One man threw up in the corner and was dragged out by someone twice his size.
Then, someone tapped his shoulder.
He turned.
A man with black robes and perfect teeth smiled at him. Too white. Too sharp.
"You're the one with the dream-skill, yeah?" the man said, voice smooth and practiced. "Word travels fast. Especially when coin's behind it."
Ren didn't answer.
"I represent a client," the man continued. "He's always looking for talent. You seem... unrefined, but interesting."
Ren tilted his head. "Not interested."
"You haven't heard the offer yet."
"Still not interested."
The man's smile tightened. Just a bit.
Then he handed over a card. Smooth, etched with silver.
> Councilor Mirth
For those with ambition and nothing to lose.
Ren pocketed it without a word.
The man nodded and slipped back into the crowd.
Ren exhaled and sat at a table in the corner.
So this was the world now—contracts, titles, guild rankings, politics. He didn't even know how to cook in this place yet, and people were already trying to buy him.
He pulled the spear closer to his side and leaned back.
He'd take the test tomorrow.
But tonight?
He needed sleep.
The Trial Floor
Morning came with no dreams and a sore back.
Ren stretched on the thin mattress. His spear leaned against the wall, untouched. He hadn't used it once since arriving in the city, but it still felt like his only real protection.
Downstairs, the tavern was empty. Even the barkeep had vanished. The air smelled faintly of spilled ale and wood polish.
He left without breakfast.
The guild hall looked different in the daylight—less threatening, more like a glorified barracks. A few adventurers were already outside, checking gear or arguing over split rewards. No one looked at him twice.
Inside, the counter woman from yesterday waved him toward a side door. "Trial floor. They're waiting."
He followed her finger.
The door led to a stone staircase, spiraling downward. Cool air rushed up from below. The smell changed—dust, sweat, and something sharp, like burnt metal.
At the bottom, he found a wide chamber lit by glowing crystals embedded in the ceiling. A small crowd waited behind a railing on one side. A few wore guild badges, others looked like instructors. One of them was writing something on a clipboard made of bone.
A man in chainmail waved him over. "Ren?"
"Yes."
"Trial's simple. Three summoned enemies. You handle yourself, you pass. If you cheat, we know. If you die, we don't cover the funeral."
Ren nodded once.
"Anything to declare?"
"I haven't used my new skill yet. It might trigger during the fight."
The man raised an eyebrow but didn't press. "Name of skill?"
"Don't know. I got it last night. Haven't tested it."
"Sleepwalker, huh?" He signaled the others. "Alright, throw him in. Trial starts when the first summon spawns."
Ren stepped into the ring.
The floor shifted slightly under his boots—smooth stone, covered in faint sigils. The walls were scarred from previous fights.
A whistle blew.
A bright circle flared on the far side.
The first summon stepped out.
A goblin. Lean, gray-skinned, wearing scraps of armor and holding a rusty knife.
Ren gripped his spear. Waited.
The goblin lunged.
Ren sidestepped, twisted his body, and brought the spear down hard. It didn't need to be fancy. Just fast and clean.
The goblin crumpled.
No time to rest.
The second summon appeared—larger. A dog, maybe? But twisted, like something stitched together from bones and smoke. Its mouth had too many teeth.
Ren tightened his grip.
The beast circled him.
Then it charged.
He ducked low and rolled, using the spear to jab as it passed. The point struck something solid—it yelped, spun, and leapt again.
This time he braced.
The impact shoved him back, but the spearhead punched into the creature's neck. It dissolved into black mist.
One left.
The floor glowed brighter.
A figure stepped out—human-shaped, armored, carrying a curved sword.
This one felt... real.
The sword swung before Ren could react. He blocked with the shaft of his spear, barely holding.
Too fast.
He backed away. Circled. Watched.
The figure moved like a trained knight—measured, aggressive, but controlled.
Ren kept his distance.
Then—something shifted.
His vision changed. Just for a second.
A message appeared, floating in the corner of his eye.
New Skill Acquired: Weak Point Mapping
Effect: Reveals enemy flaws after three successful dodges.
Ren blinked.
The knight slashed again.
He dodged. Once. Twice. Third—
A faint red mark appeared on the knight's left side, just under the arm.
Ren didn't hesitate.
He lunged. Drove his spear toward the mark.
The knight tried to block—but too slow.
The spear hit true.
The armor shattered. The figure vanished.
Silence.
Then a slow clap.
The man in chainmail stepped forward. "Not bad."
Ren lowered his spear, breathing hard.
Another instructor walked over. "That skill—Weak Point Mapping—you earn that just now?"
"Yes."
"Hmm. Not a bad one. Very rare for Sleepwalkers to get anything that focused."
The first man handed him a badge. Bronze, with the guild emblem stamped in the center.
"You're in. Bronze tier. Try not to die before lunch."
Ren took it.
Another step forward.