In the northern territories, monster attacks were frequent and relentless. Because of that, mercenaries were always in demand—but paradoxically, joining their ranks was far harder here than anywhere else.
In most kingdoms, anyone with a weapon could register as a mercenary.
Not in the north.
Here, strength without proof was meaningless.
To register, one required a recommendation from a veteran mercenary—someone willing to stake their name on the applicant's ability. Even then, acceptance was not guaranteed. Every candidate was tested.
When I arrived at the guild hall, no one mistook me for a child.
Years of forging and training had reshaped my body. I had grown taller. My frame had thickened with muscle. My hands were scarred and rough, my face hardened by labor and exhaustion.
At the registration desk, the clerk asked for my recommendation.
I handed over three letters.
Rathen's.
Siena's.
Bharam's.
The clerk blinked, then examined each seal carefully. After verifying their authenticity, she finally smiled.
"You'll take the trial," she said. "Two days from now."
She paused.
"Prepare supplies for one full day. Minimal food. Jerky is recommended."
I rested during the waiting period.
Pushing my body now would only dull my edge later. My fighting style was complete—not perfect, but functional. It drew from monsters, animals, and even insects.
I named it Beast Combat Style.
Not because it was savage—but because it adapted.
Each weapon had been revised countless times within that framework.
Two days passed.
On the morning of the trial, twenty-five candidates gathered at the guild.
Without explanation, we were blindfolded and led away.
When the blindfolds were removed, we stood at the edge of a forest.
A man waited for us there.
Tall. Broad. Muscles dense rather than decorative. A massive war hammer rested casually on his shoulder.
"I'm William," he said.
His voice carried aura—not explosively, but with enough pressure to silence everyone instantly.
"You rookies will learn today whether you're worth feeding resources into."
He gestured toward the forest.
"The trial is simple. Survive inside for one full day."
He tossed each of us a small flare.
"If you want to quit, activate it. We'll come for you. But if you're too far away…" He shrugged. "You might die before we arrive."
No one laughed.
"We won't monitor your movements," William continued. "You survive by hunting, hiding, or running. Teams are allowed. Five minutes to decide."
Nine people quit immediately.
That left sixteen.
No one approached me.
A sword at my hip. A spear on my back. A bow and quiver over my shoulder.
To them, I looked like an unfocused rookie trying to do too much.
When the trial began, I moved immediately.
I coated my body with aura—thin, restrained—and sprinted into the forest.
Sight.
Hearing.
Smell.
I chose elevation.
After careful movement, I reached a small hill that overlooked the surrounding terrain. Good visibility. Natural choke points. A defensible position.
As I prepared a temporary shelter, my instincts screamed.
Movement.
Circling.
Grey wolves.
One of the most feared monsters among novice mercenaries.
They hunted in packs. Fast. Patient. Once they marked prey by scent, they would follow for days.
My first encounter of the trial—and it had to be them.
I counted.
Seven.
Not necessarily the full pack—but enough.
Elsewhere, I later learned, a mage named Shanan was shouting at William, furious that he hadn't warned the candidates to avoid this area.
William's response was cold.
"If they die, that's their fate."
"No one foolish enough would go there," Shanan said.
Apparently, I was that fool.
The wolves spread out, testing me. Their eyes watched. Their ears twitched.
No hesitation.
I drew my bow.
The first arrow flew.
It pierced the lead wolf cleanly through the skull.
Instant death.
The rest didn't retreat.
They accelerated.
I nocked a second arrow—