The next morning, the gates of Elmwald stood open, mist still clinging to the grass like the last traces of a fading dream.
Alban stepped forward and rested a firm hand on Arven's shoulder.
"I've packed your travel documents, emergency gold, and letters of recommendation. If you find yourself at an inn or guild hall, don't hesitate to present them."
Arven nodded, meeting Alban's steady gaze. "Appreciate it, Alban."
As Arven turned toward the road ahead, Velward's voice stopped him.
"A man from Elmwald must have a keen sense," his father said, arms folded, eyes sharp as they studied his son. "Don't forget the instincts we've nurtured in you."
Arven gave a confident smile. "I won't."
Nearby, Eleanor reached out to brush a speck of dust from his shoulder. Her voice was gentle but firm. "Trust your eyes, but trust your judgment more. The world won't always show you its intentions."
Arven met her gaze, feeling the weight behind her words.
Before he could take another step, Alban moved again, drawing a short wooden training blade from beneath his cloak.
"I trust you'll survive out there," he said, voice calm but serious. "But before I let you go, I need to see it for myself."
His eyes locked onto Arven's without wavering. "Let an old man check that I taught you well."
Before Arven could answer, a soft ding echoed in his ears.
[Quest: Survive 3 Hits from Alban]
[A seasoned mentor steps forward, blade in hand, to test the instincts he helped shape. A quiet rite of parting.]
[Rewards: +50 EXP, +Stat 'Insight']
Arven's heart skipped a beat. This was no ordinary spar. Alban was once a legendary adventurer, a man who had led elite scouts through the Uncharted Wastes during the Demon Tide.
He hesitated—just for a second. Then exhaled, centering himself.
Yesterday, while sparring with Skele, Arven had tested the Skele's Mist skill. The dark fog it released wasn't just for hiding—it dulled vision, muffled sound, and disoriented anything inside it. Effective on monsters.
It confused monsters just fine.
But Alban? The man practically wrote the book on battlefield awareness.
Yeah… this was going to take some finesse.
Still, Arven always planned ahead.
Back in his gaming days, strategy had been second nature. He'd spent hours mapping out skill rotations, managing resources, and squeezing out every advantage in a boss fight. That habit hadn't left him.
Since arriving in this world, he'd run countless mental drills—replaying scenarios in his head, testing how his skills might chain together in real combat. Skele's Mistbound Soul wasn't just for escaping; it could be a weapon, if used right.
He exhaled slowly, centering himself.
Time to put the theory into practice.
Just before stepping onto the training yard, Arven tapped the Elmwald crest at his chest.
A soft pulse flickered through his vision as the system menu opened.
The skill window blinked to life:
[Active Skills – Arven Elmwald]
[Taming Lv.1 – Bind monsters through spirit link.]
[Summon Lv.1 – Call forth a bonded monster.]
[Runeweaving Lv.1 – Hurl a small stone with basic precision.]
[Active Skills – Skele (Void Hound)]
[Mist – Unleash a creeping mist touched by the Void. Clouds vision, dulls hearing, and distorts perception within the affected area.]
[Shared Skill: ]
[Mist Sense (Passive) - Skele (Void Hound)]
[As a Monster Tamer, you share a partial sensory link with your bound creature's active abilities.
While within Skele's mist, you gain a faint awareness of movement through the fog—like ripples in water.]
Let's give it a shot.
Arven clenched his fist
He stepped back and gave a sharp nod.
"Skele. Mist."
The air thickened as shadows rolled in. The training yard disappeared beneath a swirling black fog.
Arven crouched low. His eyes were useless in the haze—but through Mist Sense, he felt everything: subtle pressure changes, shifting weight, ripples moving like waves in water.
For a moment, there was only stillness.
Then—
A flicker. A disturbance in the fog.
Alban moved. Fast.
The first strike came from behind.
Only the faintest ripple in the mist warned him—an unnatural shift in air pressure. Arven twisted and dropped low, narrowly evading a clean slice where his shoulder had just been.
Second—left flank.
Another whisper of movement. He rolled hard, breath caught in his throat. The strike hissed past his ribs, close enough to feel the wind trailing it.
He was holding his own—but just barely.
The only reason he could keep up was Mist Sense—amplifying Skele's perception while also allowing Arven to sense any movement within the mist. Even then, it wouldn't have mattered if Skele's own Mist hadn't dulled Alban's senses. The fog worked both ways—but favored the one who shared it.
Third strike. Straight ahead.
He sidestepped, instincts flaring—
Tap.
A light, deliberate strike on his back. Not hard. Just enough.
Arven blinked.
It was over.
The mist unraveled, vanishing like breath in the cold.
[Quest Complete: Survive 3 Hits]
[You have gained experience.]
[You have levelled up.]
[You have unlocked Instinct Stat]
[Skele have levelled up.]
[Link with Skele the Void Houndhas grown deeper. Affinity – 13/20]
Arven panted, heart racing, arms still slightly raised in defense.
Alban lowered the blade and offered a rare smile.
"Better than expected," he said. "Good use of environment skill."
Velward nodded from the sideline, arms still crossed, but his expression softer now.
Alban sheathed the training blade and gave a rare, approving nod. "That fog trick… not bad."
Arven stood still for a moment, his chest rising and falling as the last of the tension drained from his limbs. His heart was still pounding—but he'd done it.
He let out a breathless laugh. "Now that's a proper send-off."
Skele padded to his side, bones faintly clinking, tail wagging like a metronome. He nudged Arven's leg with his skull—an eager push, as if asking, What next?
Eleanor stepped forward, adjusting the clasp of Arven's cloak one last time.
"Remember, three steps ahead," she said softly. "That includes where you sleep tonight."
He smiled at her, then glanced around—his mother, his father, Alban, and the familiar warmth of home behind him.
And the open road ahead.
He turned toward the manor gates.
"All right, Skele. Let's go."
The skeleton dog yipped once, excited, and the two stepped beyond the gate—into the wind, into the wild, into whatever came next.
* * *
The first day of travel was peaceful.
Arven and Skele moved through rolling countryside—lush fields swaying in the breeze, cicadas buzzing rhythmically, and the occasional wild boar or rabbit darting past. Skele gave enthusiastic chase each time, his bony tail wagging like a banner behind him.
Arven let him. The skeleton hound looked like he was having fun, and it gave Arven time to think.
Lately, Skele's affinity score had been climbing—slowly but steadily. He wasn't sure if it was tied to time, battle, or emotion… but something about their bond was evolving.
By midday, they reached their first waypoint: a moss-covered stone marker labeled Whispertrail Fork.
A forgettable spot in the game world—unless you knew what lay nearby.
Arven did.
He stepped off the road, brushing through undergrowth, and smiled as he found what he was looking for.
A small herb patch hidden just beyond the tree line.
"Just like I remember," he murmured, plucking sprigs of Verdleaf and Starroot—both rare low-tier ingredients used in Regeneration Potions.
Skele sniffed the plants curiously and sneezed.
"Don't eat them," Arven said, chuckling. "They're for potions, not snacks."
That night, they camped beside a quiet brook. Arven cooked a light stew from dried meat and herbs. Skele curled up near the fire, tail tapping lazily against the grass.
Arven opened a fresh leather-bound journal and began writing, carefully noting the day's observations. The quiet scratch of his pen filled the night air. When he closed the book, a flicker caught the corner of his eye — a shimmer just beyond the firelight, where trees blurred into shadow.
Arven stayed still, calm.
Instead, he stirred the stew, then carefully placed a small, lidded bowl of food on a flat stone near the tent.
Skele blinked, turned to the trees, and gave a single tail wag.
Neither said anything.
Arven had noticed the signs since yesterday—shifting leaves when there was no wind, faint footfalls in the grass.
But most telling of all?
Skele hadn't raised a single alert.
Which meant—whoever was following them wasn't a threat.
Likely human.
Probably a thief.
Arven smirked.
* * *
The next morning, the bowl was empty.
Beside it: a tiny footprint pressed into the mud.
Light. Precise. Someone trained to move like a shadow.
He wouldn't call them out.
Not yet.
The second day brought them closer to Elloria.
By afternoon, its stone walls rose, sun-warmed and flanked by wide windmills and proud banners.
But Arven didn't take the main road.
Instead, he veered south—toward the forest. Toward a place barely known to players.
An old, abandoned chaptel.
Half-sunken, crumbling, swallowed by vines.
In Runebound Online, no NPC ever spoke of it directly. But Arven knew it held one of the earliest secret dungeons in the game.
Deep below, it guarded a powerful, dormant monster—one tied to future world events.
'Can I bond with it?'
The thought thrilled him.
The chaptel door loomed before him—weathered, overgrown, sealed tight despite its rotting frame. Arven placed his palm against the worn wood and exhaled.
"Let's see if this works…"
He channeled a thin stream of mana through his hand. The faint glow spread into the cracks like veins of light.
Click.
Ancient runes briefly shimmered along the doorframe. Then, with a deep groan, the mechanism unlocked.
The chaptel creaked as the door swung open slowly, dust curling into the morning light like smoke from a long-dead fire.
Arven stepped inside.
The air was thick with age—dry rot, mildew, and the strange stillness ruins always carried. Broken pews lay scattered across the floor, their once-polished surfaces warped by time. A cracked altar stood at the far end, draped in tattered cloth and silence.
He moved forward, footsteps soft, hand trailing lightly across the wood as he passed.
Then he paused.
His eyes scanned the far wall behind the altar. Amidst crumbling plaster and ivy-covered stone, one section stood oddly clean. Intact. Untouched.
Too perfect, he muttered.
Approaching, he tapped the surface with his knuckles.
Hollow.
A grin tugged at his lips.
"Bingo."
He knocked again—harder. This time, the plaster cracked under his touch. With a faint crumble, the false wall gave way, revealing a narrow spiral staircase descending into darkness.
The air from below was colder. Undisturbed.
He glanced back over his shoulder once, then down into the depths.
"Let's see what you've been hiding down here."
He paused at the threshold, the first stair vanishing into darkness.
Then he glanced over his shoulder.
"You coming?" he said softly, almost to himself.
Maybe to Skele.
Maybe to the shadow he knew was out there.
He didn't wait for an answer.
With a steady breath, Arven stepped into the stairwell, boots tapping against ancient stone.
Behind him, Skele padded after, quiet as bone on marble, mist curling in his wake.