The road to Helior did not forgive weakness.
Aren learned that over the course of eight long days.
The first two were the worst. Not because of the distance—but because his body still remembered the orcs.
Every step pulled at his ribs . Every deep breath reminded him where the shield had struck. The bruises were fading, but the soreness lingered, stubborn and honest.
Stella noticed. She always did.
"You're limping," she said on the third day, not even looking back.
"I'm walking," Aren replied.
"That wasn't a question."
He didn't answer. Not because she was wrong—but because stopping meant admitting it hurt.
They traveled together from the site of the ambush. The merchant had gone ahead after the fight, shaken but alive, eager to put distance between himself and monsters. Stella had filed her report at a relay post along the road, brief and precise. No embellishment. No heroics.
Aren had watched her write.
Efficient. Controlled. Like magic itself bent to her will.
She was already part of this world.
He was still knocking at the door.
By the time Helior's walls rose on the horizon, Aren's injuries had settled into something manageable. Not healed—but stable. Enough to walk straight. Enough to stand.
Enough to register.
Helior was nothing like his village.
Stone replaced soil. Crowds replaced silence. Voices overlapped, sharp and confident, as if everyone here knew exactly where they belonged.
Banners fluttered above wide streets, bearing the sigil of Valenor. Merchants shouted prices. Mercenaries walked openly, weapons visible, armor worn like proof of existence.
Aren felt small.
Not intimidated. Not afraid.
Just… aware.
The Mercenary Guild stood near the inner district, a massive stone building reinforced with iron beams and old scars. The doors were wide, as if daring danger to walk in.
Aren paused in front of them.
Stella stopped beside him.
"You good?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Yeah."
She studied him for a second longer, then turned and pushed the doors open.
Inside, the air smelled like metal, parchment, and old blood.
The hall was busy. Desks lined the walls. Boards filled with mission notices covered entire sections, some torn down, others marked with red wax seals.
People talked loudly. Laughed. Argued.
Aren followed Stella through it all.
No one stopped her.
No one questioned her presence.
Some even nodded.
"Lady Tallcrag."
"Back already?"
"Good hunt?"
She answered briefly. Calmly.
Known.
They reached the registration desk.
The clerk looked up—and straightened.
"Lady Stella. You're early."
"Finished a contract on the road," she replied. "I'm reporting it now."
The clerk nodded, already reaching for parchment.
Then his eyes shifted.
To Aren.
He paused.
"…And you are?"
Aren stepped forward.
"Aren. From Valenor's outer villages. I'm here to register as a mercenary."
The clerk blinked once.
Then he looked down at Aren's hands. His posture.His age.
He exhaled.
"…How old?"
"Twelve."
A murmur rose from nearby desks.
The clerk rubbed his temple.
"Mana affinity?"
Aren didn't answer immediately.
Stella didn't either.
"No measurable output," the clerk said flatly after a glance at the crystal on the desk.
The crystal didn't glow.
Silence followed.
The clerk sighed and began writing anyway.
"Very well. Provisional registration. Rank: Initiate—lowest tier."
Aren didn't react.
The clerk continued.
"You'll only be eligible for low-risk assignments. Escorts. Deliveries. Rural clearances. No dungeon access. No monster hunts above basic classification."
A pause.
"You understand this is not a place for children."
Aren met his gaze.
"I understand it's a place for people who survive."
The clerk looked at him for a long moment.
Then he stamped the parchment.
"Assigned board: East Wing. Take something marked green. And don't die."
Aren accepted the badge.
It was light. Cheap metal. Barely an identity.
Stella watched quietly.
When they stepped away, she spoke.
"No jealousy?"
He shook his head.
"Why would I be?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"You were ranked at the bottom. I wasn't ranked at all."
He glanced at her.
"You've been here a year."
"And?"
"And you earned it."
That was all.
They reached the mission boards.
Green notices. Low pay. Low prestige.
Aren read them carefully.
Escort a supply cart. Clear pests from a farm. Guard a storage shed overnight.
Simple.
Too simple.
He picked one.
Stella frowned.
"That one?"
"Yeah."
She leaned closer, scanning it.
"…That's under-evaluated."
Aren smiled faintly.
"Then it'll teach me something."
She didn't argue.
When Aren handed in the notice, the clerk hesitated.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
The clerk stamped it.
"Departure tomorrow morning."
Aren nodded.
As they left the guild, Stella stopped him.
"You know," she said, arms crossed, "people will look down on you."
He shrugged.
"They already do."
She studied him. Then smiled—just a little.
"Good. Then you won't be surprised."
That night, Aren lay on a narrow bed in a cheap inn, staring at the ceiling.
His body ached. His rank was laughable. His path was slow.
But he was inside now.
The world had acknowledged him—even if only to dismiss him.
Tomorrow, he would take his first official mission.
And something told him it wouldn't be as simple as the paper claimed.
Aren closed his eyes.
This road didn't care about excuses.
Neither would he.