Loren should have been dead.
He remembered the exact moment the blade sank into his back—the cold steel twisting, severing flesh, sinking deep.
“The kingdom thanks you for your service, Hero,” the prince had whispered, voice smooth and mocking.
Loren had saved their world. He had fought, bled, and burned his way through the armies of darkness. He had killed the Demon Lord with his own two hands.
And for that, they betrayed him.
He remembered the stunned silence of the court as the so-called chosen hero collapsed onto the golden palace floor. He remembered the weight of his sword slipping from his fingers.
He remembered the rage.
But most of all—
He remembered dying.
Which is why waking up in the middle of a lush, sunlit forest, with no wounds, no scars, and the body of his younger self, was extremely concerning.
Loren sat up slowly, his heart pounding.
He knew this place.
He had seen it fifteen years ago.
No. That wasn’t right. Not fifteen years. Not anymore.
He was back at the beginning.
A tiny burst of golden light flickered in the air beside him.
Loren turned, just in time to see a winged creature materialize out of nothing—barely the size of his palm, with shimmering dragonfly-like wings and a look of pure irritation on her face.
Her first action upon meeting him was to flip him off.
"Ugh," she groaned, rubbing her temples. "I get you?"
Loren just stared. He knew that voice. He had heard it before—years ago, at the very start of his journey.
The tutorial fairy.
The useless, infuriating guide who had been assigned to every new hero.
Tyr.
Memories flooded back—her nagging, her snark, her unbearable insistence that he do things "the right way."
"Oh, this is rich," Loren muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Excuse me?" Tyr narrowed her glowing eyes.
Loren looked at her. Then grinned.
"Long time no see, Tyr."
She froze.
Her tiny face scrunched in confusion. "...Do I know you?"
"Not yet," Loren said. "But I know you."
Loren stood up, brushing dirt off his plain, beginner’s tunic. His body felt lighter, weaker than he was used to. It was strange—all the power, all the skill he had gained over years of battle was gone.
He clenched his fists.
Fine. Whatever.
Because he still had one advantage.
He knew exactly how this world worked.
Tyr crossed her arms. “Alright, newbie. Here’s how this works. Just follow the path to the first town, fight some slimes, and get used to your—"
"Nope," Loren said.
Tyr blinked. “What?”
"I’m not doing the tutorial."
He turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction.
Tyr sputtered. "HEY! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU GOING?!"
Loren grinned. “Speedrunning.”
The correct way to start was to follow the road to town, fight a few weak monsters, and get some starter gear.
Loren ignored all of that.
Because he remembered something far better.
A hidden dungeon. A place filled with loot meant for mid-level warriors.
A shortcut to power.
Tyr buzzed after him, fuming. "You cannot be serious. This is not how you’re supposed to play the—”
“Play the what, Tyr?” Loren interrupted, shoving aside a branch as he moved deeper into the forest. “This isn’t a game.”
Tyr hesitated. "...Well, no, but—"
"Exactly," Loren said. "So stop acting like there''s one right way to do things. The only thing that matters is winning."
Tyr folded her arms. “You are going to die.”
Loren just smirked. “Only if I screw up.”
The Frostfang Wolf was an apex predator.
A beast so powerful it took an entire party of warriors to take down.
Its massive silver form lay curled in the back of a cave, fur shimmering in the dim light. Its chest rose and fell with slow, heavy breaths.
Sleeping.
Perfect.
Loren wasn’t here to fight.
He was here to steal.
Just beyond the wolf’s massive form lay a treasure chest.
Most warriors never found it because they were too busy dying.
Loren took a slow, measured breath. Then, with absolute precision, he crept forward.
<hr>
[Stealth Skill Unlocked.]
<hr>
He smirked. "Nice."
Another step. The wolf didn’t stir.
Another. Still asleep.
Loren reached the chest. Fingers brushed against the lid.
<hr>
[Obtained: Frostfang Cloak.]
[Obtained: Wolf’s Instinct Passive.]
<hr>
He grinned.
The Frostfang Cloak boosted agility and cold resistance, while Wolf’s Instinct made it almost impossible for him to get ambushed.
He threw the cloak over his shoulders, reveling in the enchanted fur’s warmth.
Then—
CRUNCH.
A single pebble beneath his boot.
The wolf’s eyes snapped open.
The wolf lunged.
Loren dodged.
Not because of skill.
But because—
<hr>
[Wolf’s Instinct Passive Activated.]
[Dodge Successful.]
<hr>
His body moved on its own, rolling just in time to avoid instant death.
The wolf snarled, muscles tensed—
Then stopped.
It sniffed the air.
Growled.
And then—
It turned away.
Ignoring him completely.
<hr>
[Frostfang Cloak Effect: Mid-Level Ice Creatures Will Not Attack Unless Provoked.]
<hr>
Loren blinked. Then he grinned.
He had just robbed a Level 40 miniboss at Level 1.
The system was going to lose its mind.
And Loren couldn’t wait.
Loren stood at the mouth of the wolf’s den, heart still pounding in his chest.
It had worked.
He had just stolen from a Level 40 miniboss at Level 1.
The Frostfang Cloak settled over his shoulders, its cold-resistant enchantments sending a faint hum of energy through his body. The Wolf’s Instinct passive was already sharpening his senses, letting him hear the faintest rustling in the trees, the subtle shift of the wind.
This was power.
Not enough to make him unstoppable—but enough to make him dangerous.
And dangerous was all he needed.
Tyr, meanwhile, was having a breakdown.
The tiny fairy zipped around his head, voice two octaves higher than usual.
“YOU SHOULD NOT BE ALIVE,” she shrieked.
Loren adjusted his cloak. “But I am.”
“HOW?!”
“I moved fast.”
Tyr threw up her tiny hands. “Do you even understand what you just did?! That wolf was a named miniboss—you should have been ripped to shreds!”
Loren grinned. “Yeah. But I wasn’t.”
Tyr made a noise somewhere between a groan and a scream. “You—You broke the game!”
“This isn’t a game,” Loren reminded her. “It’s real life.”
Tyr jabbed a finger at him. “Then stop treating it like a speedrun!”
Loren ignored her. Instead, he turned, gaze locking onto the distant horizon.
Beyond the trees, far below the mountain, lay the first town.
Calcrest.
The same town he had first visited fifteen years ago. The same town where he had once been a weak, wide-eyed fool.
Not this time.
This time, he wasn’t some naive chosen hero.
He was a man who had already conquered this world.
And now, he was going to do it better.
The road to town was uneventful.
No wild monsters attacked him. No bandits lurked in the trees.
Maybe it was the Wolf’s Instinct passive, warning him of danger before it happened.
Or maybe it was the Frostfang Cloak, deterring lesser creatures from messing with him.
Either way, Loren walked through the forest completely unbothered.
Tyr, however, was still complaining.
“I don’t get it,” she muttered. “You’re Level 1. You’re supposed to be weak.”
Loren smirked. “And yet, here we are.”
Tyr grumbled.
By the time they reached the gates of Calcrest, the sun was beginning to set.
The town was exactly as he remembered—a modest settlement surrounded by wooden palisades, simple stone buildings packed together, narrow cobblestone streets winding between them. The faint scent of baking bread and cooking meat drifted from a nearby market.
A few guards stood watch near the entrance, wearing the red crest of the local lord on their tabards. They weren’t heavily armed—Calcrest wasn’t a fortress, just a quiet trading town.
As Loren approached, the guards straightened.
One of them, a burly man with a scarred cheek, gave him a once-over and frowned.
“You’re a traveler?”
Loren nodded. “Something like that.”
The guard’s gaze flicked to his cloak.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.
Loren expected this.
The Frostfang Cloak was not normal newbie gear. It was the kind of thing a high-level adventurer would wear. To them, it probably looked stolen.
Loren lied effortlessly.
“Got it off a dead man.”
The guard narrowed his eyes. “You looted a corpse?”
Loren shrugged. “He wasn’t using it anymore.”
A beat of silence.
Then, to his relief, the guard just sighed.
“Adventurers,” he muttered, waving him through.
Loren stepped past the gates, officially entering Calcrest.
The moment he did, a new notification appeared in his mind.
<hr>
[Location Discovered: Calcrest]
[Reputation: Neutral]
<hr>
Loren had two problems.
First, he had no money.
Second, he had no gear.
And in a town like Calcrest, being broke and unarmed was a terrible combination.
So, he fixed both problems immediately.
As he walked through the bustling market square, his eyes flicked over the stalls. Merchants called out their wares—everything from fresh produce to worn-out adventurer gear.
Then, he spotted his mark.
A fat, sweaty merchant hunched over a table filled with miscellaneous junk—old weapons, rusted armor, trinkets that looked barely functional.
The kind of guy who didn’t know the value of half the stuff he was selling.
Loren walked up, expression neutral. “You buying?”
The merchant barely looked up. “Selling?”
Loren reached into his pocket and pulled out a rock.
Not just any rock—a small, polished stone he picked up off the road five minutes ago.
He turned it slowly, letting the light catch on its smooth, dark surface, giving it the illusion of being valuable.
Then, he lied effortlessly.
“This is a Nightstone,” he said. “Rare mineral from the northern mountains. Mages grind it into powder for enchantments.”
The merchant snapped to attention.
“A Nightstone, you say?” The man squinted at it. “Never heard of it.”
Loren shrugged. “That’s why it’s rare.”
The merchant licked his lips. “How much?”
Loren pretended to hesitate. “Tell you what—I''ll trade you for something simple.”
His fingers casually gestured toward the pile of junk weapons.
Specifically, at a silver dagger sitting among them.
The merchant looked relieved. “Just a dagger? Hah! You got yourself a deal, lad.”
He snatched the rock off Loren’s hand and tossed him the dagger without a second thought.
Loren caught it smoothly, sliding it into his belt.
“Pleasure doing business.”
Then he walked away before the fool realized he’d just traded a weapon for a random road pebble.
Loren scanned the town, mentally mapping out his next steps.
<ol>
<li style="font-weight: 400">Find an inn. Rest, eat, and avoid sleeping in a gutter.</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400">Get money. Whether that meant selling something, gambling, or some good old-fashioned pickpocketing.</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400">Get strong. Fast.</li>
</ol>
He knew exactly where to start.
The Boar’s Tusk Inn was the same as he remembered—loud, warm, and packed with adventurers.
Loren stepped through the doors, the scent of roasted meat and ale hitting him instantly. The main hall was filled with mercenaries, traders, and wandering swordsmen, their conversations overlapping into a constant buzz of noise.
A young barmaid nearly bumped into him. “Oh! Sorry, sir!”
She hurried past, carrying a tray of drinks.
Loren barely noticed.
His eyes were locked onto a table in the corner.
A group of men sat there, dressed in rough leathers, dice scattered across the wood.
Gamblers.
Perfect.
Tyr followed his gaze and groaned. “Oh no. You are not doing this.”
Loren grinned. “I absolutely am.”
Tyr threw up her hands. “You have no money!”
“Not yet,” Loren said.
Then he strode toward the table.
<hr>
The gamblers barely looked up as he approached.
One of them, a burly man with a tattooed arm, gave him a once-over. “What do you want?”
“To play,” Loren said smoothly, pulling out a chair.
The men exchanged looks.
Another one, a wiry guy with a scar on his lip, smirked. “You got coin?”
Loren leaned forward.
“I have something better.”
The men paused.
Loren pulled back his cloak, revealing a glint of silver.
A dagger.
One of the men let out a low whistle. “That’s a fine blade.”
Loren nodded. “Worth at least ten gold.”
The gamblers considered.
Then, after a moment, the tattooed man grinned.
“Alright, stranger. You’re in.”
Loren sat back, smiling.
Let the game begin.
Loren sat at the gambling table, rolling his new silver dagger between his fingers as the other players sized him up.
The dice game was simple—roll high, win big. But in places like Calcrest, the real game wasn’t the dice.
It was reading the players.
The burly, tattooed man across from him? A bruiser, likely used to solving problems with fists rather than brains. The wiry guy with a scar on his lip? Quick hands—either a thief or a professional cheat. The old guy with the scruffy beard? An easy mark—too drunk to be aware of his surroundings.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Loren had played this game before.
And he didn’t intend to leave the table empty-handed.
<hr>
"Alright, stranger," the tattooed man said, rattling the dice in his hands. "Buy-in’s five gold per round."
Loren tossed his dagger onto the table.
The men blinked.
"That’s worth ten," the thief muttered.
Loren smirked. "Then you’d better make it worth my while."
Tattoo grinned. “Confident, huh?” He pushed a few extra coins into the pot.
The game was on.
The dice hit the table, tumbling across the wood.
First round: Tattooed guy wins. Loren loses the dagger. Doesn’t react.
Second round: Scar-lip wins. Loren loses another round. Still no reaction.
Tyr hovered beside him, whispering. “Uh, you realize you’re losing, right?”
Loren ignored her.
Round three: Loren wins.
Round four: Loren wins again.
By round five, the pot had grown significantly.
By round ten, Loren had more gold than he started with.
And by round fifteen?
Loren had everything.
The dagger, the gold, and the respect of the entire table.
Scar-lip glared at him, gripping his dice tight. “You’re cheating.”
Loren smiled. “So are you.”
The table went silent.
Tattooed man frowned. "The hell does that mean?"
Loren casually flipped one of Scar-lip’s dice onto the table.
It landed on a six.
Then again.
And again.
Scar-lip went pale.
Tattoo''s eyes narrowed. “You little shit.”
Loren, meanwhile, just leaned back. Smirking.
"Looks like the house always wins," he said smoothly.
Scar-lip lunged for his knife.
Tattoo threw a punch.
The table exploded into chaos.
Loren ducked as a fist came flying toward his face.
Scar-lip''s dagger whizzed past his ear, stabbing into the wooden table. The old drunk flipped over his chair, scrambling to get out of the way as Tattoo lunged forward like a raging bull.
Loren reacted instinctively.
He grabbed his chair and slammed it straight into Tattoo''s gut.
The big man staggered back, wheezing.
Scar-lip lunged again.
Loren grabbed a mug of ale off the table and threw it directly into his face.
Scar-lip sputtered, blinded.
Tyr was screaming in his ear. "WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!"
Loren didn''t have time to answer.
A random mercenary—probably just looking for an excuse to start something—jumped into the fight, swinging a barstool at a completely unrelated guy.
And just like that, the entire inn devolved into a drunken brawl.
Loren ducked, weaving between flying mugs, fists, and the occasional airborne chair.
Familiar chaos.
Predictable violence.
Easy to navigate.
And, most importantly—
A perfect distraction.
He grabbed the bag of gold from the table, slipped through the crowd, and vanished into the night.
Loren strolled down the empty streets of Calcrest, several gold richer than when he entered the tavern.
Tyr hovered beside him, still fuming.
"You just started a full-blown bar brawl, robbed those guys, and left like nothing happened."
Loren shrugged. "Not my fault they don’t know how to gamble."
Tyr threw her hands up. "You’re a menace."
"I’m efficient."
"You’re a criminal."
"You say that like it’s a bad thing."
Tyr groaned. “What now? You gonna rob an orphanage?”
Loren rolled a gold coin between his fingers.
"No," he said.
"I’m gonna get stronger."
The blacksmith’s forge was still open, its fires burning deep into the night.
Loren stepped inside, the scent of burning coal and hot iron filling the air.
A broad-shouldered man with soot-covered hands glanced up from his work.
He narrowed his eyes. "You need something, kid?"
Loren placed a handful of gold on the blacksmith’s counter.
The heavy coins clinked against the rough wood, still warm from his questionable acquisition at the gambling table. The blacksmith, a broad-shouldered man covered in soot and sweat, raised an eyebrow as he wiped his hands on his apron.
"You looking to buy or steal?" he asked, voice gruff.
Loren smirked. "If I was here to steal, would I be putting money on the counter?"
The blacksmith grunted. "Seen worse idiots."
He studied Loren for a moment, gaze flicking over the Frostfang Cloak draped over his shoulders. His brow furrowed slightly, like he recognized it but wasn’t sure from where.
"You don’t look like a fresh adventurer," he said.
Loren deflected. "I need a weapon. Something strong, something fast."
The blacksmith scratched his beard. "Got a preference?"
"Something with reach," Loren said. "But not too heavy."
The blacksmith nodded and turned toward the weapon racks lining the forge. He pulled down a long iron spear with a polished wooden shaft and set it on the counter. "This one’s sturdy, good balance. A bit plain, but it won’t break on you."
Loren ran his fingers along the cool metal. It was well-crafted—nothing fancy, but leagues better than a simple dagger.
The weight felt right in his hands.
"How much?"
The blacksmith studied him again, then glanced at the gold. "Fifteen pieces. And a favor."
Loren tilted his head. "What kind of favor?"
"Got a problem in the town outskirts," the blacksmith said. "Some bastard’s been harassing traders on the road. City guards won’t deal with it—too busy shaking down honest folk. If you clear him out, I’ll knock the price down to ten."
Loren considered it.
It wasn’t a bad deal—he needed the weapon, and dealing with a lone roadside thug wasn’t exactly a challenge.
"Fine," he said, sliding ten coins forward. "Point me in the right direction."
The blacksmith smirked. "That’s what I like to hear."
Loren left the forge and made his way toward the outskirts of Calcrest.
The air grew colder as he walked the worn dirt road leading away from the town, passing through scattered farmhouses and patches of tall grass. The sky was a deep, star-speckled black, and the moonlight cast long shadows across the fields.
He knew this place.
Or rather, he remembered it.
The first time he had come through here, this area had been safe. But if what the blacksmith said was true, someone had taken up banditry near the road.
It wasn’t long before he saw him.
A lone figure stood by a rickety fencepost, casually leaning against it like he owned the land. He was tall, wrapped in a battered cloak, and holding a short sword at his side.
Loren stopped a few paces away.
"You''re the one causing trouble for the merchants?" he asked.
The man pushed off the fence and smirked. "What’s it to you?"
"Just tying up a loose end," Loren said.
The man laughed. "What, the old blacksmith sent you? That coward’s been complaining about me for weeks. Guess he finally found some dumb errand boy to do his dirty work."
Loren tapped the spear against the ground. "Do yourself a favor and walk away."
The bandit grinned wider. "Or what?"
Loren moved.
In a single step, he closed the distance, swinging the spear in a low, sweeping arc.
The bandit barely had time to curse before the iron shaft smashed into his ribs.
The impact sent him reeling backward, breath knocked from his lungs. He stumbled, scrambling to raise his sword, but Loren was already moving again.
A sharp jab to the gut. A quick twist of the spear, knocking the sword from his grip. The bandit collapsed to his knees, wheezing.
Loren rested the tip of his spear against the man’s throat.
"Not much of a fight," he said.
The bandit glared up at him, clutching his ribs. "Tch… what are you, a bounty hunter?"
"Just a problem solver."
Loren considered killing him—he wouldn’t lose sleep over it. But Tyr was watching, and he figured she’d throw a fit if he straight-up executed someone in cold blood.
Instead, he kicked the bandit’s sword further away.
"Get out of here," he said. "And don’t come back."
The bandit spat blood onto the dirt, but he wasn’t stupid.
He scrambled to his feet, casting one last glare before staggering off into the night.
Loren watched him go, then turned back toward town.
Job done.
Loren sat on the edge of a stone well in the town square, slowly rolling a gold coin between his fingers. The weight of the spear across his back felt comforting, a solid presence against his shoulders. It was strange—he had wielded god-killing weapons, cut through monsters that could level cities, and yet right now, this simple iron spear felt like the first step toward something bigger.
He had been playing weak for the past few hours, easing himself into this new timeline, but he could only tolerate this slow start for so long.
His mind was already shifting gears.
He needed stronger enemies.
Gold was useful, but power was the only real currency in this world. The kind that couldn’t be stolen, the kind that made sure no one could ever put a knife in his back again.
He needed a real fight.
And he knew exactly where to find one.
Tyr, still hovering beside him, narrowed her glowing eyes. “You’re planning something.”
Loren smirked. “What gave it away?”
She folded her arms. “The fact that you’re sitting there like a smug little bastard.”
Loren tossed the coin into the air, caught it, and slid it into his pocket.
“I’m going hunting.”
Tyr blinked. “...Hunting what?”
Loren stood, stretching. “Monsters.”
Tyr groaned. “Loren. You are Level 1."
"Technically."
"You’re supposed to be doing normal beginner quests! Killing rats, delivering packages, gathering herbs—”
Loren walked past her.
Tyr zipped in front of his face. "Loren! You cannot just march into the wilderness looking for high-level monsters!"
"Who said anything about high-level?"
Tyr frowned. "Then what are you—"
Loren grinned.
"I’m going to kill some goblins."
Loren moved through the outskirts of Calcrest, following a narrow, overgrown path that wound through the trees. He remembered this place well—the dense thicket leading toward the eastern ridges.
Fifteen years ago, he had taken a guild quest to clear out a goblin nest here.
Back then, he had been weak, hesitant, and nearly died.
This time?
Not a chance.
Goblins were the perfect prey. They were vicious in numbers, but alone? They were barely a challenge.
And they always hoarded weapons, gold, and sometimes even rare enchanted items.
Tyr followed him reluctantly. "This is such a bad idea."
Loren ignored her.
He crouched at the edge of a rocky incline, eyes scanning the clearing below.
The goblins had set up a camp—a handful of makeshift tents, a smoldering fire pit, and at least seven of them moving about.
They were small, wiry creatures, with sharp, blackened teeth and ugly green skin. Some carried crude spears, others rusted swords.
Loren grinned.
"Perfect."
Tyr stared at him like he was insane. "There are seven of them. You have a single spear."
Loren reached for a loose stone by his foot. "Correction."
He threw the stone.
One of the goblins yelped as it cracked against its skull.
The other goblins turned toward the sound.
Loren launched himself down the slope.
The first goblin barely had time to react before Loren’s spear slammed into its throat.
A wet gurgle escaped its lips before it collapsed.
The others shrieked, scrambling for weapons.
Loren didn’t stop moving.
He twisted, spear spinning in his grip, slamming the butt of the shaft into another goblin’s face. Bone cracked. Blood splattered.
Two down.
A third lunged at him with a rusted sword. Loren sidestepped easily, letting the blade pass harmlessly by. Before the goblin could recover, Loren brought the spearhead up, burying it into the creature’s ribs.
Three down.
Tyr was screaming in the background.
"THIS IS NOT HOW LEVELING WORKS!"
Loren ripped the spear free and turned to the remaining goblins.
The remaining four hesitated.
They weren’t stupid—they had just watched him kill three of their kin in seconds.
Loren grinned, blood dripping from his spear.
"Who’s next?"
The goblins ran.
Loren didn’t let them.
Five minutes later, the goblin camp was empty.
Loren stood among the bodies, breathing steadily.
He had forgotten how easy this felt—how natural it was to move, fight, and kill. His instincts were sharper than before, despite the reset.
He wiped his spear clean on a dead goblin’s tunic, then started looting.
? Gold—five coins.
? A half-decent short sword.
? A leather satchel filled with stolen supplies.
? A rusty dagger—not worth much, but better than nothing.
Tyr landed on his shoulder, looking shell-shocked.
"You just—just wiped out a camp alone."
Loren shrugged. "They weren’t exactly a challenge."
Tyr pointed an accusatory finger at him. "Do you even KNOW how experience works? You’re supposed to level gradually! One goblin at a time! Not an entire goddamn camp!"
Loren grinned. "You keep acting like there are rules."
Tyr groaned.
He strapped the short sword to his belt, slung the satchel over his shoulder, and turned toward the path leading back to town.
This was just the beginning.
By the time Loren returned to Calcrest, the streets were quieter, the sky painted in hues of deep blue and orange. He moved toward the adventurer’s guild, a small but sturdy building nestled between a tavern and an old weapon shop.
A few mercenaries and hunters loitered near the entrance, sharing drinks and war stories. Loren ignored them and stepped inside.
The guildhall smelled of aged wood, ink, and cheap ale. The walls were lined with quest boards, covered in parchment requests ranging from simple courier jobs to monster-slaying contracts.
Behind the main desk sat a bored-looking guild receptionist, an older woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue.
She glanced up. "New?"
Loren nodded.
She gestured to a stack of paperwork. "Sign your name. Choose your starting rank. If you’re lying about your experience, I’m not responsible when you get eaten."
Loren took the quill and signed his name.
Then, under starting rank, he ignored the beginner options and scrawled down Iron-Tier.
The receptionist raised a brow. "Confident, are we?"
Loren smirked.
"You have no idea."
Loren leaned against the wooden counter, waiting as the guild receptionist examined his Iron-Tier registration.
She squinted. "You sure about this?"
"Why wouldn’t I be?" Loren replied.
The receptionist sighed, pulling out a leather-bound book filled with names, notes, and records. "Iron-Tier is for experienced adventurers—those who’ve proven themselves. Normally, you’d start at Bronze or even Wood if you’re fresh off the farm."
Loren smirked. "I’m not fresh off anything."
The receptionist raised an eyebrow. "You have any proof of that?"
Loren reached into his satchel and dropped five goblin ears onto the counter.
The receptionist’s face remained completely neutral as she stared at the severed ears, as if this wasn’t the first time someone had done this.
Tyr, on the other hand, gagged audibly. "WHY DO YOU HAVE THOSE?!"
Loren shrugged. "For proof."
The receptionist grunted. "Huh. Well, I’ve seen worse." She flipped through the registry, dipping her quill in ink. "Fine. Iron-Tier it is."
She scrawled his name, stamped the page, and slid a small metal badge across the desk.
[Iron-Tier Adventurer Badge Acquired]
Loren picked it up and pinned it to his belt.
"You can take missions from the middle board," the receptionist continued. "Anything past Silver-Tier is off-limits until you prove yourself. Pay is given upon completion, and if you die, we keep your cut."
"Fair system," Loren said.
She snorted. "No refunds if you get yourself killed."
Loren tapped the badge. "Wouldn’t dream of it."
The guildhall was louder now, filled with mercenaries, warriors, and spellcasters discussing their latest jobs.
Loren approached the quest board, scanning the available contracts.
? Goblin Extermination (Already done. Not worth it.)
? Escort a Merchant to the Next Town (Too slow.)
? Gather Medicinal Herbs (Not happening.)
? Hunt a Forest Beast (That’s more like it.)
Loren pulled the parchment free and took it back to the counter.
The receptionist glanced at it. "That’s a risky one. You sure?"
"Iron-Tier, remember?"
She grunted. "It’s your funeral."
Loren took the quest and left the guild.
Tyr glared at him the entire way out.
The sun had begun to set, casting long shadows over the dense forest path leading eastward.
Loren moved with quiet, measured steps, his ears tuned to the sounds of the wild. He knew this place well—this was where he had fought his first real monster all those years ago.
Back then, he had been too weak, too slow, barely surviving the encounter.
Now?
He was going to win.
Tyr hovered near his shoulder. "So, uh. You know what a Forest Beast is, right?"
"Big, fast, sharp teeth," Loren muttered. "Shouldn’t be a problem."
Tyr sighed. "You say that like you’re not going to get mauled."
Loren ignored her.
He had already spotted the tracks.
Large, clawed footprints pressed deep into the earth, leading further into the woods. The signs of movement were fresh—the beast wasn’t far.
Loren knelt down, running his fingers over the grooves in the dirt. Four claws, heavy weight distribution. This was no mere wild animal—it was something bred for killing.
A few more minutes of tracking, and he reached a clearing.
There, crouched near a half-devoured deer carcass, was the Forest Beast.
It was massive—easily the size of a bear, covered in thick, matted fur. Its eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, and its claws were like curved daggers, stained with fresh blood.
Tyr froze. "Oh. That is not a normal wolf."
Loren’s grip tightened on his spear.
"Good."
Then he moved.
The Forest Beast’s ears twitched. It snapped its head up, eyes locking onto him.
Loren didn’t hesitate.
He lunged.
The spear whistled through the air, aimed for the beast’s throat—
The monster moved faster.
It twisted, claws swiping out in a brutal counterattack.
Loren ducked low, rolling beneath the strike. The wind hissed above his head as claws raked empty air. He came up behind the beast, spear darting forward—
A solid hit.
The spear sank into its hind leg, drawing a deep, red wound.
The beast let out a snarling roar, twisting violently. Its massive body barreled into him before he could retreat.
Loren was thrown off his feet.
He hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop against a tree.
Tyr screamed. "OH GODS, YOU’RE DEAD!"
Loren hissed in pain but forced himself up. His body ached from the impact, but nothing was broken.
The beast circled him now, limping slightly, snarling with murderous intent.
Loren smiled, blood dripping from his lip.
"That all you got?"
The monster charged.
This time, Loren was ready.
The moment the beast lunged, he moved low and fast, dodging just under its fangs. His spear flashed upward, slicing deep across the creature’s exposed side.
It howled in rage, stumbling as its own momentum carried it too far.
Loren twisted behind it, planting his feet—
Then drove the spear straight into its back.
The monster shrieked.
Blood spurted as the iron tip buried itself deep into flesh.
Loren held firm, twisting the weapon violently, ripping through muscle and bone. The beast convulsed, legs giving out beneath it.
A final shudder.
Then silence.
The fight was over.
Loren slowly pulled his spear free, panting. The adrenaline faded, leaving only the dull ache of bruises.
Tyr hovered nearby, staring in pure shock.
"You… you actually did it."
Loren wiped his spear clean. "What, no faith?"
Tyr pointed wildly at the corpse. "That thing was twice your size!"
"And now it’s dead," Loren said. "Which means I get paid."
Tyr gaped. "You are not normal."
Loren grinned.
"Never said I was."
By the time Loren returned to Calcrest, the adventurer’s guild was busy with the evening crowd.
He walked straight to the counter and dropped the Forest Beast’s severed claw in front of the receptionist.
She raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."
Loren rolled his shoulders. "Not much of a challenge."
She didn’t respond immediately, just stared at him for a moment before sighing and marking his completion.
"Here’s your reward," she said, sliding over a pouch of thirty gold coins.
Loren pocketed it.
The receptionist studied him a little longer before speaking again.
"Word of advice," she said.
Loren raised a brow. "Yeah?"
"You’re strong," she admitted. "Stronger than most Iron-Tiers who come through here."
Loren said nothing.
The receptionist leaned forward slightly. "That kind of strength gets noticed."
Loren smiled.
"Good."
Loren exited the adventurer’s guild with his pouch of gold clinking at his waist, the weight of his new earnings comforting. The cold night air brushed against his skin, carrying the scent of distant chimneys burning and the occasional aroma of street food from late-night vendors.
Tyr sat on his shoulder, still grumbling.
"I still don’t get it," she muttered. "That thing should have ripped you apart. Normal adventurers struggle with Forest Beasts, and you—what, just figured out its weakness instantly?"
Loren grinned. "It’s almost like I’ve done this before."
Tyr didn’t respond, but she didn’t argue either.
She was starting to realize it.
He wasn’t normal.
Loren turned a corner, heading toward the Boar’s Tusk Inn, looking forward to a real meal and a proper bed. But as he walked, he felt something.
A presence.
He wasn’t being followed—not directly. But someone was watching him.
Loren didn’t react.
Instead, he let his instincts guide him, eyes scanning the windows above the street, the shadowed alleys, the still-lit balconies of wealthier buildings.
Then, he saw him.
A man stood on the second-floor terrace of a well-kept stone manor, leaning against the railing with a glass of dark wine in hand. His attire was expensive—tailored navy and silver, the fabric clearly imported. His hair was black, slicked back, his sharp features unreadable as he watched Loren with quiet interest.
Loren didn’t look away.
The noble raised his glass slightly, as if in silent greeting.
Loren turned down the street and kept walking.
"That was weird," Tyr whispered.
"Yeah," Loren muttered.
But his gut told him this wasn’t the last time he’d see that man.
The inn was still lively, filled with adventurers swapping tales and half-drunken boasts over pints of ale. The brawl from earlier had been cleaned up, and aside from a few chairs looking worse for wear, no one seemed to care.
Loren found a quiet corner table, ordering a plate of roast lamb, bread, and a mug of ale with a portion of his newly earned gold.
Tyr, despite not needing food, stole a piece of his bread.
"So what’s the next move?" she asked, nibbling on the stolen crumb.
Loren swallowed a bite of lamb before answering. "Simple. I keep getting stronger."
Tyr sighed. "You say that like it’s easy."
"It is when you know what you’re doing."
Tyr gave him a long, exasperated stare. "...You really don’t know how to take things slow, do you?"
Loren smirked. "Not my style."
Tyr muttered something under her breath, but she didn’t argue further.
For now, Loren ate in peace, already planning his next steps.
He’d won his first real fight.
Now?
It was time to find something bigger.
Loren had just finished his meal when a young boy in fine servant’s attire approached his table. The kid looked nervous, clutching a sealed envelope in his hands.
"Sir," the boy said hesitantly, "this is for you."
Loren raised an eyebrow. "From who?"
The boy swallowed. "Lord Calderon requests your presence."
Tyr froze mid-bite.
Loren took the letter, turning it over in his hands. The seal was unbroken, pressed with the insignia of a noble family—the same noble family that owned half of Calcrest’s trade routes.
The same family that had connections to the royal court.
Loren cracked the seal and read the note inside.
"To the young adventurer who caught my eye,
I believe you are someone worth knowing.
Join me for a private conversation tomorrow evening.
Do not keep me waiting.
— Lord Calderon."
Loren’s eyes flicked back up to the young servant.
"Tell your master I’ll think about it."
The boy bowed and scurried off.
Tyr stared at him. "You’re gonna say no, right? Right?"
Loren grinned.
"We’ll see."
Tyr groaned. "I hate you."
Loren leaned back in his chair, tossing the letter onto the table.
Things were moving faster than expected.
Perfect.