Rowan left his village at dawn with a pack slung over his shoulder, a dull short sword at his hip, and calluses on his hands that no child should have. He walked alone through winding dirt paths, past farmer's fields and grazing oxen, past stone shrines half-swallowed by moss. There were no caravans to join—he didn't have coin for that—and no family to say goodbye to. Marella had cried, but she hadn't stopped him. He didn't look back.
Each night, he camped beneath trees and learned the shape of the stars. He avoided bandits, sometimes barely, and learned to run harder when wolves howled. He gained no XP from his travel, but something else hardened in him. A willingness. A direction.
Ten days later, he stood at the southern gates of Re-Estize.
The capital was larger than anything he'd imagined. White stone walls towered over the slums at their base. Carts clogged the road. Guards in bright tabards eyed the crowd with boredom or suspicion. The smell—horse dung, sweat, bread, smoke—hit him harder than any blow he'd taken.
He entered unnoticed, another boy among hundreds.
He made his way through the lower district, asking questions carefully. Most people brushed him off. Eventually, he learned of three paths:
The Royal Army's Training Corps — free to enlist, meals and equipment provided, but full of lazy officers and empty promises.
A mercenary guildhall — pay-to-train, with real fighters who taught real killing. Dangerous, but respected.
The Temple Guard School — more structured, more political, and heavy on discipline. Required a sponsor.
He stood at a crossroads, weighing each option. The mercenary guild sounded like it would make him stronger faster, but he didn't have the coin. The Temple Guard was out of the question. That left the army.
He clenched his fists, jaw tight. "It's not ideal," he muttered. "But it's a start."
By dusk, he was standing in line at the Royal Army's recruitment office, surrounded by older boys and grizzled drunks looking for a second chance.
The training yard was little more than a dirt square behind a barracks, its fencing half-broken and one of the dummies missing a head. A bored-looking officer handed him a wooden sword and pointed at a line of recruits.
Most of the other trainees were boys around his age or a few years older. One, a lanky kid with buck teeth, scoffed. "They letting toddlers in now?"
Rowan ignored him. He took his place at the end of the line.
The instructor arrived shortly after—a sun-leathered veteran with a crooked nose and eyes like rusted nails. "Name's Karm. I don't care where you're from, and I don't care what you think you know. Out there, you die if you slack. In here, I make sure you don't."
He paced in front of them, tapping a switch against his palm. "You'll drill stances until your feet bleed. You'll hold guard until your arms drop. And if I see you grip that sword like it's a broomstick—" crack—he smacked a boy's thigh mid-demonstration, "—I'll make sure you're pissing blood."
Training began. Stance. Footwork. Strike. Block. Repeat.
Rowan struggled. The weight of the wooden sword made his arms burn. His stance kept slipping. Every mistake was met with the sting of Karm's stick and a shout.
"You! Rowan! You're fighting like you've never held steel!"
"I haven't, sir," he panted.
Karm grunted. "Then you've got no bad habits. Good."
By midday, most trainees were groaning, rubbing sore muscles. A few slumped in the shade, already defeated.
Rowan stayed on the line. Each swing slower, more deliberate.
Karm said nothing, but his gaze lingered.
That night, Rowan stared at his status screen beneath a coarse blanket in the bunkhouse.
Name: Rowan
Age: 5
Race: Human (Soul-Bound Variant)
Class: Warrior (0 → 1)
Level: 5
XP: 101 / 600
[Attributes]
HP: 75
MP: 35
SP: 115
STR: 13
AGI: 15
VIT: 11
DEX: 13
INT: 7
WIS: 6
CHA: 4
LUK: 2
[Perks]
• Soul-Weighted Body (Passive)
• Instinctual Defense (Passive)
• Soul Echoes (Dormant)
[Skills]
• Power Strike (Active) — Deliver a single enhanced melee attack. Costs 5 SP.
[Progression]
Class Level: Warrior (1 / 10)
Skill Slots: 1 Unlocked
He flexed his hands. He still wasn't strong. Not truly. But for the first time, he was facing others, learning in the open, with bruises earned honestly.
The gates had opened. Now it was time to force them wider.