Oh shit!

The guards slipped away with a final grunt, their armored shapes dissolving into the mist beyond the guild hall’s scarred door. Steven stood alone before the counter, the stern woman’s gaze pinning him like a quarry in a hunter’s sights. She leaned forward, her voice a blade of authority. “Here’s the way of it, stranger. Your ID’s no frail scrap—it’s a fragment of Vyrthralis’s soul, a magical card tempered in arcane fire. Unbreakable, everlasting, it’ll bear your name, your skills, your mark on this realm. It’s alive with power beyond mortal hands—a record no storm nor steel can sunder.”

Steven’s heart thundered. Skills. She’d demand them next. A shiver of dread coiled in his gut as his true gifts—Mind-Dominion, Fleshsculpting, Soulbinding—loomed like specters in his mind. They were no fisherman’s knack or drifter’s trade—dark, potent, perilous. Could he confess them? Would they chain him in suspicion before his saga even sparked? In a flash of panic, he cast his thoughts upward, a silent cry to the divine. Lysandra, you who hurled me here—are these skills my downfall? Should I cloak them in lies?

A whisper slithered into his mind, soft yet edged with divine jest—Lysandra’s voice. “Don’t you know the answer, mortal?” Steven’s throat tightened, a harsh gulp ringing in his ears. Truth or deceit, the burden was his alone, and the goddess offered no lifeline.

“Actually,” he blurted, forcing a crooked grin, “I don’t really have any skills. Not that I know of.” The woman’s brow arched, doubt flickering, but she shrugged it off. “Fine. We’ll unearth them.” She ducked beneath the counter, emerging with a sphere—an orb of fathomless black, so deep it swallowed light itself. It pulsed faintly, a void given form. “Hands on this,” she commanded, her tone a lash of iron. “The Abyssal Oculus will peel back your secrets.”

Steven’s fingers quivered as he reached out, the Soulcatcher’s Band glinting against his skin. The orb’s chill bit into his palms, and as he touched it, a jolt seared through him—lightning threading his veins. The woman gasped, her stern mask splintering as the orb flared with ethereal light. Steven’s breath hitched, dread surging as he braced for ruin.

But her words defied his terror. “Unarmed Combat, Level 1—a fighter’s instinct stirs in your blood. Resilience, Level 1—your spirit grips life like a storm-lashed cliff. And… Holy Magic, Level 1—a vein of sacred light runs through you.” Her voice faltered on the last, awe clashing with the revelation. Steven’s jaw dropped, the shock slamming into him like a titan’s fist. Holy magic? In him?

Lysandra’s laughter danced in his mind, rich and teasing. “Quite the twist, hmm?” she murmured, her whisper curling like mist. “A gift from me—a jest to offset those ‘dark-minded’ powers you clutched so eagerly. The Mistveil’s saltwater scoured your new flesh, anointing it with a divine spark. Relish the irony, Steven.”

The woman shook off her stupor, seizing a parchment and scrawling fiercely. “Name and age,” she snapped. Steven hesitated, then grinned—an epic name flashing into his mind. “Steven Shatterkynn,” he declared, the syllables rolling off his tongue like a war cry. “Age sixteen.” It sounded grand, unyielding—a legend in the making. She nodded, jotting it down. “And your mark—your crest, if you’ve got one. For the card.”

Steven’s thoughts raced. A symbol—an upside-down cross flared in his imagination, stark and bold. “That,” he said, tracing it in the air. “An inverted cross.” In his old world, it carried weight; here, he hoped it was mere flair. The woman snorted, a rare laugh breaking her stern facade. “That’s it? Some backwater village sigil, I wager. No wonder you didn’t know your own skills—probably raised by goats and dreamers.” Her mockery stung, but Steven held his tongue, relieved the mark bore no deeper meaning here.

She slammed the parchment into a rune-etched slot. Light blazed, and she thrust a card into his hand—small, shimmering, unyielding. “Steven Shatterkynn,” glowed in silver script, alongside Age: 16, Unarmed Combat Lvl 1, Resilience Lvl 1, Holy Magic Lvl 1, and the crude upside-down cross etched beside it. “You’re logged,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Odd blend for a shipwrecked whelp. Don’t waste it.”

Steven clutched the card, its heft steadying him as Lysandra’s chuckle faded. Holy magic—a divine prank threading his shadowed fate. The guild hall pulsed with life, the mists of Vyrthralis whispering his next move.