Alzaria was a city of elites, which meant they were about to be very disappointed by the swamp monster walking through their front door.

  I mean...

  The walls of the Capital were massive, rising hundreds of feet into the air, made of white stone that gleamed in the sunlight. It looked majestic. It looked holy.

  I, on the other hand, looked like a swamp monster that had crawled out of a sewer to die.

  I approached the massive iron gates. There was a long line of merchants and travelers, but the moment I stepped into the queue, the line miraculously shortened. People gagged, covered their noses, and shuffled ten feet away from me.

  "Halt!" A gate guard leveled his spear at my chest. His nose wrinkled in visible disgust. "No monsters allowed. Go back to your dungeon, goblin."

  "I am not a goblin," I rasped, my voice unused to human conversation after two years. "I am a human. A traveler."

  The guard squinted at me, looking at the caked mud, the dried monster blood, and the white hair that was currently serving as a nest for several twigs.

  "You speak Xerian fluently," the guard muttered, lowering his spear slightly but keeping his other hand firmly over his nose. "But you smell like a corpse that’s been marinated in sulfur. What is your business in Alzaria?"

  "I’m here to join the Academy," I said, trying to stand tall despite my rags.

  The guard let out a bark of laughter, and his partner joined in. "The Academy? You? Kid, the only thing you’re qualified for is being a scarecrow. But fine, if you're human, you can enter. Just... try not to touch anything. Or anyone."

  He waved me through, clearly just wanting me downwind of him.

  I stepped through the archway and into the city.

  "So," I whispered, looking around at the sprawling cobblestone streets, the towering magical spires, and the colorful banners waving in the wind. "Is this the capital city?"

  I stopped a random passerby—a guy in a nice tunic who looked terrified that I was talking to him.

  "Yeah!" he squeaked, backing away. "This is the Capital City, Alzaria!"

  Alzaria. Nice ring to it.

  "Here we go, Writer," I muttered to the air. "We got the title."

  (High-five).

  The city was buzzing. It looked like some kind of festival was going on. Stalls were selling grilled meats, bards were singing on street corners, and magic lanterns floated above the crowds.

  But as I walked, I parted the crowd like Moses parted the Red Sea.

  "Ugh, what is that smell?" a noblewoman gasped, burying her face in a silk fan.

  "Is that a beggar? Someone call the guards!"

  "He looks barbaric... savage."

  I ignored them. Two years in the Death Forest changes your priorities. I didn't care about their opinions; I cared about a hot bath and clothes that didn't crunch when I moved.

  But first, I needed to check my finances. I ducked into a quiet alley and opened my father’s spatial bag.

  "Let's see," I counted. "Ten Gold Coins... and wait... Five Royal Gold Coins!"

  I whistled. My dad really didn't want me to be poor.

  "Hey, Writer," I asked. "For the uneducated dummies reading this, give us the economic breakdown. Keep it simple."

  The Economic System of Xeria

  1 Copper Coin: Can buy a loaf of bread or an apple.

  10 Copper = 1 Silver Coin: Can buy a decent meal, a night at a budget inn, or a chicken.

  10 Silver = 1 Gold Coin: Significant money. Can buy a horse, a fine steel sword, or a week at a luxury hotel.

  10 Gold = 1 Royal Gold Coin: The currency of the elite. One of these can buy a small house or a lower-tier magical artifact.

  10 Royal Gold = 1 Supreme Gold Coin: Used for national trade.

  10 Supreme Gold = 1 Spirit Stone: The currency of cultivators. Used for training and buying high-level magical gear.

  "Got it," I smirked, pocketing the Royal coins. "I’m rich."

  I walked back onto the main street and spotted a high-end clothing boutique: "The Gilded Thread." It looked fancy. Mannequins in the window wore silk and velvet.

  Perfect.

  I pushed the door open. A bell chimed. The shop smelled like lavender and money.

  The shopkeeper, a balding man with a monocle, looked up. His smile instantly vanished, replaced by a look of sheer horror.

  "Out!" he shrieked, coming around the counter with a broom. "Get out! We don't serve beggars! You're getting mud on my imported rugs!"

  "I need clothes," I said calmly.

  "You need a landfill!" he sneered. "The trash bins are in the alley! Go away before I call the Knights!"

  I didn't say a word. I just reached into my pocket and pulled out a single Royal Gold Coin. I held it up, letting the light catch the heavy, intricate crest stamped into the gold.

  The shopkeeper froze. The broom fell from his hands with a clatter.

  "I... Is that..." He adjusted his monocle, his eyes bulging. "A Royal Gold?"

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  "I have five," I said, flipping the coin in the air and catching it. "Now. Are you going to sell me clothes, or should I go to the competitor across the street?"

  "My Lord!" The man bowed so low his nose nearly touched the floor. His attitude did a 180-degree flip instantly. "Please, forgive my failing eyesight! Come in, come in! We have the finest selections for a young master of your... rugged stature!"

  He rushed me to the VIP section (keeping a respectful distance from my smell) and began pulling out outfits.

  "Since you are starting the Academy," he said, eyeing my build, "I assume you want something functional yet noble. A blend of tradition and modern flair."

  He laid out five options.

  Option 1: The Crimson Vanguard

  A deep red and black ensemble with an asymmetric hem. It had a high collar and silver buckles. Very edgy, very "rogue assassin," but a bit too close to my family colors. I’m trying to be low-key.

  Option 2: The Iron Scholar

  A long, grey trench coat made of mana-weave fabric with a vest underneath. It looked smart, with lots of pockets for scrolls. It gave off a "detective" vibe. Cool, but maybe too bulky for sword fighting.

  Option 3: The Noble Sport

  A short, bomber-style jacket in navy blue with gold trim, paired with fitted trousers. It looked athletic and aerodynamic. It reminded me of a track suit for knights. Good, but a bit plain.

  Option 4: The Tech-Mage

  A sleeveless black tunic with a hood, featuring neon-green stitching and straps on the arms. It looked very modern—almost like streetwear from my old world. It screamed "I use daggers," but I use a greatsword.

  Option 5: The Azure Frost

  The shopkeeper pulled out the last one.

  "This," he said reverently. "Is a masterpiece."

  It was a hooded jacket-and-tunic combo in stark white and deep, electric blue. The fabric was sleek, designed to be durable but lightweight. The hood was oversized, perfect for hiding a face, but the cut of the jacket was sharp and tapered. It had subtle silver runic patterns along the sleeves that only caught the light when you moved.

  It looked medieval, yet... timeless. Like something you could wear to a sword fight and a streetwear photoshoot.

  "This is the one," I whispered. I held it up against myself in the mirror. The white and blue matched my hair and eyes perfectly. It looked like it was made for me.

  "Good eye, Sir," the shopkeeper beamed. "That is the 'Frostwalker' set. Very popular among the elite youth."

  "I'll take it," I said. "But pack it up. I’m not putting this masterpiece on this filthy body."

  I paid the man (who almost fainted when I let him keep the change from a Royal Gold) and took the wrapped package.

  "Now," I said, stepping back out into the street, ignoring the disgusted stares of the peasants. "I need an Inn. A bath. And enough soap to wash away two years of sins."

  I spotted a sign down the road: "The Golden Griffin Inn."

  "That'll do."

  The sign above the door read "The Golden Griffin." It looked warm. It looked inviting.

  But as I pushed the heavy oak door open, the warmth vanished.

  The inn was bustling. Adventurers were clinking mugs, merchants were laughing, and the smell of roasted chicken hung heavy in the air. But the moment I stepped onto the polished floorboards—mud dripping from my rags, smelling like a wet dog that had rolled in sulfur—the noise died.

  Clink. A fork dropped.

  Silence swept across the room like a plague. Every pair of eyes turned to me. Disgust. Pure, unfiltered revulsion.

  "Hey," a large man at a nearby table grumbled, covering his nose with a napkin. "The stables are outside, kid."

  "Is that a beggar? Someone get the owner."

  I lowered my head. Right. Of course.

  I kept my gaze on the floor, trudging toward the counter. I gripped the strap of my spatial bag tight. I was ready for it. I was ready for the insults, the broom, the "Get out." I just needed to slap a gold coin on the counter fast enough to shut them up.

  I reached the desk and looked up, steeling myself for the glare of the receptionist.

  Instead, I was blinded.

  Standing there was a girl. She looked around sixteen, with hair the color of roasted chestnuts and eyes like molten gold. She was beautiful—objectively so—but that wasn't what stunned me.

  It was her smile.

  It wasn't a customer service grimace. It wasn't a sneer. It was a beam of pure sunshine. She looked at me—filthy, stinking, bloody me—and smiled like I was her favorite customer.

  "Welcome to the Golden Griffin!" she chimed, her voice melodic and bright. "How can I help you today, sir?"

  I froze. My brain short-circuited. Sir?

  "I..." I stammered, my elite vocabulary failing me. "I need a room. And a place to bathe. Please."

  I waited for the 'We don't serve your kind.'

  "Certainly!" she beamed, grabbing a brass key from the hook. "We have a lovely room available on the second floor. The water is hot, and I'll have fresh towels sent up immediately."

  She leaned over the counter, her golden eyes twinkling. "You look like you've had a long journey. I'll make sure the bath salts are the relaxing kind."

  My chest tightened. It was a strange sensation. For six years—four in the forest, two in the void—I hadn't been treated like a person. I had been a monster, a target, or a nuisance.

  This warmth... it reminded me of Leonica. My step-sister. The only other person who looked at me with this kind of unconditional kindness.

  "Thank you," I whispered, my voice rough.

  "You can pay whenever you like," she said, winking. "Just relax first. And when you're done, come downstairs. I’ll save a table for you."

  The Transformation

  The bath was an exorcism.

  I scrubbed. And scrubbed. The water turned black, then brown, then grey. I emptied the tub and refilled it three times.

  When I finally stepped out and wiped the steam from the mirror, a stranger stared back.

  Stark white hair fell over my forehead, wet and shaggy. My eyes, usually hidden by grime, glowed with that piercing, electric blue. My skin was pale but scarred—faint white lines crisscrossing my arms and chest, souvenirs of the Death Forest.

  I looked dangerous. I looked... like a True Crimson.

  I opened the package from the boutique.

  I pulled on the black trousers, the fitted inner tunic, and finally, the Azure Frost jacket. It fit like a second skin. The white fabric contrasted sharply with the deep blue hood, and the silver runic stitching caught the candlelight.

  I flipped the hood up, casting a shadow over my glowing eyes.

  "Not bad," I muttered. "Not bad at all."

  Then, I looked at the bed.

  A mattress. A real, feather-stuffed mattress with clean white linens.

  I sat on the edge. It sank beneath my weight. I fell backward, spreading my arms. It was soft. So soft it felt illegal.

  "Oh my god," I groaned, closing my eyes. "This is better than magic. This is better than sex. This is... civilization."

  I could have slept for a week right there. But my stomach let out a roar that rivaled the Earth Drake.

  "Right. Food first."

  Tears in the Soup

  I walked down the stairs.

  The common room was loud again, but as my boot hit the bottom step, the noise dipped.

  Heads turned. But this time, no one covered their nose. No one looked away in disgust.

  They stared.

  "Who is that?"

  "Is that a noble?"

  "Look at those clothes... is he a mage?"

  I ignored them, scanning the room. The receptionist—the girl with the golden eyes—was waiting by a secluded table near the window. She saw me and waved, her smile widening.

  I walked over. She pulled out a chair for me.

  "You clean up well, Sir," she teased, her eyes scanning my new outfit with approval. (I didn't know it then, but she had subtly signaled the kitchen to prepare the VIP menu. She was a maid who only served those she found... interesting).

  "Sit," she commanded gently. "Eat."

  She placed a bowl in front of me.

  It was beef stew. Thick, rich gravy, chunks of tender meat, carrots, and potatoes, steaming hot. Next to it was a loaf of freshly baked bread, the crust golden and cracked.

  I stared at it.

  For years, I had eaten burnt rabbit. Raw fish. Tough, gamey boar meat that tasted like iron. I had eaten to survive, choking down fuel while hiding in trees.

  I picked up the spoon. My hand was shaking.

  I took a sip of the broth.

  Flavor. Salt. Herbs. Fat. Warmth.

  It hit my tongue, and something inside me shattered. The wall I had built—the "tough survivor," the "arrogant genius," the "Rogue Soul"—crumbled.

  "It's..." I tried to speak, but my throat closed up.

  A tear splashed into the soup. Then another.

  I dropped the spoon. I put my hands over my face, trying to hide it, but the sobs racked my shoulders. I was twelve years old. I was alone. And I was eating soup.

  "It's okay," a soft voice whispered.

  I felt arms wrap around me. The girl didn't care that I was making a scene. She pulled my head against her apron, hugging me tight, shielding me from the staring room. She smelled like soap and sunshine.

  "Let it out," she murmured, stroking my white hair. "You're safe now. You're safe."

  I cried. I cried for the parents I missed, for the grandpa who hated me, and for the boy I used to be before the forest took him.

  And through it all, she just held me.