The city was different now.
For days, Noctis had kept to alleys, shadows, and moonlit streets, the sun biting at his skin like fire. Now he walked openly beneath the daylight. His new armor gleamed faintly under the cloak, the ice-etched sigils humming quietly, keeping the heat at bay. Not once did the sun's touch sting his flesh.
People stared as he passed. A traveler clad in sealed steel, a greatsword mounted on his back, was no ordinary sight. Some muttered about knights. Others whispered about mercenaries from far kingdoms. But none dared step in his way.
The streets parted for him, as if the city itself understood a predator walked among them.
He followed the sound of raised voices and clattering boots until the guild hall came into view.
The building stood tall on the square, its sign marked with two crossed swords. Doors wide open, voices pouring out, the air thick with smoke, drink, and the clamor of adventurers waiting for contracts.
Noctis stopped just short of the threshold. His eyes lingered on the crowd flowing in and out. Swordsmen with scuffed armor, hunters with fresh pelts, mages with scrolls tucked into belts, mercenaries with scars worn as currency. The guild was alive—loud, restless, hungry.
He could already taste the doctrines in the air: swordplay honed through endless brawls, spells fueled by half-learned rituals, instincts sharpened by surviving one hunt too many. Every drop of blood in this hall would deepen his Grid.
Noctis stepped forward.
The guild's main hall spread wide. Long tables lined the floor, their surfaces sticky with spilled ale. A bar ran the length of the left wall. On the right, noticeboards groaned under the weight of parchment contracts. At the far end stood the counter, where guild clerks sorted assignments and payments.
The noise was constant. A brawl in one corner, a dice game in another, laughter and curses colliding.
Noctis entered without hesitation. His armor whispered as he moved, heavy but precise. Heads turned—first out of curiosity, then wariness. Travelers came often, but few walked in cloaked, faceless, and armed with a blade longer than most men.
A group of adventurers near the door muttered under their breath.
"Look at that sword.""Must be foreign.""Or mad."
Noctis ignored them. His eyes swept the room once, cataloguing faces, weapons, movements. Prey. All of them.
He approached the counter, cloak falling back just enough to reveal the edge of his helm. The clerk looked up, startled, but steadied her voice quickly.
"Welcome, traveler," she said. "The Adventurer's Guild is open to all. Are you here to register, or to seek contracts?"
Noctis let the silence hang for a moment, then inclined his head slightly. "Both."
The clerk swallowed, quill hovering over parchment.
The hall behind him buzzed louder. Word of the new stranger had already begun to ripple through the crowd.
The clerk shifted uncomfortably behind the counter, quill trembling in her fingers. She glanced up at Noctis's sealed helm and the greatsword across his back.
"To register," she began, "I will need your name, where you hail from, and the skills you bring. Records are kept for all members of the guild."
Her voice steadied as she repeated the practiced script. "It is to ensure proper ranking, fair pay, and trust among your peers."
Noctis let the silence linger. The hall's noise dulled around him; adventurers leaned closer, listening.
At last, he answered. "Call me Noctis."
The clerk hesitated. "A family name?"
"Unnecessary." His tone left no room for more.
She dipped her quill, writing the name across parchment in tight script. "Very well. Then your place of origin?"
Noctis's eyes glowed faintly behind the visor. "Far from here."
The quill paused again. She swallowed, then scribbled quickly.
"And your skills?"
He reached up and drew the greatsword from his back. The blade hummed faintly as steel cleared leather. Gasps rippled through the hall as he placed it on the counter with a single hand, letting its weight ring against the wood.
The clerk blinked at the sheer size of it. "That… that requires two hands."
Noctis tightened his grip, lifted it, and angled the blade effortlessly above her head, stopping just shy of the rafters. Then he lowered it again, slow, controlled, with not the faintest strain.
A silence spread through the hall. Even the dice game in the corner stilled.
The clerk cleared her throat. "Strength… noted."
She hurried to finish. "Rank is determined by proof of skill. Contracts are tiered, and new members are often tested before their first assignment. Are you willing to undergo a trial?"
Noctis returned the greatsword to his back, his voice even. "If you require it."
Her hand trembled as she finished writing. "Then it will be arranged. For now, you are registered."
She lifted a wooden tag stamped with the guild's sigil—two crossed swords—and set it before him. "This identifies you as a member of the Adventurer's Guild. Keep it visible when claiming contracts or payments."
Noctis picked up the tag, turning it once in his gauntlet. The wood looked fragile in his hand. He slipped it into his cloak.
The guild hall had gone quiet. Dozens of eyes followed him as he stepped away from the counter. Some were calculating, some wary, others openly hostile. Adventurers measured strangers the way predators measure rivals.
Noctis could hear their whispers even through the clamor.
"Did you see how he held that sword?""Never heard of him before.""He's no simple mercenary."
He smiled beneath the helm, a faint curve hidden from their sight.
Noctis did not leave after taking the wooden tag. Instead, he found a place at the edge of the hall where the light fell thin and the noise swelled thick. He sat with the greatsword across his knees, helmet angled downward, watching.
Adventurers rarely noticed silence, but they always noticed strength. Men and women glanced at him between drinks, gauging him, whispering wagers over whether he would last a week.
Noctis studied them in turn.
At one table, two duelists sparred with wooden swords, parrying fast enough to draw claps from their peers. Their footwork was sharp, measured—blood ripe with counterattack doctrine.
At another, a trio of mages argued over spell theory, chalk symbols scrawled on parchment between mugs of ale. Their blood would thrum with unstable arcana, raw and ready for refinement.
Near the bar, a hulking mercenary wrestled two men at once, his forearms thick as timber. His essence would be endurance-heavy, crude but potent.
Every corner of the guild was a map of prey. Noctis let his senses absorb it all, each heartbeat another page to be read.
The clerk's voice cut through the din. "Traveler—Noctis."
Heads turned as she beckoned him back to the counter. At her side now stood a man in layered mail, his beard gray, his eyes sharp from long years of command. A badge marked him as a senior guild officer.
"This is Captain Deyric," the clerk explained. "He oversees probation trials."
Deyric sized Noctis up, gaze traveling from helm to sword. His mouth set in a thin line. "You want guild work? You prove you're worth more than the coin you'll take."
Noctis inclined his head slightly. "And what proof do you require?"
Deyric placed a sealed parchment on the counter. "Bandits have been harassing caravans two miles north. Small camp in the woods. Kill them or scatter them. Bring back proof, and you'll have your rank."
The hall reacted at once. Laughter from one corner. Groans from another.
"That's easy work," someone muttered."Unless he can't fight," another answered."Or unless those bandits are smarter than they look."
Deyric ignored them. His eyes remained fixed on Noctis. "You can go alone or take others. Your choice. Some like to prove themselves without help. Others prefer not to die."
Noctis rested one hand on the counter, fingers brushing the parchment. His voice carried steady through the helm.
"I will go alone."
The officer's brow furrowed, but he gave a curt nod. "Then go at dusk. Bring back what remains of their captain, and we'll speak of rank."
The parchment slid into Noctis's hand. The seal cracked under his grip.
Behind him, the whispers began again.
"He'll be bones by morning.""Or he'll clear the camp and take the captain's head.""Either way, I want to see it."
Noctis turned from the counter, cloak brushing the floor, sword heavy across his back.
The trial was set. The bandits would not live the night.
The guild hall still hummed behind him when Noctis stepped back into the street. Afternoon light blazed across the cobblestones, but his armor drank it in without sting or sear. The wards of ice etched into the plates kept him cool, even as the day sweltered.
He walked without hurry. The market bustled. Merchants called prices. Children darted between stalls. Yet everywhere he passed, people moved aside, as if instinct told them not to brush too close to the cloaked figure with the massive sword across his back.
The inn stood ahead, its sign creaking faintly in the wind. He pushed the door open.
Inside, the tavern still pulsed with noise. Adventurers who had seen him in the guild whispered at their tables, ale half-forgotten in their mugs. The young maid who had led him to his room before stood behind the counter. Her smile faltered when she recognized the sealed helm, then returned quickly in practiced politeness.
"Welcome back, sir," she said softly.
Noctis gave a small nod and moved past her without a word. He felt every stare follow him as he climbed the stairs to his room.
He closed the door behind him and set the greatsword against the wall. The room was dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, but thin shafts of light still pressed through the fabric. He unfastened the helm and set it on the table, the cool breath of the enchantments lingering against his skin.
From within his cloak, he pulled the trial parchment. He broke the seal and read the scrawled details again: a bandit camp two miles north, caravans raided, proof required—bring back the captain's head.
His lips curved faintly.
A test, he thought. Not of strength. Not of will. Of endurance.
The armor was perfect against the short bursts of light he had endured in the forge and on the streets. But a day's march in the sun, steel heavy on his shoulders, and battle fought without shadow—this would measure the truth of its worth.
If it failed, he would burn. If it held, he would walk as predator in daylight, no longer bound to the night.
Noctis folded the parchment and placed it on the table beside the helm. He lay back on the bed, cloak spread across the armor, and let his eyes close for a moment's rest.
The guild believed it had given him a trial. In truth, he had given one to himself.
Dusk would come soon enough, and with it, prey.
Dusk fell over Varath.
The city gates groaned open as late wagons hurried inside, merchants shouting to beat the curfew bell. Guards leaned against spears, their eyes weary after a day in the heat. None questioned the cloaked figure who strode past them with a greatsword on his back.
Noctis walked north.
The air was cooling now, shadows stretching long across the road. The sealed armor drank in the last of the sun's rays, holding the burn at bay. The ice-etched sigils along his chestplate pulsed faintly, keeping him cool inside the steel shell. Every step confirmed the craftsmanship—no seam gapped, no weight hindered him. The armor was not just cover. It was freedom.
The road bent west, where ruts showed the scars of wagon wheels. Noctis left it, stepping into the treeline.
The forest greeted him with the smell of pine and damp soil. Birds settled in the branches, their calls fading as night drew near. The underbrush rustled with small animals, but none dared linger in his path.
Noctis moved without sound, each step measured, each motion deliberate. The branches above thickened, blotting out the last streaks of orange light. Darkness gathered—and in darkness, he thrived.
By the time the moon rose, faint and silver, he had already found the signs.
Ashes clung to the wind. The faint stink of unwashed bodies and cheap ale drifted between the trees. Bootprints scarred the soil, circling where sentries had paced.
Noctis crouched, gloved hand brushing a print. Recent. Hours at most.
His eyes narrowed behind the helm. Close.
Through the trees, the glow of firelight pulsed faintly. Shadows moved around it—figures shifting, laughing, their voices rough and careless. Bandits, confident in their woods, unaware that a predator stalked them.
Noctis rose silently, cloak trailing over the leaves. He adjusted the greatsword on his back and began to close the distance.
The trial had begun.
The campfire burned low, a circle of orange light pressed against the darkness. Men's voices rose and fell around it—ragged laughter, sharp curses, the hollow thump of mugs against tin. Shadows wavered on the trees, their movements sloppy, uncoordinated.
Noctis crouched just beyond the glow, hidden in the lattice of branches. His cloak trailed across the damp earth, the sealed armor humming faintly with the cold runes etched into its steel. The night air was warm, yet inside the plates he was cool, steady, untouched.
He did not rush. Predators never did.
He circled wide, each step silent, testing the armor's balance in shadow and in light. A patch of moon broke through the canopy—he stepped into it, extended one arm. No burn. The enchantments held, even when silver met steel.
He shifted, moving closer to the faint orange edge of the campfire's light. The plates did not betray him. The armor caught no glare, no shine, as if it had been forged not only for battle but for silence. The blacksmith had exceeded himself.
Noctis adjusted the greatsword against his back and slipped further into the dark, circling the bandits from behind.
In the hush between laughter and curses, he began.
Wallbind Step. His foot shifted, subtle weight turning the trunk of an oak into an imagined wall. Space folded, the tree becoming his shield. He pivoted around it, silent. Even without combat, the doctrine bent the world toward him.
Shadow Volley. He lifted one hand, fingers curving as if drawing a bow. A thread of essence snapped from the Grid, forming a phantom arrow that split into three dark copies. He loosed them into the underbrush. The bolts struck a stump and sank without sound. Each had carried different weight: one serrated, one grooved, one sharp as a drill. His lips curved faintly beneath the helm. Effective.
Tempo Ledger. He tested rhythm. Step—pause—two steps—pause. His breath matched the beat. The world's noise bent with it. When he stopped, even the bandits' voices seemed half a beat behind, as if his cadence had become theirs.
Vector Cavalier. He bent his knees, shifted forward. His body moved at an angle, then corrected itself mid-step, geometry perfect. A thrust would have carried twice the impact from such a line. He imagined the captain's skull yielding to that vector.
Each doctrine whispered in his blood, eager for prey. He calmed them, then pressed on.
He reached the north side of the camp and crouched again. From here, the bandits were laid out clearly.
One sat with a sword across his lap, the blade dull, his posture careless. His parries would be slow, lazy.
Another leaned against a barrel with a round shield at his side. He tapped it with his boot in rhythm, as if even in rest he wanted something between himself and the world. Fear disguised as vigilance.
A third stood further back, bow strung, though his arrows leaned against the tree far out of reach. A watchman who had already failed.
Beyond them, half a dozen more slouched around the fire. Some gnawed at meat, others played dice. None held formation. None knew discipline.
Their blood was thin, but still useful. Each man a thread for the Grid to weave.
He saw him last.
A larger man seated on a stump, his back to the fire. A scar cut across his jawline. His armor was mismatched—steel plates scavenged from caravans, strapped over leather. His eyes were half-closed, but his hand never left the axe at his side.
This was the one the guild wanted dead. The "proof."
Noctis studied him longer. The man breathed evenly, his shoulders steady. A predator of a lower order, but a predator still. It would take only one command, one drink, to strip him of all his years.
Noctis's hand flexed against his thigh. Later.
He did not strike. Not yet.
He let them live a while longer, the sound of their laughter staining the night. He counted the guards' pacing, the careless rhythm of their steps. He noted how far the firelight reached, how quickly shadows folded into the trees.
Every detail was weighed, filed, remembered.
The Grid pulsed in his vision. Branches interlocked, doctrines overlapping. Sword met spear. Shield bent into tempo. Vector fused with range. Each doctrine offered an opening, a kill, a path into slaughter.
Noctis smiled faintly beneath the helm.
He settled back against the tree trunk, cloak pooling at his feet. His trial was simple: bring back the captain's head.
But for him, the trial was not about one man. It was about the armor, the doctrines, the Grid's hunger. It was about how long he could stand in light, how cleanly he could cut without shadow, how perfectly he could erase a camp from the map.
The guild wanted proof of survival.
He wanted proof of supremacy.
He lowered his head, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
Dawn would not find these men alive.