"What am I? Who are my parents? Why don't I have any memory of them?"
Eryx drowned deep in his thoughts while sitting on a worn-out couch inside a desolate, frayed house. His clothes were as tattered as the home itself—an old, loose shirt with patches at the shoulders, sleeves torn at the ends, and trousers faded by sun and dirt. His boots had holes at the toes, and a thin rope served as his belt.
He thought to himself—why is he being mocked by people? What had he done to deserve all this cruel treatment?
The thought of burning the kingdom down to ashes suddenly flashed through his mind.
A knock at the door interrupted Eryx from his brooding. He tilted his head toward the door.
(The door opens.)
Standing there was a young man in his early twenties, looming with a magnanimous, robust, and resplendent appearance. Jax's attire reflected his noble birth: a dark blue tunic embroidered with silver threads, a leather belt with a bronze buckle, fitted trousers tucked neatly into polished boots, and a light cloak clasped with a golden pin. His outfit, though simple for a noble, radiated refinement.
"Who is that?"
Eryx squinted, unable to see clearly because of the brightness of the sun.
It was Jax—a boy born with a silver spoon. A noble, and the son of the commander of Zorathis.
"Why must I know nothing about myself, yet know everything about him?" Eryx thought bitterly.
"Hi, Eryx. How are you doing?"
Eryx hesitated for a while before responding in a forlorn tone.
"I'm fine."
He could not stop thinking about how Jax, a noble and a person of high status, would choose to interact with someone as shabby and worthless as him. And yet—regardless of all that—Jax still called him his friend.
"What brings you here, Jax?"
"I'm here to inform you about the king's recent announcement. They're recruiting people into the Valmor Guild."
"I would love for you to be among them, because I've been thinking of joining too. But I can't do it alone. We've gone through so much together."
"I don't think I'm worthy enough to be part of the Valmor Guild," Eryx muttered.
His thoughts narrowed in on the idea: how could a lowlife like him ever be enrolled? Not even as a mere guard, much less as a member of the most respected guild in Zorathis.
But at the same time, he didn't want to let Jax down—or abandon the promise they had made years ago, of always being there for each other.
"Seriously? You're thinking too much. My father is the commander of the guild—nothing will stop you from joining," Jax said, in his usual boastful manner. He had always been one to brag about his capabilities.
Eryx pondered the thought of joining the Valmor Guild. In the end, he decided he would join—but only for Jax's sake.
"Okay. I'll do it. I'll join the Valmor Guild."
"That's great. We'll head to the palace tomorrow to get enrolled."
---
The next day, the two of them went to the palace.
Eryx's eyes widened and his body froze—the palace was magnificent, almost ethereal. His ragged clothing made him feel even smaller and more out of place against its grandeur. Jax, by contrast, wore a ceremonial outfit fit for the occasion: a crisp white tunic with a green sash across his chest, black trousers trimmed with gold, and a short sword strapped to his belt for show.
"Come on, let's go," Jax urged.
Eryx's heart jumped back to reality after being stunned by the palace's grandeur. As they walked down the long hallway, he couldn't stop staring at the neatly polished walls and the majestic statue of King Ryker.
Guards opened the tall doors as they approached. The guards themselves looked formidable—each clad in steel-plated armor with crimson capes flowing behind them, helms polished to a shine, halberds in hand.
Inside, the hall spread vast and wide, filled with all kinds of people—some of noble birth, others abandoned like Eryx, plucked from the streets to serve. The nobles wore robes of fine silk, jewel-studded cloaks, and polished boots, their family crests sewn proudly into their garments. The commoners stood in plain shirts and patched trousers, some barefoot, some in rag-wrapped sandals. The division between them was stark, like two different worlds forced into the same room.
The nobles stayed apart, but when Jax noticed the discrimination, he deliberately stood by Eryx's side. They kept to themselves, refusing to join either group.
Suddenly, Eryx felt a wave of discomfort. The air grew stifling, his body sweltered. His gaze drifted upward to the ancient glowing orbs that lit the hall—iridescent and shimmering with an ominous aura. He guessed that must be what unsettled him.
He turned his head toward Jax, to see if he felt the same, but Jax stood steady and unfazed—focused only on joining the guild.
Eryx wondered, We've been standing here for so long… when will this begin?
Then, all of a sudden, the noisy hall fell silent.
A tall, muscular man in his forties entered—his bald head gleaming, his skin glowing, his eyes fierce like a lion's. Though elegant, he carried an intimidating presence that made souls tremble. His attire was both regal and martial: a deep crimson commander's robe over chainmail, a black leather belt lined with golden studs, and a long sword strapped across his back. The insignia of the Valmor Guild shone brightly on his chestplate.
Eryx thought, Who is that? Could he be the guild leader? If so, then that must mean he's Jax's father. But Jax is calm and gentle… nothing like this fierce man.
"My name is Commander Zowan, leader of the Valmor Guild. I will guide you all on why we are gathered here today.
Let us begin our tour."
Everyone followed as the commander and his guards led them down the hallway to the relic vault—where weapons and equipment of high-ranking guild members were stored. The vault was vast, though not as large as the main hall.
The moment they entered, Eryx felt it again—that same oppressive aura. He froze, unable to move, confusion clouding his mind. He could no longer ignore it.
"Commander Zowan," he said, "what exactly do these orbs do?"
All eyes turned toward him. Whispers stirred—Eryx had dared to question the commander.
"What's your name, young man? I like your confidence."
"I'm Eryx."
"Eryx? Don't you have a last name?"
"I have no clue who my father is," Eryx admitted.
(The whole room burst into laughter.)
"Silence!"
The commander's thunderous voice shook the room, silencing every soul. The atmosphere grew heavy and tense.
"For the question you asked—you will be told when the time comes."
Eryx raged inside. He wanted his answer immediately. The urge to strike the man with a punch burned in him, yet his body would not obey—his hands and feet trembled uncontrollably. He dared not raise a hand against such a powerful figure, not in this situation. Still, confusion gnawed at him: why was he the only one affected by this strange, oppressive aura?
The tour continued. They moved deeper into the relic vault, passing rows of gleaming arms. At the far end, a stack of weapons caught Eryx's eye. Each was bound in black cloth at the hilt or handle, as though veiled with purpose.
There were swords, axes, spears, and daggers—an arsenal neatly stacked against the wall. These weapons were not for ordinary hands; they were specially crafted for the guild's higher-ranked members.
Every guild member, as Eryx soon learned, was ranked from S down to D. A member's rank was determined either by sheer physical ability and strength—or by lineage.