The city of Dark Star sprawled beneath a bruised sky, its jagged spires clawing at the heavens, a monument to ambition and decay. The sixth barrack, a squat stone hovel, reeked of damp straw and crushed herbs, its air thick with the labor of gatherers like Song. A month had passed since he'd claimed a cot here, his days a blur of foraging in the Forbidden Garden's shadow, hands stained green from low-rank spiritual herbs. The work was grueling, but lately, finding plants felt effortless, as if the earth whispered their locations to him. He could pinpoint a sprig of Starwort or a stalk of Moonpetal blindfolded, their faint spiritual hum guiding his steps. A gift or a fluke? Song wondered, his lean frame hunched over a pile of freshly plucked herbs, dark eyes glinting with curiosity. The barrack's clamor—clinking tools, muttered curses—faded as he pondered this newfound edge, a spark of hope in his otherwise stagnant path.
He sought the barrack elder, a wiry old man buried in a mound of herbs, his gnarled hands sorting with practiced speed. Song hesitated, then spoke.
"Elder, I feel the plants… like they call to me. What is this?"
The elder's eyes widened, his hands pausing.
"You sense plants? Boy, nobody told you about Spiritual Perception? Wait—you're picking up spiritual herbs as a First Lord? Damn, you're lucky. I might've been wrong about your odds out there. The city walls are ignored—herbs there are cheap, but you could make a name for yourself."
"Elder, can you explain Spiritual Perception?"
"No time, lad," the elder grunted, nodding at the herb pile. "I'm no teacher, and this lot won't sort itself."
"I see," Song said, eyeing the chaotic heap.
"Don't dawdle with your haul," the elder added. "Decide who you'll work with—clans or city alchemists. Think hard, boy. Time's ticking."
"Thank you, Elder," Song said, bowing slightly.
He stepped out, the barrack's stuffy air giving way to Dark Star's sharp breeze. The Forbidden Garden's gate loomed ahead, its iron vines glinting under torchlight, a promise of riches and ruin. Song's interface flickered, logging his progress:
Profession: Gatherer
Rank: First Lord
Spiritual Perception: Active (undeveloped)
Herb Haul: 47 Low-Rank Spiritual Herbs
Value: 200-300 Merit Points
The elder's words echoed—clans or alchemists? Both demanded loyalty, their contracts as binding as chains. Song's ambition burned, but his path was a fog, his First Lord rank a shackle in Dark Star's hierarchy.
Days bled together, each a cycle of foraging and frustration. Song crossed paths with Rill, the servant quarter's overseer, her presence a fleeting storm. He waved, but her gaze sliced through him, cold and distant, as if he were air. Does she even see me? Song thought, stung. He later learned her role—executing the quarter's orders—left no room for pleasantries. Her indifference gnawed at him, a reminder of his insignificance among Dark Star's elite. Yet he pressed on, his herb sack heavier each day, though his growth stalled. His childhood cultivation methods—breathing exercises, basic meditations—felt like toys against the wall blocking his progress.
"I'm using kids' tricks and expecting to soar," Song muttered, staring at the sky, its slow clouds mocking his stagnation.
Today's haul was decent, but even selling it all wouldn't dent his goal: access to the city's Battle Library required thousands of Merit Points. How do I climb that mountain? he wondered, gaze drifting to the distant forest beyond the Forbidden Garden. Its emerald canopy beckoned, a siren's call of danger and reward. A First Lord venturing there was suicide, but staying safe meant rotting in the barracks.
Can I grind for a year and make it? Song murmured, the forest's allure growing. No risk, no rise.
A stir caught his eye—groups of three or four cultivators streamed toward the forest, over fifty by his count. Their purposeful march sparked a wild idea. They'll scare off the beasts, make the forest safe for a bit. Song stood, pulse quickening, and hurried after them, his herb sack bouncing against his hip.
The forest's edge loomed, its shadows swallowing the cultivators' chatter. Song's Spiritual Perception hummed, faint but alive, urging him forward. This is my shot, he thought, stepping into the unknown, the forest's silence a weight on his shoulders.
To be continued…