The morning sky over Ardentia was the color of molten gold.
Sunlight poured through the guild's stone arches, gilding the dust that hung in the air. The scent of oiled leather, steel, and wild grass wrapped around me like smoke as I stepped into the open arena.
I wasn't alone.
Dozens of recruits gathered in uneven lines, all nervous energy and restless hands gripping weapons too new for their calloused palms. Some whispered prayers to gods they probably didn't believe in. Others tried to look fearless, their laughter a touch too loud.
I had seen all of this before — this field, this quest — but only as a player, staring through a glowing screen.
Now, every heartbeat felt too loud.
Every breath, too real.
A man with shoulders like a fortress and a voice like thunder stood before us, his armor blackened from old battles.
"I am Instructor Garran. You're here for your Baptism — to prove your worth before the Goddess of Strife." His words carried across the arena with heavy authority. "You'll face weak beasts. Kill one, and the essence you claim will awaken your soul's Path."
He paced slowly, his eyes scanning us one by one.
"Remember this — the moment you strike, the world will strike back. Pain, fear, and mana—they're all part of it. Embrace them, or die learning why you should have."
Someone beside me muttered, "Charming fellow."
I glanced over — a boy around my age, wiry, with reddish hair and a grin that bordered on reckless.
"Name's Renn," he whispered. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Maybe I have," I murmured, still watching the beasts pacing in the holding cages beyond the fences. Goblins. Fanged wolves. Their eyes gleamed like coals.
"BEGIN!" Garran's shout shattered the quiet.
The gates opened, and chaos erupted.
Steel flashed. Cries filled the air. One recruit screamed as a goblin lunged for his throat; another fired a bolt of light from her staff, sending the creature sprawling.
My body moved before I could think — sword drawn, feet sliding across packed dirt. A Horned Cub snarled and charged. I waited, heart steady, then sidestepped and slashed across its neck. The blade bit deep.
The creature dissolved into silver mist.
And then I felt it — like a spark bursting open in my chest.
[System Notice]
You have slain a Horned Cub.
You have absorbed 12 Mana Essences.
The Goddess acknowledges your courage.
Choose your Path.
A wave of warmth rippled through my body. A faint glow unfurled from my hands, and before me, a translucent sigil appeared — a branching tree made of light.
I exhaled shakily, whispering, "So it's real…"
The glowing text shimmered as I read:
[Available Class Paths]
— Warrior
— Ranger
— Mage
— Spear
— Assassin
— Priest
— Blacksmith
— Synthesizer
Each sigil pulsed faintly, humming with power. I could feel them calling — like threads tugging at my soul, each one promising strength, purpose, and danger.
In the game, I'd always gone for combat paths — easier, faster, more exciting. But here, that same logic felt hollow.
If I die, I die for real.
My eyes lingered on one icon glowing softer than the rest — the Synthesizer Path.
It wasn't the strongest or the flashiest. But it was the one that built. Created. Controlled.
In the old game, it was a class players mocked — a crafter's life, not a hero's.
But I knew better.
Crafting in Elarion wasn't just hammering metals — it was weaving essence. Understanding the language of creation itself.
And maybe… it was the only path that would let me shape my own fate in this world.
I whispered, "I choose the Synthesizer Path."
Light flared — brilliant and blinding.
My vision filled with white fire as energy flooded through my veins. My skin tingled. Runes etched themselves into my wrists, crawling like silver veins that pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat.
[You have awakened the Synthesizer Path.]
Skill Unlocked: Material Sense — Perceive and analyze the essence of materials and lifeforms nearby.
The warmth of it spread from my chest to my fingertips. I could feel everything around me — the metallic tang of weapons, the faint thrum of magic within the stones, even the lingering mana from fallen beasts.
It was overwhelming. Beautiful. Terrifying.
Renn, panting, stumbled over. His shirt was torn, blood streaked down his arm, but he grinned anyway. "You— you picked crafting?"
"Something like that," I said, flexing my fingers as the glow faded.
"Why? You don't get glory from that."
"No," I murmured. "But I get power. Real power."
He laughed, shaking his head. "You're strange, Aiden."
"So I've been told."
By the time the battle ended, the arena smelled of sweat, dust, and mana smoke. Garran strode through the field, his boots crunching over dried dirt.
He stopped beside me, eyes narrowing. "You fought like you knew what would happen before it did."
I shrugged. "Lucky guess."
He snorted. "Silver potential, at least. Keep that head of yours sharp — this world chews up fools."
And with that, he walked on.
I stood there a moment longer, the hum of magic still alive beneath my skin.
Above, the sky had turned a shade of burning amber, and I swore the world itself was breathing with me.
If this really is Elarion, I thought, then maybe… this time, I won't just play the story.
I'll rewrite it.