In the midst of the bustling crowd, a nimble hand slipped into an unsuspecting pocket. Its owner, a young lad with restless eyes and a practiced calm, was named Sol — a boy with no home, no family, and no city to call his own. He drifted from place to place, always moving, always watching. Pickpocketing wasn't merely a habit for him — it was survival, and perhaps the closest thing he had to a craft.
Today, year Celestium 1001, day 42, was his thirteenth birthday. Most boys his age might have been playing in the streets or chasing dreams of knighthood, but Sol was different. By now, he was already considered a master thief, though no one truly knew his face. He had no wanted poster, no bounty — just whispers. His agile frame and deceptively slender build masked a strength that could rival knights said to shatter boulders.
Scene jump.
In the guardhouse of a distant town, officers gathered around a worn oak table.
"We've had several reports of theft this week," one said grimly. "We believe it's the work of the 'Snake Thief.'"
Their captain arrived late, his boots thudding against the wooden floor. The room fell silent as the officer repeated the news. The captain's expression soured, his sigh heavy with both frustration and resignation.
"These are the best minds we have," he muttered to himself, then turned and left without another word. The guards sat in disbelief — even their captain had given up on catching the boy.
Scene change.
By the time the guards had finished their meeting, Sol was already in another city. Another mark. Another pocket lightened. He worked fast, never lingering long enough to leave a trail.
In a narrow alley, a short walk from his latest crime, Sol sat cross-legged on an upturned crate, chewing grilled meat and washing it down with a cola. Once finished, he vanished again, leaving not a crumb or a print behind. His next destination: the Grimwillow Forest.
The forest was a dangerous expanse of shadow and moonlight, home to Moon Foxes, White Wolves, Goblins, and worse. But Sol was here for one reason — to complete a quest to cull a band of goblins. His low-tier gear [Worn Mantle, Unidentified Katana, Old Mage Hat] served as a disguise, hiding the real extent of his abilities. His stats read: [Str 25, Agi 49, Int 38, Con 39, Vit 29] — numbers that placed him far above most commoners.
Had he been sponsored by the Holy Church, he could have advanced beyond the Thief's first class into the feared ranks of the Assassin. But the Church's gates were locked behind gold and influence, both of which Sol lacked. Under the new Pope's reign, corruption spread like rot, and the poor remained chained by the rules of the rich.
Grimwillow Forest, goblin territory.
The stench of damp earth and rot clung to the air. Sol crouched in the underbrush, watching. Most of the goblins were asleep, save for a few drowsy sentries at the threshold of their den. Without hesitation, he devised a plan — swift, silent, and merciless.
Moments later, steel whispered through the dark. By the time the first sentry fell, the rest of the camp was already in chaos. Sol's blade danced through the shadows, and in minutes the horde lay scattered and lifeless.
But he didn't stop there.
Slipping deeper into the den, he found a crude prison — wooden bars lashed with rope, inside which several women and children huddled, their eyes wide with fear. Rage flared in his chest, but he kept his composure. The remaining goblins would die by his hand, but he couldn't afford reckless mistakes.
At the end of the tunnel, he reached a heavy door. From within came a woman's desperate scream. Sol burst inside.
A hulking goblin general loomed over a struggling woman, its clawed hands gripping her arm. Sol moved without a word. His katana carved a deep line across the monster's back.
The goblin roared, spinning around in fury. "Who dares—?" it snarled, but the boy was already beside the woman, wrapping her in his rugged cloak.
The goblin general staggered, clutching at the wound carved into its back. Its yellow eyes darted around, searching for the attacker. Not realizing the woman was already gone, it glanced back toward the spot she had been — only to find empty air. A snarl twisted into a roar, and the beast flew into a frenzy, smashing its claws against the stone walls.
Outside the room, Sol guided the trembling woman to a safer corner of the den, his cloak still wrapped around her. "Stay here," he murmured, voice low but steady. Without hesitation, he turned back toward the fight.
When he reentered the chamber, the goblin was thrashing about, blind with rage. Sol kept low, circling quietly, waiting. Patience. Timing. Then he saw it — an opening.
In a flash, he closed the distance. His katana plunged deep into the thick hide at the base of the monster's neck, piercing through sinew and bone. The goblin stiffened, its roar cutting short, and collapsed lifeless to the ground.
Silence settled over the den.
Sol wasted no time. Methodically, he swept through the warren, cutting down any stragglers and clearing the last traces of danger. Outside, he gathered the rescued women and children, offering what comfort he could before leading them out of the dark forest.
They walked for hours until the city's gates came into view. A lone guard leaned against the wall, a half-burned cigarette between his lips. He yawned, barely glancing at the approaching group — until recognition hit him like a slap. His eyes went wide.
The missing women and children. Safe. Alive.