Chapter 2 - Welcome to Arcadia
The moment I stepped into Arcadia's main quad, the noise hit me like a backfiring spell—loud, jarring, and inescapable.
The quad was a storm of sound and color. Recruiters shouted from booths draped in guild banners, their voices sharp as daggers:
"Silverlight Guild—where the weak get left behind!"
"Dragonfire needs fresh meat! (Preferably the kind that doesn't scream.)"
Merchants shoved their wares into the crowd, their pitches overlapping:
"Get your enchanted lockpicks—only three copper! (Not responsible for cursed doors.)"
"Dungeon rations! Tastes like cardboard, but won't kill you! (Probably.)"
A recruit in polished Silverlight armor shouldered past me, his gauntlets gleaming. "Move, F-rank," he muttered, not even looking back.
I adjusted my harness strap.
A merchant with a gold tooth grinned at me, holding up a vial of swirling red liquid. "Health potion, kid? Only five copper! (Side effects may include temporary invisibility or spontaneous combustion.)"
I didn't answer.
A girl strode past in full plated armor, its runes pulsing with an eerie blue glow. She laughed with a guy whose sword looked like it could buy my tuition—and my dignity. Every student here moved like they owned the place, like they'd been born with a guild insignia branded into their bones.
I adjusted my harness strap.
A shoulder slammed into mine. I staggered, nearly dropping my waterskin.
"Watch it, freshman!" a voice sneered, already lost in the crowd.
I said nothing. Easier that way.
I just kept walking, counting my steps, calculating odds like I always did when the world felt like it was spinning out of my control.
The dorm hallway reeked of dust, sweat, and the acrid tang of half-spent cleaning charms. Room 204 was exactly what I'd expected: two beds, one desk scarred with burn rings, and wall racks for dungeon gear. The mattress was thin. The door was thinner.
I was sliding my bag under the bedframe when the door exploded inward.
Marcus "Trip" Chen tripped through it—literally—sending scrolls, a dented canteen, and something that smelled suspiciously like a meat pie flying. My Dungeon Efficiency Spreadsheet fluttered to his feet.
Trip sprawled on the floor, grinning like he'd meant to do it. "Signature move. What's your rating?"
"I don't have one."
"Everyone's got a rating." He slapped a healing charm onto a fresh scrape on his elbow. The wound sealed with a faint golden shimmer. "Mine's 'Most Likely to Die Spectacularly.' Yours?"
I glanced at him. "Most Likely to Calculate the Odds of Dying Spectacularly."
Trip blinked. Then he laughed, sharp and loud. "Gods, you're worse than me."
His gaze landed on my gear, laid out in precise rows across the bed: waterskin left, potions center, dagger right—blades angled at forty-five degrees for optimal draw speed.
"You iron your socks too?"
"Strap tension affects draw speed by seventeen percent."
Trip's grin faltered. "That's… weirdly specific."
"Loose harnesses increase fatality risk by twenty-three percent in close-quarters combat."
He stared at me like I'd just sprouted a second head. "You're gonna be a blast at parties."
He shoved his gear into his bag with the enthusiasm of someone who'd never heard of organization. A smoke bomb rolled off the bed. He caught it one-handed, grinned, and tossed it in without checking the fuse.
"Worst case, we die. Best case, free lunch in the afterlife."
"Statistically, the afterlife doesn't have lunch."
Trip clapped me on the shoulder. "Now that's the spirit."
We left the dorm together—Trip bouncing on his toes like he was made of springs, me recalculating the odds of survival with every step.
The quad hit harder the second time. Brighter banners. Louder voices. Bigger weapons. It felt like everyone else was already ten steps ahead—like I'd shown up late to a race I didn't even know was happening.
Trip didn't seem to notice. He hummed some tuneless song as we crossed the courtyard, waving at strangers like they were old friends.
"How are you so… chill about all this?" I finally asked.
He shrugged. "Because I already know I'm the worst. No pressure when everyone expects you to faceplant on day one."
I stared at him.
He grinned. "That includes you, by the way."
A Silverlight recruiter's voice cut through the noise like a blade: "S-rank talents only. No exceptions!"
I adjusted my pack.
Maybe I wasn't S-rank. Maybe I'd never be.
But I wasn't just another F-rank anymore. And that meant someone was going to notice. Sooner or later. Whether they liked it or not.