Erwin crouched on a patch of dry earth, his breath visible in the cold air as the sun set behind him. His muscles ached, and his palms were raw from hours of wielding his weapon. The training grounds outside the guild's main hall were bustling with activity—rookies sparring under the watchful eyes of mentors, seasoned fighters refining their skills, and the occasional curious onlookers whispering amongst themselves.
Erwin tightened his grip on the worn hilt of his weapon—a rusted sword from the guild's armory. It wasn't impressive, but it was his only tool for now. Sweat rolled down his temple as he prepared to resume his drills.
"Still swinging that thing like a farmer chopping firewood, I see," Lyria teased, leaning against a nearby post. Her tone was playful, but her eyes betrayed a hint of concern.
"Not all of us are born with the agility of a thief," Erwin shot back, wiping his brow.
"True, but you're determined. I'll give you that."
Her words weren't a compliment; they were a challenge. Erwin gritted his teeth and began the routine again—step, slash, pivot, repeat. Each movement was deliberate, his mind focusing on perfecting the basics rather than flashy techniques.
---
The guild's philosophy was simple: strength was not measured in immediate results but in persistence. Erwin had been assigned to a grizzled veteran named Garron, a retired warrior known for his no-nonsense approach.
"Your problem," Garron barked during one of their sessions, "is that you think too much and act too little. The body learns through repetition, not overanalysis."
Erwin wanted to argue but held his tongue. Garron's methods were brutal but effective. The man had him practice the same sequence for hours, correcting every misstep with a growl or a sharp tap of his staff.
At night, Erwin's arms throbbed from endless drills, and his legs felt like lead. But he could feel the tiniest flickers of progress—his strikes were more precise, his footing more stable. It wasn't much, but it was something.
---
One week later, Erwin found himself assigned to a low-level mission alongside a small team. Lyria, of course, was among them, along with a young mage named Cael and a hulking brute named Dren. The task was straightforward: clear out a group of rogue beasts that had been terrorizing a nearby settlement.
The group traveled in silence, the tension palpable. For Erwin, this was more than just another mission—it was his first chance to prove that he belonged in this world, system or not.
The settlement was eerily quiet when they arrived. Shattered windows and claw marks on walls told the story of a recent struggle. As they moved deeper into the village, the sound of growls and heavy footsteps echoed from a nearby barn.
"Stay back and observe," Dren ordered, his massive axe gleaming in the fading sunlight.
Lyria rolled her eyes. "He's not a child, Dren. Let him get his hands dirty."
"I didn't ask for your opinion," Dren snapped, but Lyria's smirk only widened.
Cael muttered a spell under his breath, conjuring a faint orb of light that floated ahead of them. The glow illuminated a group of creatures crouched in the barn, their twisted forms a grotesque blend of fur, bone, and sinew.
---
Dren charged in first, his axe cleaving through the air with terrifying force. The beasts scattered, snarling as they circled him. Lyria darted in next, her movements a blur as she slashed at the creatures with her twin daggers. Cael provided cover, sending bolts of fire and ice toward the enemy.
Erwin hung back, observing the chaos. His grip tightened on his sword as he assessed the beasts' movements. They were fast, but their attacks were predictable, relying on brute force rather than strategy.
When one of the creatures broke away from the group and lunged at Cael, Erwin reacted without thinking. He intercepted the beast with a clumsy but effective swing, his blade cutting into its side. The creature howled in pain, giving Cael enough time to finish it off with a burst of flame.
"Not bad," Cael said, panting. "You've got decent instincts."
Erwin didn't reply, his focus already shifting to the next threat.
As the battle raged on, Erwin found himself slipping into a rhythm. He wasn't as fast as Lyria or as strong as Dren, but his ability to read the battlefield gave him an edge. He anticipated the creatures' movements, positioning himself to exploit their weaknesses.
By the time the last beast fell, Erwin was covered in sweat and blood—some of it his own—but he was still standing.
---
Back at the guild, Erwin sat on the steps of the training hall, staring at the calluses on his hands. The fight had been messy, but he had survived. More importantly, he had contributed.
Lyria plopped down beside him, tossing him a flask of water. "You didn't completely embarrass yourself out there. Congrats."
"High praise coming from you," Erwin said, taking a sip.
"Don't get used to it," she replied, grinning.
Garron approached them, his expression unreadable. "You held your own today," he said gruffly. "But don't let it go to your head. This was a small victory. The real challenges are still ahead."
Erwin nodded, his resolve hardening. He wasn't naïve—he knew that one fight wouldn't make him a warrior. But it was a step in the right direction.
---
Later that night, as Erwin lay on his cot, he couldn't shake the feeling that the world was watching him. Not the guild members or his teammates, but something larger—something unseen.
His thoughts drifted to Alexander Diablo. The man had been suspiciously absent since their encounter. Erwin couldn't decide if that was a good thing or a bad one.
As he stared at the ceiling, a faint glow caught his eye. A small, unfamiliar mark had appeared on the back of his hand—a strange sigil that pulsed faintly before fading away.
"What the hell…" he muttered, sitting up.
Lyria's voice called from the next room. "You talking to yourself again? Don't make it a habit—it's creepy."
Erwin ignored her, his mind racing. Whatever the mark was, he knew it wasn't a coincidence. The world was changing, and so was he.
---