The panel called his talent Lord. It needed people. Yet he didn't have people.
He went through the faces he knew in the slum, boys who ran when trouble started, men who smiled until you turned your back, a girl who'd once split bread and later slipped his coins. Every name had a reason to say no.
If he wanted a start, he had to leave, become an adventurer, and gain trust.
There was only one town with an adventurer's guild nearby. East from here, past a belt of trees. Ten days on foot if he kept moving. Books called the creatures there soldier‑level, not the worst, still enough to end you if you made a mistake.
He shoved his few belongings into a worn satchel: two hard loaves, a water skin, spare cloth, a coil of cord, and the coin pouch. His gaze lingered on the jar on the floor. Empty now. Good. Clean. No traces left behind.
Next, he went to the library.
The keeper sat behind the counter with his abacus, tapping beads. He looked up once, then again when Arin didn't turn away.
"I'm heading east," Arin said.
The old man pulled a drawer, took out a folded map with soft edges, and set it down. Then he added a small pouch and pushed both across.
Arin loosened the string. 50 copper coins. More than he'd paid over two years. He started to speak; the old man cut him off.
"Keep it, brat." The old man spoke. "The streams are marked in the map. Stay close when you can. Fog settles low here, don't walk blind."
Arin tied the pouch to his belt. "Alright."
The old man's eyes shone. His voice didn't change. "Go."
Arin nodded and left. He paused at the curtain, but there wasn't anything else to say.
Near the gate, a trader had a spread of used gear. Arin picked a short iron sword with a tired edge and a leather chest piece with one strap replaced by a string. He paid 30 copper coins for that junk.
"Try not to bleed near my stall, kid. Bad for business." The trader sounded amused.
Before he left, Arin went to the edge of the slums.
The grave waited at the edge of the slums, where the earth was hard and unyielding. A simple stone marked it, worn and chipped from years of wind and rain. He had visited it countless times, over and over, kneeling in silence, speaking in whispers only he could hear.
Her name was there, etched carefully, worn down by time. Her face lived in his memory, sharper than the lines of the city, clearer than the dust in the sun.
Arin crouched beside the grave, hand brushing the soil. The years pressed against him, the hunger, the pain, the nights spent shivering, but here, it all felt smaller. He whispered, voice low:
"I made it this far… because of you."
He stayed a long while, remembering her hands, her voice, the way she had held him when the world would not. Every lesson, every sacrifice, every quiet moment she had given him, they were all here, buried in the soil as much as in his bones.
When he finally stood, he pressed his palm to the stone, lingering, drawing strength from the memory.
No tears. No wailing. Just quiet reverence. Just a promise.
"I'll make it," he said. "I'll be strong. I won't waste the life you saved."
He tightened the strap of his satchel, drew the blade, testing it with two short cuts through the air. It felt strange, wrong even, but he could hold it. That would have to be enough.
And with one last look, he stepped away. The grave stayed behind, a reminder of everything he had survived, and everything he would fight to honor.
___________________________
He walked east until the roofs shrank and the road turned to dirt. Trees gathered, the air damp, heavy with the smell of earth and rot. Sounds stuck in the leaves, wing flicks, tiny feet, something bigger far off. He pressed his hands into the wet soil, smeared mud up his arms and throat, and crushed leaves into his shirt. If scent mattered, he'd carry the ground with him.
He stayed close to shallow streams where water had carved a path. When the brush shifted to his right and fell silent, he froze, counted his breaths, then moved again. Twice, pale shapes slipped between trunks; he let distance do the work.
When light thinned, he ate half a loaf, just enough to keep the edges of hunger from gnawing, and sank against a gnarled root. No fire, no warmth.
Sleep came in jagged strips. A soft crack snapped him awake. Something moved between the trunks, low, careful, nose up. It angled toward him.
Arin froze, heart hammering, eyes sharp. He waited until the yellow eyes gleamed close. Then he moved.
A wolf-like creature lunged. Twigwolf. Soldier-level, weak, but enough for Arin to face alone. It came fast; teeth slashed the air. He rolled, sword trailing, grazing fur but barely leaving a mark.
The next rush hit square. A paw slammed into his chest; the leather took the scrape, but his ribs took the shock. Air left his lungs in a violent hiss as he slammed into the root. Pain ignited every nerve.
Thinking didn't help. He kept the blade close. No wide swings, no grand motions, just short, stabbing angles. The point glanced off bone. The Twigwolf snapped, teeth sinking into his forearm. Heat flared to his elbow.
Instinct took over. He shoved the crossguard into its jaw, twisted, tore free with skin left behind, then punched the blade under its chin. He pushed until his legs went slack. Every motion burned.
When the creature fell back, he stayed crouched, listening. Grip slick with blood, his own or the creature's, he didn't care; he wiped it on a tree trunk, wrapped his forearm with a strip of shirt, checked the chest piece. Leather held; strap had bitten into his shoulder, raw and bleeding.
No warmth. No comfort. Only survival. He didn't sleep again.
Gray light touched the ground. He ate, checked the bite, and walked.
Days stacked. He stayed near water when possible, avoided claw marks and fresh scat, and crossed open ground only with exits in sight.
The forearm bite burned on the third day, wept on the fifth, and cleaned itself by the sixth. He rinsed it in streams, let it be. By the seventh, his feet were blistered. He cut cloth pads and stuffed them into his shoes. On the ninth, he slipped on a stone ridge, nearly falling. He dropped to his stomach, crawled back up, each movement careful. On the tenth evening, a thin thread of smoke appeared far off. He adjusted course, keeping cover.
___________________________
The eleventh morning, the trees opened. Fence posts leaned into fields, rooftops low and lined. He stopped at the first well and rinsed mud from his face and arms. The bite throbbed, angry but not rotten. Fresh strip, tight knot, sleeve back down.
No one stared. Townsfolk had their own work. A cart rattled past. A woman shifted a basket without a glance. A boy ran by with a stick, shouting at nothing, and vanished.
Noise drew him to the square: voices, a smith's hammer striking metal, a wheel rattling over a loose board. A plank wall posted work notes: loads, pay, hours. No one asked where he came from.
A woman set a crate near his boots, shook her hands, glanced at him—the leather, the torn strap, the bandage.
"You new, boy?" she asked.
"Just arrived."
She jerked her chin toward a lane. "Bunkhouse for laborers. Two streets that way. Pay by the night. Don't bring trouble."
"Thanks."
"Go now," she said. "Fills fast."
He went.
The bunkhouse smelled of soap and straw. The man at the desk had a box for coins and a list of names. He didn't care where Arin came from, only that he paid and stayed quiet. Arin slid two copper coins across, got two nights, and a bed by a half-open window.
He set the sword under the frame, lay back, and stared at the boards until the hum from the square faded.
Bread for a day. Shelter for two nights. A talent that demanded more than him.
One person to earn trust. One step at a time. Then see what the world offered.
He closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he would find work. Tonight, he just wanted to sleep, really sleep, for the first time in eleven days.