Chapter 6: First Job
Morning came with the sound of roosters tearing through the quiet. Arin cracked one eye open, groaned, and buried his face in the thin pillow.
Lazy. That was him. Always had been. If life didn't keep swinging a blade at his neck, he'd still be in bed. The only reason he worked this hard was simple: stop moving, and you die.
He stretched slowly, joints popping. "Strong af Lord. That's the goal, baby."
Not some frontline hero swinging swords for glory. No thanks. He wanted subordinates: smart, deadly, loyal. Let them handle the mess while he sat behind walls thick enough to laugh at monsters.
Before transmigration, he'd read enough light novels to know one thing: MCs were stupid. Strong army, loyal followers, and they still charged into battle like lunatics. For what? Coolness factor? Ego? Arin snorted. "If I ever get that strong, I'm building defenses so thick even the demigods have to knock first."
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He rolled off the bed, washed up, and headed for the Adventurer's Guild. First job. First step.
The hall was busy, boots thudding, voices trading jokes and curses. Arin walked straight to the board, eyes scanning rows of parchment. Fighting jobs? Hard pass. He wasn't suicidal. His finger stopped at a simple one:
Herb Gathering – Forest Edge. Iron Rank III.
Perfect. Walk in, pick plants, maybe stab a rabbit if it looked at him wrong. He grabbed the slip and went to the counter.
The receptionist glanced up. "First job?"
"Yeah."
"Herbs, huh? Smart choice." She stamped the paper and slid it back. "Don't die."
"Planning not to," Arin said, tucking it away.
The forest wasn't kind, but it wasn't hell either. Damp air, thick roots, and the occasional rustle that made his grip tighten on the sword. Most days, he found herbs without trouble. Some days, trouble found him.
The first time, or maybe the second, it was another Twigwolf. Lean. Gray. Hungry.
It lunged.
Arin didn't freeze. Not this time. He shifted as he'd practiced, weight forward, blade tight. Teeth flashed; he slid aside, steel scraping fur.
The wolf spun, fast, stupid with hunger.
He didn't roll blind now. He pivoted, let it rush past, and cut deep across its flank. Blood hit the leaves.
It staggered. Snarled. Lunged again.
Arin met it head-on. Crossguard slammed into its jaw. He shoved hard, twisted, and drove the blade in its open mouth. One push. Clean.
When it stopped moving, he stood over it, breathing lightly but steadily. Not shaking like before, no blind terror. Just sweat and the sting where claws had kissed his skin.
He wiped the blade with a piece of cloth. "Better."
Then he walked on.
Days stacked. Herbs filled his bag. Coins filled his pouch. Slowly. Too slowly.
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One month later, Arin stood at the same counter, boots dusty, pouch heavier than before. His tag looked different now, Iron Rank II, freshly stamped.
The receptionist flipped through the ledger, checked the slips, and nodded. "Herb runs. Every single day."
Arin shrugged. "I'm basically a walking garden."
She slid the new badge across the counter. "Iron II. You've got enough points for promotion. That means bigger jobs: monsters, escorts, things that bite."
Arin picked up the badge, feeling its weight. "Things that bite also make me bleed."
Her mouth twitched. "Then pick something that doesn't kill you. Board's updated."
Arin turned, eyes scanning the new list. Monster hunts. Escort runs. Pay better, risk worse. He tapped the edge of the board, lips curling into a faint grin.
"Alright," he muttered. "Time to stop picking flowers."
He stepped outside, sunlight sharp on the cobblestones. The square buzzed with voices, traders shouting prices, adventurers laughing too loudly, a cart rattling over loose boards. Arin walked past them all, thoughts heavy.
Iron II wasn't much. Just a step. But steps mattered. Every rank meant better jobs, better pay, better chances to survive. And survival was everything.
He stopped at the edge of the square, eyes on the Blade Yard across the street. Wooden swords clacked in the air, instructors barking corrections. He'd been training there for months, burning muscles until they screamed, nothing fancy. Just enough to keep the blade between him and death.
Tomorrow, he'd take a real job. Something with teeth. Something that paid more than herbs.