Life at the camp was dull, mundane, and tiresome. Not that he was complaining, of course. All these things were vastly preferable to the harrowing trial Exill had faced, but he felt irritated that he was now a recruit militia, forcibly drafted into the army. This meant he had to wake up early each morning and undergo basic training and exercises, followed by theory classes in the afternoon.
As a lot of the recruits were young men from remote villages; theory classes covered the basics of their stats, the benefits of partying and the various buffs granted by other races. He learned quite a few important things and could summarize the following:
There were eight core stats governing a person's ability,
Strength [physical damage]
Intelligence [magic damage]
Speed [attack and movement speed]
Vitality [the health or HP of a person]
Magic [the pool of mana or MP]
Damage Resist [physical damage resistance]
Magic Resist [magical damage resistance]
Luck [favour by the World Spirit]
Stats could be affected by racial bonuses of the party composition, but were more heavily influenced by the individual's jobs. Once someone trained their profession for about two years, they would unlock perks that granted minor bonuses to stats. For example, it was generally known that training as a [Warrior] for two years granted a minor boost to strength on top of the attack speed increase. The lecturers assured the sceptical trainees that it was an established fact.
"Trust me on this," the Instructor began, "when you reach the two-year mark of your training, assuming you ugly lot even survive that far; you will experience a sudden surge of strength, and this has all been extensively documented and researched."
Exill had garnered other insights on how his Card behaved differently from others. While his stats were displayed as horizontal bar graphs, whose x-axis unit had yet to be determined, others did not have access to this information.
Instead, a person's natural capacity for strength and magic was measured indirectly through trials. On their first day, they had been instructed to channel mana into their palm and cast [Fire] at a target. Only one of them had passed, and even then, they had complained of a splitting headache for several hours.
"Those are symptoms of mana abuse," the Instructor had reassured the trainee, "looks like your magic is higher than the average recruit, but not enough to warrant a transfer to the mage corps, especially with your second job as a [Farmer]."
Lastly, Exill had speculated that two years of training translated to reaching lvl 20 in a job. He intuited this by extrapolating Verill's stats while partied with him. Verill was a lvl 38 [Hunter] and had been one for the past seven years. Exill just had to make mental adjustments for the fact it got progressively harder to level up.
"What are you drawing?" Verill approached him one day, curious about the strange parabolas and notations scrawled across the dirt floor.
Exill looked up in surprise at his companion who was leaning against the barrack walls, massaging the tightened muscles on his rehabilitating forearm. The Hunter had made a remarkable recovery over the past few weeks and no longer required a sling. Although he was far from fully healed, the Hunter diligently attended morning archery practice, being careful not to strain his arm too much.
"Ah! I was just bored and doodling." Exill hastily rubbed the exponential graph he was modelling to match experience gain to levels.
"If you're bored, you should come with me to the waste yard, you can find things to salvage and sell." there was a brazen smile on Verill's lips.
"Isn't that outside the camp?"
"I've got your back little brother, trust me on this. We'll need money once the war is over and this is one of the few ways us poor recruits can earn Denars." Verill squeezed Exill's shoulders as he was led to a boarded-up section of the stockade wall in a quiet corner of camp.
A wooden panel was easily shifted aside to reveal a small crawl hole where one could readily enter and leave at any time. He followed Verill outside the city limits to a large grey pit that was now filled with junk.
The waste yard was formerly a quarry used to supply some of the granite that made up the imposing inner walls of the city. It now lay abandoned, home to heaps of junk submerged in pools of stagnant water.
"Oi, this is my turf!" a scrawny kid shouted up at them, a wicker basket slung over his thin bony shoulders.
"Ignore them. They're orphans. They talk loudly, but are all bark and no bite." Verill reassured him as they approached the pit from the other side.
Indeed, the large junkyard was dotted with hungry desperate youths, wading through the muck to find items to sell for their next meal. The Hunter taught him what to look out for. Things he would have easily dismissed such as rusted hinges from smashed shutters were deemed salvageable. Exill levered a broken latch off a shattered door and felt a deep resonance in his core.
[Ping!]
Summoning his card, Exill confirmed a new job had been obtained.
Scavenger: Production Tier I, level 1, Passive Buff: +10% recovery of materials from items disassembled.
After a few hours of this, they returned to the refugee camp with their meagre haul. Instead of going back to their barracks, Verill took a left turn towards Camp B, the subdivision housing armament manufacturers. Verill suddenly paused outside a workshop, from which the sound of clanging iron and roaring flames could be heard. He turned to Exill, hesitating as he imparted some advice.
"This guy… is a piece of work. Let me do the talking this time and follow my lead." The Hunter concealed his features behind a stern, impassive façade before entering the workshop. The two of them stood at the entryway, waiting as a bearded dwarf finished hammering an incandescent arrowhead into shape before quenching it in oil with a loud hiss. His red tunic was stained with sweat and clung to massive shoulders. The dwarf lifted the goggles to rest against his red cap and studied the pair before him.
"You Scav's?" his voice was like burnt umber, spat with derision.
Verill didn't answer as he lowered their scrap metal haul on the counter, which the dwarf quickly sifted through, quietly muttering under his breath, "I can give you three denars for this." The dwarf licked his chapped lips.
"Four and we have a deal." Verill countered.
The dwarf swore at Verill's ancestors as he rummaged in his coin pouch for four small copper pieces, slamming them down on the counter. The Hunter coolly collected the coins and led Exill outside, heaving a sigh of relief.
"His name is Ham; you would do well to counter 50% above the initial offer. Here is your share." Verill handed him two denars despite Exill's protestations. He had barely contributed to the search but was nevertheless grateful for the Hunter's generosity. It was the first time he could rub two coins together since entering this world, and the novelty delighted him.
"You seem awfully happy for two denars." Verill teased him playfully as they returned to the barracks.