CHAPTER 3: THE FLASHBACK OF THE LEGEND - PART 2
Meridianus - The City of Gleaming Spires and Shadowed Alleys
The city struck Rocky like a physical blow. After the quiet, contained mockery of Sunstone, Meridianus was a roaring beast of sound, smell, and motion. Towers of white stone and enchanted glass pierced the sky. Airships drifted between spires on glowing mana-cores. The streets were a river of people from every class and walk of life: armored Hunters with trophy-laden belts, Mages with floating familiars, Merchants hawking from magically amplified carts, and a teeming mass of Laborers, Cooks, Cleaners, and other low-tier classes keeping the engine of the city running.
And then there was him. Rocky. Level 1. Class: Jobless. The city's System-aware infrastructure subtly rejected him. Public mana-lamps dimmed slightly as he passed. Automatic doors hesitated. He felt it—a constant, low-grade static of wrongness in the fabric of a society built on classification.
But he also felt something else: anonymity. No one knew him. No one knew he was Jobless unless they actively probed, which was considered rude. His appearance, the product of three years of brutal self-sculpting, now acted as a shield. In his simple but clean travel clothes, with his striking face and athletic build, people's first assumption was Adventurer-in-training or low-noble scion, not classless waste.
He needed work. His coins were few. He scanned the job boards—magical slates that shimmered with postings. Most required a class minimum.
· "Guardsman for Caravan. Minimum: Militia Class Level 10. Must have [Guard Stance] skill."
· "Apprentice Enchanter. Arcane Apprentice class required. Mana sensitivity test."
· "Sous-Chef. Cook class, [Flavor Enhancement] skill mandatory."
Finally, at the bottom of a physical board outside a grimy guild hall, he found it. A peeling parchment notice.
· "HELP WANTED: The Rising Bun Bakery. General Assistant. Tasks: lifting sacks of flour, cleaning ovens, serving customers. No class requirement. Pay: daily meals + 5 copper."
It was nothing. It was everything.
The Rising Bun was a small, cozy establishment nestled in a decent quarter, smelling perpetually of yeast, sugar, and warmth. The owner, Borris, was a man shaped like one of his own sourdough loaves—round, flour-dusted, with a thick mustache and the Baker class. He looked Rocky up and down, not with class scrutiny, but with practical eyes.
"You're awful pretty for manual labor," Borris grunted, his voice like gravel. "You ain't some runaway noble looking for a lark?"
"No, sir," Rocky said, meeting his gaze. "I need work. I'm strong. I don't mind getting dirty."
Borris shoved a 100-pound sack of flour at him. "From there to the back. Then scrub that oven. We'll see."
Rocky hefted the sack with ease—the 100-pound squat was a warm-up weight for him now. He moved it, then attacked the giant brick oven with a wire brush and vinegar solution, scouring until the old soot gave way to clean brick. He worked in silent, efficient focus.
Borris watched, nodding slowly. "Alright, pretty boy. You work. You get fed. You get paid. No funny business. My wife, Mabel, runs the front. You listen to her."
And so, Rocky's life in the city found a rhythm. Up before dawn, do his 100/100/100/100/10k in the tiny rented closet of a room he shared with three snoring Dockworker-class men. Then to the bakery by first light. He kneaded dough (developing incredible forearm strength), hauled supplies, cleaned, and, when the morning rush hit, helped serve at the counter.
This is where the plan met unforeseen, comical, and terrifying reality.
Mabel, a kind woman with a Shopkeeper class and a keen eye for business, put him on the register on his third day. "You have a nice face, dear. People like nice faces."
She had no idea.
The first customer was a middle-aged woman buying rye bread. She took one look at Rocky—his sharp jaw dusted with a hint of flour, his gray eyes focused on the till, his rolled-up sleeves revealing corded forearms—and forgot her own name.
"Oh! Uh... hello. I'll have... the... thing. The brown one."
"The rye, ma'am?"
"Yes! Rye! You have... very clear skin."
"Thank you. Two copper."
She paid, staring, and walked into the doorframe on her way out.
It escalated quickly.
The next day, there was a line. Not for the famous sourdough, but for his counter. It was all women. Young, old, and in-between. They bought single rolls just to talk to him. They asked inane questions about bread just to hear him speak.
Girl 1 (giggling): "So, is this... whole grain? It looks so... sturdy."
Rocky (deadpan): "It's whole wheat. It's bread."
Girl 1: "Your hands are so strong-looking from kneading! Do you... knead often?"
Older Woman (winking): "My, you're a tall one! Do you have to reach for the high shelves?"
Rocky: "Sometimes."
Older Woman: "I have some high shelves at home that need seeing to..."
Mabel was thrilled. Sales tripled. She had him wear a slightly tighter shirt. She started selling "Rocky's Recommended Loaf" at a premium. Borris just shook his head, muttering about "man-tarts" and focusing on his ovens.
The comedy turned into full-blown harassment. They followed him after work.
Group of Girls (whispering loudly): "There he is! Oh gods, he's sweating. It's so... primal."
Rocky: (Increases running pace to marathon speed, loses them in back alleys.)
They sent him gifts at the bakery: love letters scented with perfume, poorly knitted scarves, even a pair of handmade leather gloves (which were actually useful). They tried to "accidentally" touch his hand when taking change. One particularly bold noble's daughter offered to "sponsor" him, to be her "personal baker."
The final straw was Lady Evangeline, a bored, wealthy young woman with the Socialite class. She came in every day for a week, buying an entire basket of pastries each time and insisting Rocky deliver them to her manor "as they are best fresh."
The delivery led to her "spilling" wine on her dress in front of him, asking for his help to find a maid, which led to her proposing he quit his "demeaning labor" and become her "personal fitness consultant and companion."
"It must be so hard," she purred, tracing the rim of her glass, "being so... capable, yet stuck in a bakery. I could open doors for you. All doors. You just have to be... grateful."
Rocky looked at her, then at the opulent, gilded prison of a parlor. He thought of his 10k runs at dawn, the feel of dough under his hands, the honest exhaustion of real work. He placed the pastry basket on a table.
"Thank you for the offer, my lady. My gratitude is for the Baker who gives me work. Good day."
He walked out, leaving her sputtering. The next day, two large men with [Bruiser] class tags waited for him after work. "The lady doesn't like being refused, pretty boy. Come quietly for a... chat, or we rearrange that pretty face."
Rocky assessed. Two opponents. Larger. Probably had [Pummel] and [Grapple] skills. In a narrow alley. He had no combat skills. But he had physics, leverage, and a body trained to move with efficiency.
The Fight: 8 Seconds.
· Man 1 lunged to grab. Rocky used [Willow's Sway] lean, then a [Springing Uppercut] driven from the legs. His fist, hardened from thousands of push-ups on stone, connected with the man's chin. No skill, just kinetic force. The Bruiser's head snapped back; he crashed into a wall, stunned.
· Man 2 swung a cudgel with [Heavy Swing]. Rocky ducked [Quick Dip], stepped inside the swing, and drove an [Elbow-Lance Thrust] into the man's solar plexus. All body weight behind one point. The air left the Bruiser in a whoosh. He folded.
· Rocky picked up the cudgel, looked at both groaning men, then snapped it over his knee. He dropped the pieces. "Tell the lady I'm not interested."
He quit the bakery that evening. Borris grunted, understanding. Mabel cried, mourning her sales magnet. She paid him a full silver as severance.
Rocky was adrift again. The city's underbelly, which he'd only glimpsed, now seemed more honest than the gilded harassment above. He started looking for work in darker places. He found it at The Gilded Pit, a tavern in the slum-adjacent district called the Warrens. The job was as a barrel-hauler and bouncer. The clientele were thugs, thieves, failed adventurers, and worse. Here, his looks earned him different attention.
Drunk Thug: "Hey, porcelain! Fetch me another ale before I scuff you up!"
Rocky: (Looks at him, says nothing, moves a full ale barrel one-handed to block the thug's path.) The thug reconsiders.
It was at The Gilded Pit he heard the whispers. In hushed, excited tones, men spoke of The Grindhouse. An underground, no-holds-barred fighting pit. No class restrictions. No rules. Fights to knockout, submission, or death. Winner takes the purse.
"Those guys are animals," a scarred Mercenary said over foul-smelling gin. "Seen a Jobless in there once. A big brute. Lasted twenty seconds against a [Bloodletter Rogue]. Messy."
Another man laughed. "Place is a meat grinder. But the coin... if you can string a few wins together... you can live like a king for a month."
Rocky's interest, a cold, quiet thing, was piqued. Not the coin. The challenge. A place with no rules, where system skills met brutal practicality. A laboratory.
He found the Grindhouse two nights later. It was accessed through a butcher's shop, descending into a reeking basement that opened into a roaring, subterranean cavern. The air was thick with smoke, blood, sweat, and screaming. In a deep pit surrounded by jeering spectators, two men fought. One was a [Fire-Pugilist Monk], his fists wreathed in flame. The other was a [Gutter Troll Kin], all thick hide and tusks. It was savage, primal, and horrifyingly compelling.
Rocky watched the Fire-Pugilist win with a blazing uppercut. He watched the next fight: a [Duelist] with fancy footwork get his leg snapped by a [Ratcatcher] with a iron pipe.
No rules. Just results.
He approached the hulking, bored-looking [Bouncer] at the registration desk. "I want to fight."
The man, whose head was mostly neck, looked him over. "You're pretty. You'll get eaten. Entry fee is five silver. Or you can sign the 'reclamation waiver'—fight for free, we get your corpse if you lose."
Rocky had two silver to his name. "Waiver."
The Bouncer shrugged, pushed forward a magically binding contract. "Name for the slate?"
Rocky thought for a second. "Stone."
"First fight's in an hour. 'Stone.' Don't wear anything you mind ruining."
The Debut.
He was put in the third match. His opponent was "Gutter", a veteran of the pits with the [Brawler] class, a barrel chest covered in scars, and the skill [Thick Hide]. The announcer, a smarmy man with [Hype Crier] class, screamed to the crowd.
"Next! A fresh piece of meat for the grinder! Said to be JOOOOOBLEEEESS! Give it up for the pretty boy who's about to become an ugly stain... STOOOOONE!"
The boos and catcalls were deafening. They threw rotten food.
"And his opponent! A man who's sent more pretty boys to the healers than the pox! The Gutter's own nightmare... GUTTER!"
Gutter grinned, cracking his knuckles. "Gonna enjoy breaking that face, princess."
The bell clanged.
Gutter charged, a straightforward [Bull Rush]. Rocky didn't meet it. He sidestepped with the minimal movement of [Void Step], letting the man's momentum carry him past. As Gutter turned, swinging a wild [Haymaker], Rocky didn't block. He redirected. Using the principles of [Cyclone Parry] but with his body, he grabbed the swinging arm, used Gutter's own force, and added a hip throw [Hip Throw].
Gutter slammed into the dirt, hard. The crowd gasped, then booed louder. Cheap trick!
Gutter roared, getting up. He activated [Thick Hide], his skin taking on a stony texture. He came again, slower, more careful.
Rocky fought not to win, but to learn. He dodged, weaved, took a glancing blow that rattled his teeth (confirming [Thick Hide] reduced impact). He studied Gutter's footwork (poor), his recovery time after a swing (slow), his breathing (labored).
After two minutes of this, Gutter was frustrated, tired. "Stand still, you coward!"
Rocky obliged. He stepped into Gutter's next wide swing. Inside the arc. He drove a fist, not at the hardened torso, but at the armpit—a point where [Thick Hide] couldn't fully contract, a nexus of nerves.
It was a punch driven by every mile run, every pull-up, every push-up. No skill, just perfectly delivered kinetic energy.
Gutter's arm went numb. He screamed, his guard dropping. Rocky followed with a [Shin Kick] to the inside of Gutter's lead knee. The joint buckled sideways with a sickening pop.
Gutter collapsed, howling.
The crowd fell silent, then erupted in mixed boos and shocked cheers. The fight was over.
Rocky stood over him, breathing steadily. He felt no rage, no thrill. Just data. Target weak points. Skills have gaps. Stamina is a universal currency.
The announcer was flabbergasted. "Uh... winner... Stone!"
He was paid twenty silver. A fortune. He was also scheduled for another fight the next night.
The Rise of "Stone."
He fought every night. He never used the same strategy twice. He fought a [Pyromancer] by throwing pocket-sand (literally dirt from the pit) into his eyes during an incantation, then closing in. He fought a [Swashbuckler] by using his cloak to tangle the rapier, then dislocating the man's shoulder with a brutal lock. He fought a [Beast Tamer] with a vicious wolf by using a piece of broken chair as an improvised shield and spear, targeting the beast's eyes and nose, then disarming the Tamer when he tried to intervene.
He lost exactly zero times. He never killed, unless forced. He broke bones, dislocated joints, inflicted concussions. He became a surgeon of violence, operating with cold, precise efficiency. The crowds initially hated him—he was too calm, too pretty, too unsporting. But winning is a language everyone understands. The boos turned to murmurs of respect, then to roars of anticipation.
His Jobless status became a perverse badge of honor. The "Pretty Jobless" who dismantled classed fighters with sheer, unadulterated understanding.
The Commentary became a running comedy:
Hype Crier: "And here he is! The man who proves the System wrong every night! He doesn't have [Brutal Swing]—he just swings brutally! He doesn't have [Evade]—he just isn't there! Give it up for STOOONE!"
Drunk Spectator 1: "I bet five silver on the [Warrior]! No way the pretty boy wins this!"
Drunk Spectator 2: "You never learn, Garv. The pretty boy doesn't fight. He... disassembles."
(After Rocky wins by exploiting the Warrior's over-reliance on a [Taunt] skill, leaving him open to a kick to the groin.)
Drunk Spectator 1: "That's cheating! That's a dirty move!"
Drunk Spectator 2: "The rule is 'no rules,' you idiot! That's just a move!"
Two Years Later.
"Stone" was the undisputed, undefeated champion of The Grindhouse. He had a modest stack of gold. He had a reputation that made even seasoned thugs avoid his gaze in the tavern. He also had a profound, yawning boredom.
The fights had become predictable. He'd seen every common class, countered every basic skill. The challenge was gone. It was just a repetitive, violent paycheck. The city's underbelly had nothing more to teach him.
He quit the same way he did everything: without ceremony. After his 87th consecutive victory (a tedious affair against a [Shieldbearer] he defeated by jamming the man's own shield into a crack in the pit wall and pushing him over), he collected his purse, tossed a gold coin to the Hype Crier, and walked out.
The underworld buzzed with the news. Stone has retired! Some thought he'd been recruited by a noble house as a bodyguard. Others thought he'd finally been cursed or killed in secret.
Rocky simply felt empty. He had mastered the arena of no rules. What was next? He had money, strength, knowledge... but no direction. The existential void of being Jobless yawned before him again, wider than ever.
It was in this state of restless limbo that he met John.
He was in a dingy bar on the outermost edge of the city, a place where the ale was weak and the patrons were ghosts of failed ambitions. Rocky was nursing a drink, planning his next move—maybe travel to another kingdom—when a man slid onto the stool beside him.
The man was... unremarkable. Middle-aged. Clean, but worn clothes. A quiet, intense stillness about him. He had no visible class tag, which either meant he was powerful enough to conceal it, or he was also Jobless. He ordered water.
They sat in silence for ten minutes. Then the man spoke, his voice low, gravelly, and devoid of humor. "Saw your last fight. The Shieldbearer. You used the environment. You didn't fight him. You fought the situation."
Rocky glanced at him. "It was efficient."
"Efficient," the man repeated, as if tasting the word. "Not skilled. Not powerful. Efficient. You move like you're reading a manual no one else has." He turned his head. His eyes were a pale, watery blue, but they held a depth of focused insanity that was unsettling. "My name is John. I hunt things. Not monsters. Not for guilds. People. Bad people. The kind the system protects. The kind with class privilege who think it makes them untouchable."
Rocky said nothing.
John continued, staring into his water. "I'm... particular. My methods are... a craft. I need a partner. Someone who understands tools. Someone who isn't bound by system logic. Someone who sees a door not as a barrier, but as a collection of hinges and lock pins." He finally looked directly at Rocky. "You're bored. I can see it. The arena was a puzzle box you solved. I have a bigger puzzle. It's ugly. It's violent. It's probably suicidal. And it's the only thing that matters."
Something in the man's quiet, deranged certainty resonated with the void inside Rocky. This wasn't a path of strength or glory. It was a path of purpose. A brutal, focused, insane craft.
"What would I do?" Rocky asked.
John allowed the faintest, most terrifying twitch of his lips that might have been a smile. "You'd learn. To shoot. To drive. To track. To kill with a pencil, a book, a dinner roll. You'd learn that everything is a weapon if you understand it. And we would hunt. We would find the corrupt, the predatory, the monsters in silk robes... and we would remind them that the system's rules are not the world's only laws."
He finished his water. "Training would be brutal. Comedy will be found in the absurdity of our targets' despair. The pay is garbage. The satisfaction is... crystalline."
Rocky looked at John, then at his own hands—hands that could break bone but had found nothing worth breaking. He saw not a mentor, but a reflection of a possible, razor-edged future.
"Alright," Rocky said.
John nodded, stood up, and tossed a copper coin on the bar. "Start tomorrow. Dawn. Wear something you can run in. We begin with pencils." He walked out.
Rocky sat there, the boredom shattering, replaced by the chilling, electric thrill of stepping onto a path with no map, led by a man whose sanity was a distant, receding landmark.
The legend of the hunter wasn't born in the arena. It was born in a dingy bar, with a man who hunted with the calm precision of a falling night.
PART 2 END