The kingdom of Rathmoor stretched vast and majestic, its towers gleaming under the midday sun. It was a land of legendary heroes, magic, and untold riches—but none of that mattered to Joran, who was currently scrubbing chicken droppings off a cobblestone street.
"Another day, another humiliation," he muttered, his ragged shirt clinging to his back as sweat trickled down his neck.
The quest was simple: clean the mess left by a merchant's runaway flock. It paid barely enough to cover dinner and lodging at the cheapest inn, but Joran couldn't afford to be picky. As a G-ranked adventurer, he was stuck with the jobs no one else wanted.
The adventurer's guild had a saying: "Even the weakest flame can light the darkest path." For Joran, it felt more like: "Even the weakest flame gets snuffed out in a strong breeze."
He lacked everything an adventurer needed to succeed—strength, skill, and magical prowess. His aura, the life energy that enhanced combat ability, was pitifully weak, and his mana reserves barely amounted to a flicker.
As he finished his task, Joran leaned on his broom and gazed longingly at the quest board across the square. Adventurers of higher rank—shiny armor, gleaming weapons, and all—gathered around the more lucrative jobs.
A tall, confident warrior tore a high-ranking quest from the board and laughed with his comrades. "An A-ranked wyvern hunt. This'll be a good haul!"
Joran sighed. For him, the only quests left were menial labor or deliveries. He needed a breakthrough—something, anything—to prove he wasn't a complete failure.
…..
Later that evening, with a few copper coins jingling in his pouch, wandered into a dusty corner of the city. His feet carried him to a small library he'd never noticed before.
The shopkeeper, an elderly woman with sharp eyes and a crooked smile, glanced up from her counter. "Looking for something, boy?"
"Just… something to help with combat," Joran mumbled, embarrassed.
The woman raised an eyebrow but pointed him toward a shelf in the back. "Take your pick. Two silvers for anything on the bottom row."
Joran crouched down, running his fingers across worn spines until one caught his eye: a plain, unmarked book with a faint, golden shimmer on its edges. Curious, he opened it. Inside were strange, crudely drawn illustrations of sword stances, hand-to-hand techniques, and meditative exercises.
The title, written in faded ink, read: "Forgotten Techniques of the Mystic Blade."
"What's this?" he asked, holding it up.
The woman squinted. "Ah, that old thing. Found it in the attic years ago. Probably nonsense, but it's yours for two silvers."
Joran hesitated. Two silvers was a lot for someone like him, but the book intrigued him. Besides, what did he have to lose?
"Deal," he said, handing over the coins.
…..
Back in his cramped room at the inn, Joran flipped through the book by candlelight. Each page was more ridiculous than the last.
• "The Staggering Sloth Stance": Pretend to trip and attack mid-fall.
• "The Hungry Mosquito Strike": Rapid, light punches meant to "annoy your opponent into defeat."
• "Empty Cup Overflow": Visualize mana as a teacup filling with invisible energy streams.
"Is this some kind of joke?" Joran muttered.
But as he stared at the pages, something deep inside him stirred. It wasn't hope—he'd long given up on that—but a stubborn refusal to quit. If these techniques were useless, so what? He'd already hit rock bottom.
He stood, picked up his rusty sword, and awkwardly assumed the Staggering Sloth stance.
"Here goes nothing," he said, beginning the strangest training regimen of his life.