When Arin finally stirred from the dark, the first thing he noticed was the quiet. Not the suffocating silence of a dungeon about to swallow him whole, nor the dreadful hiss of lizardmen waiting in the dark, but something softer. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and parchment, candlewax and steel. He wasn't in the dungeon anymore.
The ceiling above him was plain timber, beams running across it like the ribs of a great hall. Light flickered from a candle at his side, pushing shadows into the corners of the room. His body felt heavy, bound with clean bandages, and every breath reminded him of the wound across his side. Whoever had tended him had done it thoroughly.
A door creaked open.
"You're awake."
The voice was firm, clipped of excess, belonging to a woman in the guild's uniform. Her hair was tied back neatly, her eyes sharp as she stepped into the room. She carried herself like someone used to giving orders and having them obeyed.
Arin tried to sit up, but she raised a hand. "Don't. You've only been unconscious for a day. Moving too quickly will undo the healing."
His throat rasped when he finally spoke. "Where am I?"
"In the guild's recovery chamber," the woman replied. She set a small pouch down on the bedside table and untied it. The contents spilled into her hand—two bright gold coins and a neat stack of thirty silvers, gleaming under the candlelight.
Arin blinked. That couldn't be his.
"These," she explained, her tone precise, "are part of the reward given by Garrick's party. Their official report included your contributions. The rest of their earnings they kept, as expected. What you see here is your fair share."
The coins caught the light and seemed almost unreal, shining beside the rough bandages binding his chest.
But the woman's expression hardened. "Understand this. Healing is not free."
She flipped open a slim ledger and ran her finger down the page. "The priestess's miracle stabilized you, but you required additional treatment—herbs, alchemical reagents, and mana crystals. Seventy-two silvers."
Arin stared. Seventy-two.
The weight of the pouch shrank in his mind. A gold coin meant a hundred silvers. A single silver broke into ten coppers. That pile on the table, which looked so rich at first glance, had already been hollowed out by debt.
The woman closed the ledger with a snap. "That sum has already been deducted from the reward. What remains is yours. See that you don't squander it."
With that, she turned and left, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Arin sat in silence, staring at the coins as though they might vanish if he blinked. Two gold, thirty silvers. Enough to live, for now. Enough to remind him that his life had been saved—and bought. The realization tightened in his chest. Every desperate strike in that dungeon, every ragged breath, had been weighed, measured, and priced. His survival was worth seventy-two silvers.
---
Time blurred after that. Sleep tugged at him, but his ears caught fragments of voices drifting through the thin walls.
"…staff, if I can find one cheap enough. Doesn't need to be reinforced, just something with a proper focus," a girl whispered.
"You'd waste coin on that? Better to save it until you've proven yourself," came a rougher reply, dismissive.
"I'll manage," the girl murmured back, quieter this time.
Their footsteps faded, leaving Arin to imagine the speaker—a mage, perhaps, clutching at ambition despite the doubt of her peers.
Later, deeper voices carried through.
"…no, Garrick's report is consistent. His signature is here. He wouldn't risk falsehood," said a man, steady and authoritative.
The guildmaster, Arin guessed.
The cold-voiced woman from before replied. "Even so, his inclusion of the boy is unusual. Garrick has never been generous."
A low chuckle followed. "Perhaps the boy earned it. Or perhaps Garrick's changing. Either way, let it stand."
Their footsteps receded. The hall fell silent again.
Arin exhaled slowly, turning his gaze back to the pouch of coins. They gleamed faintly in the candlelight, proof that he hadn't been left to die forgotten in the dark. Proof that he had value—even if measured only in coin.
But still, when he thought back to Garrick's axe splitting the chieftain's skull, Elira's rapier flashing with silver light, Kaelen darting like a shadow, Serah's prayers glowing gold… and himself, battered and clumsy, fighting with nothing but grit—he wondered what that value truly amounted to.
The silence pressed heavier the longer Arin lay still. He wanted to rest, yet the thought of simply sleeping again felt unbearable. The dungeon had taught him that closing his eyes could mean never opening them. His body craved stillness, but his mind clawed for proof that this place was safe.
At last, he tried to sit. His ribs screamed, his side flared with pain, but he managed to brace against the wall. Sweat broke across his forehead. He stared down at the bandages swathing his torso, clean linen marked faintly with the brown trace of dried blood. The priestess's light had mended the worst of it, but the ache lingered like a memory carved into flesh.
His feet touched the floor. The wooden boards were cool against his bare skin. He forced his weight onto them, testing, trembling. Not strong, but enough to stand.
The room tilted for a heartbeat before steadying.
He crossed the small space, one hand dragging against the wall for balance, and pushed open the door. The hinges creaked softly.
Outside stretched a narrow hall lined with torch sconces and shut doors, each marked with a bronze plate. He recognized the smell of herbs and clean linen seeping faintly from some rooms. Recovery chambers. Others must have been tended here, though the hall itself was empty.
A staircase led downward. Voices drifted up with the faint clamor of boots against stone, the murmur of arguments, the rustle of parchment.
He descended slowly, one step at a time.
The guild's main hall was a cavern of wood and stone, torchlit and bustling. Adventurers in mismatched armor clumped around long tables, trading boasts and scars. The clink of mugs punctuated their laughter. Others stood in line at the counter, where clerks took down reports with quills scratching across parchment.
Arin paused at the bottom of the stairs, the press of it overwhelming. The dungeon had been full of monsters, but this place swarmed with people. Too many eyes. Too many voices.
No one noticed him at first. He slipped to the side, leaning against the stairwell's stone pillar, observing quietly.
The cold-eyed clerk from earlier stood at the counter, hair tied in a sharp bun, expression like carved ice. She handed out slips of parchment to a pair of armored men without so much as a glance upward. "Sign. Initial. Next."
Further down, he spotted a figure that matched the voice he'd overheard—the mage girl. Her cloak was a little too big for her frame, sleeves frayed at the edges. She held what looked like a simple oak staff in her hands, turning it over as though trying to judge its worth. The adventurer beside her—a tall man in chainmail—snorted at her muttering.
"Waste of silver, I tell you. You'll snap it before you ever channel through it properly."
She bit her lip, but kept her gaze fixed on the wood. Her voice was small. "I'll manage."
Arin shifted his weight, watching her. She seemed younger than most here. Not much older than him, if at all.
"Arin."
The sound of his name froze him.
He turned.
It was Garrick.
The warrior's bulk filled the space as he approached, his great axe strapped across his back. The crowd parted around him without thought. His presence commanded space the way his strikes had commanded the battlefield.
"You're on your feet sooner than I expected," Garrick said, his tone plain but not unkind. His gaze dipped briefly to the bandages peeking from Arin's shirt. "Still breathing. Good."
Arin's mouth was dry. He forced words past it. "Your… party. Did they—"
"They're fine," Garrick cut in. "Resting. Collecting their share. You'll see them when you're stronger."
Relief loosened Arin's chest, though it left behind something heavier—gratitude he couldn't put into words.
Before he could speak, the cold clerk's voice cut across the hall. "If you're finished lingering, boy, take your place."
Her eyes, sharp as glass, had found him.
Heat prickled at Arin's neck as a few adventurers glanced over. He stepped forward stiffly, each movement measured to hide the weakness in his legs. Garrick gave a single nod and turned back to the hall, as though his part in this moment was finished.
At the counter, the clerk slid a parchment across to him. "Name."
"Arin."
"Family name?"
"…None."
Her quill scratched briefly. "Then it's only Arin." She tapped the paper once, then looked him over with cool disinterest. "You were carried back half-dead from the depths of a dungeon. A miracle, some might say. Luck, more likely. Don't waste it."
The words cut more than she knew, but Arin swallowed them down and signed the page with a shaky hand.
The pouch of coins weighed against his palm as she returned it to him. Two gold. Thirty silver. His life's worth.
When he stepped back from the counter, the hall buzzed on without him, unconcerned. But to Arin, each sound, each flicker of light, felt sharper. The world had gone on, uncaring of how close he'd come to being erased.
He was alive.
For now, that was enough.
Perfect — I'll weave that detail in naturally, so it feels like Arin notices it in passing, overheard through conversation or catching a glimpse as he observes the guild. That way the concept of skill books is introduced to the reader without breaking immersion or dumping exposition. Here's the continuation and close of this installment (still from Arin's 3rd person–focused view):
Arin stepped back from the counter, the pouch clinking faintly at his belt. The weight was almost mocking; not the fortune adventurers bragged about, but still more coin than he had ever touched in his life. Two gold. Thirty silvers. A handful of coppers remained from before the dungeon, forgotten in the lining of his pack.
It was his, but it was also not. The coins had been given, not earned. A reward, yes—but one owed more to Garrick's axe than his own hand.
The thought pressed heavy as he edged away from the line.
Nearby, two men hunched over a table muttered to one another, their voices carrying just enough for him to catch.
"Shop's brought in two new manuals. Proper skill books this time. They won't last long."
"Price?"
"Fifty silver, cheapest. Hundred, if you want anything worth the trouble."
Arin's gaze flicked instinctively toward the far side of the hall, where a small stall was set up behind a latticed counter. Shelves stacked with tomes and gear stood beyond the bars, a guild clerk cataloguing them under lantern light. Among the rows of scabbards and potions, his eyes caught the corner of leather-bound volumes sealed with iron clasps. The men weren't lying.
Skill books.
He felt a hollow ache in his chest. Garrick's flaming arc, Elira's silver thrusts, even Kaelen's flickering steps—they had not been simple tricks. They had been skills, born from those very tomes, perhaps. Rare, costly, more precious than the gear they carried.
Arin's fingers curled unconsciously against his palm. Two gold and thirty silvers felt suddenly small.
---
The hall moved around him. An armored woman with cropped hair laughed loudly as she slapped a comrade's back. The mage girl clutched her staff tighter, whispering something to herself. The clerk with the cold eyes shuffled parchments into neat stacks, lips pressed thin. Garrick was gone, melted into the throng of voices.
And Arin? He stood in the midst of it all, adrift.
His body threatened to buckle again. He could feel the edges of exhaustion creeping back, the dizziness swelling if he stood too long. The healer's work had sealed his wounds, but strength did not return with bandages alone.
A soft voice reached him. "You should rest."
He turned. Serah stood a short distance away, her priest's mantle washed in the warm glow of torchlight. She did not approach closer—only met his eyes with a look equal parts gentle and firm.
"You've done enough for one day," she said. "The halls will still be here tomorrow."
Arin wanted to answer. Wanted to prove that he could remain standing among them, that he belonged. But his legs trembled with the truth.
He nodded once, quietly, and turned back toward the stairs.
Each step upward felt heavier than the last. The noise of the guild dulled behind him, replaced again by the hush of stone halls. His chamber waited, plain and small.
He closed the door, leaned back against it, and slid down until he sat on the edge of the bed. The pouch pressed against his side, coins whispering with the motion.
Two gold. Thirty silvers.
He exhaled, slow and thin. For now, it was enough.
Tomorrow would demand more.
The morning came sluggish for Arin. His body still bore the heaviness of battle, though no open wound remained. The healers' craft had sealed flesh, yet the ache beneath refused to fade. Muscles throbbed with dull protest when he shifted, and a faint pressure lingered in his ribs, as though his body feared to breathe too deeply.
The infirmary smelled faintly of herbs steeped too long in water—bitterroot and dried chamomile. The air was warm, not from sunlight but from braziers set between the rows of narrow beds. Some held adventurers sprawled in uneasy rest, bandaged limbs propped up with care. Others lay empty, the linens folded with exact precision. The soft murmur of healers moving among them gave the place a rhythm, low and steady, almost like the pulse of the hall itself.
Arin sat upright, careful, watching the world pass from his bed.
He caught fragments of talk carried on from the next cot.
"Burnt right through my armor, damn lizard. Took three potions before I could even crawl back."
"Shouldn't've gone with that lot. Told you, the deeper floors aren't for greenhands."
A laugh, bitter and broken by pain. "And yet here I am, greenhand still."
Another voice drifted in from across the room.
"They're saying the guild's shop restocked again. Skill books gone in less than an hour."
"Of course they are. Half the bastards here hoard coin like squirrels waiting for winter."
The tones rose, fell, and overlapped, weaving a constant undercurrent in the infirmary. To Arin it was noise and meaning both: proof of life beyond his bed, of a guild that never slept even when its members were forced to.
By midday, he managed to rise. His legs carried him slowly, but they carried him. The stairs down to the main hall were a trial, each step pulling tight across his ribs, but he endured in silence.
The guild was as alive as the infirmary had hinted. Tables filled with groups loud in their victories or sullen in their losses. The clang of tankards struck wood, the rasp of armor buckled or unbuckled, the scrape of boots across stone.
Arin drifted along the wall, watching.
The cold-eyed clerk he had seen before stood at her desk, quill scratching without pause. She never looked up, not even when adventurers slammed coin down or raised their voices in complaint. If she noticed, it was only to dip her quill, to make another mark, to pass a parchment along to a waiting hand. Detached, precise—unmoved by the human storm around her.
Then a heavier presence passed near. The guildmaster.
Tall, broad-shouldered, his cloak trimmed in steel-grey fur, he cut through the hall without effort. His boots struck the stone with steady weight. A group of adventurers erupted into an argument at one of the nearer tables—accusations of coin withheld, threats half-barked and half-drunken. The guildmaster paused, only turned his head. His gaze fell upon them.
The noise collapsed into silence.
The guildmaster said nothing. He only let the moment linger, then walked on. Authority wrapped him like armor, sharper than any drawn blade.
Arin exhaled softly.
He continued his quiet vigil, lingering near the edges. His ears caught another thread of talk, this one different, weightier.
"…not just training, you know. The gods choose. You step into the sanctum, you kneel, and the power comes—or it doesn't."
"Church has the final word, then? Figures."
"Aye, but the guild can't deny it. If you're chosen, your class marks you for life."
"Easy to speak of. I've seen more leave empty-handed than blessed."
The voices dipped into a mix of complaints and laughter, the sting of ale already thickening their words.
Arin's mind turned inward. The idea of "bestowed power" struck too close. He had no such blessing. No sword that burst into flame, no silver flash, no book in his pack promising greatness. Only his body, weary and bruised.
His pouch remained heavy at his side—two gold coins and thirty silvers given by Garrick's party, a reward he had yet to touch. But even with the weight of coin, he felt no security. It was as if the hall itself reminded him: gold did not make one belong.
He lingered on the edges of the hall, unseen yet watching. The guild's life moved without him—laughter, disputes, voices rising, authority pressed down. Adventurers complained, celebrated, argued. He alone remained still, nameless among them.
The hall felt both vast and close, a place that offered belonging to those who could seize it.
And to him?
He pressed a hand against his ribs, feeling the ache beneath his palm.
To him it offered only questions.
Arin found himself drawn toward the guild's shop corner. It was set apart from the main bustle, tucked beneath a stone arch where shelves lined the walls and a counter ran low across the front. Behind it, an older woman with half-moon spectacles busied herself with stacks of parchment and neat boxes bound in leather straps.
Adventurers clustered there, voices hushed though no rule demanded it. Arin slowed his steps, feigning aimlessness, ears pricking as words floated toward him.
"…only two left now. You'd better decide before the price climbs again."
"Two silvers just to peek at the list, and you want me to gamble more? Skill books aren't worth the purse unless you've got the coin of a baron."
Another, younger voice, awestruck: "But did you see it? Fireball. If I had that, nothing could stand—burn them to ash in an instant."
A scoff answered. "Imagine your own eyebrows gone before you get the chant right. Skills don't make up for fools."
Arin shifted closer, gaze landing on a slate board propped against the counter. Chalk letters, scrawled neat and deliberate, listed the shop's dwindling stock:
Guild Shop — Current Stock
[Skill Book: Fireball] (Active) — 1 Gold, 75 Silver
[Skill Book: Enduring Spirit] (Passive) — 2 Gold, 20 Silver
His breath caught. Only two left.
The cheapest of them still dwarfed his pouch—two gold and thirty silver would barely scrape the second line, but even then he'd be emptied clean. The first was within reach, yet the price was steep enough to leave him with nothing for food, repairs, or healing.
Yet he couldn't look away. Fireball was more than a name. He could see it already—the air bursting into flame, consuming everything before him in a tide of fire. And Enduring Spirit… the words alone made his chest tighten. A body that refused to give out, wounds that could be endured past the limit, a will that kept him upright when he should have fallen.
A girl with cropped auburn hair leaned against the counter nearby, whispering fiercely to a companion. "If I can just get the Fireball, then the staff won't be wasted. Firepower's all I need. Just a little more coin…" Her hand brushed the plain oak rod strapped to her back, as if imagining the future hidden within it.
Another pair argued further down the line, one jabbing his finger at the slate. "Spirit's for stubborn bastards like you. Worthless to me, but to you—"
"Two gold? Are you mad? I'd rather eat for a month."
Their laughter was bitter, tinged with envy.
Arin stayed silent, his hand drifting toward the pouch at his belt. He could feel the weight of the coins Garrick's party had left him, heavy yet impossibly light in the shadow of that board.
So this was the measure of it. Skills weren't just rare because few people earned them. They were rare because coin kept them beyond reach. Those who had them stood apart, glowing with the kind of power he had seen wielded in the chieftain's chamber.
He walked away before the temptation settled too deeply, but the words and prices carved themselves into his thoughts, as sharp as the gouges in his battered shield.
The second day crept by slowly.
When Arin's eyes opened again, the weight on his chest felt lighter than before. His side still ached when he drew a deep breath, but the fire that had once burned in his ribs dulled now to an insistent throb. He shifted carefully, testing the movement of his limbs. Soreness lingered everywhere, yet he realized with faint surprise that he could sit up without the world spinning into darkness.
The infirmary carried the quiet hush of morning. Pale light filtered through a narrow window slit high in the stone wall, catching on the rows of cots. Each bed was filled—bandaged arms, bruised faces, adventurers wrapped in linen like broken dolls. The air smelled faintly of herbs and boiled linen, sharp with alcohol and bitter roots. Somewhere at the far end, water dripped into a basin with a steady, rhythmic patter.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to ease the grit from them. His body bore the signs of what he had endured: bruises painting his arms in sickly colors, cuts scabbed over, muscles aching with each motion. Yet beneath that, he felt something else—an undercurrent of strength he hadn't noticed before.
In only a month, he had crossed battles and blood, pushed his body beyond exhaustion and back again. The thought struck him: compared to the man who had stepped into the forest weeks ago, he was different. Stronger. His grip had steadied, his feet carried him swifter, his instincts sharpened by each close escape. Even without a skill, even without mana flaring bright around him like Garrick or Elira, he had grown.
He flexed his fingers against the blanket, almost disbelieving. Survival itself had honed him sharper than any training yard could.
A murmur broke the quiet.
On the other side of the room, two adventurers whispered, voices carrying despite their attempt at subtlety.
"Lost half the haul to repairs already. If the smith raises prices again, I'll be fighting in scraps."
"Better scraps than bones. Did you hear about the pair that didn't come back from the lower caves? No bodies, no gear, nothing. Just gone."
The first scoffed, though unease undercut his tone. "And you still want to push deeper?"
Arin lowered his gaze, feigning indifference though he listened keenly. The words painted the guild's atmosphere clearer than any chart could. Death wasn't whispered as distant possibility—it was accounted for, like rain in a storm season.
Later, as the infirmary door creaked open, the cold-eyed clerk passed through. She moved briskly, a stack of ledgers balanced against her hip, quill tucked neatly behind her ear. She spared no word for the wounded, only the faintest nod toward the healer at the far end before vanishing through the adjoining hall.
Arin followed her with his eyes. Efficiency draped around her like armor, but warmth was absent. He wondered if she ever smiled, or if numbers and reports consumed all her expression.
Soon after, voices rose beyond the infirmary's walls. Laughter, complaints, and the occasional sharp crack of boots against stone carried through the thin wood of the door. Adventurers in all moods—arguing over pay, boasting of hunts, or simply lingering with tankards in hand.
Arin leaned back against the cot, letting the noise wash over him. Fragments of words drifted clear:
"…another shipment of potions delayed, so unless you've coin, you're out of luck…"
"…skill books in the shop—only two left, and some fool'll grab them by sundown…"
"…the gods only grant classes when they see fit. Doesn't matter how long you've waited, if you're unworthy, you're unworthy…"
A muttered curse. A burst of laughter. A heated retort quickly stifled.
Through it all, Arin remained quiet. Observing. Gathering threads.
He caught sight of the auburn-haired girl again through the open doorway as she passed the counter, her staff strapped tightly to her back. Her companion murmured something, and she shook her head sharply. "…still short. But if I can just manage it…"
The words trailed into the guild hall.
Arin let out a slow breath, hand brushing against the pouch at his belt where it rested on the small table beside him. The weight of two gold and thirty silvers was reassuring—yet he knew how swiftly such coin could vanish. Healing, repairs, food, supplies. The guild consumed silver as fast as the body consumed breath.
He lowered his gaze to the faint scars across his arms, the pale ridges where claws and blades had carved through flesh. Not so long ago, such wounds would have left him bedridden for weeks, if not dead. Now, he sat upright after only days. His body adapted, endured, carried him further each time.
The thought warmed him more than the blanket could.
Strength. Not brilliance, not a glowing skill that set the air aflame, but strength earned step by step. He had endured what others would not. That was its own proof.
A sharp voice cut through the hall outside, raised in argument.
"You'll take the contract or you won't. But don't waste my time with haggling. The guild sets the pay, not you."
The retort was drowned in a chorus of complaints. Boots scuffed. Chairs scraped. Then, after a tense moment, the noise settled, subdued by authority alone.
Arin imagined the guild's rhythms laid bare before him: arguments, negotiations, laughter, disputes—all tied together under a roof that smelled of iron and sweat and parchment. He wondered how long it would take before he blended into it, no longer the outsider listening from the fringes.
For now, though, he remained on the cot, bandaged and quiet. Watching. Waiting. Measuring the distance between what he was and what he had glimpsed in that cavern of fire and bone.
And in the silence that followed, he thought of the church. Of whispers about blessings and classes, of power bestowed when the gods judged one ready. He said nothing of it yet, not even to himself, but the thought rooted firmly, waiting.
Another day would pass. Another step forward.
He closed his eyes again, listening to the guild's heartbeat in the walls around him.
When the healer finally dismissed him from the infirmary, Arin's legs felt unsteady but serviceable. The stiffness clung to his muscles, but each step reassured him that his body still obeyed. A few other wounded adventurers gave him glances as he passed, some curious, others indifferent. Arin kept his gaze forward, unwilling to invite conversation.
The guild hall was alive with its usual storm of noise. Laughter at one table, curses at another, the clink of mugs, the scrape of dice spilling across a board. The atmosphere smelled of smoke, sweat, and the faint tang of metal polish.
His steps drew him once more toward the shop corner, where shelves of supplies lined the wall and the half-moon-spectacled woman behind the counter tallied coin with quiet precision. A small cluster of adventurers loitered there, muttering in tones just low enough to avoid reprimand.
Arin's eyes flicked immediately to the slate board.
Empty.
The words [Skill Book: Fireball] and [Skill Book: Enduring Spirit] had been wiped clean, replaced only by neat chalk lines and a single message:
All sold. Next stock arriving shortly.
His chest tightened. Too slow. The chance had slipped through his fingers, bought up by others with heavier purses and stronger footing.
"…damn C-ranks," one adventurer muttered nearby, bitterness dripping from his voice. "Snatched both the moment they hit the board. What's the point of even looking when they've got the coin to clear the shelves every time?"
"Shouldn't have expected less," another replied, spitting on the floor. "One day I'll be there too."
Arin lingered, caught between leaving and staring longer as if the words might change. His hand brushed against the pouch at his side. Two gold and thirty silvers—the same weight as yesterday, yet suddenly useless.
Then the door at the side of the counter creaked open.
The spectacled woman stepped out, a slim wooden box cradled in her arms. She set it carefully on the counter, lifted the lid, and withdrew a single leather-bound book. Its cover bore no grand embellishment, only a faint crest marked with glowing ink.
The whispers around the counter stilled.
The woman placed the book atop the slate board, and in practiced strokes of chalk, wrote the name for all to see:
[Skill Book: Vital Boost] (Passive)
Price: 1 Gold, 90 Silver.
A ripple of murmurs swept through the gathered adventurers.
"Too expensive."
"Not worth it—better save for something flashy."
"Still, a passive skill's a passive skill…"
Arin stared at the neat letters until they burned into his mind. No description, no detail. Just a name. Vital Boost. The meaning was obvious enough, but its true weight was hidden behind those words.
His fingers tightened on the pouch until the coins within pressed hard against his palm. One gold and ninety silvers. The exact amount he had—leaving only forty silvers to his name. Barely enough for meals and nothing else.
A foolish purchase, perhaps. But staring at the board, he felt the same pull he had in the chieftain's chamber. That moment when his shield had nearly split, his blood had spilled, and his body had screamed for him to fall. He remembered clinging to life by the thinnest thread.
What he needed wasn't fire. What he needed wasn't brilliance.
It was survival.
His decision came before doubt could catch him.
"I'll take it." His voice broke the low hum of mutters.
The clerk adjusted her spectacles, glanced at him once, then held out her hand.
Arin placed the pouch in her palm. Coins clinked as she counted—measured, precise, without wasted motion. She slid the book forward, then handed back the remaining silvers, her expression unchanged.
The weight of the leather-bound tome settled into his hands, heavier than its size suggested. The faint glow of the crest pulsed softly, as if breathing.
For the first time since stepping into the guild, Arin felt the air shift. He hadn't gained power yet—not truly—but the book in his hands was possibility bound in leather.
His grip tightened around it.
Finally, a chance.
Arin leaves the guild shop with the skill book in hand, his remaining silvers light in his pouch, but with a quiet sense of determination building in his chest.
Name: Arin
Level: 10
HP: 37 / 37
MP: 14 / 14
Strength: 21 (Max: 76)
Endurance: 18 (Max: 83)
Agility: 12 (Max: 71)
Dexterity: 7 (Max: 68)
Intelligence: 9 (Max: 34)
Willpower: 8 (Max: 32)
Unallocated Points: 0
Ability: Level Perception
Skill Slots: 1 (Unassigned)
Current Equipment
Armor: Worn Leather Cuirass (damaged)
Shield: Iron Shield (cracked)
Weapon: Iron-Tipped Spear (worn), Boarded-Blade Knife, Crude Iron Dagger (acquired from fallen)