On a cemetery hill stood an obelisk gravestone.

Very recently the marble had been polished and cleaned of bird droppings. It was unmarked, and Sorath often imagined Mother’s name engraved in silver letters, as though this were her grave. She would like it here, right next to the town keep, looking over wealthier, cleaner neighborhoods and patchwork farmlands beyond the curved walls. Today, he noted that the obelisk was slightly off-center with space for a partner, but did Father deserve an obelisk?

Possibly.

A rough stone slab if nothing else.

As a cold drizzle fell, Sorath threw up his hood, then plucked a smoke from his pouch. His index finger rubbed against a red mark on its wrapper, fire mana sparking twice. He drew in a deep breath. His tongue tingled in the magical influx, and hot vanilla and sawdust aromas filled his lungs. Among falling droplets, words in a bright indigo script were written for his eyes only.

Buff Activated: Low-Quality Vitaleaf Cheroot (+2 Vitality, 29 minutes remaining)

Don’t smoke too many of these in one day. You know what will happen. Your mother taught you well.

One at a time, letters faded as quickly as he read. A half-hearted smirk pulled his lips up toward a stubborn old cut scar under his left ear. Seldom the gods liked to write their opinions, more often insulting than helpful, but these divine writings never lied, and only fools did not heed their warnings.

Drawing another breath, he knew the buff’s minutes remaining refreshed and that his lungs were more tar-filled. He didn’t care; no one did. Healer fees were getting marginally cheaper each year, on average, and full lung regrowths may be affordable to even the average Cyesten farmer in a decade or two. If one were optimistic.

Sorath’s optimism was nearing its limit.

Today, however, was fortuitous—because a familiar mountainous texture of earthen magic noisy with concern and curiosity rose up the steps. Chainmail clinked. Rubber soles squeaked on wet cobblestone.

Guard Captain Madrog offered a parasol’s cover. “I thought I’d find you here,” he said warmly, and then added as a verbalized thought, always at this time of day during a bad mood.

“The sun shines on the keep’s mosaic at just the right angle.”

“Ah, I never noticed. I’ll have to come again when the weather brightens, but I don’t have much free time these days.” He was honest. And slightly apprehensive, leaving out something he wanted to say or ask. A dangerous job, perhaps not one suitable for a young adult. Still, he was here.

Sorath asked, “Another prisoner you want me to observe?”

“Yes… and no.” His mana didn’t churn with dishonesty, and he wasn’t a good liar.

“What does that mean?”

Madrog exhaled. “It means you could help, but the Guard Office is currently short on work.”

Fair enough. Sorath wasn’t one to take another man’s job; that only meant better jobs were out there waiting. He joked, “Then do you want a smoke?”

“No, thank you.” His lips pursed in suppressed amusement. “I’m wondering about you. Your plans. I heard you visited the Royal Guard Office yesterday and asked for the King’s bounty lists.” Concern worsened into genuine worry. A father’s worry… although not exactly the same.

Sorath mumbled at the obelisk, “So what if I did?”

“It’s dangerous out there. There aren’t any faction laws.”

“I know.”

“There are roaming beasts, open-world dungeons, infestations—”

“I know.” This was Tutorial School stuff.

Splashing rain on the parasol muted Madrog’s sigh. “You’re taking a needless risk. Stay a while and train.” And join the Town Guards.

This again. “You know I know what your pay is.”

“What is my pay?” he toyed.

“Nine-hundred and fifty-two gold a week before tribute, and that’s you, the Guard Captain of a large town. I’d get around four-fifty as a recruit, maybe a little extra for my talents—if I make an appeal to the King’s court and if they accept.”

“That’s still enough to get by for a while.” He meant to say for the rest of time itself.

After a moment, Sorath’s head shook. “Training is what school’s for. I told you I’m closing in on the level cap. All I need is better equipment and skill gems, and for that, I need gold.”

“What level are you?”

Sorath didn’t answer, and he didn’t have to. Unlike theirs, the jelly between his head was always private.

Madrog pressed on, “Sorath, I have a couple of vacant rooms. You can have one, free for the first few weeks. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like you want me to be your personal guard dog.”

He was less wounded than amused. He couldn’t refute it, though he tried: “Do I look like I need a personal guard? And this is a safe town. You know we have little trouble.”

Little trouble was a murder every few months, but for three hundred thousand people, this was heaven compared to the lawless wild. Out there, anything went. Murder, thievery, torture, all forms of evil went unchecked. Perpetual chaos, survival of the fittest. Beasts of men.

Sorath inwardly shrugged. “When I was a little boy, murder was unheard of.”

“We were a village back then. It’s only natural as more people—”

“I’m not going to rent your room, Captain.” Sorath looked him in the eye. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve made my choice. Once I get a copy of those lists, I’m going out there, and I’m going to bring back someone’s head by the end of the month. This isn’t the last you’ll see of me. You have my word.”

Under Madrog’s bald dome, inner conflict was short lived, disappointment winning. A sigh whistled through his nose. “Alright, alright. You’re stubborn just like your father. But if you need anything, my front door is always unlocked to you. Here, take this.” He held out his parasol.

“Thank you.” Sorath wasn’t so prideful that he rejected charity.

“Best of luck.” He smiled and turned on his heel, retrieving a spare parasol from his pouch. Of course he had a spare.

Inhaling vitaleaf smoke, Sorath headed off (in the opposite direction) before the rain worsened. By the look of dark-gray clouds blowing in from the east, it was going to be a downpour tonight with Water Elementals roaming parks and streets. Lots of violent fun. A chance of loot gems. Maybe staying an extra night wasn’t unwise. The adobe was still his for two more days before the auction.

On the way to the Royal Guard Office through Corel Park, he for once checked his soul attributes, focusing mana at his heart and invoking in the divine language, “Unveil.” Indigo boxes were drawn with interactive labels and buttons that he could mentally press for extra details. The layout was customizable, and it could be kept visible to his eyes indefinitely. The gods were thoughtful, he gave them that.

First, he glanced over his main attributes, importantly his experience counter. This was him in a nutshell, minus his life story.

Sorath Adanell

Race: Human

Gender: Male

Level: 41

Class: Psionic Hexblade

Professions: Blacksmith, Tailor, Chef

Faction: Cyesten

Health: 4,600 (21 regenerated per minute)

Mana: 5,200 (250 regenerated per minute)

Stamina: 9,900 (475 regenerated per minute)

Strength: 55 + 8 (63 total)

Dexterity: 94 + 5 (99 total)

Vitality: 28 + 16 + 2 (46 total)

Intelligence: 96

Wisdom: 52

Endurance: 48

Affinities: Maximum Psionic, Low Darkness

There was a reason why Sorath hated looking at these numbers. They were proof that life was inherently unfair—as intended by the gods. His pathetic Vitality and mediocre Strength and Endurance was their design for his soul. Thank you very much.

At least the wrinkled jelly in his head was alright, but out of all six stat attributes, Intelligence, even more so than Vitality, was nigh-impossible and expensive to train.

As for Wisdom? One could raise that stat by traveling the world, meeting people of different walks of life, and, of course, reading books written by old wise cracks. If only they wrote just one book on psionics.

His affinity—maximum psionic.

To this day, Sorath still wasn’t sure what the meant. At first, he and everyone had assumed it was to do with mind magics—Telepathy and such. But then he had naturally developed Telekinesis. His Psionic Slash active skill was akin to a crescent wave of solid lightning.

Some of his teachers had said psionics was mystical magic not meant to be understood. A few wiser, older gentlemen had deduced it was power over all magical energies, including the energy of life and thought. Others guessed it was to do with the stars and heavens above. Sorath wanted to think it was power over reality itself, bending existence to one’s will simply by thinking; so far, this wasn’t exactly wrong… because that was the definition of magic itself.

Head shaking, Sorath tore his eyes away from his affinities, then focused on his level. The line of text expanded.

Level: 41 (12,103/205,000 EXP)

He instantly truncated the line. Damn, I’m still less than ten percent to level 42. Weeks away.

And as a Hexblade, he wasn't able to burn down hundreds of overgrown bugs in a single fell swoop either. Maybe he should've chosen Mage instead. Too late now.

Hexblade was the base class. Similar with Mages, Psionic was its affinity (or elemental) modifier, making for a dark-psionic melee debuffer-DPS hybrid. Not too dark. Low-darkness was the official term, and, thankfully, these classes weren’t outlawed in Cyesten.

But the stigma was a burden.

It had been a bit of a shock to learn he was of darkness affinity during his first day at the School of Adventure and Crafting. Mother and Father had thought it was a good idea to keep him in the dark about that—mostly Mother’s idea. She had been protective like a tigress over its only cub. He held no grudges. He would’ve done the same in her boots.

Moving on, he checked his equipment durabilities.

Active Equipment Slots

Head: Unavailable

Torso: Normal-Quality Leather Jerkin (3 Vit, 89/100 Dura)

Legs: Normal-Quality Leather Pants (3 Vit, 86/100 Dura)

Feet: Normal-Quality Leather Boots (2 Vit, 62/100 Dura)

Hands: Normal-Quality Wool Gloves (1 Vit, 52/100 Dura)

Cloak: High-Quality Hooded Silk Cloak (6 Vit, 75/100 Dura)

Belt: Low-Quality Steel-Studded Leather Belt (1 Vit, 82/100 Dura)

Necklace: Empty

Right-hand Ring: Empty

Left-hand Ring: Empty

Main-hand Weapon: High-Quality Steel Shortsword (1762 Attack Damage, 6 Str, 3 Dex, 91/100 Dura)

Off-hand Weapon: Normal-Quality Steel Dagger (1130 Attack Damage, 2 Str, 2 Dex, 97/100 Dura)

Always with boots and gloves taking the most wear and tear, which was going to change soon. His prized silk cloak wasn’t going to last a month out there. Hopefully more than a week. Thank the gods leather, rubber, and wool didn’t feel pain.

Stepping onto cobblestone, ignoring cautious glances from his fellow townsfolk, he blotted out their thoughts and emotions, They knew well their worst secrets were not so secret near him, and many chose to bubble themselves as he strode past. He didn’t blame them.

He checked his list of class skills to avoid eye contact.

[Active] Backstab (Beginner 6)

[Active, Hex] Multi-Hex Strike (Intermediate 3)

[Active, Hex] Fragility (Intermediate 1)

[Active, Hex] Frailty (Beginner 9)

[Active, Hex, Psionic] Temporal Lethargy (Beginner 6)

[Active, Psionic] Psionic Slash (Beginner 8)

[Active, Psionic] Telekinesis (Intermediate 2)

[Passive, Psionic] Telepathy (Intermediate 7)

Even though there were only eight entires, he liked to group skills based on their type: psionic and hex. Backstab was a generic instantaneous movement ability that most Dex classes could learn. And so far, Temporal Lethargy was his favorite, both psionic and hex in nature; none had seen this one in action yet, apart from a few unlucky deer and elementals.

Sorath dismissed the interface and walked faster.

The Royal Guard Office was a modest two-story granite cube with a flat roof—an eyesore compared to neighboring arched roofs and ornately carved support columns and gutters. They had claimed it was temporary fourteen years ago when it had been built. To this day, they hadn’t made improvements.

Sorath stepped through the open front door into the tiny lobby, sniffing a hint of minty spice.

Immediately, the man sitting behind the front desk handed over a thin binder. “Your requested bounty lists.”

“My appreciation.” Sorath nodded and carried it out, skimming through pages filled with tattooed, scarred, or deformed faces. Some faces had all three niceties. Names, levels, classes, and brief descriptions of their abilities and crimes were scrawled in messy handwriting.

On the third page, the second face was that of an adult Cardon. The same Cardon Theron whom Sorath hadn’t seen since before Tutorial School. Since that disastrous seventh birthday party.

Pavel’s son.

Level 36 Rogue. Last seen near West-Greenwood Farms near the main road bridge. Wanted for attempted murder, multiple assaults, tribute evasion, and incitement of regicide. Alive or dead. 12500G reward.

No surprise this was the end result of having a lying mother, a lying father, and a pretend-father. They had long moved out of town, but rumors and exaggerated echoes of rumors had stirred, mostly unbelievable, but perhaps not so much. There was always a root of truth.

There was one place in town where the gossipers dined every night: Torrel’s Restaurant.