The first thing that Dean became aware of was the absence of cold.

  For the first time since dying, he didn’t feel the bite of it. His back was laid up against something soft, and his body was wrapped in a cocoon of warmth.

  Where…

  He opened his eyes. He was greeted by a low wood ceiling made of rough planks that smelled of cedar. The scent was familiar to him, and he blinked as his mind struggled to adjust. He was nestled in a bed… but not any bed. His bed in his room. But if he was back here, then that would mean…

  He sat bolt upright in bed, his heart hammering as the realization struck him. For a moment he had wondered if it had been a dream.. a product of his fevered mind as he lay dying on the battlefield. But his eyes told him the answer.

  Reflexively, he opened his stats, and the familiar black box popped up in front of him. Only this time it was different.

  Name: Dean Thompson

  Age: 17

  Minor proficiencies: None

  Class: to be determined

  BASE STATS:

  Strength: 10

  Agility: 13

  Power: 8

  Resilience: 10

  So, it was true. He really had been sent back in time only: of the hard work he’d done over the years – the minor proficiencies he’d gained, the base stats he had accumulated through hard training were gone.

  Seventeen, he thought, rubbing a hand over his face as his mind struggled to catch up. If I was sent back to when I was seventeen, then… then I haven’t chosen a class yet. There’s still time.

  So the Magus had kept his word after all.

  The creak of footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and without thinking, Dean reached reflexively for a sword that wasn’t there. Moments later, he heard the soft humming, and his heart nearly broke. He knew that tune. It was as familiar to him as his own two hands, as was the voice that now called through the door.

  “Dean, for the love of the Gods, if you don’t get up, I’m going to-“

  In seconds, he had flung the covers off himself and crossed the room. He gripped the doorknob, hesitating for only a moment before mustering the courage to fling it wide.

  She stood there on the threshold of his bedroom, one fist still raised to knock. Her blue eyes, so like their late mothers, were wide with surprise.

  “Oh,” she started, but before she could say anything else, Dean embraced her. She paused, frozen but this sudden and uncharacteristic display of affection. The truth was that back when he had lived with her as a teenager, Dean had never appreciated his sister. She had been strict, taking on the role of mother when their own had passed of illness. He had been too young then to appreciate her sacrifice and everything she had done for him.

  It wasn’t until that day at the start of the war that everything had changed. The day he’d found her body among the charred wreckage of their small house. It was a memory that had haunted him for seven long years, and he felt his throat threaten to close as he wrestled back tears.

  “Sorry,” he said, stepping back to look at her. “I just…. I missed you.”

  Sylvie seemed to wrestle with herself for a moment, blinking like a woman coming out of a daze. Then she narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion.

  “What did you do?” she asked, trying to peer over his shoulder into his room. “Did you come home drunk and bust the window again or something?”

  Dean suppressed a laugh.

  “Come on, that was one time.”

  “And one bad choice can have lasting consequences.” She crossed her muscular arms, and Dean realized she was still wearing her smith's apron.

  She smells like metal. She must have come straight from the forge.

  Realizing that he needed to convince her, he held up his hands.

  “I haven’t been drinking in ages. I just woke up in a good mood, that’s all. Can’t a man miss his own sister?”

  Sylvie looked at him dubiously, then shook her head.

  “Whatever. Look, whatever you’ve gotten into, I don’t want to hear about it. As long as the city watch doesn’t come knocking on my door, I’ll consider it a win. Breakfast was on the counter for you by the way, but I don’t know if you’ll have time to eat it now.”

  Dean furrowed his brow.

  “Time? What do you mean?”

  Sylvie let out a sigh.

  “Of course, you forgot. Can’t say I’m surprised… It’s not like studying was ever your passion. It’s exam registration, Genius. And judging by the sound of the mid-morning bell, I’d say you might already be too late.”

  Dean’s heart nearly stopped in his chest. Exam registration? But that could only mean…

  “The Adventurer exams,” he breathed, as his mind began to catch up. Then the realization struck him.

  “What’s today?”

  Sylvie rolled her eyes. “The third of August, why?”

  Dean swore under his breath, spinning on his heel to face his room.

  “Language,” muttered his sister, but Dean was hardly listening. The room itself was familiar to him, the small window in the corner, the cramped straw mattress. What wasn’t familiar was the clothes now strewn across the floor and piled haphazardly in the corner.

  Was I always this messy?

  Dean found a clean tunic from the pile and pulled it over his head, grabbing a pair of dark trousers from across the old chair in the corner. His sister muttered something that sounded a lot like “typical” before making her way back down the stairs. If the bell for second hour had already rung, that would give him somewhere between fifteen and twenty minutes to register his name for the exam. Normally, he could write it off as a loss and return the following day to add his name to the registry, but today if today was August third, then it was the last day the proctor would be in the city.

  If he wanted a chance at sitting the exam this time around, then he was going to be cutting it close. Dean splashed his face with some water from the basin at his bedside and rearranged his dark, unruly hair as best he could. Upon seeing his reflection, he paused for only a moment. It was odd to see himself as he had been seven years ago. His hair was longer, falling just past his ears in a wild mess. He had been scrawny at seventeen, barely more than stick and bones. It was a far cry from the soldier he’d become after seven years of battle and dedicated training in the Militia. Dean had known he’d never be exceptional, but he had worked hard to level his base stats and gain himself basic and minor proficiencies. Now, he’d be starting over from square one.

  I’ll worry about that later, He thought as he snatched his old boots from beside the door. Right now, I have bigger things to worry about.

  He ran down the steps two at a time, just barely remembering to skip the broken stair at the very bottom. The small kitchen was empty, and Dean could hear the sound of Sylvie’s hammer drifting up from the forge out back. Still, despite her grueling work schedule as a fourth-year blacksmithing apprentice, she had taken time to make him breakfast.

  He grabbed the toast and cheese, cramming a few apple slices in his mouth as he headed for the door. Outside, the small city of Haven was bustling with activity. Fishermen were bringing their early morning catches off the river from the nearby docks. Merchants with carts loaded with goods and supplies were headed for the market square to take advantage of midday shoppers.

  Dean fell into step behind an old cart and donkey, swearing under his breath as he realized his problem. The streets were about to become clogged as the tradesmen and workers from the night before ended their shift. At this rate, he’d have no chances of making it if he kept to the main roads. Normally, he’d take a detour, but that came with its own risks.

  City guards weren’t exactly friendly to street rats like him who came from the lower city, and if they caught him, there would be questions asked. Still, with only ten minutes to spare, it was a risk he’d have to take.

  Glancing to either side, Dean ducked out of the growing crowd and darted down a side alley between two buildings. Taking a second alleyway way he shuffled between a narrow row of houses until he reached the canal.

  After a quick scan for any lingering patrols, Dean began to jog upstream. It had been a long time since he’d ran this route but the old memories were coming back to him. The buildings began to change as he ran by, shifting from the old wood and metal shacks he had grown up in, to the larger, more expensive white wash houses of the upper class. Clay tile roofs gleamed in the sun, and the smell shifted from brine and smoke to the sweet aroma of baking bread.

  Dean took a right at an old broken-down cart, darting sideways between two low buildings until he came to the edge of the street. There were fewer people out during the day in Upper Haven, and the streets were considerably less clogged. He could see a few well-dressed patrons sitting at a nearby café, but so far, he couldn’t spot any patrols.

  Up ahead the white steeple of the Academy’s visitor center was clearly visible. He was only a few blocks away, and if he ran, he might just..

  Dean hadn’t been watching where he was going. One minute, he was striding into the street. The next he was met by a wall of horse muscle. He stumbled.

  “Are you quite out of your mind?” came the clipped tone from somewhere above him. Dean glanced up, his face falling as he recognized the fancy clothes, expensive riding boots, and high cheekbones of someone who could only be nobility.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, taking a hasty step backward from the horse. The man in the saddle was young, likely not much older than him. His blonde hair was slicked back from his head, giving Dean a full view of his haughty expression.

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it,” he snapped, gesturing with a gloved hand. “You gave my horse quite the fright. Imagine if Lancelot had thrown me from the saddle, mmm? I might have broken my arm.”

  Dean snorted. He’d seen enough horses on the battlefield to know that only the expensive animals that weren’t well-trained would balk at something like that.

  “Is something funny?” The man’s blonde eyebrows drew together, and Dean realized he hadn’t bothered to mask his expression. Experience had taught him it was best not to antagonize nobility, but something in the man’s tone had irked him.

  “Not at all,” he said, sweeping a hand across his torso and bowing his head. “Well… it’s just that I assumed that a man who carries a sword as expensive as yours wouldn’t be so easily frightened. I suppose the fault is mine for misreading the situation.”

  A feminine laugh split the air, and Dean glanced around to see a second rider had paused and was watching them. She sat casually in the saddle, as if she were born to it, and her long red hair was held back by a leather band. Though her clothes were still of fine make, they were nowhere near as flashy as the Noble’s.

  “He’s got you there, Maxim,” she said, nudging her stallion forward with her knees. “Leave it, he apologized now let's move on. If you carry on here, we’ll be late and the Party Leader will have our heads.”

  Party Leader? Dean felt a jolt of shock as he realized exactly who he was talking to. Sure enough, beneath the young man’s cloak, he could see the badge of an Iron Rank Adventurer. Maxim narrowed his eyes, his lips twisting in distaste as he tugged at the reins of his horse.

  “This trash isn’t worth my time anyway,” he said. “Do stay off the roads next time, street rat. And learn to hold your tongue when your better speaks to you. I swear these days, Haven has gone to the dogs.”

  He spurred his horse forward into a brisk trot, his nose held in the air.

  “Sorry about him,” said the woman, nudging her horse after him. “He’s a bit of an asshole when he hasn’t eaten breakfast.” She paused, pulling up her horse short. She seemed to be chewing on a thought, deciding whether or not to say it.

  “Obviously, I don’t know you, and I commend you for your boldness. But don’t be fooled by looks. Maxim is the son of a Royal Imperial Knight and Adventurer. He may be an ass, but he’s not the type of person I would recommend antagonizing.”

  Dean bowed his head in thanks.

  “Noted.”

  For a moment, the woman held his gaze, her eyes glittering with amusement. Then she nodded and tapped her heels to her horse, cantering off in the direction the noble had gone. Dean didn’t waste time watching them go. He sprinted down the street, turning right and crossing the courtyard as quickly as he could without drawing too much attention. He was almost there, and he could feel the excitement building. A small line of people was gathered outside the white gates. Someone was speaking, but Dean had to weave his way through a knot of people to hear.

  “That’s it,” said a wiry man wearing the purple robes of the magistrate. “Intake for the day is full, and the proctor will be seeing no additional registrants.”

  What!?” shouted someone from the crowd. “But I came all the way from the lowlands. The trip took me four days!”

  The magistrate smiled thinly.

  “I suppose there is always next year.”

  The flippant response started some grumbling, and Dean took the opportunity to push his way through the crowd. A few people threw him dirty looks, but he didn’t care.

  “Magistrate!!” he called as the man turned back towards the gate. “Please wait.”

  The administrator paused, glancing around and spotting Dean making his way through the crowd. At the sight of his plain tunic and dirt-flecked boots, his lips thinned.

  “I have no time for charity,” he said, waving a hand. “If you want food, try the soup kitchen in the Chapel.”

  Dean came to a halt in front of him.

  “Sorry, I’m not looking for Charity. The thing is, I was hoping I’d get a chance to see the proctor today.”

  “You?” the Masgister wrinkled his nose. “Well, even if the proctor agreed to see you, registration is closed for the day. You’ll have to try again next year.”

  “That’s the thing,” said Dean hastily before the man could turn again. “I turn eighteen in a few months, and if I don’t manifest a class by then…” he trailed off as the Magistrate's eyebrows rose. “Seventeen and classless? Now that is interesting indeed. Well, I’m afraid there is nothing I can do for you. If it was that important for you to register, you should have made it sometime during the week.”

  With that, the proctor strode through the gate. Dean clenched his fists at his sides. He knew he couldn’t afford to take no for an answer. Becoming an Adventurer was his best chance at achieving his goals, and without an official badge from the Guilds, his class options would remain restricted.

  “What if I made it worth your while,” he blurted. The magistrate paused mid-step and tilted his head.

  “You have money?”

  Dean licked his lips.

  “Well no but-“

  The man scowled.

  “Then you have nothing of value to offer me. Clear off before I call the Watch and have you removed from the area.”

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  The gate slammed in his face, and Dean glared at the man through the bars as he made his way up the path towards the main Academy building.

  The crowd began to disperse, but Dean stayed fixed to the spot, his fists clenched at his sides. A year was not a time he could afford to wait. For most people, the options for available classes that fit their attributes began to appear at age fourteen or fifteen. If a person were lucky, their class options might include something that offered them a good way of life. A high trade like artificing, the runic arts, or some form of superior crafting. Others might unlock a merchant class, something that would put them ahead in business and trade and grant them the ability to earn a small fortune. But most weren’t so lucky.

  The classes that had been available to Dean consisted mostly of low trade work and hard labor. No, failure wasn’t an option here. If he wanted a shot at becoming an Adventurer, then he needed to get inside that visitor center.

  Dean stepped back from the gate, examining the wall as he went. The stone wall wasn’t particularly high, maybe seven or eight feet at most, but its smooth surface and the rot iron spikes mounted atop made it impossible to scale. If he was going to get over it, then he would need a little leverage.

  Dean spotted the painter on a side street, bucket propped on his knee as he put the finishing touches on the white wall.

  “Hey,” said Dean, waving at him. The kid looked around, eyes narrowing as Dean approached. “I don’t have any money,” he said hastily. “so robbin’ meh ain’t worth it.”

  His accent gave him away immediately. He was a lower city kid, the same as Dean. The only difference was that he was authorized to work here. Maybe there was an angle he could use.

  Dean shrugged.

  “I don’t want to rob you,” he said. “I want to make a deal with you.”

  The boy adjusted his cap, looking at him with new interest.

  “What kinda deal?”

  Dean pointed to the wooden ladder propped against the wall.

  “I want to borrow that,” he said. “I’ll give it back in less than an hour, but there is something I need to use it for.”

  The boy, now more confident that he wasn’t in immediate danger, folded his arms across his small chest. He knew from experience that street rats like him only valued two things, so he decided to cut to the chase.

  “Look,” he said. “I know you don’t earn much here painting houses. I have a few copper pennies I could give you if you let me borrow the ladder.”

  The boy puckered his lips, considering.

  “Two copper pennies?” he said, thoughtfully. “Nah, the ladder itself is worth more than that. How do I know you won’t just run off with it?”

  Dean sighed with frustration.

  “Do I look like I’m from around here? What use would I have running around the backstreets with a ladder?”

  The boy only shrugged and when he remained silent, Dean rubbed his eyes. He was running out of time and if he didn’t do something now he’d miss the small window he had left.

  “Fine,” he said. “I can give you something in collateral, one of my socks or something.”

  “I dun want one of your stinkin’ socks,” snapped the boy. “But collateral I’ll take. What about that.”

  He pointed, and Dean blinked, looking down. He had almost forgotten about the small knife tucked into the waist of his trousers. It was a compact blade, one he had carried when he was younger in case he encountered trouble. It had also been a gift – one of the last things his mother had ever given him.

  “Off limits,” he growled, and the boy stuck out his lip in a pout.

  “Deal’s off then.”

  Dean breathed through his nose, fighting the urge to give the kid a good whack to the back of the head. His time was running out, and he needed to get moving if he wanted any hope of salvaging the situation.

  “C’mon,” wheedled the kid, showing his hand like a bad gambler. “We never get to have them in Upper City because the Watch searches us every morning and evening before we leave. I just want to hold it, maybe play with it a bit. I won’t dull it or nuthin’!”

  Dean gritted his teeth, but in the end, he knew his choices were limited. “Fine,” he growled, unclipping the knife from his belt and tossing the sheath to the boy, who caught it with a yellow-tooth grin. He grabbed the ladder off the wall and tucked it under one arm.

  “If I find out you tried to stiff me, I’ll scour this city for you, and there won’t be a hole deep enough that you can hide in.”

  ***

  “I believe that is all of them.”

  Proctor Baron Forsa glanced up at the magistrate now striding towards him from across the hall. The man wore the same pinched expression he always did, one that seemed permanently affixed to his face.

  “Are you quite satisfied with the results of your assessment?” asked the man, coming to stand in front of the desk. “Was there anyone noteworthy? Someone that the academy or Guilds should be aware of?”

  Removing his spectacles, Baron rubbed at his eyes. He knew that the magistrate was likely probing for information to sell to the Guilds, so he kept his expression carefully neutral.

  “No,” he said, waving a hand. “Aside from the usual second sons and silver mine heirs, there were very few prospects that showed any real promise. A sign of the times, maybe. What with the increase in Dungeon appearances and roaming beasts, being an Adventurerer is as dangerous a profession as ever.”

  “Ah,” the magistrate didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. “Well, should you come across anyone with promise, please be sure to keep the Academy informed. It’s our proud tradition to offer anyone with high enough potential a chance to participate in the exams.”

  The man’s smile was so forced it was practically transparent. He wasn’t lying – at least not entirely. The Academy was more than willing to offer any adventurers that tested high enough in aptitude or potential a position in their ranks… if, of course, they could pay. Any Adventurers without means that managed to squeeze through the rigorous selection process would quickly find themselves in a lot of debt – debt that the Academy was more than happy to sell to the Guilds for hefty interest.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he lied, shuffling the parchment before him into a pile. The Magistrate hesitated, looking like he wanted to say more, but in the end, he seemed to sense Baron’s reluctance. After a few moments, he dismissed himself, muttering something about needing to speak with the headmaster.

  “That man really is insufferable,” muttered Baron as he patted his pockets. It had been a long day, and he needed a smoke before he wrote his letter to the Emperor.

  He had retired as a Gold-ranked Adventurer nearly ten years ago, and since then, he’d taken up work as a Proctor and Examiner. It was a decent career, and he had to admit, one with a much longer projected lifespan. The pay wasn’t poor either. The reality was, however, that the job had become more difficult in recent years.

  Dungeons of all tiers had begun to spawn more frequently, and with the lack of new notable talent, the Guilds were struggling to keep up with quotas. And then there were the appearances of Rifts. They could be rumors, he supposed, but in truth, there was no way to tell. The appearance of Rifts meant that there was activity beyond the veil – activity that hadn’t been seen in centuries.

  Baron shouldered open the side door, stepping out of the hall and into the sunlight. The fresh garden air was welcoming after so long at his desk, and he set about packing his pipe as he enjoyed the warmth.

  “Just a few more days of this,” he muttered. “Then I’ll be home to you.”

  He grinned at the thought of his wife sitting by the fire, smiling that secret smile only for him. He loved regaling her with stories of his trips, much like the stories of his early contracts and Dungeon dives when they first met. He had always loved being on the road… but if he was honest with himself, he knew he missed her the moment they were parted.

  Maybe I ought to retire, he mused as he placed the pipe between his lips. Baron lifted a finger, summoning a minor fire spell with the essence still housed in his bloodstream. He felt that familiar rush of power, a sensation as familiar as a friend. Closing his eyes, Baron sucked in, feeling the smoke of fresh tobacco in his mouth.

  That’s right. Sixty years old and I’ve still got-

  A sound interrupted his thoughts, and moments later, his mana sense flared, warning him that someone was in proximity. Baron glanced around, eyes narrowing, but as far as he could see, he was alone in the garden.

  “You can come out,” he said, taking another casual puff of his pipe. “It’s not like I can’t sense you anyway.”

  There was a short pause, then moments later, a young man climbed out of a nearby bush. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and there were leaves still clinging to his tunic, but it was his sheepish expression that made Baron want to laugh.

  “Well,” he said in a mock stern tone. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  The youth glanced at him, eyes dropping to the Gold-rank badge pinned to his chest, and his own widened.

  “I’m looking for the Proctor,” he said, his face serious. “Are you him?”

  Baron took another puff from his pipe, considering.

  “And what do you want with him?”

  The boy straightened, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders. It was a move that might have seemed arrogant on anyone else, but Baron got the impression that it was a habit.

  By the looks of it, he grew up on the streets. Those who grow up hard know there is no sense in showing weakness. Vulnerability only draws the wolves.

  “I’m sorry for my appearance,” said the youth, gesturing apologetically to his clothes. “But I needed to speak with you, and the Magistrate wouldn’t let me in. I promise not to waste your time if you’ll hear me out.”

  Baron wasn’t surprised that the Magistrate had denied him entry. Despite the fake friendly demeanor, he, like the Academy and the Guilds it answered to, respected only two things. Money and power. Baron considered the boy for a long moment before he finally sighed.

  “Very well. But make it quick, I haven’t got all day.”

  The youth’s eyes lit up and he leaned forward in eager anticipation.

  “Sir, I want to take the exam. I know I’m late for registration, it was a lapse of judgement that I deeply regret. But I know deep down that being an Adventurer is my fate. There is no other path for me, and I am willing to work as hard as it takes to prove myself.”

  Baron blew smoke out of his nose in a laugh, and the youth scowled.

  “Come now, I’m not laughing at you,” he said, waving a hand. “It’s just… well… the circumstances. You pop out of a bush covered in leaves after almost certainly breaking into the academy grounds just to ask me if you can take the test?”

  He quirked an eyebrow, and after a moment, the boy seemed to relent.

  “I’m.. sorry about breaking in,” he said, shrugging, “But it was the only way I could speak with you.”

  Baron grunted.

  “I’m less interested in the why than I am in the how. Those walls are warded, you know. There are runes carved into the stones themselves to prevent anyone from easily climbing them. Tell me, how does a gangly, classless teenager manage to bypass them so easily?”

  The youth’s eyes snapped to his, sharpening for just a moment. It was a calculated expression, and one Baron noted.

  “I used the tree,” he said, gesturing towards the tall lone oak that stood some thirty feet away. “The wards only prevent anyone from climbing on the wall directly, but as long as you don’t make contact with the runed stones, it isn’t much of a barrier.”

  Baron’s chuckle quickly became a wheeze when the smoke got caught in his throat. “Not much of a barrier,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Maybe not for an essence user, but I’ll admit it’s fairly clever for a classless kid from the lower city. I suppose I shouldn’t ask where you learned so much about bypassing wards.”

  The youth’s smile was tight.

  “I’d prefer if you didn’t, sir. I wouldn’t want to have to lie to you.”

  Baron grinned. The kid’s methods may be unorthodox but he wasn’t a fool. His time as a proctor had taught him that some of the most unlikely people made the best Adventuerer’s but that didn’t change one fact.

  Baron tapped out his pipe ash on his boot and grimaced.

  “I can’t deny you’ve piqued my interest,” he said. “But the fact remains that tuition at the Academy is exceptionally high. I’ll examine you here in a moment and see if your stats and potential are up to par. But barring an exception, it’s likely you’ll either be denied entry or wind up over your head in debt for the next thirty years.”

  Far from seeming surprised by this news, the youth simply shrugged.

  “I don’t have an interest in working with the Guilds, sir. I plan to forge my own path.”

  Baron’s jaw nearly dropped open.

  “You want to be independent?” he sputtered, scratching at the stubble on his chin.

  And I thought he was ambitious before. Becoming a ranker without a Guild in the current climate… it’s madness.

  Baron stowed his pipe back in the inner pocket of his jacket and shook his head.

  “Well, it’s your life, but I’ll give you some advice nonetheless. The Guilds may have their problems, but they are the safest way to climb ranks and gain abilities. It isn’t just their banks, training facilities, Guild houses, and sanctioned training houses. Those are all benefits that should be marked, of course, but the value in a guild is in its resources and connections. The best contracts come through them, and often they are the ones that own access to dungeons. Without being on the roster of a notable Guild….”

  He trailed off, letting the words sink in. The youth nodded politely, but the look in his eyes told Baron he wasn’t swayed in the slightest. Sighing, he decided to let it go.

  “Alright,” he said. “I’ll test you, see what you’re made of. If you’ve convinced me by the end of our meeting, then I might,” he put emphasis on the word, “Be willing to add your list to the official registration.”

  The kid's eyes lit up, his shoulders squaring as he nodded.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said eagerly, but Baron waved a hand.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he turned and strode through the Garden, leaving the boy scrambling to catch up. “You’ll have to share access with me if you want me to review your stats.”

  “Oh, Right.”

  There was a pause as Baron sent the system request over. After a moment, the black box appeared in his vision, hovering in the air before him. Only he could see his own system, and in order for others to access stats, one had to manually allow it. Baron swiped a hand before him, accepting the incoming data.

  His own black box blipped and a secondary grey box opened to his right. Baron scanned it.

  Name: Dean Thompson

  Age: 17

  Minor proficiencies: None

  Class: to be determined

  BASE STATS:

  Strength: 10

  Agility: 13

  Power: 8

  Resilience: 10

  Baron ran a thumb across his lips as he considered.

  “Well I’ll be candid with you,” he said, “Your base stats are some of the lowest I’ve seen in potential candidates. As it is now, you’d have to have all of your stats at level twenty-five at least before you would qualify for the physical exam. But…” he lifted a hand, swiping the box to make way for his assessment stats. Baron’s subclass allowed him to use the discernment ability on all potential candidates, giving him insight most Adventurers wouldn’t have into someone's true abilities.

  Intelligence Score: Above average

  Mental fortitude Score: Exceptional

  Magic proficiency: Minor to none

  Potential: Undetermined

  It was that last stat that surprised him most. Dean wasn’t anything special, but his mental fortitude and intelligence were respectable. But the potential…

  “Have you ever been tested for essence potential before?” he asked, lowering his spectacles over his nose. Slowly, the youth shook his head.

  “Hmm,” Baron chewed on his lip. “No matter, I have the equipment to test you here and now. Come, sit with me.”

  Baron paused his strolling at a small cove in the Garden surrounded by rose bushes. The soft, trimmed grass was even, and Baron took a seat on it, patting the spot across from him. Uncertainly, Dean took a seat opposite him.

  “You understand the nature of essence, I assume?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow. Dean nodded.

  “I think so, sir.”

  Baron opened his inventory, pulling out a pair of three instruments which he laid on the ground between them.

  “Essence is, in short, the magical life force of every living thing. Most things contain essence, but the ability to see it and to refine it is something only Adventurers attain. It is the source of our power, but it is also dangerous. Essence, in its raw form, is no better than poison. The earliest Adventurers learned their limits fast when many started dying young. Consuming refined essence is a skill that can be learned, but it’s not to be done lightly.”

  A shadow passed over the boy’s eyes, but when Baron looked again, it was gone. He paused for a moment, wondering if he’d imagined it. But when the youth only blinked at him, he decided he must have.

  “Your potential can be measured by means of three ways. First, it is your blood, and your body’s ability to process it.”

  He lifted up a small copper needle and held out his hand. Dean didn’t hesitate in offering his hand palm up, his expression steady.

  “It might sting,” Baron warned. “But something tells me it’s not the worst you’ve been through.”

  Carefully, he lined up the needle with skin and, in one fluid motion, pricked the boy's center finger. Dean didn’t so much as blink.

  “There,” said Baron, grabbing one of the other implements and tapping the drops of blood into a small dish.

  “That was the first method. The second is mana sense.”

  He lifted the blindfold from the ground and passed it to the youth, instructing him to bind his eyes. When Baron was satisfied that his sight was sufficiently blocked, he summoned his own power. Essence surged within him, and Baron breathed deeply through his nose, enjoying the feeling.

  “Now,” he said. “I want you to focus on the feeling. Stretch out your senses and see if you can probe beyond your body. I’m going to mark something with my own mana. I won’t tell you where or what, but in a moment I’ll ask you to find it.”

  Dean nodded, and Baron rose to his feet. He pulled a small metal ball from his pocket. It was also copper, the prime metal for conducting mana. Focusing, he let the magic flow through him up towards his fingertips and out. The copper ball vibrated softly, and a slight blue aura sheen coated its metallic surface. Carefully, Baron placed the ball ten feet away behind the root of a nearby fruit tree. Then he shuffled around some more to make the placement less obvious.

  “Alright,” he said. “I want you to try to sense the object in question. Remember, you’re looking for a magical signature that-“

  Dean sprang to his feet, his head whipping around. To Baron’s surprise the boy ignored the ball completely but came towards him, his hand outstretched. Dean’s fingers closed around his wrist and Baron looked down, startled as he realized his fingers were still glowing with a soft sheen of mana.

  “Here,” said Dean matter-of-factly. “I can sense the object you placed over there,” he pointed. “But this mana signature is stronger. I thought that it might be the source.”

  Baron laughed out loud. The sound seemed to startle Dean, who reached up to remove his blindfold.

  “Did I do something wrong?” he asked, eyebrows furrowing. Baron shook his head, reaching up to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. He hadn’t laughed like this since his wife told that joke about the piglet.

  “No,” he said, trying to wrestle control of himself. “It’s just, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone so precise before. Usually, a candidate who has passable potential will be able to discern the vague direction of the object. Pinpointing it though… well. That’s usually something that requires much more training. Finding the source, however,” rubbed the back of his neck. “In my ten years as a proctor, you’re the first to pull that off.”

  He sobered, sharpening his gaze as he assessed the boy.

  “Is that how you were able to sense the wards?”

  Dean’s eyes flicked quickly to his, then away.

  “I don’t know,” said the youth uncomfortably. “I just sort of… felt them.”

  Baron nodded his head, keeping his face neutral. That level of ability wasn’t only unusual, it was extremely rare. Baron had seen that early skill in nobility or in heirs to large and well-known adventure families. But those children were usually trained from the moment they could walk. They had tutors, lessons on sense and control long before they ever tested to manifest a class. But this boy… he was something else entirely.

  “There is one final test,” he said. Reaching down, he lifted the small bowl with which he had deposited the blood drops and slid it into the final implement. Uncorking a small vial, he poured the contents over the blood and held the bowl at arm's length, waiting. At first, nothing happened. Then the bowl began to fizz.

  Just as I thought. The kid is a natural, but the only question is how..

  After a moment, the diluted essence burned away, leaving the drops of blood still in their place. Baron upended the bowl, watching the two crimson drops fall.

  “This concludes my assessment,” he said.

  Dean suddenly looked nervous, clasping his hands behind his back as he shifted from foot to foot. Baron let him squirm for a moment, considering his options, then he let out a sigh.

  “You aren’t the prime candidate in terms of base stats. I meant what I said, that there is a cut off, and if you can’t raise your stats to at least twenty-five, there is a chance you’ll be denied entry to the physical exam. As for the written? I would say you qualify. You’ll need to show up at the Academy gates in a weeks time to sit the exam, and if you’re late, there isn’t anything I can do for you, as I’ll be long gone.”

  Dean nodded eagerly, a smile pulling at his lips.

  “So it’s a yes?” he asked. Baron nodded.

  “It’s a yes. But heed what I said about the physical exam. The physical requires a supervised trip into a tiered dungeon. Because of the requirements, several guild supervisors will be required to accompany you. That gives you three, maybe four weeks to prepare. Raising your stats that much in a short time?” he shook his head.

  “Possible but improbable. Your best bet would be to seek out a sponsor – an Adventurer or small guild willing to take you under their wing. But be warned, it’s not cheap.”

  Dean grimaced but grunted his agreement.

  “Thank you,” he said, “for taking a chance on me.”

  Baron nodded.

  “It’s not a guarantee. If you flunk either of the exams, then your chance at earning a badge is next to none. Then there is the fact that Guild supervisors are notoriously biased towards independent Adventurers. I’d like to say there is no bias there, but the reality is it’s the world we live in. If you have a sponsor, at least it lends you some credibility.”

  Baron’s mana sense flared again, and he tilted his head. Moments later, Dean did the same. There was a loud bang as the side door to the visitor center flew open. The Magistrate strode out, accompanied by three city Watch. The Watch were dressed in the usual armor and yellow cloaks, but the quality of the gear made Baron think it was likely they were on the Academy payroll.

  The Magistrate’s eyes swept the courtyard, coming to rest on Dean. They narrowed.

  “There he is,” growled the man. “It seems you couldn’t take no for an answer. Trespassing on academy grounds is a crime, in case you weren’t aware. The city watch can decide what to do with you after you’ve spent some time in the stocks. Arrest him.”