he afternoon sun bathed the central square of Ravel, a small settlement of wooden houses on the edge of the Kingdom of Karsen. The air carried the scent of dry pine and the everyday bustle of merchants, but for eight-year-old Darian, the world narrowed to the words of the village elder.

  Sitting on the dry earth, his dark eyes fixed on the tired figure of the veteran, Darian barely blinked. The old man rested his knotted hands on a wooden staff as he pointed to the stone statue that presided over the place.

  "...and so it was, little ones," the elder said in a voice hoarse with years. "When the shadows of the Demon King covered the seven continents, when orcs and elves lost all hope, the six heroes held firm."

  Darian felt a shiver. In his mind, he imagined warriors of every race raising their weapons against the darkness.

  "They fought together in a battle that made the foundations of the world tremble. But when the strength of the others faltered, it was the Human Hero who advanced through the ruins. With a final sacrifice that the chronicles will never forget, he gave his last breath to seal the evil forever. Thanks to him, today we walk under the light."

  The children around him burst into cheers, but Darian remained silent, admiring the weathered statue. To him, the Human Hero was the highest ideal, the reason he dreamed of holding a sword someday.

  "Darian! It's time to go!"

  His mother's voice broke the spell. The boy jumped up and ran to her, waiting with a serene expression near the market.

  "Mother, mother! Did you hear the elder?" Darian exclaimed, his face flushed with excitement. "The Human Hero was incredible! He saved everyone at the end with his sacrifice!"

  His mother gave him a warm smile and took his hand as they walked toward their home. She stroked his windswept jet-black hair and replied softly:

  "It is a story full of valor, my son. But always remember that there were six heroes who fought in total. Each one of them was necessary."

  Darian nodded, though inside, the figure of the human warrior shone brighter than any other.

  That night, the aroma of rabbit stew filled the small cabin, but Darian barely touched his food. His mind remained in the square, wielding an imaginary sword. His father, a man of broad shoulders and hands hardened by work, set down his utensils and looked at him with a seriousness the boy did not expect.

  "Darian, if you're going to follow this path, emotion alone won't suffice," his father said in a firm voice. "The Guild is no children's game. It operates under a strict hierarchy that defines who you are and what missions you can accept."

  The boy leaned forward, forgetting his dinner entirely. His father began to explain how the world he so desperately wanted to belong to was divided.

  "Everyone starts at Bronze, the rank of novices. That's where most remain. If you prove capable, you rise to Silver. But the true leap is at Gold, the rank I reached; that's where you stop being a mercenary and become a respected warrior. Above that is Platinum, your grandfather's rank. They are living legends, capable of facing threats that would wipe out entire armies. And above all, almost like a myth, stands Mithril. Only a handful of people in each generation reach that level."

  Darian listened in sepulchral silence. The rank system now had weight, had names and surnames in his family.

  "And how did they rise so high?" Darian asked in a whisper.

  "Not just through steel, son. Through study as well." His father searched for a small chest and pulled out a book with worn leather covers. "This is a Skill Tome. The basic ones, like those for physical reinforcement or simple elemental spells, aren't hard to find. Once you study and assimilate them, the knowledge becomes engraved in your soul and body forever. You no longer need to carry the book with you."

  Darian caressed the tome's cover with reverence. His father continued with a warning:

  "But there is something else: Scrolls. They are different from tomes; they contain unique abilities or secret techniques that are extremely difficult to find. And beyond all that, there are the Grimoires. Most think they are legends, myths about a power that fuses with the soul. Don't get distracted by stories now. First, you must master the basics."

  Time in Ravel passed naturally. Over the following eight years, Darian grew not only in height but in discipline. That basic tome of physical reinforcement his father gave him became his sole obsession. He studied it until every instruction was engraved in his memory, allowing him to strengthen his muscles with a constant flow of internal energy.

  Eight years later, the change was total. Darian, now sixteen, adjusted his leather breastplate before the mirror. His jet-black hair and dark eyes projected a confidence he hadn't possessed as a child. He no longer carried the tomes with him, for the knowledge was now part of him.

  At his waist rested a short steel sword, simple but lethal in trained hands. He wore a dark reinforced tunic under a hardened leather breastplate, with boots prepared for the hostile terrain of dungeons. He felt the pulse of the basic reinforcement abilities he had managed to assimilate after years of effort.

  When he came down to the kitchen, his mother stopped upon seeing him, a mixture of pride and melancholy on her face.

  "Oh, Darian... you've grown so tall. I can hardly believe you're the same boy who ran through the square."

  Darian smiled, adjusting his sword belt one last time.

  "I'm sixteen now, Mother. It's time. Today I'll take my first test at the Adventurers' Guild."

  With his parents' blessing and the weight of a lineage of Gold and Platinum upon his shoulders, Darian crossed the threshold of his home. His journey had just begun, driven by the desire to reach the glory of that hero who, he believed, had given everything for the world.

  Dawn had barely begun to gild the roofs of Ravel when Darian crossed the wooden arch that marked the village's exit.

  He stopped a moment.

  Not from doubt.

  But to look.

  The low stone houses, the mill turning slowly, the smoke rising in thin columns. From inside, Ravel had always seemed enough. From outside, it seemed fragile.

  He adjusted his bag's strap and began to walk.

  The main road was more alive than he had imagined. Carts, travelers, merchants, lone adventurers. Dust rose beneath wheels and boots.

  Two beastmen escorted a caravan. They were tall, powerfully built, with marked feline features and upright ears that moved attentively to their surroundings. Their tails peeked beneath their travel cloaks, twitching with slight irritation.

  Darian slowed without noticing.

  He had never seen beastmen up close.

  One of them held his gaze firmly until Darian looked away and continued walking.

  Further ahead, a group of merchants argued prices with a dwarf of braided beard. Near the edge of the road, a small creature with blue-gray fur, similar to a fox but with two thin tails, sniffed among some boxes before disappearing into the bushes.

  The world was not like in the stories.

  It was stranger.

  A sharp shriek made him look up. In the distance, silhouetted against the clear sky, a winged shape glided over the distant mountains.

  It was no common bird.

  The long neck, the pointed tail, the broad membranous wings.

  A wyvern.

  It was too far to make out details, but close enough for its presence to feel real.

  Darian watched it until the figure descended behind a rocky ridge.

  His heart beat hard.

  The world was larger than he had ever understood.

  The sudden whinny brought him back to the present.

  The cart, the wolves, the arrow already buried in one of them.

  He ran without thinking.

  He interposed himself, reinforced his body, felt the impact in his arms. Another arrow crossed the air with precision. The last wolf fled.

  The archer descended from a nearby rise.

  She carried a curved bow of dark wood, worked with elegant but unadorned lines. Her light reinforced leather armor was a deep green with aged copper details. Fitted to her body, practical, without unnecessary ornamentation.

  Her brown hair fell to her shoulders. Among the strands, one ear was clearly longer and more tapered than a human's. Not exaggeratedly pointed, but unmistakable. Her features were fine, balanced. Her green eyes, attentive and serene.

  Elven blood was present in her, though not complete.

  She stopped before him.

  "Where are you from?"

  "From Ravel."

  "And there, is it normal to interfere in others' work?"

  "I only tried to help."

  She pointed to the merchant.

  "I'm hired to escort him to the city. That was my job."

  Darian understood.

  "I didn't know."

  "Before intervening, observe."

  He lowered his gaze a moment.

  "It wasn't my intention to interfere."

  She evaluated him for a few seconds.

  "Be more careful next time. Not everyone reacts with patience."

  She collected her arrows and returned to the merchant.

  Darian watched her leave, then resumed his own path.

  This time observing more.

  The landscape began to open. Soft hills replaced the forest's density. Among the tall grass moved small creatures with shiny shells, similar to armadillos but with crystalline plates on their backs that reflected the light.

  A herd of deer with bifurcated antlers crossed in the distance, accompanied by birds of reddish plumage that perched on their backs without seeming to bother them.

  In a rocky area, he saw large tracks marked in dry mud. Too large for a common wolf. He remembered the wyvern's silhouette and felt a mixture of unease and excitement.

  Further ahead, the road widened and improvised posts appeared. A vendor offered cured fire-beast meat. Another sold small vials with glowing powder that, he claimed, repelled nocturnal creatures.

  Darian listened, absorbed, learned without asking.

  When the silhouette of Arkania began to rise before him, he slowed.

  The walls were imposing, built with precisely fitted blocks of gray stone. They were not smooth: they had carved reliefs depicting ancient victories, defeated creatures, emblems of noble houses.

  Circular towers rose at intervals, connected by upper walkways where guard figures could be seen.

  The flow of people increased as he approached the main gate.

  There they stopped him.

  "Name," asked one of the guards, a man of dark beard and polished armor.

  "Darian, of Ravel."

  The guard checked his bag, examined the contents with professional quickness.

  "Purpose?"

  "Guild registration."

  The second guard, younger, observed him with mild curiosity.

  "First time."

  It wasn't a question.

  Darian nodded.

  After a brief additional inspection, they returned his belongings.

  "Welcome to Arkania."

  He crossed the main arch.

  The city enveloped him immediately.

  Wide streets of light stone. Buildings of up to four levels, with wrought iron balconies and colorful awnings protecting the market stalls. Crystal lanterns suspended between constructions via decorative chains.

  The smithies resonated with constant rhythm. The smell of freshly baked bread mixed with that of hot metal.

  In the center of the main square rose a broad fountain of light stone. At its core, a sculpture depicted a warrior with sword raised and cape extended by the wind.

  At the base of the statue, a name could be read in deep letters:

  ALTERION — HERO OF HUMANITY.

  A cart transported cages with small winged creatures that emitted intermittent shrieks.

  It wasn't just big.

  It was organized around danger.

  The Guild building dominated one of the main squares.

  Broad, of darker stone than the rest of the city. Tall windows. The emblem carved above the entrance depicted sword, bow, and staff intertwined in deep relief.

  Darian breathed deep and entered.

  The interior was even more bustling. Long tables occupied by adventurers of different ranks. A large central board with commissions classified by difficulty. Torches contained in iron supports illuminated the walls where maps and records hung.

  Behind the main counter stood the receptionist.

  Black hair gathered in a high ponytail, sharp and attentive brown eyes. She wore the Guild uniform: dark blue vest with silver trim and an embroidered insignia on the chest. Her movements were quick but orderly. She spoke in a clear tone, without raising her voice too much, and yet made herself heard.

  "Next," she said without looking up as she finished sealing a document.

  Darian stepped forward.

  She raised her gaze and evaluated him in a second.

  "Registration for aspirant. Fill this out."

  She handed him a form and explained the rules with mechanical clarity, like someone accustomed to repeating them many times a day, yet without losing professionalism.

  The theoretical evaluation was brief and direct.

  Then they led him to the inner courtyard.

  There the instructor waited.

  A man of middle age, gray at the temples, a diagonal scar crossing his left cheekbone. He wore light training armor and a practice sword.

  "Instructor Garrick," he introduced himself without formalities. "Show me what you can do."

  The combat began without ceremony.

  Garrick attacked with constant pressure, forcing Darian to react without rest. He didn't seek to crush him, but to force him to maintain control under stress.

  Darian reinforced his body at precise moments to absorb impacts and counterattack. On one occasion, he managed to deflect a blow and respond with a movement that forced the instructor to retreat half a step.

  Garrick smiled barely.

  The confrontation ended when the instructor placed the tip of his sword on Darian's chest after a quick sequence that he failed to read in time.

  "Solid foundation," Garrick said. "You lack experience."

  They sent him to the final test.

  A simple mission in the Low Mountain Dungeon: collect a medicinal herb that grew in humid zones of the first level.

  "You would go accompanied," the receptionist explained.

  She checked a record and announced:

  "Supervision assigned: Silver-rank Aria Valen."

  The name resonated in Darian's memory.

  He turned.

  Beside one of the hall's columns, the same half-elf from the road looked up from a report.

  Her green eyes recognized him instantly.

  This time without road dust or combat tension.

  The young woman looked at him for a few seconds.

  "Didn't expect to see you here," she said calmly.

  "Neither did I," Darian replied.

  There was a brief silence.

  "Aria," she finally introduced herself.

  "Darian."

  She approached with sure steps. Around her neck she wore a dark collar from which hung a translucent blue crystal, polished and bright. The color indicated her rank within the Guild.

  "So you're the aspirant."

  Darian nodded.

  The receptionist handed them the sealed commission.

  Aria reviewed it quickly.

  "First level. Humid zone. Nothing complex if you follow instructions."

  She returned the document.

  "Prepare yourself. We leave in a few minutes."

  Darian adjusted his equipment while the Guild's murmur continued around them.

  Aria checked her bow's tension, reviewed her arrows one by one, and adjusted her armor straps with precise movements.

  Without unnecessary words, they headed toward the building's exit.

  The Guild door closed behind them with a deep, contained sound.

  And the city's noise enveloped them again as they advanced toward the outside.