Smells of roasted meats, wet cobblestones, and cheap ale hit Kael before he even crossed the threshold. Guards in polished bronze breastplates stood at the massive iron gates of Eldoria, their bored eyes scanning the incoming merchants and travelers. Walking past them, Kael kept his hood pulled low. Nobody stopped him. Months ago, he would have squeezed past these guards with his shoulders hunched, praying they wouldn't kick him out of spite or demand a bribe he couldn't afford. Now, his footsteps were silent. Balanced on the balls of his feet, his posture was relaxed but coiled like a spring. Underneath his dark leather tunic, his heart beat in a slow, steady rhythm. Crowds choked the narrow streets of the lower district. Loud merchants screamed their prices, holding up glittering trinkets of low-grade mana stone. Further up the hill, the architecture shifted. White stone towers rose toward the sky, capped with glowing blue crystals that hummed with magical energy. This was the district of the elite. Mages from the Silver Spires walked these paved avenues, their silk robes sweeping the pristine stone. Two spellcasters passed him, talking in quiet, snobbish tones about some breakthrough in runic theory. One of them, a young man with a pristine silver crest on his lapel, didn't even look at Kael, simply expecting him to step aside. Kael did step aside, but his eyes never left the mage's neck. Right there, just below the ear. A quick, precise strike with a poisoned needle would bypass those thin silk robes before the boy could even whisper an incantation. His mind automatically calculated the trajectory. "Level twenty-two," Kael muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing as his System quietly estimated the mage's latent energy. Trash. --- Memories flashed behind his eyelids, sharp and bitter. He remembered being ten, standing in the dirt while the academy instructors tested his mana affinity. A cold, dead stone had remained dark in his palm. "Zero potential," the instructor had spat, turning away without another word. They had left him in the mud. They had told him his place was at the bottom, serving those born with the spark. Laughter from a nearby tavern pulled Kael back to the present. Grouped around a wooden table outside were four adventurers. Plated in gleaming steel, a warrior laughed loudly while a female archer polished her recurve bow. Their gear was flawless, devoid of scratches, probably purchased with family gold rather than earned in blood. Kael stopped near a fruit stall, pretending to examine an apple while he studied them. His lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. These people thought they were gods among men because of their hereditary gifts. They believed their bloodlines made them invincible. To Kael, they were nothing more than static numbers waiting to be surpassed. "Strength: forty-two," he whispered, looking at the warrior. "Agility: thirty-eight," he noted, shifting his gaze to the archer. His own stats, hidden beneath the interface of his mind, were rising daily. His growth wasn't linear; it was exponential. Every beast he slaughtered, every drop of blood he spilled, pushed him further up the ladder. He was no longer playing their game. He was rewriting the rules. --- Placing the apple back on the cart, Kael turned toward the commercial hub. Gold was his immediate bottleneck. His current skills were powerful, but the System's shop offered abilities that defied the laws of magic itself. One skill in particular had caught his eye during his journey back from the Wyvern's Maw. Shadowstep. A high-tier physical utility skill that allowed short-range teleportation through the dark. It cost a staggering amount of gold to unlock the skill book, or a massive investment of skill points he didn't want to waste. "First, I need capital," Kael murmured, his fingers tapping against his belt. "Then, I need a target." He walked past a weapon shop, ignoring the glittering steel blades in the window. Standard weapons were useless to him now. His claws, gained from his dark progression, were sharper than any common iron sword. What he needed was raw, unadulterated power. He needed to test his limits against something that would push his level even higher. Walking toward the center of the city, the air grew thick with the smell of roasted meat and heavy pine. Heavy oak doors swung open, spilling the roar of a hundred voices into the street. Inside, the air was warm, smelling of sweat, spilled mead, and wet leather. Scores of sellswords, mercenaries, and high-ranking spellcasters packed the hall. Some sat at long tables, boasting of their recent hunts in the outer wilds. Others stood in tense circles, arguing over the division of spoils. Kael stepped into the hall, keeping his head down and moving along the shadows of the wall. Nobody spared him a glance. To them, he was just another low-tier scout or a desperate commoner looking for scrap work. He preferred it that way. Anonymity was a weapon. As long as they underestimated him, they would never see the strike coming. Near the back of the room, a massive bulletin board made of dark iron was bolted to the wall. This was the heart of the guild—the quest board. Scores of parchment sheets were pinned to its surface, fluttering slightly in the draft from the door. Kael pushed through the crowd, his movements fluid and unobtrusive. He squeezed between a burly dwarf and a slender elven mage, his shoulders barely brushing theirs. They didn't even register his presence. Standing before the board, his eyes scanned the colored papers. Green sheets for low-risk gathering quests. Blue for standard monster subjugation. Red for high-risk, urgent threats. His gaze skipped past the green and blue entirely. Those were for the weak, those who wanted to earn a few silver coins and live to drink another day. Kael wanted more. He needed the high-risk bounties, the ones that offered substantial rewards and dangerous foes. Danger meant experience points. Experience points meant power. --- Sweat dripped down the back of his neck as the heat of the tavern pressed against him. His eyes locked onto a freshly pinned red parchment near the center of the board. It was written in thick, black ink, the seal of the guild master stamped at the bottom. The reward was massive, enough to fund his progression for weeks. He stared at the bold letters, his mind calculating the risks. Beside him, two veteran adventurers were discussing the same posting. "Suicide," one muttered, shaking his head. "Goblins in the Whispering Woods are one thing, but a whole horde? No thanks." "And the reward is huge," the other replied, greed clear in his eyes. "But look at the risk assessment. High risk. It's not just a few stragglers. They've organized." Kael ignored their chatter, his focus entirely on the text. He didn't care about their fear. Fear was a luxury for those who had a choice. He had no choice; he had to grow stronger, faster, before the ancient powers of Elarion realized what he was. His finger traced the edge of the parchment. The gold would buy him the skill book. The 'Shadowstep' skill would make him nearly untouchable in close-quarters combat. But as his eyes traveled lower, past the bold print of the main objective, he noticed something else. A prominent 'Adventurer's Guild' quest board displayed a 'Urgent: Clear Goblins from the Whispering Woods. Reward: 1000 GP. High Risk!' Kael's eyes fixated on the GP, envisioning the 'Shadowstep' skill, but beneath the main listing, a faded, smaller notice mentioned 'Strange mana fluctuations reported near ancient ruins within the Woods.'

Chapter 9: City's Grasp, New Hunt