The room the guild had given him was plain, but it carried a quietness that Arin had not felt in weeks. After the choking stench of the lizardman caverns, after nights spent half-sleeping against stone with his spear clutched close, the austerity felt like wealth. A bed narrow but whole, a table with no bloodstains, a chest bound in iron bands that actually locked.
Here, silence did not feel like danger. It felt like reprieve.
Arin sat at the table now, staring at the book that rested in the center. Its leather cover was smooth, worn darker at the edges from countless hands before his. The guild's seal, a stamped circle crossed by a sword and quill, was etched deep into the spine—a mark of authenticity, of worth.
A skill book.
Even the word alone made his chest feel tight.
He rested his thumb against the clasp. It would open easily, he knew. All that kept it shut was himself.
Would this be worth the price? He had no answer. He had no way of knowing. He had seen the others fight, seen the blazing strength when mana surged through Garrick's axe, the gleaming precision of Elira's rapier, the golden radiance of Serah's healing light. And in those moments, he had understood that his survival was not enough. If he wanted to stand against chieftains, beasts, and worse, he could not remain as he was.
He forced his hand to move.
The clasp gave with a muted click.
Arin exhaled, the sound rough in the quiet. The book opened, and the words inside were not merely ink—they were alive. They burned into him as his eyes passed over them, as if each line sank beneath his skin and rewrote something deep within his breath, his bones, his very blood.
Heat spread through his chest, his veins tightening. His pulse hammered faster, harder, until sweat broke across his brow. His body shook once, like a shiver under winter's touch—and then the sensation folded inward, silent and still.
The book's pages turned blank, their purpose gone.
Arin slumped back, breath heavy. He flexed his hand once. His chest rose steady, stronger, as though unseen cords had pulled tighter inside him. His body felt heavier and lighter at once. His cuts still ached, but there was something deeper, a sense that his core had been fortified, like hidden roots that had thickened in the soil.
A faint chime rang in his mind, crystalline and sharp.
---
[Skill Acquired: Vital Boost]
Max HP increased by +35.
Max MP increased by +10.
Regeneration improved.
---
The text shimmered in his vision and faded, leaving only the echo of strength in its wake.
Arin stared at his hands. No glow lingered, no grand transformation shone through his skin. And yet, he felt it—the way his lungs filled easier, the way a dull ache in his side seemed to ease with every breath. It was not power like flame or lightning. It was quieter. But it was there.
Something had changed.
He leaned forward and pushed the book aside, its leather cover dull now, useless. His gaze drifted to the small pouch at his belt. Coins clinked faintly as he checked the weight. One gold, silver enough to last a little if rationed. The rest, Garrick's reward, still pressed against him like a reminder. He was richer than he had ever been in his life, and yet it was already vanishing. Healing fees, guild lodging, food. And now the book.
His wealth was a fragile thing.
Still… his strength was no longer the same as it had been. That alone was worth more than coin.
---
By the time Arin stepped into the guild's main hall, the day had already deepened into afternoon.
The guild was never quiet. Tables filled the space like an unruly forest, each occupied by adventurers in varying states of wear: armor half-polished, cloaks caked with dirt, weapons propped against chairs. The scent of ale and sweat was sharp, undercut by the tang of oil lamps that smoked faintly from iron sconces above.
Arin moved carefully through the bustle, eyes drawn not to faces but to the fragments of life he glimpsed: the dice rattling against a tabletop, a scabbard dented with fresh gouges, a hand of cards fanned wide in someone's grasp.
The cold clerk woman sat behind her high desk, quill scratching without pause. She wore her hair pulled back into a severe knot, her gaze never lifting as adventurers leaned in to shout about completed hunts or to bicker about pay. She cut through every word with the same flat tone, not unkind, but so stripped of warmth that no one dared test her patience.
Beyond her, the double doors opened and closed in rhythm with footsteps. Guild runners darted past, carrying scrolls. Two armored men spoke in low tones at the far wall, maps spread between them.
And threading through it all was the sound of voices rising and breaking:
"…heard it's an A-class this time. Not just some wolves or goblins."
"Impossible. A-class breaks don't happen here. That's borderland nonsense."
"You call it nonsense when the corpses start piling up. The lord's already sending out word."
Arin slowed, ears pricking.
Another voice, sharper: "He's calling mercenaries, not just adventurers. Anyone who can hold steel. Pays in gold."
A hush followed that, quick and tense, before the chatter resumed with louder bravado.
Arin moved on, but the words stuck. A-class dungeon break. He had no measure for what that meant, but the tone alone told him it was something beyond the lizardman chieftain. Something that could threaten not just adventurers in tunnels, but towns, streets, and lives.
The guild's doors swung shut behind him, muting the roar of voices until only the echo of his own boots remained. The air outside was brisk, cool with the bite of late autumn. Smoke curled from chimneys in uneven wisps, clinging low before dissolving into a sky painted in copper and fading blue. The streets thrummed with life—merchants shuttering stalls, children racing between alleys with wooden swords, adventurers striding toward taverns heavy with clinking coin.
Arin lingered a moment, adjusting the strap of his pack across his shoulder. The murmurs from the hall had not left him. An A-class dungeon break. He had no map of what that meant, no measure of how many ranks lay between himself and such a thing. But the silence between those whispers, the way voices had dropped low, told him it was grave.
For now, though, he had his own step to take.
He followed the cobbled road toward the upper quarter, where the church spire cut sharp against the sky. The building loomed larger with each street he crossed—white stone streaked with rain, stained-glass windows catching the last light of day. Bells tolled once, low and heavy, announcing the coming of evening prayers.
The church was quieter than the guild, but not silent. Voices murmured from within, hymns threading together with the sound of sandals scraping against polished stone. Candles burned along the steps, their flames fragile against the breeze.
Arin climbed slowly, his hand brushing the railing worn smooth from countless palms. He had passed this place before but never entered. The weight of the air pressed down the closer he drew, as if the building itself measured him.
Inside, the scent of incense struck first—resin and smoke thick enough to cling to his throat. Pillars rose tall, ribbed like spears of stone that held the vaulted ceiling high above. Statues lined the nave, each a figure caught mid-motion: a warrior with shield raised, a robed woman with an open book, a hunter drawing bow. Their faces were worn by time, but their presence was heavy, carved into the space with intent.
At the far end of the aisle, the central statue waited. A towering figure, faceless beneath a hood, one hand resting on the pommel of a spear, the other palm turned outward in offering. The marble gleamed pale where torchlight kissed it, shadows carving depth into the folds of stone cloth.
A priest in grey robes stood nearby, his features sharp and lean, but his eyes softened as he approached.
"Adventurer," the man said, his voice carrying the weight of ritual. "Do you come to pray?"
Arin nodded once, reaching into his pouch. Ten silvers slid into the alms box, the coins clinking softly against those already offered. The sound felt louder than it should, drawing his own gaze downward. For him, that much was no small sum—but for this, it was worth it.
The priest inclined his head, satisfied, and gestured toward the statue. "Then kneel, and place your hands upon the stone. Let the Choice reveal itself."
Arin swallowed hard, his throat dry. His boots scraped faintly as he stepped forward, the vastness of the hall closing in with each pace. He lowered himself at the statue's base, stone cold against his knees.
The marble loomed above him, spear-point angled as if to pierce the heavens. Slowly, he reached out. His palms pressed against the carved hand. The stone was chill at first—dead, unyielding—until warmth seeped through, slow and deliberate, like breath stirring in lungs.
The world blurred. The incense faded. The torches dimmed. All that remained was the statue's presence, vast and unshakable, flooding into him like a tide.
A voice—not heard, but felt—rippled through the stillness.
---
Spearmaster.
A path of steel and reach, where technique tempers strength. The spear is not just weapon, but extension—piercing through weakness, cutting through doubt.
(Upon choosing, Strength and Dexterity will increase by +8 each. Endurance and Agility will increase by +4 each. Max HP increases by +20, Max MP increases by +5.)
Survivalist.
A path of endurance and will, where every scar is proof of life endured. To adapt, to withstand, to outlast—this is the heart that survives when others fall.
(Upon choosing, all attributes increase by +5, including Max HP and Max MP.)
---
The words settled into him, neither demand nor command, but invitation. His breath came shallow. His hands tightened on the stone.
For a heartbeat, Arin said nothing, caught between the weight of what lay before him and the truth of what he had already endured.
The light from the stained glass above bent and scattered, painting his face in fractured color.
The choice waited.
The words settled into him, neither demand nor command, but invitation. His breath came shallow. His hands tightened on the stone.
For a heartbeat, Arin said nothing, caught between the weight of what lay before him and the truth of what he had already endured.
The light from the stained glass above bent and scattered, painting his face in fractured color.
The choice waited.
The bells thundered overhead, rolling one after another until it seemed the entire city shuddered beneath their weight.
GONG. GONG. GONG.
Outside, shouts turned to screams. The clash of steel carried faintly through the heavy doors, joined by the guttural cries of beasts that did not belong in any street or square.
Arin's grip on the statue trembled. The words of the divine choice burned hotter, pressing against his skull. He could feel it—an answer demanded, no more time left for hesitation.
Two paths.
Spearmaster.
Survivalist.
The world beyond the church doors tore itself apart while the question raged inside him. His heart hammered. To endure, or to strike? To scatter his strength thin across all things, or to seize the weapon in his hands and let it define him?
The bells screamed again, louder, urgent. The doors rattled as if the city itself demanded an answer.
Arin's jaw tightened. His hand slammed against the cold marble of the statue, and the word tore from his throat before doubt could strangle it:
"Spearmaster!"
The world lurched.
Light flared from the statue, blinding in its suddenness. It seared across his skin, through his chest, coursing down his veins like molten iron. The weight of the choice sank into him, not gentle, but absolute—a mantle forced upon his shoulders.
---
[Class Acquired: Spearmaster]
+8 Strength
+8 Dexterity
+4 Endurance
+4 Agility
+20 Max HP
+5 Max MP
---
Arin staggered, breath ripped from his lungs, knees buckling against the stone floor. His body didn't swell with new power—it steadied. Strength seeped into his limbs, a sharpened edge rather than a flood. His grip tightened, and his stance felt surer, as though invisible cords aligned him into balance. His chest no longer strained to fill with air. His pulse beat steady, hard, alive.
Another GONG from the bell tower ripped through the haze. The massive doors of the church slammed open, one acolyte stumbling back through them, his face twisted in terror. Behind him, the world spilled inside—smoke, the sour stench of blood, and the echo of screams.
The priest turned to Arin, voice hoarse but commanding.
"Whatever path you chose, lad—carry it with steel. The city bleeds."
Arin's eyes narrowed, breath steadying. His path was chosen. The chaos waited.
He reached for the spear on his back.
The air within the church still clung to the smell of incense and old stone when the silence was torn apart. The heavy bronze bells overhead thundered into motion, their toll echoing across the town like rolling thunder. Each strike rattled the stained-glass windows, spilling fractured light onto the stone floor at Arin's feet.
He stiffened, the afterglow of his newly bound class vanishing under the weight of alarm. His heart kicked against his ribs, not from the class's changes, but from instinct—because bells like these were not meant for worship.
Outside, shouts rang out. The thick oak doors creaked open, and panicked voices bled into the church. The first of the townsfolk stumbled in—an elderly woman clutching a child, their faces pale with fear. Behind her, more poured in, men and women dragging bundles, crying infants, and what little they could carry in desperate hands. The sanctuary became a refuge, the air heavy with the press of bodies and the choking scent of sweat and terror.
Arin gripped his spear tighter, the familiar weight of the weapon grounding him. His vision tracked the chaos—the priests ushering people to kneel and pray, the younger acolytes straining to bar the doors once waves of townsfolk filled the aisles. He could hear it now beyond the bells: the sound of confusion rippling through the streets, orders barked, the distant scream that made the hairs at the back of his neck bristle.
"Dungeon break…" he murmured under his breath. His throat felt dry as he said it, as though naming the calamity made it real.
A-class, his mind added, unbidden. If the bells tolled this hard, it wasn't something trivial. That meant monsters not simply spilling, but surging—a tide that could sweep a county under if not stemmed fast enough.
Yet inside the church, time felt both slow and smothering. He could see the way mothers clutched their children, their whispers drowned beneath the ringing above. The sanctuary's polished statue of the Goddess loomed in silence, its carved hands folded in eternal prayer, offering neither comfort nor answer.
Arin glanced at the closed doors again, listening to the muffled thunder of boots outside—soldiers, maybe mercenaries already rallying. His newly gained strength thrummed beneath his skin, the heightened vigor reminding him that his choice was final. Spearmaster. His arms and legs felt coiled, ready, sharper than they had that very morning.
But readiness wasn't courage. His eyes flicked toward the priests, the terrified refugees, the trembling candle flames swaying in the growing draft. He could feel the weight of decision pressing close, the world outside the church waiting for him, pulling him toward its chaos.
And still, he hesitated.
The bells shook the rafters.
They rang with a violence that turned the church's silence into a living thing—iron tongues slamming against bronze, rolling through the city in waves. Their echoes climbed the stone walls, threaded through the stained-glass windows, and spilled into the streets beyond.
Arin flinched at the sound, his palms still pressed against the cold marble of the altar. He drew in a sharp breath, heart hammering, though he could not tell whether it was from the revelation of his new class or the chaos unraveling outside.
The priest had gone pale. He turned from Arin, sweeping his robes back as he hurried to the doors. Civilians were already pushing through them—men, women, and children carrying sacks, dragging carts, their eyes wide with panic. Some stumbled, clutching one another as though the walls themselves might keep death at bay.
"The bells…" a man gasped, falling to his knees beside the pews. "Dungeon break—"
That was enough to spark fresh waves of fear. Mothers clasped their children tighter. The old whispered prayers that stumbled off their tongues like broken glass.
Arin forced himself upright, his spear strapped to his back. His mind had not settled yet from the class's surge—the weight of new strength in his limbs, the sharper edge in his vision. It felt unnatural, as though he'd been reforged in an instant, yet there was no time to understand it.
Dungeon break.
He had heard the phrase on the road, tossed about in stories whispered by adventurers. Gates that bled monsters, sometimes controllable, sometimes not. The worst of them—A-class or higher—could swallow entire towns if not checked.
And the bells rang still, tireless, each peal a command: rally, fight, survive.
The priest raised his voice above the panic. "All within these walls are safe. Remain here! Pray, and the Divine will shield us!"
But even as he spoke, a horn answered the bells outside, its sound raw, desperate. That was no prayer. That was a call to arms.
Arin moved, swept into the current of fleeing civilians spilling out of the nave. His instincts pushed him forward, toward the source of the horn. Toward the fight.
The streets had changed.
Only minutes ago, when he had come here, they were bustling with bakers and vendors, children chasing after rolling hoops. Now they were chaos incarnate. Barricades were being hammered into place from overturned wagons and carts. Militia in leather and half-plate scrambled to haul crossbows and pikes into formation. The city's guard bellowed orders as archers climbed ladders to rooftops, their quivers rattling.
The air smelled of smoke already, torches being set along the main road to mark choke points.
"Make way! Civilians to the square!"
"Barricade that street—hurry!"
"Adventurers, to the north gate!"
It was there Arin saw the herald. The man rode a massive destrier, its barding clanking as it shoved through the mess of people. The herald's tabard bore the lord's crest: a silver stag crowned with a wreath of black thorns. His voice carried like thunder.
"All fighters, mercenaries, and adventurers! By order of Lord Harrowmont, rally at the north gate! The dungeon breach has opened near the fields—A-class! A-class!"
The cry broke across the crowd like a whip. Some froze, as though the word itself had struck them. A few mercenaries cursed aloud and shoved away, already retreating toward the alleys. But more began moving with grim resolve, checking weapons, cinching straps on armor, running toward the square.
Arin's pulse throbbed in his ears. His legs moved before thought could stop them. He was swept along with dozens of others—adventurers with swords slung over shoulders, archers stringing bows, spellcasters muttering under their breath as light sparked faintly in their palms.
And in the press of the crowd, Arin saw faces he recognized.
There were familiar people from the caravan.
The wagoner he'd shared bread with, now pale and dragging his wife through the crowd. The scar-faced guard who'd once warned him of bandits, sword already drawn and eyes hard with battle-readiness. Even the young boy who'd sat at the fire with him, clutching a small dagger in hands that shook.
They were here, caught in the same storm.
And further ahead, past the militia lines forming near the square—Garrick and his party.
The armored fighter was already shouting orders, rallying his companions with the ease of a man who had lived too long in war. The red-haired mage was lighting sigils in the dirt with chalk, her lips tight as she etched wards. The scout strung his bow, glancing back only once before blending into the line of archers.
They were steady. Ready.
Arin felt a strange pull then—not quite belonging, but not apart either. He was not alone in this chaos.
The square became a fortress in minutes.
Shields locked into place, creating a wall across the main road. Archers fanned onto rooftops and balconies. Mages crouched behind barricades, hands glowing with stored power.
And at the center, astride a black warhorse, sat the lord himself.
Lord Harrowmont was not what Arin expected. No delicate nobleman swaddled in silk—he wore armor black as coal, silver trim catching the sunlight. A great helm rested on the saddle before him, leaving his face bare: hard lines, streaks of gray through his beard, eyes like tempered steel.
When he raised his sword, silence fell.
"You've heard the bells. You've seen the smoke. An A-class dungeon has bled onto our soil." His voice carried without strain, every word cutting through the crowd. "If the line breaks, this city falls. And if this city falls, so too does the valley."
He let that hang, the weight of it pressing down on them all.
"Stand with me, and we shall not break."
The horn blew again, longer, sharper. And then, faint at first but rising with each passing second—the roar.
It came from the fields beyond the walls, a tide of sound too vast to belong to any single throat.
Arin gripped his spear. His breath steadied. His new strength thrummed inside him, ready, waiting.
The dungeon had opened. And its children were coming.
The first wave hit like a storm.
From the northern gate spilled monsters in their dozens: goblins screeching with crude weapons, hounds with eyes glowing green, twisted creatures that had no name Arin knew. They rushed the barricades with wild hunger, claws scraping stone, teeth gnashing.
"Hold!" bellowed a captain.
The shields shuddered as impact rippled through the line. Arrows fell like rain from the rooftops, pinning goblins to the cobbles. Spells crackled overhead, bolts of fire and ice hammering into the horde.
Arin found himself in the second rank. When the order came, he lunged forward, his spear sliding through the gap between shields. The point burst through a goblin's throat, hot blood splattering the stones. He jerked the weapon free, feet moving as instinct took him, again and again—stab, twist, pull, strike.
The Spearmaster's body answered in ways his mind barely kept pace with. His reach was longer, his thrusts surer, his stance unshakable even as monsters slammed against the line.
To his left, Garrick roared, axe crushing bone with every swing. To his right, another adventurer screamed as a hound tore at his arm before three spears drove the beast down.
The air grew thick with blood and smoke.
And the monsters kept coming.
The clash did not end with the first wave.
From beyond the field walls, more shapes surged forward, spilling through the ruined gate like water through a shattered dam. Goblins gave way to larger beasts—hulking orcs with tusks glistening red, scaled hounds snapping flame from their jaws, winged things that wheeled in the sky, shrieking.
Arin's breath hitched as his vision pulsed.
—
[Orc Marauder – Lv. 14]
[Scaled Hound – Lv. 11]
[Goblin Archer – Lv. 9]
[Winged Harpy – Lv. 18]
—
Numbers flashed with every glance, faint and sharp at the edges of his sight. The gift of the window—reminding him, cruel and precise, of just what each creature was.
His fingers tightened on the spear.
"Focus!" someone barked.
Arin lunged, thrusting his weapon through the ribs of the scaled hound as it lunged. The beast crumpled, its level sinking in his mind as the window dissolved. Another orc slammed against the shield wall, tusks gnashing, its level marked at fourteen. Arin shifted toward it—within reach, dangerous but not beyond him. His spear snapped forward, driving deep into the soft pit beneath its arm, pulling free slick with blood.
Another flash—harpy diving. Its level burned at eighteen. Arin set his spear, but before he could strike, Garrick's axe split the air in a brutal arc, smashing the creature from the sky in a spray of feathers and bone.
"Eyes up, boy!" Garrick roared, not pausing as he swung again into the chaos.
Arin gritted his teeth. His chest heaved, but the Spearmaster's class carried him further, steadier, sharper. Each strike landed surer than the last, each movement flowing with an instinct that had not been his before today. His reach struck down goblins before they could even find gaps in the wall. Orcs fell staggering when his spear cut tendon and throat alike.
But amid the din, something heavier pressed against his mind.
—
[???? – Level ???]
—
The window shuddered and blurred. No number, no measure. Just emptiness where his system should have told him something.
His stomach twisted. Too strong. Far too strong.
A hulking beast emerged from the gate—a minotaur, horned and massive, its axe dripping with the gore of the militia who had tried to slow it. Its eyes burned red, its level cloaked beyond his sight.
Arin backed a step without thinking. The shield wall buckled as the monster slammed into it, guards screaming as they were tossed aside like straw. Garrick roared again, charging, his axe gleaming with mana as he met the beast head-on. Elira darted forward, rapier flashing silver, her movements elegant and cutting, striking with precision where Garrick's raw power could not. Their party tightened around the threat with practiced ease, veterans moving to meet what no newcomer could face.
Arin forced himself to breathe. His eyes darted, searching. The battle was a storm, too many threads pulling at once, but he knew his place.
[Orc Marauder – Lv. 16] rushing at the flank.
[Scaled Hound – Lv. 12] snapping at a fallen guard.
[Goblin Shaman – Lv. 19] raising a crude staff, muttering guttural chants.
These he could fight. These he had to fight.
His spear thrust in, clean and precise. The hound dropped, the orc staggered, the shaman screamed as his jaw split open under Arin's strike before the spell could finish. Each kill was breath and blood, each strike another second stolen against the tide.
The windows flickered faster now, dancing across his sight in a blur of red text and numbers. Too many. Too close. His muscles burned, but the strength of his class steadied him.
Behind him, the church bells still rang.
Ahead, the battlefield stretched like a wound torn open, and from its depth poured monsters without end.
Arin planted his spear in the stones, teeth bared. His role was clear: he would hold the line against what he could kill. He would not waste his life on what he could not.
The others—the veterans, Garrick's party, the mages on the walls—would face the nightmare beasts.
He would carve down everything else.
The clash ebbed at last. The monsters, sensing the stalwart defense along the north wall, paused, snarls turning into tentative growls before retreating into alleys and outskirts. The survivors of the town—guards, adventurers, and civilians—staggered into open streets, exhausted, bruised, and wide-eyed from the horror. Smoke rose from shattered carts, splintered buildings, and scorch marks that marred what had been a bustling marketplace hours before.
Arin's chest heaved, spear in hand, surveying the carnage. His arms ached, his back protested from hours of thrusting, parrying, and bracing. Yet beneath the exhaustion, a pulse of newfound strength coursed through him—steady, sure, undeniable. The rhythm of battle had burned into his muscles, each calculated strike, sidestep, and lunge teaching him far more than mere survival.
By the time the last harpy fled over the rooftops, leaving behind a trail of shattered eaves and upturned tiles, Arin felt a shift in himself. The battle, prolonged and grueling, had finally rewarded him with growth.
[Level Up: Lv. 10 → Lv. 11]
With it came the tangible gains of experience:
Max HP +3 → 92 + 3 = 95
Max MP +1 → 29 + 1 = 30
Unallocated Status Points: +3 → 3
Arin let his spear rest against the wall for a moment, breathing deep. Cuts ached less, lungs drew easier air, and his awareness of nearby threats sharpened even without the fight continuing. His Spearmaster form, bolstered earlier by Vital Boost and class choice, now felt alive in action, flowing with lethal purpose.
Around him, the streets bore the signs of devastation. Buildings along the northern wall had been splintered by claws and fire. Stalls that had once sold bread and vegetables were overturned or smashed, coins spilling across broken stones. The smell of smoke, blood, and fear lingered in the air. Several villagers lay motionless; others limped or wept, shocked into silence. The reality of the monster incursion pressed heavy on Arin, mixing relief with a bitter ache in his chest.
Yet even amid the ruin, Arin's perception remained sharp. He could still sense traces of monsters that had fled—their level, movement, and potential threat. He knew which streets needed fortification, which buildings could still provide shelter, which paths could harbor ambushes. The battle had honed him, but it had also revealed the scale of danger yet to come.
Garrick's party regrouped nearby. His axe rested on his shoulder, chest heaving but eyes alert; Elira's rapier was sheathed but her posture remained tense; Serah moved among the injured, casting quiet healing over those she could reach. They had fought together, yet Arin knew the difference: he had survived by his own growing strength. He was no longer merely relying on others—he had become a tangible force in his own right.
The tolling bell echoed through the streets, a somber reminder that while this wave had ended, the threat had not vanished. Somewhere beyond the walls, in the shadows of the city and forested outskirts, more monsters stirred. More lives hung in the balance. And Arin, now leveled, stronger, and more aware, would meet them on his terms.
He tightened his grip on his spear, eyes scanning the horizon, and allowed himself a single, quiet thought:
I survived. I grew. And next time, I will stand even taller.
Arin dropped to one knee beside a fallen cart, spear braced against the splintered wood as he drew in a deep, steadying breath. The roar of retreating monsters still echoed faintly through the alleys, a harsh reminder that the threat had only paused. Dust and smoke hung thick in the air, tangling with the coppery scent of blood. He could feel the heartbeat of the town in its people—the shudder of fear, the nervous whispers, the small movements of those who had survived.
His mind, however, was elsewhere. The battle had left more than destruction—it had left him hungry for growth. He flexed his fingers, feeling the subtle thrum of newfound strength from his Spearmaster class and Vital Boost. And now, the unallocated points from leveling up beckoned. Three points to refine himself, three points to solidify the body that had carried him through the chaos.
He crouched low, closed his eyes, and let the sensory memory of the fight run through him. The balance he had held against the marauding monsters, the way his spear had whistled through air, how each parry and thrust flowed seamlessly—these were not just actions; they were lessons written in muscle and bone.
Three points. He counted them again, rolling each over in his mind like a careful equation. Strength had carried him through the hardest blows. Dexterity had allowed him to pivot, to strike precisely. Endurance had kept him on his feet when exhaustion clawed at him. Agility had turned moments that could have been fatal into opportunities.
He made his choice.
Strength +2 — to drive his spear through armor with even greater force.
Dexterity +1 — to sharpen the precision of his strikes, to move his blade between openings faster.
The points solidified in his body, an invisible current winding through his muscles. He could feel the difference immediately—each movement flowed smoother, the spear now an extension of his intent rather than a weapon he carried.
Arin rose to his feet, surveying the battered streets. The northern wall still held, but the damage was undeniable. Broken stalls, scorched rooftops, the lifeless forms of those who had fallen. And yet, amidst the ruin, life persisted. Civilians crawled from behind barricades, guards patrolled cautiously, and the remaining adventurers checked their footing and weapons.
He allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection. Each strike, each kill, each heartbeat had mattered. Each taught him how to survive, how to grow, how to stand taller when next the monsters came.
The chime of the distant bell reverberated again—not in alarm, but almost ceremoniously, marking the passing of the battle. And Arin, his spear resting easily in his hands, allowed himself a small, satisfied exhale. He had survived. He had grown.
He opened his eyes, scanning the horizon toward the outskirts where smoke still rose. The streets, though scarred, were not yet calm. And in that tension, he felt the undercurrent of what was coming—a twist in the storm that had only begun.
From the west, near the town's main gates, he saw them first as shapes against the sunlight: banners glinting red, polished armor catching the light. A party of A Rank adventurers, the Crimson Knights, was advancing in formation, disciplined and formidable. Behind them, one figure stood taller than the rest, a sword that gleamed with a mythic edge, a presence that radiated raw power—the S Rank adventurer known as Eliwood, the Dragon Slayer.
Even before they entered the streets, Arin felt the pulse of something immense, something beyond the monsters he had faced. He could not perceive their exact levels—each emanated a power that blurred the edges of his senses—but he could faintly see the aura condense around Eliwood, the air itself shimmering with the weight of it.
A sense of relief settled over him. The reinforcement had arrived, and with warriors of such strength, the streets felt safer. The stronger his allies, the lighter the burden on his own shoulders, the more secure he could feel amidst the lingering chaos.
He adjusted his grip on his spear, not in preparation for battle, but in quiet acknowledgment of the power now joining the fray. His eyes followed the Crimson Knights and Eliwood, the certainty of their presence grounding him in a world that had been torn apart by the first wave.
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Arin's Updated Status Window:
Name: Arin
Level: 11
Class: Spearmaster
HP: 95 / 95
MP: 30 / 30
Strength: 31 (Max: 76)
Endurance: 22 (Max: 83)
Agility: 16 (Max: 71)
Dexterity: 16 (Max: 68)
Intelligence: 9 (Max: 34)
Willpower: 8 (Max: 32)
Unallocated Points: 0
Ability: Level Perception
Skill Slots:
Slot 1: [Vital Boost — Increases Max HP by +35, Max MP by +10, improves regeneration.]