Asher slung the dire wolf pelt over his shoulder and trudged out of the Whispering Woods, the dense forest that hugged the eastern edge of the Kingdom of Eldoria. Eldoria was a sprawling realm of rolling hills, fortified cities, and untamed wilds, ruled by King Harlan from his stone throne in the capital, Rivermark. But out here in the borderlands, near the town of Oakridge, the king's laws felt distant. The woods were a law unto themselves—twisted paths riddled with beasts, bandits, and forgotten ruins from ancient wars. Asher knew them like the veins on his hands; the irregular terrain, with its rocky outcrops and vine-choked trees, was perfect for ambushes and escapes. It had honed his agility over years of solo hunts.
As he emerged onto the dirt road leading to Oakridge, the sun dipped low, casting long shadows. Oakridge was a rough outpost, built around timber mills and trading posts, where folks scraped by on pelts, herbs, and the occasional ore haul from nearby hills. No grand castles here—just wooden walls to keep out the nightly prowlers. Asher's stomach growled; he'd need to sell the pelt quick and grab a meal before checking that wyrm rumor.
His mind wandered to his soul ledger as he walked. Everyone in Eldoria—and beyond, from what travelers said—had one. It wasn't some divine system; it was just part of being alive, a inner record that reflected your body's limits and talents. You didn't "level up" like in fairy tales. Strength came from raw effort: lifting logs to build muscle, running trails to sharpen agility, enduring wounds to toughen endurance. Vitality mended with rest and food, but pushing limits made it grow. Mana? That was trickier, tied to the spirit, boosted by meditation or rare rituals.
Skills were the same—no shortcuts. You earned them through practice. Asher's marksmanship had started at nothing when he first picked up a bow as a kid. Endless shots at targets, then live hunts, pushed it to 45%. Hit 100%, and something magical happened: the skill "birthed" a new, advanced version while keeping the old one intact. He'd heard of archers reaching perfect bow proficiency, only to spawn "Precision Shot" or something similar, letting them layer techniques. But it took years, not days.
And then there were the aids—herbs, elixirs, potions brewed by alchemists. Not everyone could afford them, but they were the edge for those who did. Common ones like ironroot tea bumped strength a point or two after consistent use, drawing from the plant's essence to fortify muscles. Rarer stuff, like shadowbloom extract, could grant temporary attributes: night vision for stalking in the dark, or a veil of near-invisibility by bending light around you. Asher had tried a cheap vial once—gave him enhanced hearing for a hunt, but it wore off quick and left him dizzy. Permanent boosts? Those came from legendary elixirs, forged from monster parts or ancient relics, but they were risky. Botch the mix, and you could cripple your ledger forever.
A snap in the bushes ahead yanked Asher from his thoughts. He dropped low, rifle ready. Two figures burst out—bandits, ragged cloaks and rusty blades. "Hand over the pelt, woodsman!" one snarled, charging with a wild swing.
Asher didn't waste breath. He fired a shot that punched through the first bandit's shoulder, sending him sprawling. The second leaped over a rock, blade high. Asher sidestepped, using the road's uneven ditch for footing, and drove his dagger into the man's thigh. A twist, a shove, and the bandit hit the dirt. Asher kicked the blade away, binding their wounds roughly with vine strips. "Live and learn," he muttered. No kills if unnecessary—Eldoria's sheriffs frowned on vigilantes.
His ledger flickered: Close Quarters Combat ticked to 32%. Small win.
Oakridge's gates loomed as dusk fell. Guards nodded him through; Asher was a familiar face. The town square buzzed with evening trade—vendors hawking dried herbs, flintlock ammo, and steaming stew. He beelined for the Hunter's Guild, a sturdy log hall with a carved wyvern sign above the door. Guilds were lifelines in Eldoria: organized bands of fighters, trackers, and mages who pooled resources. Not mandatory, but joining meant contracts, shared knowledge, and protection. Freelancers like Asher dipped in for bounties, but guilds took a cut—worth it for big jobs.
Inside, the air smelled of ale and smoke. A burly man behind the counter—Garrick, the guildmaster—grunted at him. "Blackwood. Selling or seeking?"
"Both." Asher slapped the pelt down. "Dire wolf. And word on that wyrm nest?"
Garrick eyed the pelt, tossing a pouch of coins. "Decent haul. As for the wyrm... yeah, scouts confirmed it in the Cragspine Mountains, east of here. Nasty bugger—scaled serpent, breathes fire hot enough to melt steel. Bounty's high: fifty gold, plus any herbs from its lair. But it's drawing competition. That Elara girl's already signed up a team."
Asher pocketed the coins, mind racing. Wyrm parts could make potent elixirs—scales for endurance boosts, blood for fire resistance attributes. A hunt like that could push his ledger hard, maybe even birth a new skill if he trained right.
"Sign me up," he said.
Garrick chuckled. "Solo? You're bold, kid. But alright. Meet at dawn."
As Asher stepped out, Elara leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Couldn't resist, huh? Smart. But wyrms ain't wolves. You'll need backup."
He smirked. "We'll see."
The night air carried a chill, hinting at storms—and bigger threats—in the crags ahead.