Eron stood nervously at the front desk of the ElmForg Adventurer Guild, clutching a wooden clipboard with both hands. The receptionist, a woman with round glasses and a half-bored expression, looked up at him.
"Name?"
"Eron Vale."
"Age? Previous guild registration?"
"None. I'm here to register for the first time."
She raised an eyebrow and glanced at his mud-stained clothes. "Newcomer? From the countryside?" He nodded and she sighed while pointing to a stack of papers. "Fill out the basic forms, then we'll confirm your awakened skill."
Eron's heart skipped. "My awakened skill?"
"Yes, the one you got from the town's awakening statue. You did visit the statue, right?"
"Oh, yes. I got Fireball."
Several adventurers nearby heard him and snickered. "Another Fireball user?" "Poor guy." "Hope he's good with other weapons at least."
The receptionist didn't seem surprised and scribbled something on her parchment. "Fireball confirmed. We still need to test it to see your actual output level." She gestured to a practice area at the side of the hall. "Over there. Show us what you can do."
Eron walked to the testing area while feeling all eyes on him. There was a wooden target set up about ten feet away, scorched from previous tests. He took a deep breath and focused, calling forth the warmth he'd felt at the statue.
A tiny flame appeared above his palm, small and quiet, about the size of a ping-pong ball.
The room went silent for a moment, then the laughter started. "That's it?" "Is that a firefly?" "Did he just make a candle flame?"
Eron's face burned with embarrassment and he threw the little fireball at the target. It hit with a soft puff and barely left a black smudge.
The receptionist wrote something down. "Skill confirmed: Fireball. Tier: F. Power level: Minimal." She pulled out a small copper badge and slid it across the counter. "Copper Rank. Lowest tier. Read the guild manual if you want details. I'm not explaining the whole ranking system."
Eron muttered a quiet thank you and took the badge. It felt light in his hand, almost weightless. He pinned it to his shirt and stepped away from the desk with his head down, ignoring the chuckles behind him. He heard one adventurer whisper something about "another country bumpkin with a party trick."
Still, he clenched his fists. Nothing to do but move forward.
His first assignment was posted on a notice board. Slime Removal. Outer Field. A solo task meant for new recruits. He accepted it immediately.
The slime field was not far, just a fenced area of rocky ground with scattered puddles. Four slimes moved slowly around the space, shimmering with faint colors of green and blue.
Eron stepped onto the grass with his guild badge pinned to his shirt. "Okay. Let's try this."
He focused and called up that small warmth from before. A spark flickered in his hand and he threw it at the nearest slime.
Puff. The flame bounced off like a soap bubble, and the slime jiggled once before sliding forward.
Eron stared. "What the hell." He tried again. Another weak spark, another bounce. The slimes did not even seem to notice, and one of them slid closer to slap lazily at his boot with a wet sound.
He jumped back. "I'm not failing this." He called up another fireball, then another, then five more, and kept throwing them.
Tiny ping-pong-sized flames flew through the air, poof, poof, poof, and landed like soft pillows. Slowly the slimes began to sizzle. One collapsed into goo after about ten direct hits while the others paused and trembled.
The smell hit him, burnt algae and sour rot, and the air grew warm and thick with thin smoke. Eron did not stop and started casting nonstop, throwing one fireball after another like a machine.
A strange thought crossed his mind. Why am I not tired? He should have been gasping for breath with his arms shaking, but he felt nothing except a calm, steady warmth in his chest. He kept moving with even breathing and sharp focus.
Fireball after fireball. The field glowed orange while smoke curled up from burnt puddles and bubbling goo. The remaining slimes hissed, popped, and melted under the endless attack.
Within minutes, the field was empty with ash floating gently in the breeze and grass burned in wide circles.
Eron stood still and blinked, then wiped his forehead. He was barely sweating. "I cast over fifty, maybe more. And I'm still fine?"
He looked down at his hands. No shaking, no pain. Just warmth, still burning, still ready.
Endless. The thought struck him. Is it because of that moss? The memory of the glowing plant flashed in his mind, the same one he'd put in his backpack, the same one the mysterious girl had said was leaking mana.
Maybe, just maybe. He flexed his fingers and sparks danced across his knuckles. His Fireball was weak, but what if he did not need just one? What if I can cast a hundred? What if I can rain them down like arrows?
He did not say anything and just looked out at the blackened field, then turned away.
Back at the Guild, Eron handed over a small glass bottle containing what was left of a slime.
The receptionist barely looked up. "Proof accepted." She slid a tiny pouch over the counter with a faint clinking sound. "Reward: Five copper."
Eron blinked and opened the pouch to count. Five. "That's it?"
"That's standard pay for entry-level slime removal. Come back tomorrow if you want more work."
He gave a half-hearted nod and stepped aside while clutching the pouch. Five copper. Barely enough for a meal. Not enough for a room.
He tried several inns, but one after another turned him away. Some had tired apologies, others suspicious looks at his worn clothes and dirt-smudged face. "Sorry, all full." "We don't have rooms for your type." "Try the cheaper place down the street."
In the end, he gave up and headed outside ElmForg Town's west gate where a small cluster of trees offered a clearing. From his backpack, he pulled out his compact camping gear, a folding tarp, a small camping stove, and his old hiking kettle.
This revision connects the action directly to the feeling, using the contrast between the "tired apologies" and the "suspicious looks" to convey his growing frustration before he finally gives up.
"Back to the basics," he muttered with a tired smile. "Guess not much has changed after all."
He set up camp under a tall tree, lit a small flame for warmth, and leaned back against his pack. Then his eyes turned upward to the night sky.
Twenty years. That's how long it would feel inside that time pocket the girl mentioned. He stared at the stars for a long while before shaking his head. Not yet.
He closed his eyes and slowly fell asleep. In his dreams, he saw endless streams of tiny fireballs lighting up the darkness, and he wondered if weak could become strong if there was enough of it.