The road from the hills back to Whiterun felt longer than usual.
Aela walked ahead, cloak fluttering behind her like a banner. She said little, but Kael could see the tension in her shoulders. She was wary. Alert. The battle had shaken even her.
Vilkas, on the other hand, seemed irritated with the world. Every snapped twig made him narrow his eyes.
He eventually slowed his pace until he was walking next to Kael.
"You fought well," he said after a long silence.
Kael blinked. Vilkas wasn't known for handing out compliments. "Thanks…?"
"Don't get used to it," Vilkas muttered. "I'm not praising you. I'm warning you."
He frowned. "Warning me about what?"
Vilkas glanced at him, eyes sharp. "Your strength isn't normal. Not even for us."
He opened his mouth to snap back—
Vilkas cut him off. "And I don't mean your sword arm."
A cold weight settled in Kael's stomach.
"Whatever you are," Vilkas continued, "you need to keep yourself in check. The Companions don't need another wild dog losing control."
Kael's jaw tightened. "I didn't lose control."
"Not this time."
Vilkas walked ahead, leaving Kael standing in the road, fists clenched.
This bastard
By dusk, the city finally came into view, Whiterun's stone walls, the Wind District rising in layers, and Dragonsreach looming like a golden crown against the sky.
Smoke curled from chimneys. Guards patrolled the ramparts. Traders led their wagons across the plains road, alive with the usual bustle.
As they approached the gate, the familiar guard, same bored posture, same helmet, held out a hand.
"Halt. State your business."
Aela rolled her eyes. "We live here."
The guard stiffened. "O-Oh. Right. Sorry, Shield-Sister."
Elara giggled under her breath.
Kael cracked a faint smile for the first time in days.
Once inside, the noise and life of Whiterun washed over them—vendors shouting, blacksmith hammers ringing, kids racing past, the smell of fresh bread and horse dung mixing in the air.
Kael exhaled slowly.
I'm home.
Or… as close to home as anywhere was for him.
Jorrvaskr smelled the same as always.
Old wood. Sweat. Steel. Smoke that never quite left the rafters.
He shut the door to his room behind him and leaned against it, finally letting his shoulders sag.
The noise downstairs faded.
The tension drained out of his muscles.
Damn
Kael sat on the bed and stared at his hands.
They were clean now. No blood. No claws, but the air still smelt like blood to him.
He exhaled slowly and focused inward.
"System," he murmured.
The familiar blue interface flickered into existence flashing a word coated with blood-red light.
[Class Advancement Available]
He straightened his back immediately.
[You have met the minimum requirements.
[Level 10 reached.]
[Combat Trials completed.]
[Class Advancement Quest ready.]
His heartbeat quickened.
"Show me."
[Class Advancement Quest]
Objective: Prove your path.
Requirement: Enter the Trial Space and survive.
Restrictions:– No assistance– No items from outside the Trial– Death inside the Trial results in real death
Kael stared at the final line.
"…Figures."
Solo. No backup. No Companions.
Just him in a rigorous dance with death.
Fantastic
"Where is this Trial Space?" he asked quietly.
The System didn't answer in words.
Instead—
The room shifted.
The wall across from him rippled like disturbed water.
The stone twisted and the wood slowly cracked. A door formed where there hadn't been one before.
Black iron. No handle. No markings.
It didn't belong in Jorrvaskr. It didn't belong in Skyrim.
Kael rose slowly to his feet.
The System chimed again.
[Once you enter, retreat is impossible.]
[Choose carefully.]
Kael reached out.
His hand hovered inches from the cold iron surface. It was strangely more realistic than he thought.
He let out a slow breath.
He thought about it all. He hadn't had any time to even catch his breath to feel the full fantasy experience ever since he had been dumped into this world. It has been training after training after combats. A relentless struggle to get stronger.
Especially the loss at the hand of the abomination in the forest.
Tsk
It tasted sour.
"…If I'm going to survive in this world," he muttered, "I need more than claws and damned luck."
His hand moved closer to the door.
And he pushed.