By the time I reached the front porch, the adrenaline had completely evaporated, leaving me feeling like a hollowed-out gourd. My tunic was stiff with my dried blood.
I tried to turn the handle silently, but the old iron latch made a very loud noise.
The door flew open before I could even step inside.
"Adam!"
Mom was there instantly. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She grabbed my shoulders, her eyes scanning the wreckage of my appearance.
"Oh, by the Light... look at you," she whispered, her hands hovering over the bruise on my cheek, afraid to touch it. "We heard Gareth was... we heard there was a fight."
"I'm okay, Mom," I rasped, trying to pull away gently. "Just a few scrapes."
"Scrapes?" My father's voice came from the kitchen doorway. He was leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked tired. The lines around his mouth were deeper than they had been this morning.
He walked over, his heavy boots thudding on the floorboards. He took my chin in his rough, hand and tilted my head up. He inspected the split lip, the dirt in my hair, and the way I was favoring my left side.
"You look like you went a rounds with a thresher," Dad said, his voice low. He wasn't angry, which was worse. He sounded resigned. "Did you at least get a hit in?"
"One," I lied. Well, half-lied. I hit the tree plenty of times.
"Go wash up," Dad said, letting go of my chin. "Supper is cold, but it's there."
Dinner was a silent affair. The stew was thick and hearty—potatoes, carrots, and chunks of beef—but it tasted like cardboard in my mouth.
Mom kept glancing at me, then at Dad, then back at her bowl. there unspoken awkwardness in the room.
Finally, Dad put his spoon down. The clatter echoed in the small room.
"I spoke to Miller," Dad said, not looking at me. "He says he needs help with the inventory deliveries next week."
I kept eating. "That's good for Miller."
"Adam," Dad said, his tone sharpening. "We need to discuss the... arrangement. Now that the Ceremony is over."
I stopped chewing. "The arrangement."
"The shop," Dad said firmly. "You're Unblessed, son. That's not a judgment, it's a fact. It means the Academy is out. The military is out. The Order is out."
He leaned forward, his eyes pleading. "But the shop is still here. You're good with numbers. You're strong enough to haul crates. It's a good life. It's a safe life."
"I'm not working at the shop," I said quietly.
"Adam, be reasonable," Mom interjected softly. "With Gareth and the others getting their Classes... things are going to change. If you try to compete with them..."
"I'm not trying to compete," I said, putting my spoon down. "I'm trying to survive."
"Surviving is working the counter!" Dad snapped, slamming his hand on the table. "Surviving is keeping your head down! You think you can just wander around town playing hero with a wooden stick? Look at your face! Gareth nearly broke you today, and he's been a Heavy Infantry for six hours!"
"I'm going to the Guild," I said.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Dad stared at me. "The Adventurer's Guild?" He let out a short, harsh laugh. "You need a death wish? Or are you just stupid?"
"I'm going to register tomorrow," I said, my voice shaking slightly but holding firm. "I'll go to the Commoner School during the day, like you paid for. I'll get it done. But at night, I'm taking commissions."
"They won't even take you," Dad said, his face flushing red. "You're F-Rank trash to them, Adam! You'll be scrubbing latrines for copper pieces."
"Then I'll scrub latrines," I shot back, standing up. My ribs gave a twinge of phantom pain, but I ignored it. "But I am not spending the rest of my life selling grain and hiding behind a counter just because a glowing rock didn't pick me."
"You walk out that door to the Guild, don't expect me to patch you up when you crawl back," Dad warned, though I saw the fear behind his anger. He was terrified for me.
"I won't," I said.
I turned and walked to my room, leaving my half-eaten stew on the table.
The Riverwood Adventurer's Guild was less of a "Hall of Heroes" and more of a glorified tavern with a help-wanted board.
It was a massive wooden structure near the town square.
I pushed open the heavy double doors and stepped inside, immediately hit by a wall of noise.
The room was segregated by an invisible, but very heavy, line.
On the left were the Unblessed—the majority. Dozens of men and women in boiled leather and rusted chainmail. They were the grunts. The porters. The arrow-fodder. They drank cheap swill and huddled around the "E-Rank" and "F-Rank" notice boards, fighting over scraps. Being Unblessed wasn't rare—it was the default. It just meant you were disposable.
On the right, near the velvet-roped VIP section, were the Blessed.
They shone. Literally. Their armor was polished, their weapons glowed with runic scripts, and they carried themselves with the easy arrogance of gods walking among insects.
I saw a group of Mages sitting at a high table. They didn't wear armor; they wore silk robes embroidered with silver thread. One of them, a boy my age with the crest of House Vane on his chest, was lazily spinning a ball of fire between his fingers.
Mages were never commoners. You didn't just "get" a Mage class; you were bred for it. It was the province of Nobles and ancient bloodlines. If a commoner like me tried to cast a spell, we'd burn our own veins out.
I kept my head down and walked to the registration counter.
The receptionist was a woman with eyes that had seen too many dead kids. She didn't look up from her ledger.
"Name?"
"Adam Reed."
"Age?"
"Fifteen."
"Blessing?"
"None," I said.
She didn't pause. She didn't blink. She just ticked a box marked 'Standard Infantry/Labor'.
"Right," she droned. "Standard contract. You are registering as an F-Rank Auxiliary."
She finally looked up, her expression tired.
"Listen, kid. The survival rate for Unblessed Auxiliaries in their first month is about forty percent. If you want to play soldier, join the town guard. At least they give you a helmet."
"I'm registering," I said, sliding my five silver coins across the wood.
She sighed, sweeping the coins into a drawer. "Your funeral."
She stamped a piece of grey parchment and tossed a dull iron tag onto the counter.
[Name: Adam Reed] [Rank: F] [Class: Militia/Labor]
"Next!" she yelled.
I grabbed the tag. As I turned to leave, a shadow fell over me.
A massive man stood there. He was clad in gleaming plate armor, a greatsword strapped to his back. Above his head, the air shimmered faintly—a Knight class.
"Out of the way, mule," he grunted, not even looking at me. He simply walked through the space I was occupying.
I stumbled back, catching myself on a table. The Knight didn't look back. To him, I was furniture. Just another Unblessed peasant clogging up the hall.
I gripped the iron tag until it bit into my palm and walked out into the cool night air.
I didn't go home. I ran to the woods.
I found Kaelen leaning against the center elm, exactly where he said he'd be.
"I did it," I said, tossing the iron tag to him.
Kaelen caught it. "F-Rank. Militia." He smirked. "Perfect!"
"I need a weapon," I said, breathing hard. "The Guild won't let me take contracts without gear, and I'm not fighting rats with a rock."
"Agreed," Kaelen said. "But we aren't going to the town smith. He only makes plows and horseshoes."
He placed a hand on my shoulder. "Brace yourself."
Pop.
The world twisted. My stomach did a backflip.
We appeared in a cavern. Borrin the Dwarf stood at the anvil, looking pretty grumpy.
"No mana," Borrin grunted, glancing at me. "Another stray, Elf?"
"He needs steel," Kaelen said, ignoring the dwarf's tone. "He's a ghost. He needs something fast, silent, and kinetic."
Borrin pointed a thick finger at the rack. "Scrap pile is on the right. Choose."
I walked to the rack. I looked at the weapons.
I needed something that fit me. I wasn't strong like a Blessed Warrior. I couldn't trade blows. I had to end fights before they started.
I walked past the rows of daggers and the heavy axes.
Daggers were fast, but they required me to be inside the enemy's guard—close enough to smell their breath. Against a goblin, maybe. Against a Blessed Knight with a greatsword? That was suicide.
I needed distance. I needed to control the space.
My hand closed around a shaft of dark, polished ash wood.
I pulled it from the rack. A Spear.
It was seven feet long, tipped with a leaf-shaped steel head that looked capable of punching through chainmail. It was simple. It was ugly. But when I held it, I felt safer.
"Reach," I muttered, testing the weight. "If I can touch them before they touch me, I win."
But a spear had a weakness. If an enemy got past the point, I was dead. I needed a backup. A last resort.
I reached down to the lower shelf and grabbed a Short Sword. It wasn't a knight's longsword; it was a brutal, straight-edged blade, barely twenty inches long. A thrusting weapon. Something to jam into a ribcage in a dark sewer tunnel.
I turned back to them, the spear in my right hand, the short sword in my left.
"These," I said.
Borrin the Dwarf stopped hammering. He wiped soot from his forehead and squinted at me.
"A spear and a sticker," Borrin grunted. "Standard infantry loadout. Boring."
"Effective," Kaelen corrected, a gleam of approval in his violet eyes. "The spear gives you leverage against stronger opponents. It forces them to respect your space. And the sword..."
"For when things go wrong," I finished, sheathing the short sword into my belt. "Because they always do."
Borrin hopped down from his stool. He waddled over, snatched the spear from my hand with surprising speed, and inspected the head.
"Ash wood shaft. Tempered steel tip. Good flex," Borrin muttered. He looked at me. "You're weak, boy. Your shoulders are scrawny. If you try to block a Warhammer with this, the shaft will snap and you'll be paste."
He tossed the spear back. I caught it, nearly fumbling.
"Deflect, don't block," Borrin advised gruffly. "Use the length to tap their weapon aside, then thrust. You're Unblessed. You fight like a rat—fast and annoying. Don't try to fight like a bear."
"How much?" I asked, patting my empty pockets.
"Put it on the Elf's tab," Borrin said, waving a dismissive hand as he returned to his anvil. "Now get out. You're breathing up all my good air."
We stepped out of the cave (Kaelen's shadow-step magic leaving me nauseous again) and back into the cool night air of the woods.
Kaelen tossed me a leather scabbard for the sword and a strap to sling the spear over my shoulder.
"Good choices," he said. "Now, you have the tools. But a spear is useless if you don't know how to plant your feet."
He drew his own blade—the beautiful, water-patterned steel.
"We have four hours before you need to be asleep for your little school," Kaelen said, slipping into a combat stance. "I am going to attack you. If you manage to keep me at bay with that spear for ten seconds, you sleep. If I get past the tip... well, try not to bleed too much."
I gripped my spear. "And if I hit you?"
Kaelen laughed. "If you hit me, Adam, I'll buy you dinner."
I leveled the spear."Then you should probably decide what I like for dinner."