“People who get to level forty, they break the world. That’s just a fact. The of Summer’s Elixir has enraptured hundreds of thousands of minds, become a fixture in dozens of stories, and inspired numerous folk to gallantly get themselves crippled or killed in search of it. The Mad Zarconius has sparked more than a century of warfare, bloodlusting warlords and conquerors trying to grasp even part of his legend. The Vainen’s immense body of work redefined how records are written and kept. I could go on. In essence, the powerful are defined not just by their levels, but by what they leave behind. I worry that, despite everything, I have left only suffering.”

Sodoriant,

The day that the slayers of the Storm Eater Mage arrived in Brosiad was a cold one. Fierce winds cut through the Plains, billowing down from the north and assaulting the mid-eastern and eastern metropolises. Brosiad’s walls were worn, old things, each brick a small, resilient guardian against the ever-trying elements.

The bulk of the people within were in many ways like any other Esultaran city’s inhabitants: hard working, wearied by the demands of the Throne, fearful of shifting change many spied on the horizon, seeking simple laws and simple solutions. Clothes were worn and patched, pockets shallow, faces gaunter than normal. The inhabitants of the city were a strife-besotted lot, with desperation ever closer to everyone’s doorsteps.

As the workday progressed, a small, starved-looking homeless man, eyes sunken, hair matted, panhandled from the mouth of an alleyway, having little possessions to his name save for a set of clothes, a half-empty flask of water, a ratty blanket, and a small tin bowl he used to collect any copper coins passersby could spare, which were few in number.

The man was quiet, his voice hoarse, underwatered. So when the man in dark clothes approached his miserable place among garbage and rats, and offered him a heavy bronze flask, he drank greedily from the flask, disregarding the water’s strange taste and odor, and pocketed it warily, knowing it was worth weeks of what he could scrounge up. The man in dark clothing spoke in hushed tones, saying he was a miracle-worker. The homeless man, having supped of the other man’s water and taken his flask, thought that he might as well humor such a well-dressed person, for entertainment and potential further gifts if nothing else.

The miracle worker claimed to be blessed by the Heavens, and as evidence conjured from nothing a golden crown, which he placed upon the destitute man’s head. Overjoyed at the mad fortune, the man whipped the crown off his head, spluttering and exclaiming his overwhelming gratitude.

Then he leveled six times.

The newly rich man’s Class advanced, and the miracle worker, there just a moment before, smiled and was gone.

Level 20 granted!

Class advanced!

🠊 Level 20!

Talent — granted!

Talent — granted!

Talent — granted!

Talent — granted!

Talent — granted!

Talent — granted!