Chapter 93
Written by Bayzo Albion
Catching my reflection in the shop window, I saw a peculiar sight: a boy with twin knives at his belt and a skillet strapped to his back. I couldn't help but chuckle. *Now I'm ready for any battle—even the culinary kind.*
As I exited, a woman nudged her husband, whispering, "Look at that new adventurer. He's got a... frying pan on his back?"
The man shrugged. "Maybe it's the latest weapon trend. Fashion these days..."
I strode past with my head high, feigning deafness, but inwardly smirking. Let them speculate. As long as I could roast game and bash foes, their opinions meant nothing.
Fifty-five gold coins remained in my pouch.
I guarded them like a miser from legend—the kind who'd sooner parch than pay for water. Each coin wasn't mere metal; it was liberty. A year of breathing room. Time to thrive, not just scrape by; to grow instead of grovel.
And I didn't squander that year.
Every dawn began the same: slipping beyond the city walls into the forest's embrace, where paths twisted through gnarled roots and mossy undergrowth. There, I hunted those quirky, horned rabbits—vibrant furred pests that darted like shadows. Sometimes by hand in frantic chases, more often with snares, and now with my knives flashing in precise throws. These creatures became my mentors in survival, their meat fueling my body, their final squeals testing my resolve.
Midday brought the grind.
My frame was still slight, fragile, but I pushed it mercilessly. Hoisting boulders until my arms quivered like bowstrings, pulling myself up on low branches until palms blistered and bled. Muscles screamed in protest, but I ignored them, forging endurance from the fire of exhaustion.
When strength failed, I turned to magic by the campfire's glow. Tracing runes in the air repeatedly until they ignited unbidden, even with eyes shut. Simple spells—flickering lights, sparking embers, fragile shields—I drilled hundreds of times until they flowed instinctively. Some nights, I collapsed onto the damp earth, spent, sleeping under the stars. But dawn always found me rising, resuming the cycle.
My expenditures were deliberate: not extravagance, but investment. Restorative potions to mend overtaxed muscles and mana channels. Dusty tomes on magic—dense treatises and cramped scrolls that strained my eyes but unlocked secrets, turning feeble sparks into controlled spells, breath into energy mastery.
I wasn't flawless; cracks appeared. Days when fatigue shattered my will, muscles rebelling, mind whispering defeat: *Push harder, and you'll break.*
In those lows, I indulged—just enough. A tavern visit for juicy meat, spiced wine, hearty stew that warmed my core. Or a sauna soak, steam easing aches, washing away grime in luxurious quiet.
These were necessities, not whims—tempering the blade gradually, lest it snap.
I broke myself to rebuild: tougher, sharper, unrelenting.
This world devoured the weak, the complacent. I refused to be fodder.
I was honing myself into a predator.
When my time came, this realm would regret unleashing me from my cage.
A year passed.
I stood before a cracked mirror in a dingy inn room, scrutinizing the stranger staring back.
Muscles had hardened, shoulders broadened slightly, arms corded with newfound power. But height... a measly millimeter. One pathetic millimeter in a cursed year!
I clenched my jaw, slamming a fist into the mirror's frame—it whined in protest.
"Damn it!" I growled. "Should've gone for the self-cleaning clothes... or at least the self-repairing ones!"
I'd chosen "practicality" back then, the adaptive set that grew with me. Perfect for a kid, I'd thought. Smart.
In reality?
Weekly scrubs of shirts in murky rivers, patching tears from brutal workouts. Needles pricking fingers, filthy water soaking through—half my life reduced to laundry drudgery.
I recalled dismissing the silvery self-cleaning weave, the black indestructible garb as "luxuries." Now, regret burned like acid.
My "rationality" had backfired spectacularly.
Fate's irony: Planning for the long haul, I'd wasted the year on ragged pants and holey cloaks.
I sighed heavily, meeting my reflection's gaze. "Alright, Baltazar," I muttered. "Next time, think beyond tomorrow's bread. Consider the energy wasted on skimping."
The anger ebbed, leaving a etched lesson.
I glanced again: I looked older—not in stature, but in eyes shadowed and steely. No one would mistake me for a lost child now.
My hand dipped into my pocket, finding emptiness. The once-heavy pouch was gone—no coins, just a few coppers too meager for bread.
I grimaced. "Brilliant, Baltazar. A year of bruises, sweat, and toil... straight to broke."
Dreams of power meant nothing without funds; I'd be prey again.
I inhaled deeply, straightening, adjusting my knives' hilts.
"Fine. Back to the guild. Time for quests—any quests."
The world wouldn't hand me scraps. I'd seize my share.
With that resolve, I headed out.
For the first time, I summoned the system window—it flared with familiar glyphs.
Stats:
Name: Baltazar
Level: 0
Strength: 3
Agility: 5
Endurance: 2
Constitution: 5
Magic: 5
Will: 10
Soul: 10
I stared at the numbers, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips.
So, I'd been wrong. Training did count—blood, sweat, perseverance fueling growth, not just kills and experience.
I clenched my fist, grinning at the mirror. "Well then... it wasn't all for nothing."
– – –
Exactly one year later, I stepped across the threshold of the Adventurers' Guild once more.
Nothing had changed.
The same battered wooden counter stood sentinel at the far end of the room, scarred from countless dealings and disputes. The same soot-streaked lanterns hung from the rafters, casting flickering shadows that danced like restless spirits across the rough-hewn walls. The faces were familiar too—some etched with exhaustion from endless quests, others brazen and cocky, and a few already half-lost to the haze of cheap ale and despair. Even the air felt unchanged: thick and heavy, like a stew brewed from dust, stale tobacco smoke, and the sour tang of unwashed bodies mingled with the faint metallic scent of blood from old wounds.
And, of course, there she was.
The receptionist. The very same one who'd eyed me a year ago with that mix of contempt and pity, as if I were a stray dog who'd wandered into the wrong alley, begging for scraps.
But before I could even approach the counter, the hall stirred to life around me.
"Look who it is—our little hero!" bellowed a burly, bearded man from the nearest table, his laughter booming like thunder. "The one who bolted from the bathhouse like a scared maiden at the sight of a few bare ladies!"
"Ha-ha-ha!" The chorus erupted from the others, their voices overlapping in a raucous wave. "Word is, he still jumps at the shadow of a woman, like they're breathing fire!"
The laughter spread through the room like wildfire through dry grass, igniting snickers and guffaws from every corner. Someone caught sight of my back and jabbed a finger in my direction.
"Get a load of this! He's still got that frying pan slung over his shoulder! An enchanted frying pan, no less! Planning to cook the monsters while they're still kicking?!"
The hilarity drowned out the clink of mugs and the scrape of chairs. A group of young adventurers nearby started mimicking me, swinging imaginary pans in exaggerated duels, parrying invisible blows with theatrical flair.
I paused in the middle of the hall, feeling a knot twist in my gut—a sharp blend of anger, humiliation, and the raw urge to crack a skull or two just to shut them up.
But I kept walking, ignoring the jeers and jests as if they were nothing more than the distant bark of street dogs. Let them have their fun. I didn't owe them a reaction.
I reached the counter, and her lips curled into that all-too-familiar sardonic smirk.
"Run out of coin already?" Her voice dripped with honeyed venom, sweet on the surface but sharp enough to cut. "Or just tired of playing the noble idler?"
Her eyes raked over my attire—patched in places, worn thin from constant use. She arched an eyebrow and let out a derisive snort.
"Strutting around in rags just to pinch every last copper? I'll bet you've got one lonely gold piece tucked away like a holy relic."
"It's enchanted gear," I corrected her evenly, my tone steady despite the heat rising in my chest.
"Oh, enchanted, is it?" she mocked, rolling her eyes. "What's the point? You wear the same damn outfit day in and day out until it reeks so bad the beasts in the wild drop dead from the stench. And when it gets filthy, do you strip down and parade around naked again? Like last time?" Her gaze sparkled with wicked amusement. "You hate honest work so much you'd rather starve and hide than take a proper quest?"
I held her stare and said nothing. This time, I wouldn't rise to the bait or offer excuses.
She leaned in closer, her eyes igniting with a frigid intensity that sent a chill down my spine.
"Listen up, kid. This guild isn't a charity house or a nursery. No one survives here on handouts. You either break... or you become something more."
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms with a finality that brooked no argument.
I remained silent, but inside, a storm brewed: fury, excitement, impatience. And buried deep beneath it all, an odd sense of anticipation, as if these were the exact words I'd been waiting to hear all along.
"Yeah, yeah, I know how grueling it must be, picking daisies and leaves in a sun-drenched meadow," I finally replied, my voice laced with weary sarcasm. The words dripped out slowly, like molasses from a blade, and for a brief moment, the din in the hall quieted, heads turning subtly in our direction.
She narrowed her eyes, holding my gaze as if weighing whether I was mocking her outright or hiding some deeper truth between the lines.
"Whatever," she said at last, her lips twisting into a lazy grin. "Welcome back, anyway. Gonna grab the craziest quest on the board and pull off another miracle, like always?"