Andrew dipped the quill into the ink, staring at the parchment before him.
Name:
He wrote neatly, the strokes precise. **Andrew Kermil.**
Age:
24
Place of Residence:
Nervill
The next section loomed larger than it had any right to: Ability. His hand hesitated, the quill hovering above the blank space.
Ability Steal. It was as simple as that. No flourishes, no embellishments. Just two words that described what made him unique—and dangerous.
He pressed the quill down, but the moment he tried to write, a faint pressure pushed back. His wrist froze. It wasn't like trembling from doubt; it was a visceral, external sensation. The ink refused to flow.
Andrew frowned, flexing his fingers, but the resistance didn't wane. His thoughts scrambled for an explanation. Was this... a trick of the parchment? A defensive mechanism against fraudulent abilities?
His frustration mounted, but the sensation wasn't hostile. It was almost like a suggestion. Something was stopping him from writing those words specifically, but why?
Andrew let out a quiet huff, his mind racing. He needed to write *something*. Experimenting, he wrote: Slippery Secretion.
To his shock, the quill moved easily this time, as though the parchment itself had sighed in relief. The ink settled onto the paper in smooth, effortless lines. Andrew blinked at the words.
"Seriously?" he muttered under his breath.
It wasn't even remotely accurate, yet no resistance came. He leaned back, perplexed. Whatever force had blocked him earlier now seemed entirely absent. Was this some kind of oversight? Or was something—or someone—guiding him?
He shook his head, refocusing on the remaining sections. The rest of the form was straightforward. Affiliations: none. Rift fighting experience: none. He filled out each field methodically, double-checking his answers before setting the quill down with a soft clink.
Andrew folded the parchment and approached the receptionist. She glanced up, her sharp gaze scanning him briefly before taking the papers.
"Wait here," she said.
Andrew stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets.
The receptionist skimmed through his answers with practiced speed—until she reached the ability section. Her eyebrows furrowed. "Slippery Secretion?" she asked, the words slow and skeptical.
Andrew nodded, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. "That's right."
Her lips twitched, as though suppressing a smile, but she said nothing more. Muttering something under her breath, she turned toward a door behind her desk and disappeared inside.
The seconds stretched uncomfortably as Andrew waited, glancing around the towering hall. The quiet hum of magical energy made the air feel charged. He felt small here, like the building itself was judging him.
The receptionist returned moments later, holding a small card. She handed it to him without ceremony.
"You're now a Rift Fighter. Your registration is complete. You're starting as a Woodgem."
Andrew took the card, examining it closely. The material was smooth. It had the appearance of wood, though it clearly wasn't. His face was printed on the front, along with his name and rank, etched in elegant script. He flipped it over, noting the back contained more text: he was registered at Nerthudan Rift-Fighters Town Hall.
"Woodgem," he repeated.
"Lowest rank," she said bluntly. "It'll go up as you earn accomplishments—like defeating a certain number of monsters or taking down specific types. Each accomplishment brings you closer to the next rank."
Before Andrew could ask anything else, the doors behind him opened, and a young woman stepped inside. She had a slender build, with sharp eyes and short, dark hair framing her face. She wore worn leathers, a dented pauldron on one shoulder, and carried a spear that looked as though it had been carefully maintained despite its age. Her gear was practical, well-used, but not without a certain rugged reliability.
The receptionist perked up. "Mella! Perfect timing."
The newcomer—Mella, apparently—looked over with a curious expression.
"This is Andrew," the receptionist continued. "He's new. Would you mind showing him the ropes? You're still new enough to remember the basics."
Mella blinked, then nodded hesitantly. "Uh, sure. I guess I can do that." She turned to Andrew, offering a small smile. "Hey."
"Hey," Andrew said, extending a hand.
She shook it, her grip firm but quick. "So, first question: What's your ability?"
Andrew hesitated, then said, "Slippery secretion."
Mella tilted her head, her brow lifting slightly. "That's... interesting."
"Yeah," he replied with a wry smile. "It's a real crowd-pleaser."
She snorted, shaking her head. "Well, let's hope you don't need to demonstrate it anytime soon."
"What about yours?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Normally, we keep that private."
Andrew raised an eyebrow. "If it's meant to be private, why'd you ask me about mine?"
Mella shrugged, her expression softening, a hint of shyness creeping in. "I'm a bit of a hypocrite. I can generate iron spears. Not the flashiest thing, but it's reliable."
Andrew nodded, impressed. He didn't like her explanation, but what could he do about it?
Mella motioned for him to follow, and they made their way across the hall, eventually turning into a quieter wing of the building. They arrived at a room filled with various pieces of equipment—armor, weapons, and tools all neatly organized on racks.
A middle-aged man with a stern expression sat behind a counter, eyeing them as they entered. Behind him, shelves were stocked with more specialized gear. Mella approached the counter, nodding to the man.
"New recruit," she said, gesturing to Andrew.
The man grunted, his gaze assessing Andrew. "Name?"
"Andrew Kermil," Andrew replied.
Andrew pulled out his ID, but the man shook his head.
The man tapped something on a small tablet-like device in front of him, then looked back up. "Starter gear only. No credits yet."
Mella turned to Andrew. "They keep track of everything here. You get credits based on your accomplishments, and you can use them to get better gear. For now, you'll get the basics."
The man nodded, retrieving a set of leather armor and a simple sword from the shelves behind him. He placed them on the counter. "Take care of these. You damage or lose 'em, it comes out of your credits."
Andrew picked up the gear. The armor was light, and the sword felt balanced. He already had a sword because of the system, but having a spare one was never a bad thing.
"Thanks," he said, and the man just grunted in response.
"So, why'd you come here?" she asked.
Andrew shrugged. "Wanted a change. A better life, I guess."
She nodded. "Same. I'm from a small town. Not much opportunity there. Here, I can make decent money. Maybe even send some back home."
"That's nice."
"Once we get into a realm, I'll show you how things work," Mella continued. "Most of what we do here revolves around them. You'll want to gather whatever you can—loot, and materials, and bring it back. It's how you earn rank and resources."
"Sounds straightforward," Andrew said, slipping on the armor.
"Mostly. It gets complicated, but we'll stick to basics for now."
Andrew secured the last strap of his armor and adjusted the fit. "So, when do we start?"
Mella grinned. "Right now."