Vincent folded his hands before him, awkward in the silence. Then, with a brittle attempt at ease, he said, “Elijah wrote to me, said you’d… unlocked a class of some sort. Swordsman, was it? Congratulations.”

  Vaan gave a nod, noncommittal. He still hadn’t decided what to feel in this moment.

  “I know it might not look it,” Vincent went on, waving vaguely at his ink-stained robes, “but it’s not always this grim for scribes. It’s… a choice, in a way. I’m at the cusp of the first milestone. Level 24 you see… I might even evolve to a runesmith, now that I am apprenticed to a master runesmith”

  He said it with forced conviction, but Vaan could still hear the trace of humiliation clinging to his words, the shadow of the master runesmith’s voice still echoing in his head.

  “You chose this?” Vaan asked, raising an eyebrow. “To be talked down to like that?”

  “It’s not like that for everyone,” Vincent said quickly, almost too quickly. “Some scribes live happy lives. Respected. You saw that cheerful lad at the front desk, didn’t you? He’s level ten already and doesn’t even need to grind day and night. But for me… things are different.”

  Vaan’s gaze drifted, the conversation stirring half-formed memories. Sure, there wasn’t much call for scribes in Wragford, but Vincent had gotten by. Commission work, runes, etchings—those things paid well enough for a village like theirs. People respected him. Vaan remembered that, if little else.

  Vincent hesitated, then looked away. “After the… incident with you and Elijah, it wasn’t just you two who were affected.”

  Vaan stiffened slightly.

  “I gained a curse,” Vincent said quietly. “It blocks progression unless I’m apprenticed under someone. That’s why I’ve stayed. Why I’ve pushed so hard. Once I awaken, I’ll be able to guide Elijah. He wants to be a runesmith too.”

  Vaan looked at the man and his ludicrous claim incredulously. “A curse? From what? That ‘accident’? You’re still saying that?”

  Vincent winced. “I know you don’t believe it—”

  “Because it was a lie,” Vaan cut in. “You said it was a spell gone wrong. But I remember Elijah pushing me—shoving me into that cave. Everyone said there was no cave. Yet I ended up lost in that forsaken gully, didn’t I?”

  “I… tried to protect you both,” Vincent said. “There was magic involved. The cave… wasn’t normal.”

  Vaan looked at him with disbelief. “Elijah himself refuses to dispute what I say! But you’re still protecting him. Even now.”

  Vincent didn’t answer. His shoulders slumped slightly, eyes dulling with something older than just fatigue.

  After a long pause, Vaan sighed. That was not why he’d come here. Truth be told, after seeing the man’s plight, he didn’t know what he could expect from him. Vincent—for all his faults—had cultivated a facade of power and means back in Wragford, and now, he seemed completely disillusioned with ground reality.

  Vaan changed the subject. “Didn’t you want to be a scholar? Back when…”

  Vincent blinked, surprised. “You remember that?”

  “Barely,” Vaan admitted. “Not much from back then. Just… little things. Like you being disappointed in me that I wasn’t able to copy the runes like Elijah had.”

  Vincent's expression faltered. “You were six. And you told us you couldn’t remember any of your memories with me… Brenda and I believed—”

  “I know,” Vaan said. “It’s like looking through fog. But it’s been getting clearer now. After my initiation.”

  Vincent gave a hollow laugh. “Well. If I ever had a chance at being a scholar, it was sealed shut after that day. I couldn’t even stand the thought of that class after what happened. So… no. I could either progress as a Master scribe, or a runesmith if fate smiles. That’s all that’s left. And I do recall pushing you to memorize the runes from scrolls, but in my defense I did the same to Elijah… The boy took to it like a moth to fire and I perhaps expected the same from you—which I now understand is unreasonable—”

  Vaan stared at him. “Garix is dead.”

  Vincent’s breath caught. His gaze snapped to Vaan’s face, searching for… something. Vaan watched him closely. If there had been even a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes, he would’ve punched him in the face. But there wasn’t. Only stunned silence.

  Vincent swallowed. “How? Is… Brenda all right? And Marianne?”

  So, Elijah hadn't informed... Yet.

  “They’re fine,” Vaan said shortly. “He wasn’t after them. Just Garix.”

  Vincent frowned faintly. “He? Who was?”

  “Erik Veldrane,” Vaan muttered, then immediately regretted saying it. He caught the look that flickered across Vincent’s face.

  “That’s… the Veldrane? Saints! That man owns the mining operation in south Bristles! He is dangerous.”

  “It was a misunderstanding,” Vaan said quickly. “Doesn’t matter now.”

  Vincent shifted uncomfortably. “Is there… is there anything I can do? I could send coin. To Brenda and Marianne. Say it came from you.”

  Vaan shook his head. “No. I came here thinking maybe you could help. Maybe find a place for them. But… it’s clear you’ve got enough to worry about.”

  Vincent didn’t argue. For once, he just accepted it, looking ashamed. Quietly. “I could still have them move here with me. It would be—”

  “No,” Vaan replied at once, and found how absurd the whole idea had been after seeing him in person. He could already picture Brenda’s reaction to such an offer—repulsed, more than anything.

  Vaan had always been an early riser. By the time the first rays of sunlight had slipped through the shutters of his room at the Adventurer’s Guild inn, he had already dressed and was on his way.

  It had been the surly-faced George at the guild desk today and the man had snapped at him, saying Remy hadn’t returned yet—and hadn’t offered any way to contact him. It had struck Vaan as odd, especially since Remy hadn’t come back the previous night as well.

  Yesterday had been... eventful. After speaking with Vincent, Vaan had returned to the inn, though not by the usual route. “Don’t go through the mercenary district,” Vincent had warned. “Too many noble eyes. Too much imperial coin. A noble like Veldrane’s already set a contract on you.” Vaan hadn’t argued.

  Vincent had taken the map Vaan had received from the kind clerk at the Guild and had marked an alternate route—one that had curved around the Beastmasters’ Guild and had passed several smaller, unnamed sanctioned buildings. It had been longer, yes, but safer. Not that Vaan had ended up needing the detour. Vincent had insisted on escorting him via the tram line. The ride had been smooth and surprisingly elegant, a privilege Vincent had still enjoyed as a near-runesmith in a city famous for the rune-powered bridge that had practically held it all together.

  Vaan had tried to decline, not out of pride but guilt. He had seen the sour-tempered Master Runesmith upstairs—the kind of man who had probably counted ink drops and had charged extra for exhaling near parchment. If that man had found out Vincent had slipped away mid-day to escort Vaan across the city, he would have likely incinerated Vincent on the spot. But Vincent had only waved him off with a smile, saying, “The tram’s fast—I’ll be back before my inkwell dries.”

  Vaan had already pushed aside the lingering frustration of accepting help from someone he had loathed since childhood. Today was a new day and Vaan had, in fact, taken the quest to clear out a dire rat nest beneath a bakery.

  It had been a solo job—no level requirement, no party needed, and modest coin. Modest had been fine. Coin he didn't need to split was welcome. In Wragford, rat problems had been solved with a broom and a mean glare. Here in the city, folks had apparently slapped the word “dire” on their pests and waited for adventurers to handle it.

  Lazy city-dwellers, Vaan had thought. Probably too proud to pick up a stick and too precious to lift a floorboard. If calling them dire had made rats someone else’s problem, well… it had worked.

  He had had no shame picking up the job. Not like anyone in Darven’s Roost had known him. The guild clerk hadn’t even blinked when he had signed the form. Just a nasty smirk in his face as though he was a vermin doing a vermin extraction job.

  Besides, the job had come with one huge upside—outside the central district, with no guild overseers or badge-wearing snitches around, he had been able to carry his sword in its original sheath— the good old leather one. His other grotesque sheath that had parasitically sucked his mana like a leech had struggled indignantly from his rucksack, earning a look from the bakery owner, a stern woman who probably thought he was cheating by smuggling in a cat to do an adventurer’s job. Vaan had, of course, ignored her looks. Rich, coming from someone running a bakery in a suspiciously forgotten corner of an otherwise bustling city with not a single customer in sight. He wasn’t sure if he should be more worried about her glaring or the fact that she was still in business.

  In any case, he would be able to swing the blade without feeling like he had been drained dry of mana. It had seemed like a perfect, low-risk opportunity to test out his skills after he had leveled up.

  Until he had seen the rats.

  Dire rats, it turned out, weren’t just big rats. They were a whole evolutionary mistake. These creatures had eyes that gleamed with more malice than most humans Vaan knew. Their patchy fur twitched like it had opinions. One perched on a sack of flour, gnawing it open like it had a personal grudge against it. One even wore a cracked teacup as a helmet.

  They were filthy. They were organized. They had tactics.

  And Vaan was pretty sure the biggest one had just made a series of squeaks that sounded suspiciously like battlefield commands.

  This wasn’t a nest. It was a rodent fortress.

  He lowered his stance, eyeing the swarm warily. “Okay,” he muttered, adjusting his grip on the hilt. “Not just vermin.”

  A sword wasn’t the right weapon for this. Swords were for humans, for real fights. But this?

  A swarm of rats.

  He should have had a club, or a hammer—something blunt that could just crush. Instead, he had a sword meant for precision, meant for clean strikes.

  And still, he had no choice.

  The rats didn’t care.

  Vaan activated Unwavering Blade.

  His movements sharpened immediately. The sword felt lighter, the swing more natural. One lunged at his side, teeth bared. He sidestepped and drove the sword through its chest with a clean stroke.

  Another rat sank its teeth into his knee, and Vaan gritted his teeth, slamming his leg sideways to shake it off. He stomped down hard on the next rat that lunged at him, feeling its body crumple under his boot before he swung his sword and cleaved through another one.

  Another rat streaked towards him from behind a stack of crates. The sword connected, and blood splattered across the floor. It didn’t matter if it was a small cut. Even the slightest nick from the blade brought the creature down.

  It was absurd, really. He was using a sword against rats, and yet the blade worked perfectly. Just a touch, and the rats crumpled.

  The realization hit him. The sword wasn’t just sharp—it was soulbound to him. Every strike, no matter how light, was amplified. The sword seemed to respond to him, pulling in the energy it needed to make every blow count.

  For every rat he cut down, two more skittered in to take its place. After a while, he stopped using the Unwavering Blade skill to conserve mana. For a moment, he suffered a loss of rhythm—felt a little clumsier, and the sword a tad heavier. But he settled into the motion soon enough. When he paid attention, he could sense his soulbound blade still drawing a trickle of mana—not nearly as much as the skill had used, but just enough to explain why even a minor nick still tore through the rodents.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  The cellar had become a gore-slicked battlefield of twitching bodies and foul-smelling blood. Yet the swarm didn’t let up. He found himself wondering how this cramped storage space could possibly house so many. Maybe there was a tunnel somewhere, a breach in the wall or floor. If they were coming from outside, that was going to be a problem. He’d signed up to clear a cellar, not launch a one-man crusade against the region’s rodent population.

  And as much as he hated to admit it, he was getting tired. Ridiculous. They were rats. He’d laughed at this job. Thought it’d be over in minutes. Now he was knee-deep in fur and fangs, and the rodents were fighting like they had a grudge.

  He was starting to think they did.

  By what felt like another hour—and several hundred rats later—Vaan was deeply questioning his life choices. As much as he wanted to drop his sword and crawl out of this rodent-infested purgatory, the imagined sight of George, the smug guild clerk, smirking as if Vaan’s failure had been a foregone conclusion, kept him swinging. That, and the sobering realization that there would be no payment for partial rat extermination. Also, judging by the fury in the squeaks and the sheer number of tiny corpses at his feet, he had a strong hunch the rats weren’t exactly open to a ceasefire.

  Suddenly, the abandoned bakery—and come to think of it, the whole empty street—made perfect sense. These weren’t just rats. They were abominable, hell-spawned rodents that probably gnawed on nightmares for fun. The only reason the bakery owner was still alive had to be because she’d sealed off the cellar long ago and decided to pretend nothing was down there. Judging by the mountains of hoarded food piled up like some rodent apocalypse shelter, she’d clearly known. She’d just stopped caring. The woman had probably given up on running a real business ages ago.

  Amid muttered curses and endless, weary swings, Vaan finally noticed something—a shift. The rats were thinning out. It almost felt like a glimmer of hope. Almost. And that made him suspicious. He kept swinging, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Then he saw it: the rats weren’t just scattered. They were coming from a narrow gap in the stone wall, leading to a small room. Now that the swarm had thinned, he could make it out.

  With a grunt, he pressed forward and made his way toward the opening, stepping into the small room beyond.

  Inside, stacked crates formed crude barricades. Dug-out tunnels sprawled across the far wall, and sacks of grain had been hollowed out and turned into rat nests. The place smelled of decay and sweat.

  And right in the center of it all, perched on a mound of shredded fabric and refuse, was a rodent.

  It dominated the chamber, its massive bulk perched atop a throne of shredded grain sacks and gnawed bones. Grease-matted fur, one milky eye sealed shut by scar tissue, and strings of froth hanging from yellowed incisors.

  Dire Rat King , Lvl 7

  If the word “King” wasn’t warning enough, the level 7 flashing beside it certainly was. Vaan activated Orderly Judgement on instinct. It was a good thing he had refrained from overusing his skills; now he had enough mana to use his final skill as a trump card, just as Remy had advised.

  The remaining rats had already fallen back, forming a twitching semicircle around their monarch. Their beady eyes flickered between Vaan and the corpse-littered floor. The message was clear: You're not leaving.

  The Rat King moved like a landslide given purpose—all heaving muscle and reckless momentum. Vaan pivoted, duskiron flashing across its flank.

  First stack.

  Soulflame licked at the wound, blue embers sinking into greasy fur. The beast shuddered but didn't slow, claws gouging stone where Vaan's ribs had been a breath earlier.

  The lesser rats surged, a tide of snapping teeth. His sword moved on reflex, shearing through them with the ease of a soulbound blade—efficient, relentless. He'd been careful with his mana reserves, and now that discipline would pay off.

  The beast circled, its remaining eye tracking him with unsettling intelligence. This time it feinted left.

  Vaan didn't bite.

  The Rat King corrected mid-lunge, jaws gaping wide enough to sever a man at the waist. He stepped inside its reach, duskiron biting deep into its shoulder.

  Second stack.

  The soulflame burned brighter now, threads of blue fire worming beneath its hide. The Rat King spasmed, a wet screech tearing from its throat as it staggered back. Its remaining eye burned with something beyond hunger—recognition. It knew what came next.

  So did Vaan.

  He let it come.

  The final charge was desperation given form—a half-ton of spite and matted fur hurtling forward with no thought for survival. Vaan braced, timed the arc—

  —and buried his sword to the hilt in its chest.

  Third stack.

  The detonation was silent. Blue fire erupted from within the beast's flesh, searing through muscle and bone. For three heartbeats, the Rat King stood rigid, veins glowing like cracked magma. Then it collapsed, hitting the ground with a wet thud that shook the cellar.

  The lesser rats didn't wait for the embers to fade. They broke, scattering into the shadows, their shrill cries fading into the walls.

  Vaan wrenched his blade free. The corpse already stank of burnt hair and something faintly sulfurous. He'd need to burn it properly before the stench set into the stone—or worse, his clothes.

  He wiped his sword clean on a less-filthy patch of the Rat King's hide, then took stock. The cellar was a charnel house. Splintered crates. Ruined grain. Enough rat carcasses to fill a cart.

  He turned toward the stairs, boots sticking slightly with each step.

  The cellar door creaked as the bakery owner pulled it shut behind him. Up close, Vaan noticed the dark circles under her eyes and how her apron strings hung loose—like she’d lost weight since first tying them.

  “You’re really...” Her voice caught. She cleared her throat and tried again. “It’s done, then?”

  Vaan nodded, wiping his blade on a cleanish patch of the rag she’d offered. The cloth came away streaked with grime and dark blood.

  “The rune on my quest scroll turned green this morning… first time, and I’ve waited a year,” she said, voice unsteady. “I didn’t believe it until you walked in.”

  Each scroll was magically bound to its quest giver, the rune etched into it glowing green the moment an adventurer accepted the task.

  “What?” Vaan asked, genuinely surprised. “This sat on the board how long? And no one else took it?”

  The baker’s lips pressed into a thin line. She turned to brush nonexistent flour off the counter. “You’re not from the city, are you?”

  “Uh… no.”

  “I paid the guild upfront—all the coin I could spare at that time. At first I thought… maybe they’d leave by themselves when the food ran out. But then they started stealing from neighboring shops, streets, homes… whole sacks of grain vanishing overnight.”

  A bitter smile touched her lips as she glanced around the abandoned bakery. “My father built this place with his own hands. Last winter, I hung up my apron and opened the tailor shop across the street instead.”

  Vaan raised an eyebrow at her now-contrite tone. “You were ready to skin me alive this morning when I walked in.”

  “Twelve months of watching adventurers ignore my quest. When you finally showed up, I half-thought you’d take one look at the cellar and leave too—especially for just five silvers.” Her knuckles whitened around the rag. “Couldn’t bear another empty promise.”

  Five silvers might feed a man for weeks in Wragford, but here, it wasn’t worth most adventurers’ time. The real reward was two hard-earned levels. It felt ridiculous—leveling up from rats—but when he thought back, the boar he’d hunted in Wragford, while tough, had actually been a level below the Dire Rat. And he’d had Ronald and Tall with him then. This time, he’d gone in alone… plus, the swarm of minion rats probably helped tip the scales. If Vaan had to choose between the boar and the Rat King… well, he’d still pick the rat, stink and all. At least he never felt like his life was in real danger. Or maybe that was just because he was stronger now?

  Level Up! (Lv. 5 → Lv. 7)

  He cleared the notification from the weave.

  Vaan couldn’t help but feel a flicker of sympathy for the woman. She’d sat on this quest for a year, even after scraping together enough to pay the guild upfront. Not every contract required full payment—most only needed a caution deposit—but with such a small sum, this one had probably slipped through the cracks. No one had bothered to update it, and Vaan suspected the city might’ve offered a reward if they’d known a Dire Rat King—level seven, no less—was nesting beneath a bakery. What puzzled him more was how no one nearby had raised a complaint. These things could spread pestilence like wildfire. Then again, the rats had likely stayed hidden in the cellar, only turning aggressive when he disturbed their lair.

  The woman glanced at his torn clothes and winced. She promised to repay him with fresh cloth—and even let him clean up at her shop, on the condition that he help tidy the cellar. That, as it turned out, was far more exhausting than the extermination itself, even with his Steady Grip skill helping him wield broom and pan. Eight full sacks of rat remains—one of them generously oversized, reserved for his majesty. She said her husband would see to burning the lot and burying the bones. Mercifully, she didn’t ask Vaan to help with that part.

  All things considered, Vaan couldn’t complain. He walked away with a clean tunic and a proper bath, courtesy of her tailoring shop across the street.

  “Will you be reopening the bakery now that the nest’s cleared?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yes. Being a tailor was just to make ends meet. Baker is my class and I intend to get this running again.”

  Vaan glanced at the cellar. “Might want to invest in a ‘No Rodents Allowed’ sign.”

  She didn’t laugh.

  One perk of non-combat classes, Vaan mused, was the flexibility to level up general skills outside their primary path—like how the baker had pivoted to tailoring when she had to. He made his way back to the guild.

  When Vaan claimed his quest rewards, it was from the kind old woman, not George. To his surprise, it turned out to be less than pleasant. She chided him, insisting he promise not to take on any more solo quests. Vaan fumbled out a few half-hearted promises to get her off his back. The silver lining was that she mentioned Remy was back, at least according to her.

  Vaan checked around the guild hall and the nearby tavern, but Remy was nowhere to be found. Just as he was about to give up, he rounded the stairwell to the lower annex. That’s when he heard Remy’s voice echoing up from the smaller tavern tucked beneath the guild archives—a quiet spot, less crowded than the main hall, where only a few adventurers lingered between quests or after too many drinks.

  Vaan paused.

  Remy sat at the corner booth, half-shadowed by a stone arch, legs kicked up on another chair, a tankard in one hand and a smirk aimed at the girl beside him. She was pretty, the kind who probably claimed she wasn’t impressed by warriors and rogues—and then listened just a little too long when they talked.

  Vaan approached, and Remy’s eyes flicked toward him, narrowing just a little before he took a deep swig of ale.

  “Well, look who’s alive. You smell less like a crypt, congrats.”

  “Thanks,” Vaan said, his eyes scanning the girl at the table, who gave him a vague smile before turning back to her drink.

  “I was looking for you,” Vaan added. “What happened with the Enforcers? About… Priscilla?”

  Remy yawned, tilting his head back and letting out a contented sigh. “That? Pfft, relax. Didn’t turn into anything. Erik didn’t press them too hard. Just some noble noise. No charges.”

  Vaan frowned. “Why not?”

  “‘Cause I’m gonna be busy,” Remy said with a grin, looking at the girl who rolled her eyes but didn’t get up. “You, my friend, need a break. Quit borrowing trouble. We’ll check on the party tomorrow. That’s when the real mess starts.”

  Vaan didn’t let it go. “But if he knew I killed her…”

  The girl shot him a questioning look, then moved to another table, making Remy groan loudly.

  "Great," Remy muttered. "Now she thinks you're either a murderer or really bad at flirting."

  Vaan stared, and Remy sighed dramatically.

  “Look, Erik didn’t push the Enforcers ‘cause if they dug, they’d kick over the wrong rock. You know what they’d find under it.”

  “Garix,” Vaan said quietly.

  “Bingo,” Remy said, lifting his mug. “They’d find that Erik Veldrane murdered your old man first. And that’s when the story gets messy.”

  Vaan frowned deeper. “So Erik was scared?”

  “Scared?” Remy chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah. He’s a Veldrane! They don't get scared - they get even. He can twist the story however he wants. Garix was a thief, trying to swindle him. Got what was coming to him. You? You’d be the hot-headed brat who murdered one of the Veldrane scions in revenge. The Enforcers would be more than happy to stick a blade in your back.”

  “That’s not what happened,” Vaan snapped.

  Remy shrugged. “But that’s what it would be. Truth doesn’t matter when someone like Erik controls the narrative.”

  “Then why didn’t he just do it?” Vaan pressed. “Why not spin the story and have me hunted already?”

  “‘Cause of the sword,” Remy said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “If he presses this in front of the Enforcers, they’re gonna start asking why you killed her. They dig too deep, they find the soulbound blade. Duskiron. That’s a bigger secret than some dead merc or scion.”

  Vaan looked down at his hands. “So I’m safe… for now?”

  Remy’s gaze hardened, his voice dropping lower. “When nobles take the quiet approach, that's when you know you're properly screwed. No Vaan. You sure aren’t safe! It’s personal now. Erik’s gonna go through the back channels. Mercenary bounties. Private contracts. I’d bet all the gold in my pockets he’s already put out word to the circle.”

  “That means I can’t go back to the Mercenary Guild.”

  “Not unless you wanna wake up with a dagger in your ribs. Stay clear of it. Lay low. Focus on leveling up. The sooner you get past your Awakening, the better.”

  Vaan leaned back in the chair. “Why? How does that help?”

  “‘Cause once you’re Awakened, any bounty on your head goes bronze-tier. Higher price, sure, but harder to authorize without guild scrutiny. You’ll have a name. A profile. Not just some iron-level nobody.”

  Remy leaned in, “And if the Enforcers come sniffing around, it’ll be harder to sell the ‘scuffle between kids’ story when you’re an Awakened citizen of Ashwa. Especially with a soulbound sword on your hip”

  Vaan understood. It all came back to one simple thing. Remy gave a shrewd look and nodded.

  "It all comes down to it, kid—lay low and level up! And for the saints’ sake, stop announcing your murders in taverns. We’ve got enough heat without you auditioning for the city’s Most Wanted parade. Once you’ve got a strong party to back you up… it'll be a breeze, let me tell ya!"

  Vaan glanced toward the stairs, where the upper halls waited—quests, patrons, and maybe even allies.

  “I need to find one soon, then,” he muttered.

  Remy grinned, his words slurring a bit. “Right. I’m on it, kid… Just don’t wanna jinx it. There were… some misunderstandings to smooth out, ya know?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come meet me tomorrow, we’ll set you up.”

  “You said something about—”

  "Now scram," Remy said, making shooing motions with his free hand. "My work hours ended when the ale started flowing. Unless you're buying the next round, I suggest you find somewhere else to be."

  Vaan opened his mouth to ask about the other initiates, but Remy had already turned his attention to the new serving girl approaching with a fresh tankard.

  With a frustrated sigh, Vaan pushed back from the table. As he climbed the stairs, he could already hear Remy's laughter rising above the tavern noise below, the sound punctuated by the clink of glasses.

  *************