Training

Steven stood in the sand pit, the glow of his newly mastered self-healing spell still tingling in his fingertips. He cast it again, the golden light flaring briefly, and then—a chime, sharp and crystalline, rang through the air. He whipped his head around, searching for its source, confusion etching his face. The gnome instructor giggled, her silver hair bouncing as she clapped her hands. “Oh, that’s the Chime of the Goddess,” she said, her voice a lilting melody. “You’ve leveled up, dear. Check your ID.”

Fumbling with excitement, Steven yanked the shimmering card from his pocket. The silver script gleamed brighter: Steven Shatterkynn, Age 16, Unarmed Combat Lvl 1, Resilience Lvl 1, Holy Magic Lvl 2. “Level 2 already?” he marveled, brows shooting up. “Isn’t that… too fast?”

The gnome tilted her head, her glasses catching the magical light. “Not at all! The first few levels rise swift as a storm wind—meant to kindle your spark. But mark my words, the higher you climb, the slower the ascent. Like scaling a mountain: easy at the foothills, brutal near the peak.” Steven flushed, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. Of course—every video game he’d ever played followed that curve, the early levels a breeze before the grind set in. He should’ve known.

“Well, sweetheart,” she said, snapping her tome shut with a flourish, “my time’s done for today. I leave you in Franz’s capable hands.” Steven snorted, the name sparking a flicker of memory—Hans and Franz, the old workout meme from his past life. The absurdity of it tickled him, but before he could dwell, the gnome turned to leave, her tiny form retreating toward the stairs.

“Wait!” Steven called, a sudden impulse seizing him. “What’s your name, pretty lady?” She froze mid-step, a deer caught in a hunter’s glare. For a heartbeat, she stood still, then slowly turned her head just enough for him to catch the rosy bloom spreading across her cheeks. “Melissa Veylthorne,” she murmured, her voice a velvet whisper, the surname dripping with a subtle, elegant allure—sensual yet refined. Then, like a startled fawn, she scurried up the stairs, vanishing into the shadows of the guild hall.

Steven barely had time to savor the moment before a heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder. He jolted, spinning to find Franz looming over him, all six feet of chiseled muscle and grizzled intensity. “Ladies’ man, eh?” Franz rumbled, a smirk tugging at his scarred lips. “You’ll fit right in with the guild.” His grip tightened—iron-hard—and with a flick of his wrist, he hurled Steven across the sand pit like a discarded stone. Steven hit the ground hard, his ass smacking the sand with a dull thud, a yelp escaping his lips.

What followed was a brutal crucible. For hours, Franz pummeled him—fists like battering rams, kicks that rattled his bones. “Move faster!” Franz barked as Steven scrambled to block, his Unarmed Combat instincts flaring to life. Each blow tested his Resilience, forcing him to dig deep, to endure. Between rounds, Steven paused, hands trembling as he summoned his holy magic, the golden glow washing away bruises and fatigue. The chime rang again—then again—his skills surging with every grueling exchange.

By the end, Steven collapsed onto the sand, sweat-soaked and gasping. Franz towered over him, arms crossed, a grudging nod his only praise. Steven checked his ID: Unarmed Combat Lvl 8, Resilience Lvl 12, Holy Magic Lvl 4. The numbers glowed brighter, a testament to the beating he’d survived. Franz had forged him in fire, and he’d come out sharper for it.

“Enough,” Franz grunted, hauling Steven to his feet. “You’ve earned a meal.” He guided him back through the labyrinth of hallways, the air growing warmer as they ascended. They emerged into the dining hall—a raucous cavern of wooden tables and flickering lanterns. Franz shoved a tray into Steven’s hands: a simple bowl of steaming soup, thick with root vegetables, and a hunk of crusty bread. “Basic fare,” Franz said. “Free for trainees. Eat up—you’ll need it.”

Steven sank onto a bench, weary but triumphant, the warmth of the soup seeping into his battered body. His skills thrummed within him, a foundation laid in blood and light. The Mistveil Shores stretched beyond the guild’s walls, whispering of greater trials to come.