The caravan rolled beneath Redcrest's gate, its arch of weathered stone towering above them. Guards leaned on spears at either side, steel half-plate gleaming faintly in the morning sun. One glanced over the wagons as they passed, expression unreadable beneath his helmet. Arin's eyes flicked to him out of habit. Level 15. Solid. The other beside him was lower—12—but sharp-eyed enough that he missed nothing.
The contrast hit him harder inside the walls. Life here didn't crawl—it surged. Smiths hammered iron in open stalls, sparks scattering across cobbled streets as apprentices rushed water buckets back and forth. A priest in white robes pressed a hand to a merchant's shoulder, muttering blessings, while children chased each other with sticks pretending to be swords. Their shrill laughter cut through the shouts of hawkers peddling spices and roasted meat.
Arin kept walking with the caravan, eyes moving without meaning to. A swordsman brushed past, blade swinging lightly at his hip, and the number over his head pulsed faintly. Level 11. A mage in violet robes strode across the square, staff clutched like a scepter, and though Arin's ability grasped something, the edges blurred, as if the man's power lay far above him. He looked away quickly, heart tightening in his chest.
Everyone here seemed to belong—to a craft, a duty, a profession. Even the lowest levels he glimpsed among the townsfolk had a rhythm to their lives, a sense of place. In Emberstead, Arin had only been passing through, a shadow in a village that never needed him. But Redcrest… this was different. This was a hub where the strong and the striving both walked side by side, and where survival wasn't just about being fed—it was about becoming more.
The wagons finally drew into a crowded square where merchants were already calling out orders, crates being unloaded, arguments breaking over coin and space. The caravan began to dissolve into the town's flow. Arin tightened his grip on his spear, taking it all in. Redcrest wasn't just another stop along the road.
It was the kind of place where lives could change.
The square thinned as wagons unloaded and their guards dispersed, the clamor of work giving way to the tide of Redcrest's daily life. Arin lingered only long enough to watch Darrin finish his accounts—coin for Roth and his men, sealed ledgers passed to merchants, the efficient conclusion of a journey. One by one, the faces Arin had traveled beside peeled away, swallowed by the streets.
He touched the shaft of his spear, grounding himself. His work here was done too.
"Adventurers' Guild," he asked a stablehand as he passed. The youth blinked, straw still clinging to his hair, then pointed down toward the southward streets.
"Follow Market Street. Big hall with the sign of a sword and quill crossed over a shield. Can't miss it."
Arin nodded his thanks and set off.
Redcrest unfolded as he walked. The streets were a patchwork of lives pressed close together: shopfronts opened wide to display racks of dyed cloth, baskets of grain, and jars of preserved fruit. Bakers leaned from their doorways, hawking sweetbread still steaming from their ovens. Tanners spread hides across drying racks, their sharp scents mixing with the warmer notes of stew wafting from homes nearby.
Between the shops stood tall, narrow houses with slanted roofs, their shutters painted in bright colors to catch the sun. Children darted between them, laughing as they wove around market-goers. A woman in a simple blue dress leaned from a second-story window to call her sons in for supper, her voice mingling with the cries of merchants below.
Here and there, adventurers passed among the crowd—steel gleaming at their belts, cloaks weathered from travel, their presence a living reminder of the world beyond the walls. Arin's eyes flicked across them, reading levels without effort now, storing away silent comparisons. Farmers and peddlers walked not far from his own strength; seasoned warriors and spellcasters loomed beyond his reach, their numbers weightier, their bearing sharper.
By the time the crowd thinned, he stood before the guild hall. Its frame rose broad and steady, built of thick timber and stone, sturdy as a fortress yet warmer than a garrison. Above the wide doors hung the carved emblem: a sword and quill crossed neatly over a broad shield—protection, record, and steel united in purpose.
The double doors stood open, spilling out the sound of life within: laughter sharp with drink, heated disputes over coin, the crisp shuffle of parchment, boots ringing against wooden floors.
Arin paused at the threshold. Then, with a breath to steady himself, he stepped inside.
The guild hall swallowed him whole.
Noise crashed over Arin the moment he stepped inside. A bard perched on a barrel plucked at a lute, his voice drowned by a dozen different shouts. Adventurers slammed mugs together in raucous toasts, dice clattered across a nearby table, and laughter rose sharp as steel. Somewhere in the haze of smoke and spilled ale, two men argued over a split reward while a third tried to pry them apart.
It wasn't a hall so much as a storm—chaos dressed in steel and cloaks. The smell of sweat, ale, and candlewax clung to the rafters, mingling with the faint sting of ink and parchment.
Adventurers filled the space in knots and clusters. Some lounged like lords, boots on tables, retelling battles with wide sweeps of their arms. Others brooded in corners, sharpening blades already honed to killing edges. Near the wall, a noticeboard sagged beneath parchment quests, adventurers jostling shoulders as they tore sheets free before another could snatch them.
Arin's eyes flicked instinctively, the glyphs of his perception shimmering. [Level 8], [Level 11], [Level 13]—flickers hovering over men and women in mismatched armor and robes. But when his gaze landed on a pair seated at the heart of the chaos, their levels blurred and vanished, veiled beyond his sight. He swallowed hard. Stronger than he could measure.
He pressed further inside, shoulders brushing past cloaks and spears, until he reached the counter. Behind it, clerks moved with startling order amidst the din—quills scratching, ledgers stacked high, parchment traded hand to hand.
When his turn came, a young woman greeted him with a smile touched more by duty than warmth. Her dark hair was tied neatly back, though ink stained her fingertips. "Welcome to the Redcrest Adventurers' Guild. Here to register, or to post a commission?"
"Register," Arin said. His voice sounded smaller against the roar of the hall.
She dipped her quill. "Name?"
"Arin."
"Age. Profession. Weapon of choice?"
His lips parted, hesitated on "profession." He settled for, "Spear."
Her quill scratched without pause. "Then, by guild statute, you begin at rank F. That means the lowest quests—safe enough, mostly errands and pest control. Work reliably, build reputation, and your rank will rise. Fail…" She paused just long enough to let the word hang. "…and your name will mark itself in our ledgers."
From beneath the counter she produced a small wooden token, its face carved with a sword and quill crossed over a shield—the guild's crest. She slid it toward him. "Your identification. Do not lose it. Replacement will cost coin and credibility."
Arin picked it up. It weighed almost nothing, but his fingers curled around it as if it might anchor him in this storm of strangers and steel.
"Any questions?" she asked, tone brisk but not unkind.
His gaze darted to the quest board, where men shoved past one another, parchment snapping like banners. "What kind of quests can F-rank take?"
Her smile was thin, pragmatic. "The kind that won't bury you before you learn. Herb gathering. Deliveries. Kobold nests, if you're lucky and foolish enough."
Arin nodded once, slipping the token into his palm. He had walked into a storm, but he would learn to stand in it.
Arin stepped away from the counter, guild token still warm in his hand. The noise pressed closer now that the clerk's calm voice no longer anchored him.
The quest board loomed like a scarred wall of opportunity. Parchments were nailed haphazardly, some smeared with ale, others curling at the edges from too many hands tearing them free. Adventurers jostled shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting over one another as hands darted for notices. One parchment tore clean in half between two men, who immediately squared off, voices rising in challenge. The bard's lute twanged in the background, swallowed by laughter, the scrape of chairs, the crash of a mug.
Arin eased his way closer, eyes drawn to the lower corner of the board where the simplest postings were clustered.
The first one he could make out read in thick, uneven strokes:
"Clear the sewers of rats. Minimum: five. Proof required—rat tails. Pay: five copper for the first five, plus one copper for each thereafter."
He lingered, imagining the dank tunnels, the squeal of vermin in the dark. It was straightforward, dirty work—precisely the kind of thing an F-rank was meant for.
Another notice, pinned beside it, bore neater script:
"Dusk-herb gathering. Ten bundles from the forest outskirts. Beware thorns. Pay: seven copper."
And a third, half-hidden under a mug stain, offered:
"Escort needed. Merchant cart from East Ward to Lower Market. Pay: ten copper. One day's work."
Arin stepped back slightly, weighing them, the press of bodies on every side reminding him he wasn't alone here.
"First time, eh?"
The voice came from a man leaning against the board, mug in hand. His armor was dented, his beard wild, and his grin too sharp. The glyph above his head read: [Level 12].
Arin hesitated, then gave a small nod.
The man chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him. "Don't worry. Everyone starts with rats. Or herbs. You'll curse it, swear it's beneath you, but if you survive long enough, you'll be glad for the coin." He tipped his mug back, then gestured lazily toward the upper parchments. "Those? Leave 'em. Seen too many greenhorns get chewed up thinking they could skip steps."
Arin managed a small, "Thanks."
The man barked a laugh. "Don't thank me. Just don't die. Makes the ale taste sour when the rookies start dropping."
He started to walk off, then paused, turning back with that same wolfish grin.
"Name's Garrick. If you last a few months, you'll probably see me around. Redcrest's not as big as it looks."
Without waiting for a reply, Garrick slipped into the crowd, swallowed by dice-shouts and bard-song.
Arin turned back to the board. His hand hovered near the sewer notice, the words echoing in his mind—five rats, tails as proof. Small beginnings, but beginnings all the same.
Arin lingered at the quest board longer than he needed to, his fingers brushing the edge of the rat notice. The ink smudged faintly under his touch, the parchment rough, worn from being replaced too many times. His hesitation wasn't about the task—it was about what came after. This choice was the beginning of his life as an adventurer, however small.
Finally, he tore the notice free.
The crowd didn't pay him any mind. Another adventurer immediately replaced the gap with a fresher posting, hammering it in with the hilt of a dagger before the ink even dried. The guild was a living, breathing beast that devoured parchment and coin in equal measure.
Clutching the notice, Arin pushed his way back to the counter. The same clerk from before raised her eyes, lips quirking slightly as if she'd expected this exact choice.
"First quest?" she asked.
Arin set the notice down. "Yes."
She pulled a ledger from beneath the counter and dipped her quill. "Name?"
"Arin."
Her quill scratched briskly across the page. "Quest accepted: Sewer Rats. Conditions: five minimum, tails as proof. Payment: five copper, plus one per tail after. Failure to return proof within three days results in forfeiture." She slid the ledger around for his signature.
Arin scrawled his name, feeling the weight of the page under his hand.
"Good." She stamped the notice with a seal and returned it to him. "Show this at the East Ward access point. The guards will let you through. And… a word of advice?"
Arin looked up.
Her expression softened, the professional mask slipping for just a moment. "Don't go too deep. The sewers sprawl. People have gotten lost down there before."
Arin tucked the parchment away, nodding. "I'll keep that in mind."
He turned from the counter, the guild noise swelling around him again. Somewhere behind him, Garrick's laugh rose above the chaos, mingling with the bard's drunken tune.
The quest was simple, yet it thrummed in Arin's chest with the weight of something more. His first step into the unknown.
He slid the paper into his pouch and turned to leave. The noise of the guildhall pressed in again—laughter sharp as steel, mugs clattering, a lute weaving frantic music over the din. He threaded his way through the crowd, but the words of a nearby table snagged his ear.
"Another dungeon blinked open north of the river," a man muttered, his armor scratched with battles Arin could only imagine. "They say the guild's already lost a party inside."
The table's laughter dimmed. A woman leaned forward, her voice low but carrying. "Keep that down. The greenhorns don't need to hear it."
Arin felt their eyes on him as he passed, the unspoken weight of what they hadn't said pressing at his back. He didn't turn, but the word clung to him like smoke. Dungeon.
He pushed out into the open street, the guild's rowdy chaos fading into the steadier pulse of Redcrest. Wagons rattled over cobblestones, apprentices shouted across stalls, the scent of baked bread mingled uneasily with the sharper tang of horse dung and sweat. The city lived, breathed, and carried on.
Arin made a short stop at a stall where a bored-looking boy sold odds and ends. He bought a rough canvas sack—big enough to carry proof of kills—and a small vial of oil to keep his spear's iron tip clean of rot. The copper felt heavy leaving his hand, but necessity outweighed thrift.
He carried on toward the east quarter. The buildings grew crooked, leaning against each other like weary drunks. Water stains streaked the walls, and the stink thickened until it coated the back of his throat. Guards lingered at street corners, their helms dull, their eyes sharper than their posture suggested.
[Level 8], [Level 9], one even [Level 10]. Arin's gaze flicked over them, quiet relief stealing in. He was not the weakest here, not anymore—but far from strong enough to be comfortable.
The farther he went, the thinner the crowd became. An old woman hurried past with her shawl pulled close, muttering about "filth walking the drains." A group of urchins sat on a half-toppled crate, daring each other to get close to the sewer gates. One boy whispered something that made the others laugh nervously: that the sewers sometimes led to places they shouldn't. Arin didn't ask what he meant.
At last, the grate appeared: rusted iron bars half-sunken into damp stone, a trickle of dark water spilling out and carrying the reek with it. A set of moss-slick steps dropped into the shadowed maw beyond.
Arin's fingers tightened on his spear shaft. The wood felt warm under his grip, solid.
This wasn't the clash of armies he'd witnessed. It wasn't bandits or kobolds in the trees. It was smaller, dirtier—rats in the dark, copper in hand. But still, it was the beginning.
He drew a breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped down into the stinking dark.
---
Interlude: The Sewers of Redcrest
Beneath the cobbled streets and bustling commerce of Redcrest lay an entirely different city—one carved of damp stone and iron pipes, where shadows clung to the dripping arches and the air carried the sharp tang of mildew and rot. The sewer system stretched like a labyrinth, built centuries ago when the town was little more than a fortified settlement. Over time, it had grown into a sprawling network of tunnels meant to carry waste and runoff to the river beyond the walls.
Yet neglect had left many passages in disrepair. Collapsed walkways and stagnant pools turned the underbelly of Redcrest into a haven for vermin, scavengers, and worse. Strange markings had begun to appear on some of the walls—chalk scrawls and crude runes that even the city guard dared not linger too long to interpret. Stories spread in hushed tones: of smugglers making use of hidden alcoves, of adventurers never returning after venturing too deep, and of creatures that did not belong in the world above.
For most of Redcrest, the sewers were a place best forgotten. For fledgling adventurers like Arin, however, they were the proving grounds where steel, wit, and will would be tested against the filth lurking in the dark.
---
Arin's Status Window
Name: Arin
Level: 6
HP: 25 / 25
MP: 10 / 10
Strength: 13 (Max: 76)
Endurance: 14 (Max: 83)
Agility: 12 (Max: 71)
Dexterity: 7 (Max: 68)
Intelligence: 9 (Max: 34)
Willpower: 8 (Max: 32)
Unallocated Points: 0
Ability: Level Perception
Current Equipment:
Armor: Worn Leather Cuirass
Shield: Small Wooden Shield
Weapon: Iron-Tipped Spear
Other: None