The streets of Rabanastre were unlike anything Clive Rosfield had ever seen. The sun glared hot above the desert kingdom, its light dancing off pale sandstone walls and domes, the bustle of voices filling every corner of the wide avenues. His boots echoed on the cobbles as he walked through the press of life—merchants shouting from stalls, children weaving between carts, armored soldiers standing tall with spears in hand.
But it wasn't just the humans. Clive slowed his stride as he saw them—people unlike any he'd encountered in Rosaria. Tall, lanky figures with long rabbit-like ears, their movements graceful and sharp. Others were broad, muscular, with snouts like wild boars, tusks gleaming beneath helmets. Still more waddled past, stocky and lumpy, their small eyes glimmering with surprising cunning. And then, of course, humans walked among them as though this tapestry of species were utterly natural.
Clive's thoughts raced. So this is Dalmasca… a world not bound by the kingdoms I knew, but something broader, stranger, alive in a way even my homeland could not imagine.
He stopped a man carrying sacks of grain and asked, "Excuse me—where would I find the Clan Hall?"
The man wiped his brow and smiled. "North End. Left side of the half-circle square. Can't miss it—look for the banners."
Clive nodded his thanks and pressed on, winding through twisting streets until he came upon it: a semi-circular plaza, banners flapping in the desert wind, and there—a hall marked with vibrant colors and the unmistakable energy of adventurers. Weapons gleamed on warriors' backs, hunters boasted of trophies won, and notices lined the walls with bounties and tasks.
Clive stepped inside. His eyes immediately fell upon the small figure at the center, standing proudly upon a raised platform.
A moogle.
Clive's breath caught in his throat. He had seen moogles before—tiny, sprite-like creatures that occasionally appeared in stories or whispers of far-off lands. But never one like this. This moogle stood as tall as his chest, fur pristine, pom-pom bobbing with an air of authority.
By the gods… I never imagined one so large, so… commanding.
The moogle turned, golden eyes twinkling. "Kupo! A new face! Welcome, traveler, to Clan Centurio. I am Montblanc, kupo—leader of this proud band of hunters. You look strong… and you look like you've walked far. What brings you here?"
Clive bowed slightly, still unsure how to properly address the creature. "My name is Clive Rosfield. I wish to offer my sword to this Clan. I've heard you seek hunters."
Montblanc's pom-pom bobbed happily as he clapped his tiny paws together. "A new member! Very good, very good, kupo! But you must understand—Clan Centurio is not just for glory-seekers. We fight for the safety of Dalmasca. Our hunts protect the weak and keep balance against the beasts that roam the sands. Do you understand, kupo?"
Clive nodded firmly. "I do. To protect others—that much I can do."
Montblanc gave a squeaky laugh. "Kupo! Spoken like a true hunter. Then let me explain the rules of the hunt. Listen well:
1. You will accept marks from our board—bounties posted by townsfolk or nobles who seek protection.
2. You may hunt alone, or with allies, kupo.
3. Bring proof of your victory, and the clan will reward you with gil and respect.
4. Above all—never harm the innocent, kupo. The clan protects, never preys."
Clive absorbed every word, nodding slowly. It's not so different from the vows of Rosaria… except here, there is no kingdom binding me. Only choice.
Montblanc hopped down from his platform, holding out a small parchment sealed with the Clan's crest. "Your first hunt, kupo. A simple one, but a good test. A pack of wolves has been troubling travelers just outside the northern gate. Nothing too dangerous for one with a sword like yours, kupo—but enough to see if your words carry weight."
Clive accepted the parchment, fingers brushing over the crest as though it weighed more than paper. "I will see it done."
Montblanc bobbed his head. "Good luck, kupo! And remember—you are Clan Centurio now. Walk proudly!"
Clive stepped out of the hall, the parchment clenched in his fist, the sun striking his shoulders like a hammer. His heart pounded—not from fear, but from something new.
Hope.
He looked toward the gates of Rabanastre, where beyond the walls the desert waited, and with it, his first step into this world's trials.
Self-sacrifice may have defined me once… but here, perhaps, I can learn to fight not just for death, but for life.
And with that, Clive Rosfield marched toward his first hunt.
The streets of Rabanastre swelled with noise and color as Clive Rosfield wove his way toward the northern gate. He carried Montblanc's parchment tightly in hand, its wax seal still warm under the desert sun. His chest felt heavy with expectation, though not from fear.
So this is to be my beginning here. No titles, no bloodline, no destiny breathing down my neck. Just a task. Just me and a blade.
The city seemed alive in ways Rosaria never had. Market vendors cried out offers of spiced meats and glittering fabrics. Children darted between tall Viera women, their ears twitching in annoyance as they scolded the little ones. Burly Seeq lumbered past with crates of fish, their tusked faces glistening with sweat, while Humes haggled fiercely over potions and charms.
Clive slowed his steps, taking it all in. His eyes narrowed as he passed a shop where weapons of all makes gleamed under the sun. Some resembled blades he'd seen in his homeland, but others—curved, alien, or adorned with crystals—spoke of a world entirely different.
At last, he reached the gate. Soldiers nodded to him, sparing him only brief glances before returning to their watch. Beyond stretched the Dalmascan desert: dunes shifting under the wind, heat shimmering like a veil over the land. Somewhere out there, wolves prowled, preying upon the weak.
Clive tightened his grip on his sword. This is what Montblanc expects of me. Let's see if Rosaria's training carries weight in Dalmasca.
---
The first sign of danger came swiftly. Just a mile beyond the gate, claw prints marked the sand—deep, ragged, too close together to belong to a single beast. Clive crouched, running his gloved fingers along the tracks.
"A pack," he muttered. His voice sounded strange in the silence of the dunes.
The wind shifted. A low growl slithered through the air. Clive rose, sword drawn, as shapes appeared atop the ridge: three wolves, lean and scarred, their fur bristling in the sun's glare. Their eyes burned yellow, sharp with hunger.
Clive steadied himself. Don't wait for them to circle. End this before they can surround you.
The first lunged. Sand sprayed beneath its claws as it leapt for his throat. Clive pivoted, sword flashing in a precise arc. The blade caught the beast mid-air, hurling it to the ground with a strangled yelp.
The second came from behind. Clive ducked, rolling to the side as its jaws snapped shut where his neck had been. He swung upward in the same motion, steel biting into its flank. The wolf shrieked, staggering back with blood darkening its fur.
But the third was quicker, smarter. It feinted left, then struck from the right. Clive barely brought his sword around in time. The impact jarred his arm, sending sparks of pain up his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, forcing the beast back with a surge of raw strength.
The pack regrouped, circling now, growls reverberating in the desert air. Sweat dripped into Clive's eyes, but he steadied his breathing. I've faced worse. Titans of flame and shadows of despair… I will not fall to mere wolves.
He surged forward. Sand kicked up as he slashed in wide arcs, driving the pack to scatter. One wolf lunged too slow—Clive's sword pierced its chest clean through. The beast went limp, collapsing into the sand.
The remaining two growled, hesitation flickering in their eyes. They darted in, snapping, but Clive's strikes grew sharper, faster, driven not by desperation but by control. Each movement was precise, honed by years of battle, and yet…
This feels different. There is no prophecy here. No burden of fate. Just survival. Just protecting others.
Finally, one wolf faltered, wounded and limping. The other, sensing its odds dwindling, snarled one last time before fleeing into the dunes. The pack broken, silence returned.
Clive stood, chest heaving, sword dripping crimson. He wiped the blade clean on the sand before sliding it back into its sheath.
---
Proof of the kill. Montblanc had asked for proof. Clive knelt, cutting a fang from the fallen wolf. It gleamed faintly in the sun, a token of his first hunt in this new world.
As he rose, he felt something stir inside him. Not triumph. Not pride. Something quieter.
Purpose.
---
Back in Rabanastre, the Clan Hall buzzed with its usual chaos. Hunters swapped tales of near-death, clapped mugs of ale together, and scrawled new hunts onto the board. Montblanc perked up the moment Clive stepped inside, ears twitching with delight.
"Kupo! You've returned! And alive, no less!" The moogle bounced toward him, pom-pom bobbing. "Well, let's see, let's see… did you bring proof?"
Clive opened his hand, revealing the fang.
Montblanc's eyes gleamed. "Kupo! Excellent! The wolves will trouble the roads no more. You've done well, Clive Rosfield. Welcome to Clan Centurio."
The hall erupted with cheers. Hunters slapped him on the back, some in genuine respect, others in playful rivalry. Clive allowed himself the faintest smile.
Montblanc fluttered back onto his platform. "Your reward, kupo." He pressed a small pouch of gil into Clive's hand. "Spend it wisely—and remember, this is only the beginning. Stronger marks await, kupo. And with each hunt, you will grow."
Clive bowed his head. "Thank you. I will not squander this chance."
---
That night, Clive wandered the streets of Rabanastre. The desert air had cooled, lanterns glowing along the plazas. Merchants closed their stalls, laughter rose from taverns, and children darted past him, their joy undimmed by the harshness of life here.
Clive paused at the edge of the plaza, watching them.
Self-sacrifice… that was all I knew. Throwing myself into fire so others could walk free. But here, in this world, perhaps I can learn something else. To live. To fight not for an ending, but for beginnings.
His hand brushed against the trinket at his chest. It pulsed faintly, warm, as though Sirius' presence lingered even across worlds.
Clive closed his eyes and whispered to himself, "Yes… here, I will learn to live."
And with that, Clive Rosfield, once prince of Rosaria, now hunter of Clan Centurio, stepped into his new life in Dalmasca.