The night air in Salvalon was thick with the smell of coal smoke and roasted meat, a sharp contrast to the damp, earthy scent of the Whispering Void. Chris stepped out of The Rusty Tankard, his stomach finally full, but his mind already racing toward the next necessity. A warrior without a blade was just a target, and while he carried a god-tier spirit sword in his soul, he couldn't risk revealing it to the prying eyes of a city full of mages and spies.
He scanned the street, his eyes settling on a soot-stained building just three doors down. A heavy iron sign hung over the door, depicting a hammer striking an anvil. The rhythmic clink-clink-clink of metal on metal echoed from within, even at this late hour.
Chris pushed open the heavy oak door. The heat hit him like a physical blow, a wave of dry, searing air that made his skin prickle, it was like he had entered a furnace instead of a shop . In the center of the shop, standing over a glowing forge, was a man who looked like he had been carved out of the very mountains.
The blacksmith had no eyebrows—likely scorched off years ago—and his skin was a deep, weathered tan, filled with a spiderweb of white scars and jagged burn marks. His forearms were the size of Chris's thighs, corded with the kind of muscle that only comes from decades of swinging a ten-pound sledge.
The man didn't stop his rhythm. He finished his set of strikes, plunged a glowing rod into a vat of oil—resulting in a violent hiss of steam—and finally looked up. His eyes were hard, grey, and completely unimpressed.
"What do you want, kid? I'm busy," the man grunted. Dissatisfied with the intrusion.
"I need a sword," Chris said, stepping further into the shop. "A strong one. Something that won't snap when it hits bone."
The blacksmith let out a dry, hacking laugh. He leaned against his anvil, crossing his massive arms. "Everyone wants a strong sword. The question is, do you have the coin to back up that mouth? Good steel isn't cheap, and my time is even more expensive."
Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out one of his two remaining gold coins. He held it up, the firelight dancing off the golden surface. "I can pay you one gold."
The blacksmith's eyes narrowed. He spat on the dirt floor and gestured toward a rack of dull, grey blades near the back.
"One gold gets you a B-rank mass-produced longsword. Standard iron-steel alloy. It's durable enough for a greenhorn, but nothing special. Take it or leave it."
His tone was dismissive, almost rude, as if he expected Chris to turn tail and run. Chris felt a flicker of annoyance. In the forest, even the A-class monsters gave him more respect than this man. But he suppressed the urge to show his silver Ether; he needed to play the part.
"I'll take the B-rank," Chris said coldly.
As the blacksmith walked over to the rack to retrieve the blade, Chris's eyes wandered to a pile of junk in the corner—discarded hilts, rusted pommels, and scraps of leather. Sitting atop the heap was a black mask. It was made of a strange, matte-black metal, smooth and featureless except for two narrow slits for eyes. It looked like it was designed to cover the entire face, held in place by thin, reinforced silk straps.
"How much for the mask?" Chris asked, pointing to the dark scrap.
The blacksmith looked back over his shoulder and snorted. "That? It's a failed project. Some noble wanted a ceremonial helm, but the metal was too heavy and wouldn't take an enchantment. Take it if you want it. It's just scrap taking up space."
Chris picked it up. The metal was surprisingly cool to the touch and felt much lighter in his hand than it looked. He tucked it under his arm, handed over his gold coin, and took the B-rank sword. It was a basic, double-edged blade with a simple crossguard. It felt like a toy compared to his obsidian spirit sword, but for now, it would serve its purpose as a decoy.
The New Identity
With the sword strapped to his waist in a cheap leather scabbard, Chris realized he still looked like a forest-dweller. If he was going to enter the world of hunters, he needed to look the part. He walked for about half an hour, moving away from the industrial smoke of the smithy district toward the cleaner, more affluent center of Salvalon.
He found what he was looking for tucked between a jeweler and a spice merchant: a boutique with a sign that read The Silver Needle.
As he pushed open the door, a small bell chimed. The interior was lined with mirrors and mannequins draped in fine wools and silks. An attendant, a young woman with a sharp, professional smile, hurried over.
"Welcome, sir! A bit late for shopping, but we are always at your service. What would you like to buy today?"
"I need a full set of clothes," Chris said. "Something durable, dark, and easy to move in. It needs to fit me perfectly."
The attendant's eyes scanned Chris's tall, athletic frame. "Of course. And may I ask what your budget is, sir?"
Chris pulled out his final gold coin. "One gold."
The woman's smile faltered slightly—one gold was a lot for a commoner, but in a boutique like this, it was the bare minimum. She tilted her head toward the right corner of the shop. "I see. You can look at the selections in the right corner over there. Those sets are within your budget."
Chris walked over. He didn't care about the fashion of the Salvalon elite; he cared about functionality. After sifting through several tunics and vests, he found a set that caught his eye. It was a deep, midnight-black robe made of a reinforced linen-silk blend, designed to be worn over a pair of matching black tactical pants. The set came with a pair of sturdy, soft-soled leather shoes that would allow him to move silently.
He took the set into the dressing room and changed. When he stepped out, he looked entirely different. The dark robe draped over his broad shoulders, making him look older and more imposing. He reached into his satchel and pulled out the black mask he'd taken from the blacksmith.
He slipped it on. It clicked into place, the silk straps tightening automatically. Through the slits, his silver eyes peered out, cold and unreadable. The mask covered his face completely, turning him into a faceless shadow.
The attendant gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh! Sir, you look... quite formidable."
Chris looked at his reflection in the tall mirror. The boy from the basketball court was gone. The kid from the cave was gone. Standing there was a figure that belonged in the dark corners of the world.
"Good," Chris muttered, his voice muffled slightly by the metal. He handed over his last gold coin. "Now I'm broke. I don't have a single penny left."
The Road to the Guild
He stepped back out onto the moonlit streets of Salvalon. The weight of his empty pockets was a familiar feeling, though usually, in the forest, "money" meant having enough meat to last the night. Here, it meant survival in a different way. He needed a job. He needed to register as a hunter.
The city was quieting down, but the central district was still alive with the glow of mana-lamps. He spotted an elderly man leaning against a stone fountain, feeding a few stray birds with breadcrumbs.
Chris approached him, his black robes fluttering in the night breeze. The old man looked up, startled by the faceless figure suddenly appearing in his periphery.
"Excuse me," Chris said, his tone polite but firm. "Do you know where the Adventurers Guild is located?"
The old man blinked, his eyes widening as they took in the black mask and the sword at Chris's hip. He pointed a trembling finger toward a massive, three-story building at the end of the plaza—a structure made of rough-hewn stone with a flag bearing the image of a crossed sword and shield flying high above its entrance.
"Right there, young master," the old man whispered. "The grand hall. You can't miss it. But be careful... the Guild is no place for those with weak hearts."
"Weak hearts don't survive where I come from," Chris replied quietly.
He turned away and began walking toward the looming stone hall. Every step toward those doors was a step away from his past and toward a future where his name—or the mask he wore—would eventually be known across the entire continent of Xener.
He was a ten-year-old boy in a fifteen-year-old's body, a 6th-circle mage, an Ether-user, and a master of the Void. And as of tonight, he was officially a hunter.
The "Isolated Ascension" was no longer isolated. It was time for the world to notice.