The center of Roen City. The Adventurers' Hall. The testing area.
A long queue wound through the space, the air thick with nervous tension.
Orum stood quietly in the testing line, moving forward at the unhurried pace of the crowd.
Looking toward the front, he could see a heavy stone platform erected specifically for strength tests. Above it hung an enormous, taut sandbag, as thick around as a full-grown adult, its hide surface worn smooth by countless strikes.
The rules were straightforward enough.
Each participant would strike the sandbag with full force, and the height to which the bag swung upward would determine the measured strength level. To pass, the sandbag had to be lifted by a full foot. For most people, that was no easy feat.
Overseeing the test was a massively built man, double chin prominent, radiating an air of gruff authority that immediately reminded Orum of the veteran Charles back in Blackwater Town.
The testing officer stood fixed at his post beside the sandbag, quill in hand, carefully recording results on a thick sheet of parchment.
His experienced eyes tracked each upward swing of the bag with the precision of a hawk, and his judgments were final.
Two participants stood ahead of Orum in the queue. Both wore tightly wound expressions, clearly anxious about what lay ahead.
The first to step forward was a dwarf-short Wanderer with a compact, muscular frame and determined eyes.
"Hyah!"
He drew a deep breath, let out a fierce shout, threw every ounce of his strength into a full-force punch at the massive sandbag.
The blow cut through the air with a whistle, then landed with a dull thud.
To his disappointment, the sandbag barely twitched, swinging up only a small angle, nowhere close to the passing mark.
The testing officer glanced at the bag's angle, noted it on his sheet without expression, and announced flatly: "Fail. Next."
The Wanderer immediately bristled. His small face flushed deep red, and he protested with indignation: "That sandbag is obviously too heavy! This test isn't fair at all! I'm a Wanderer. How am I supposed to meet a standard like this?" His voice trembled with anger.
The testing officer had seen this kind of complaint so many times he didn't even look up. He said simply, in a low tone: "Rules are rules. If you don't have that kind of strength, you won't survive the second round of the Blazing Sun Tournament anyway."
The Wanderer looked ready to argue further, but the participants behind him were already growing impatient.
"Move along, sprout! Stop wasting everyone's time!"
"Look at those little arms. What excuse is there?"
Driven off by the taunts and grumbling, the Wanderer stepped back from the testing platform with a sour scowl, watching the proceedings and muttering: "Let's see how many of you actually pass this ridiculous test."
The second participant was a human warrior who looked formidably built, with exceptionally thick arm muscles and the air of someone shaped by years of hard training.
He was broad enough to draw second looks from the onlookers. Every muscle in his arms was sharply defined, carrying the visible marks of long practice.
He walked up to the sandbag with perfect confidence. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his wrists, settled into a clean fighting stance, and prepared to show what he was really made of.
"Watch this!" he called out to the crowd, making no effort to hide his self-assurance.
With a low roar, he wound up his entire body's strength and drove a thunderous strike at the sandbag. His fist hammered into it like a cannonball.
The bag swung up noticeably, far higher than the Wanderer's attempt. Still, it fell short of the one-foot mark.
The testing officer observed the height carefully, made his notation, and delivered the same verdict without expression: "Fail. Next."
The warrior took it badly. He beat his broad chest with one fist and protested: "This difficulty setting makes no sense! My strength is the best in my entire village! There's something wrong with this standard!"
His voice rang through the entire testing area. Murmurs spread through the onlookers.
"Even he failed?"
"Is this test actually too hard?"
The testing officer spoke again, calm and leaving no room for argument: "The testing standard is entirely reasonable. It was designed by the Adventurers' Hall with great care. Your technique is stiff. Your power delivery is completely untrained. Now quiet down. No shouting in the testing center. Next: Orum!"
The officer's voice boomed like thunder.
Hearing his name called, Orum exhaled slowly and walked toward the testing platform with steady steps. Every pair of eyes in the area turned to follow him.
He felt the weight of those skeptical, curious looks, and thought to himself: "Let's get this over with. What a waste of time."
He raised his eyes and studied the sandbag hanging before him, gauging the target, quietly working through the numbers in his head.
"The sandbag weighs somewhere around five hundred kilograms. Getting it to swing a full foot would take considerable force. But for what I am now..."
After multiple rounds of Monster Organ fusions and enhancements, his strength had long since left ordinary humans behind.
The terrifying raw power granted by the Bugbear Tendon +2, combined with two points of Strength from his master-level combat techniques Thrust and Blade Dance, had pushed Orum well beyond the ceiling of human capability. Lifting a horse-drawn carriage whole would not have taxed him.
Orum stood before the sandbag, adjusted his breathing, and then every muscle in his body snapped taut at once, coiled like steel cable.
Crack crack crack crack crack.
"What was that sound?"
The testing officer's puzzled gaze swept over, and his eyes went wide. The stone testing platform beneath Orum's feet had split open with a jagged crack.
Massive force surged and gathered inside him, rolling like magma gathering deep beneath the earth. Every muscle fiber brimmed with explosive energy.
The onlookers, including both participants who had just failed, watched the young man who didn't look especially imposing, their expressions a mix of curiosity and anticipation.
The small Wanderer curled his lip. "Another skinny kid."
The human warrior shook his head. "Looks undertrained to me. Probably can't manage half my strength."
Other adventurers in the crowd began to murmur among themselves.
"That boy looks awfully young."
"Not much bulk on him either. Good-looking, maybe, but that's about it."
"Probably another fail."
And then, in the instant that chatter began, Orum's figure became a blur.
His torso twisted, like a dragon uncoiling a frame that weighed tens of thousands of tons, and terrifying force climbed rung by rung up his spine like a tide surging along a great river, flooding into his arm.
Under the frozen stares of every person present, Orum's right fist launched like a shell fired from a cannon, straight into the sandbag.
The air tore open in the fist's wake.
The moment knuckle met canvas, the compressed air exploded outward with a sharp, cracking detonation.
A blast of sound went off inside the testing center like a thunderclap on a clear day. Every person nearby felt their ears ring and their hearts lurch.
No one made a sound. Every shred of attention in the room was locked onto the sandbag.
Before their disbelieving eyes, the enormous sandbag, the one that had looked as solid and immovable as a boulder, simply burst open from Orum's single strike. The coarse burlap outer layer split apart instantly.
The sand inside erupted outward like a dam giving way, becoming a torrent that crashed down from above, raining wildly across the area.
The entire testing zone was buried under a wave of yellow sand. The scene was spectacular and chaotic, as though a sandstorm had swept through an indoor space.
The stance and ferocity of that one strike, the image of a god of war descending from another age, was seared into every mind present.
With yellow sand still drifting through the air, the entire testing center fell into a silence like death. Every mouth hung open. Every pair of eyes was stretched wide. No one could make sense of what they had just seen.
Time seemed to stop.
"Is he... is he even human?!"
The small Wanderer's voice shook as he spoke. His entire worldview had just been hit by something large and fast.
"One punch and that whole sandbag just exploded? That's monster-tier strength!"
The well-built human warrior's worldview fared no better. He began to wonder if he was dreaming.
The other adventurers waiting for their own tests were equally stunned by what they had witnessed.
"The Adventurers' Hall testing sandbag, burst with a single punch."
"Is he really just a pre-professional? Not some high-ranking monk?"
"Who is this kid?"
Orum withdrew his fist and gave his hand a light shake, as though that world-shaking blow had cost him nothing at all. He turned to face the testing officer, who was still deep in shock, and asked in a perfectly even tone: "Does that count as a pass?"
The testing officer stared at the shredded remains of the sandbag for several long seconds. "..."
Then he drew a deep breath, and announced in a voice that carried a slight tremor: "P... pass! You pass!"
Orum nodded with quiet satisfaction.
He turned to face the crowd of adventurers and onlookers in the hall, ready to carry out the task Felix had given him. He felt a certain inward resistance to what he was about to say. But a promise made was a promise kept.
He cleared his throat, then called out in a clear, carrying voice, delivering the lines with the rhythm of something memorized: "Fellow adventurers! A word, if you please!"
"I am Orum, of the Ice Hawks Company!"
"Bold enough to fight, strong enough to win, and never the first to back down. That is the Ice Hawks way!"
"Those with strength like mine are hardly rare among our ranks!"
"We are a true elite outfit!"
"If any of you here are open to working together..."
"Please make your way to the famous Radiant Sun Inn in Roen City and ask for our captain, Lord Felix!"
Orum ground through to the end of that stiff, unmistakably promotional speech, feeling as though his toes were trying to dig themselves a three-bedroom apartment beneath the floorboards.
That was excruciating.
The air inside the testing center seemed to curdle from the sheer awkwardness of that sudden commercial announcement, taking Orum right along with it.
The onlookers stared at each other, thrown into confused murmuring.
"Was that... an advertisement?!"
"He staged all of that just to run an ad?"
The reverent atmosphere that Orum's incredible attack had built was dismantled in an instant, not a trace remaining.
Then, breaking through the cringing silence, the testing officer, who had finally pulled himself back together, leveled a stern look at Orum and snapped: "Advertising is not permitted in this facility! Once your test is done, you leave! Now!"
As an official staff member of the Adventurers' Hall, maintaining order in the testing center was his duty.
His voice had reclaimed its full authority. His expression had gone sharp: "Your test is over and you have passed! Please leave the testing area immediately and stop disrupting the other participants!"
Orum felt heat creeping into his face.
"My apologies. I'll go now."
He offered a somewhat awkward acknowledgment and strode quickly out of the testing area. Behind him, he could already hear the whispers spreading.
"Did you catch that? The strong one is with the Ice Hawks Company."
"Ice Hawks? Isn't that the adventuring outfit from Blackwater Town?"
"Looks like they're legitimately powerful. Interesting."
Orum walked out of the Adventurers' Hall and let out a long breath. The mortifying weight of being stared at finally lifted. The fresh air outside did something to improve his mood.
The delivery had been painful. But the objective was met. Every adventurer in that room now had a vivid impression of the Ice Hawks Company's capabilities. Felix's errand was done.
According to the event schedule, the official Blazing Sun Tournament was set to begin seven days from now.
Seven days was exactly enough time for Orum to grind his Iron Heart Force proficiency to its maximum level and bring it to full mastery.
He sounded the bone whistle again and waited for his mount, planning to head back to White Stone Mansion and begin his closed-door training.
Orum sat across the broad back of his giant elk, which looked somewhat put-upon about the whole arrangement but remained professionally cooperative as it carried him through the tangled web of Roen City's streets.
The afternoon sky was clear and bright, the kind that lifted a person's spirits without any particular reason.
But as the elk carried Orum into the fringe of the district with the unsavory name, the air thickened noticeably and took on a more complicated character.
The smells of dozens of different peoples overlapped and tangled. The streets narrowed. The buildings on either side looked worn past their years.
The district, known as Sowbelly, was Roen City's most disorderly slum, home to all manner of outcast groups pushed to the margins of mainstream society.
Public order there was chronically frail. The kingdom's guards rarely pushed past its edges, and at its heart, in the area called the Underground Garden, law was simply absent. Illegal dealings and violent confrontations were ordinary facts of life.
Without warning, the sharp sound of metal striking metal erupted from the street ahead. A moment later, a roar of fury rolled out from around the far corner.
"Damn Dwarven Gang!"
Orum's brow knitted. His sharp senses caught the heavy smell of gunpowder riding the air toward him. Beneath him, the giant elk sensed the threat ahead and slowed instinctively.
A minute later, Orum's line of sight cleared the corner and the full scene came into view.
Several dozen large and powerfully built half-orcs were locked in fierce street combat with a dozen or so well-equipped dwarves.
The scale of the fight was considerable, more than twenty people total, and the intensity had gone well past the level of an ordinary street brawl. Firearms had been brought to bear.
Bang bang bang bang.
The dwarves had claimed the wall of an abandoned stone-yard on the right side of the street, using it as cover, firing down from elevated positions in a tactical defensive formation.
The ground they held was well-chosen: height advantage, solid protection, and the benefit of ranged weapons against melee fighters.
Each dwarf gripped a finely crafted firearm, black barrels catching the sunlight with a cold metallic gleam. Every shot came with an ear-splitting crack and a billow of white smoke, and the stone-sized balls fired from those guns were capable of punching craters into the paving stones.
When a round struck a half-orc in the chest, the orc went down on the spot, blood flowing freely from the wound, and had to be hauled back by his companions for emergency treatment.
Compared to the dwarves' equipment, the half-orcs were fighting with far less.
Most wore leather armor, and some wore nothing at all as they charged in with battle axes and curved blades. But sheer numbers gave them enough force to threaten the dwarven line regardless, and they had already taken quite a few dwarf heads.
Every half-orc warrior held a gleaming blade or axe, releasing the kind of roar that fed their own frenzy, adrenaline running hot, and they threw themselves at the dwarven position in wave after wave of near-suicidal assaults regardless of the guns facing them.
The scene was brutal and without restraint. More than a dozen bodies from both sides already lay on the ground, and the blood pooling across the stone paving had gathered into a thin red stream, vivid against the grey stone. Within several hundred meters of the fighting, not a single bystander remained. Everyone had fled.
Gunfire and the ring of steel and the screams of the dying mixed together into something like a harsh symphony, the kind that sent ordinary people cold.
Orum watched from the elk's back, following the action with frank interest. There was no fear in his eyes, and no particular sympathy. He was simply entertained.
"This is something," he thought, analyzing the situation with a cool eye. The dwarves were outnumbered but well-equipped and holding excellent ground.
The half-orcs were tactically unsophisticated, operating on sheer bravado, but their numbers were enough to keep pressure on, and dwarven firearms reloaded too slowly to create any suppressing fire.
Once the half-orcs got in close, the dwarves had to switch to hammers and fight hand-to-hand against opponents in full berserker mode, and that was a bad trade.
While Orum was watching with genuine enjoyment, his keen ears caught something faint beneath the noise of the fighting. A weak cry for help.
"Help... hiss... someone, please..."
It came from somewhere near an overturned cart at the edge of the battle. The voice was barely audible, nearly swallowed entirely by the violence around it.
Orum tracked the sound. He saw a decorative merchant's wagon lying on its side against the curb, its heavy frame pinning something beneath it. Whatever was trapped underneath was straining hard but couldn't move the vehicle.
The cart was elegantly made, its body inlaid with gold patterning, the carriage box built from hardwood and finished in deep red lacquer. It was also, for exactly those reasons, extremely heavy. No ordinary person caught beneath it could have shifted it unaided.
Clearly a merchant, caught in the crossfire. The horses had panicked and bolted, the wagon toppled, and the unlucky owner had been pinned underneath.
Scattered around the overturned vehicle were wooden crates of merchandise, split open on impact. A few jeweled necklaces and loose gemstones lay quietly on the paving stones, catching the light.
"Help... hiss..."
Orum dropped from the elk's back and walked over at a measured pace. When he leaned in close to look, his eyes narrowed sharply.
What was pinned beneath the wagon was not a human. It was an enormous serpent's head.
More precisely: a half-serpent person, serpentine from the neck up and humanoid in limb, with a thick and agile tail trailing behind.
The creature's head was covered in beautiful emerald scales that shimmered with the depth of cut gemstones in the sunlight.
The half-serpent merchant looked up at Orum and spoke quickly: "Adventurer! I'm not a monster! I am a half-serpent person! Hiss!"
The voice carried a note of alarm. A bright forked tongue flickered in the air, producing a crisp hissing sound with each word. The creature's body was fully pinned beneath the wagon's weight. It was visibly straining with everything it had, but the wagon didn't budge.
"Please, help me, respected adventurer!"
The half-serpent merchant's voice was rough at the edges as it called out to Orum.
"Does a half-serpent person count as a monster?" Orum wondered, turning the question over as he moved. He grabbed the heaviest end of the wagon with both hands, planted his feet, and put his strength into it.
"Hup."
The power of the Bugbear Tendon +2 answered the call. His arms, solid as iron, lifted, and the entire wagon rose and turned over with the smooth authority of heavy machinery.
The half-serpent merchant seized the opening, sliding free with fluid speed. Its tail swept across the ground in quick, sinuous movements as it wound itself into a safer position.
Orum set the wagon down carefully, then picked up the heavy merchandise crates scattered across the ground and loaded them back into the carriage.
"I cannot thank you enough, noble human warrior! Hiss!"
The merchant's gratitude was intense. Its tone was thoroughly sincere, and it performed a bow in the half-serpent fashion, bending in a way that drew an elegant arc across the ground with its long tail.
"My name is Zelan. I run a jewelry shop in Sowbelly. Without your help just now, I would have been crushed to death here."
Zelan's voice still carried the tremor of what had nearly happened.
"It wasn't much trouble," Orum replied simply, eyes still roaming with curious interest over the fluid motion of that long tail.
Zelan began collecting the scattered necklaces and jewelry from the ground with extraordinary care, examining each piece for damage.
"These are order goods I was transporting to other cities," Zelan explained while working. "Fortunately, most of them appear undamaged."
From among the recovered merchandise, Zelan selected a necklace of exceptional craftsmanship, an aquamarine piece strung on a slender but strong silver chain, the stone catching the evening light with the deep shifting blue of the sea. It immediately held Orum's attention.
"This necklace is not a priceless relic, but it is one of the finer pieces in my shop. Please accept it. It is a small expression of gratitude from someone whose life you have just saved."
Zelan held the necklace out with both hands, expression completely earnest.
"Then I'll accept with thanks, Mr. Zelan."
Orum received the necklace politely, feeling the aquamarine's smooth, cool surface in his palm.
"Wonderful! Now I can set my mind at rest. Hiss."
Zelan was visibly pleased. The full length of its tail moved back and forth across the ground in an easy, contented sweep, a clear expression of good feeling.
"If you ever need to purchase jewelry or other fine items, please feel welcome to visit my shop in Sowbelly. It's called Charm & Coil Jewelers. We have a modest reputation in the area."
Orum tucked the necklace carefully inside his coat and climbed back onto the giant elk.
"Until next time. I'll keep it in mind."
Half an hour later, the elk carried Orum back through the gate of White Stone Mansion. The smell of blood from the streets had been washed away by the fresh evening breeze, replaced by the layered, inviting aromas of a carefully prepared dinner drifting from somewhere inside.
The familiar warmth of those smells settled over Orum after a full day of activity, easing every last trace of tension from his shoulders and improving his mood considerably.
After dismounting, Orum lingered briefly in the courtyard. He took out the aquamarine necklace and turned it over in his hands, studying it in the fading light.
His first instinct had been to give it to Ristina and Carolina, the two sisters.
But after a moment's thought, he stopped himself.
Having helped raise younger siblings in the past, Orum understood a principle that might be summarized as: the resentment of inequality runs deeper than the resentment of having nothing.
Whenever he had brought back the same kind of thing for multiple children, he'd learned that the item count had to be exactly equal and the style and color had to match without the slightest variation.
Even the tiniest difference, a slightly different shade, a minor difference in design, would cause the one who felt shortchanged to cry and carry on immediately after the comparison was made.
He had one necklace. Giving it to one sister while the other received nothing would leave a wound, even if neither said a word about it.
Orum quietly returned the aquamarine necklace to his pocket. He would find Zelan again when there was time and buy a second one, identical to the first, before deciding what to do next.