The blunt impact of a blazewood staff against Ilmari’s ribs sent a jarring vibration through his body, stealing his breath. He stumbled, grit spraying from under his worn boots, the acrid scent of ozone and sweat thick in the air. Around him, the tiered concrete stands of Vesiros Academy’s sparring yards amplified the jeers. “Look at the Gazer! Still flailing!” “Couldn’t even block a basic sweep, Vesa?” A voice, sharp and laced with disdain, cut through the din. Vargo Virta, an S-rank Bladeweave student, stood over Ilmari, his platinum hair impeccable even after the brief skirmish. His training blade, a dull obsidian, gleamed. Around Vargo, his team of three, all clad in the pristine grey of upper-echelon students, watched with mocking amusement. Ilmari’s own team, two cowering C-ranks and a terrified D-rank, had already been ‘neutralized’ — meaning knocked unconscious or forced to yield — moments before Vargo had deigned to face him. Ilmari pushed himself up, every muscle screaming. The System’s icy blue text, usually a silent companion, flickered in the corner of his vision, a taunt in itself: `[Damage Taken: Minor Blunt Force Trauma. Effect: Stun (3s)]`. Three seconds. Three seconds too long in this concrete cage. “Done already, Vesa?” Vargo’s smile was a predator’s baring of teeth. “Or perhaps your renowned Gazer class needs to *observe* my technique a few more times before you learn how to stand upright?” Ilmari ground his molars together. His ‘Gazer’ class. The System’s cruel joke, bestowed upon him weeks after his family’s fall, had been nothing but a target painted on his back. His sole active skill, `[Appraisal]`, allowed him to see rudimentary information about objects or creatures. Useless, everyone said. And the scorn followed him like a shadow. “He’s just getting warmed up, Virta,” a voice, delicate but clear, called out from the stands. Kielo. Ilmari’s gaze shot to her, perched on the lowest tier, her hands clasped tightly. She wore a simple tunic, too thin for the biting wind that whipped through the yards, her dark hair a stark contrast to the pale, chiseled stone around her. A guild recruiter, a stout woman with the Gilded Hand sigil pinned to her lapel, stood unnervingly close, a hand resting on Kielo’s shoulder. Vargo’s eyes drifted to Kielo, a glint of something cold entering them. “Ah, Vesa’s little healer. Perhaps she should tend to her brother’s bruised ego, too.” He spun his obsidian blade with a flourish, then, with deliberate casualness, brought the blunt edge down hard on his own forearm. A low thud echoed through the yard. He grunted, pulling his arm back, a thin, purpling bruise already blooming on his skin. “A minor injury,” Vargo announced to the arena, his voice booming. “But one that requires prompt attention for optimal combat readiness.” He gestured to Kielo. “Little Vesa, perhaps you’d honor us with your unique talents?” Heat flared behind Ilmari's ribs; this theatrical injury served a deliberate purpose. Not just humiliation, but a brazen display of power, a constant reminder of Kielo’s predicament. Her unique healing skill, a gift from the System, drew the guilds like vultures. They kept her here, under constant surveillance, a prized commodity. He knew the terms: *cooperation* or *confinement*. Kielo’s gaze met his, wide and pleading. He saw the tremor in her hands, the reluctant acceptance in her posture. She knew, just as he did, that refusing was not an option. Slowly, she descended the steps, walking towards Vargo, her head bowed. The guild recruiter’s hand remained on her back, a physical leash. As Kielo’s fingers brushed Vargo’s bruised arm, a soft, emerald light pulsed from her palm, and the discoloration vanished, leaving behind unblemished skin. “Excellent, little Vesa,” Vargo drawled, flexing his arm. He didn’t even offer a word of thanks, merely a dismissive wave. “Now, back to your perch. Your brother still needs to learn how to lose with grace.” Ilmari watched her retreat, teeth grinding until his temples throbbed. He wanted to shout, to tear Vargo limb from limb, but he couldn’t. Not here. Not with the watchful eyes of the guilds, of Commandant Kantola, everywhere. He swallowed the bitter taste of helplessness. “Come on, Kielo,” Ilmari said through gritted teeth as soon as the training exercise ended, grabbing her arm. He ignored the lingering stares, the quiet murmurs. “We’re leaving.” “But Ilmari, where are we going? The foragers aren’t due back for hours, and the perimeter patrol—” “We’re going to find our own ‘foraging,’” he cut her off, his voice low and urgent. He tugged her past the main gates, past the barracks, towards the fortress's northern perimeter, a crumbling stretch of wall rarely patrolled. “Just follow me. I need to get you away from… from *them*.” He pushed through a loose section of the fence, the wire scraping against his jacket. They slipped into the northern timberland, a dense thicket clinging to the perimeter, its canopy draped in stagnant fog. The air immediately grew colder, silent save for the rustle of unseen creatures. This was forbidden territory, a buffer zone before the true Wyrdlands where stray beasts prowled. But it was also free from prying eyes. “Ilmari, we shouldn’t be here,” Kielo muttered, her voice uneven. “It’s too dangerous. What if… what if we get caught by a Grayskin, or worse, a Wyrd-beast?” “We’ll be fine,” he insisted, though a knot of unease tightened in his stomach. He pulled her deeper into the trees, past gnarled roots that snaked across the damp earth. The mist grew thicker, obscuring visibility beyond a few yards. A low, guttural growl vibrated through the ground, vibrating in the soles of his boots. He froze. Kielo gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The growl intensified, closer now, a low rumble that promised immense power. A patch of mist ahead swirled, parting to reveal two eyes, pinpricks of malevolent crimson, set in a massive, chitinous head. A Grayskin, a lesser Wyrd-beast of armored hide and razor claws, far outmatching any novice trainee. This one was larger than any he’d ever seen, its carapace the color of bruised slate. Panic seized him. He had to do something. He scanned the ground frantically, his eyes darting. A tiny creature, no bigger than his thumb, scuttled across a patch of moss – a common Skittermite, a six-legged insect with a dull, segmented shell. Desperate, without thinking, he activated his `[Appraisal]` skill, pointing it at the insignificant bug. `[Skittermite (Juvenile)]` `[Class: Arthropod-Class Scavenger]` `[Threat Level: Minimal]` `[Status: Healthy]` `[Hidden Status: Tameable: Loyalty Potential 100%]` The line flared against the gloom, burning sharp against his retinas. *Tameable? Loyalty Potential 100%?* He’d appraised a million things in his life – weapons, rocks, even the dirt under his feet – and never once seen a ‘Hidden Status,’ let alone one like this. The Grayskin let out a furious bellow, shaking the mist-shrouded trees. It lunged, its massive form exploding from the fog, claws extended, its crimson eyes locked onto them. Ilmari stared at the tiny Skittermite, then back at the charging beast, an impossible choice forming in his mind.

The Hundredth Percentile