V2C10 - Kindling the Spark

Veyren’s Clearing – Late Afternoon

The clash of steel echoed through the trees, sharp and rhythmic like a heartbeat.

Lucen sidestepped a low swipe and pivoted on his heel, bringing his blade around to parry Nyari’s next strike. Her daggers danced in tight arcs, fast and fluid, and he had to rely on his wind magic to keep up—coaxing thin gusts through each movement to shave milliseconds off his reaction time.

“Better,” Nyari said between quick steps. “Still stiff in your right hip though.”

Lucen grunted. “Maybe because you keep kicking it.”

“Maybe because it’s wide open.”

She darted in low. He blocked. She pivoted up. He barely ducked, feeling the whisper of her blade graze a few strands of his hair.

They separated, circling. The tall grass around them swayed gently in the wind—some of it natural, some of it responding to Lucen’s mana.

He was getting better at using it now. Not forcing it. Not fighting it. The wind moved with him, filling in the gaps his body couldn’t yet close on its own.

But something else was rising beneath it.

Something hotter.

“Don’t look away,” Nyari warned, smirking. “You space out, you get floored.”

“I’m not spacing out,” he said.

“I can see your eyebrows twitching.”

Then she vanished.

Lucen barely caught her movement—just a shimmer of pressure to his left. He turned and blocked on instinct, steel meeting steel. Her momentum carried her forward, and for one heartbeat they were locked together, blades pressed, faces close.

She raised a brow. “Caught me. That’s new.”

Lucen smirked. “Starting to get predictable.”

“Oh?” Her knee came up suddenly.

Lucen gasped and stumbled back—barely blocking in time.

Nyari grinned. “Still got a few tricks.”

He growled, breathing heavier now. “Not for long.”

Mana surged up from his core. He let it flood into his legs and arms—pulling wind into his next strike. He closed the distance between them in a burst of speed and swept his blade upward.

Nyari ducked, rolled, then spun around to land a kick square against his ribs.

Lucen staggered, stumbled—and as he caught himself, something broke loose inside him.

Heat. Sudden and sharp.

Without thinking, he slashed upward.

Fwoom.

A burst of fire exploded from the edge of his blade.

Nyari’s eyes went wide. She leapt back, the flame narrowly missing her leg. The grass between them ignited in a brief flash before burning out just as quickly.

Lucen froze, breath caught in his throat. The tip of his blade still glowed faintly.

Nyari stood five paces away, her dagger half-raised—but her focus was squarely on his sword.

He lowered it slowly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah,” she said. “I figured.”

Veyren’s voice cut across the clearing from behind a tree. “And that is why we meditate before sparring.”

The old mage emerged from the treeline, arms crossed. He didn’t look angry—just tired.

Lucen stepped back, the blade in his hand still faintly warm. “I wasn’t trying to cast anything. It just… came out.”

Veyren nodded slowly. “Because your body is resonating now. Magic that responds to emotion has no interest in waiting its turn.”

Nyari sheathed one dagger but kept the other resting at her side. “It looked like fire.”

“It was,” Lucen muttered, glancing at his palm.

Veyren walked to the scorched patch of grass and nudged it with his boot. “Untrained, unshaped. Raw elemental fire, reacting to a spike in emotion and unstable mana channels.” He looked up. “Congratulations. You’ve officially lost control.”

Lucen winced. “That’s not exactly the tone I was hoping for.”

“Control isn’t just power,” Veyren said, walking over to him. “It’s balance. And right now, you have wind magic built on flow, and fire magic built on impulse. One lifts, one burns.”

He pointed toward the cottage. “Cool off. Eat something. You’re done for today.”

Lucen hesitated. “You’re not going to test it?”

“Tomorrow. When you’re calm. When you’ve thought about what this means.” He turned to Nyari. “Watch him. If he twitches too hot, splash him.”

Nyari saluted playfully. “Yes, teacher.”

Veyren vanished back toward the trees, muttering to himself.

Lucen stood there for a moment, staring at the blackened streak in the grass.

Nyari stepped up beside him. “You okay?”

“I think so.”

“Did it scare you?”

He nodded faintly. “Yeah. A little.”

She nudged him with her elbow. “It scared me too. But just a little.”

Lucen gave her a weak grin. “You sure you’re not just good at hiding it?”

“I’m excellent at hiding things,” she said. “But not that. You could’ve burned me.”

“I wouldn’t have let it hit you.”

“I know that,” she said quickly, ears twitching. “That’s why it didn’t.”

They stood there quietly.

Then Nyari leaned in slightly and smirked. “Also… when you flared up like that? It was kinda cool.”

Lucen blinked. “Cool?”

“Hot, technically. But you know what I mean.”

He let out a breath and shook his head. “I think that’s the first time anyone’s complimented me for almost incinerating them.”

“You’re just full of firsts.”

Veyren’s Clearing – Evening Haze

The sky faded into dusk, and the clearing had gone quiet, save for the soft chirping of crickets and the occasional breeze rustling the pine boughs. Training was done. The air still held the faint smell of scorched grass.

Lucen sat near the firepit, shirt clinging to him from sweat, his sword resting beside his leg. A slow breeze cooled the soreness from his limbs, but his thoughts felt heavier than usual—like something inside him was shifting, shedding layers he hadn’t even realized were there.

He stared into the small campfire he’d lit, letting the flickering flames steady his breath.

A rustle in the grass drew his attention. Nyari approached barefoot, a rolled-up cloth bundle tucked under one arm and a small orb glowing in her hand.

She sat beside him with a thump and a stretch. Her tail flicked once as she dropped the bundle—salted meat and root chips—and set the orb near the fire. It cast a soft golden glow, mingling with the firelight and pushing back the creeping dark.

Lucen eyed the orb. “Didn’t think we needed it.”

She glanced at him. “I’ve seen your fire magic. I’d rather not rely on you to light the place up.”

He gave a soft chuckle. “I’m sensing judgment again.”

“Nope. Observation.” She bit into a strip of dried meat. “You’re unstable. Handsome, but unstable.”

Lucen raised a brow. “You think I’m handsome?”

She made a show of chewing. “I said a lot of words just now. You chose to hear that one.”

He laughed—low and a little surprised at how natural it felt.

For a moment, they just sat together. No weapons, no tension. Just the steady crackle of fire and the quiet hum of mana in the air.

Lucen leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. “There’s something wrong with me.”

Nyari glanced over. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

He smiled, but it faded quickly. “When I was sparring with you today, I didn’t just react. I felt something. Something under the wind. It was hot. Angry. Like it wasn’t mine.”

Her ears twitched faintly.

“I didn’t call it,” Lucen continued. “It forced its way out.”

She tilted her head. “So, what—your fire magic’s got a temper?”

“It’s not just the magic. It’s like…” He hesitated. “When I thought I might hurt you—or lose track of you—I lost control. That’s when it burned.”

Nyari was quiet for a few seconds. Then, softly: “Emotion-based casting.”

“Yeah.”

She laid back on the grass, hands behind her head. “You’re going to have to get used to that. Mine’s not like yours. I just move. You feel.”

Lucen looked down at his hands. “That makes me dangerous.”

Nyari turned her head to look at him. “You think I care?”

He blinked. “You should.”

She rolled her eyes and sat up again. “Lucen, if I wanted safety, I wouldn’t be sleeping in the woods with a guy who can accidentally launch a fireball at my face.”

He met her eyes. “Why do you, then?”

Her expression softened—ears drooping just slightly at the tips.

“…Because you’re the first person who ever looked back to check if I was still behind them.”

Lucen didn’t respond right away. His heart beat louder than before. He wasn’t sure what to say—but he knew how he felt. The quiet between them wasn’t heavy. It was full.

Nyari shifted, moving a little closer. Her tail curled loosely around her side.

“You said earlier something flared when you thought I might get hurt.” Her voice lowered. “Try it now. But don’t force it.”

Lucen hesitated, then nodded.

He closed his eyes and focused—not on burning, but on feeling. The wind inside him was steady, familiar. But beneath it, something coiled—hot and restless. He reached for it.

For a second, there was nothing.

Then a flicker of warmth. A slow surge.

He opened his palm—and a small flame ignited, no bigger than a candlelight. It wavered, hovering just above his hand.

Nyari leaned in slightly. Her eyes shimmered in the glow. “There it is.”

Lucen breathed slowly, holding the flame. It felt different this time. Not wild. Not angry. Just there—alive in his hand.

Nyari didn’t say anything else. She just watched, the firelight painting soft gold across her face.

Then, gently, she reached out and placed her fingers over his wrist.

Lucen blinked.

“Steady,” she whispered. “You’re not alone in this.”

The flame flared once—then settled again.

Veyren’s Clearing – Morning Mist

Lucen stood barefoot in the dewy grass, his hand extended, breath held.

The early morning fog clung to the trees, and the rising sun hadn’t yet burned through the haze. The clearing was still, quiet—only the distant chirping of birds and the soft rustle of branches gave life to the silence. His shirt clung to him in the cold, but the deeper pressure in his chest ran far warmer.

Across from him, Veyren stood with his arms crossed, gaze sharp and unreadable.

“Again,” the mage said.

Lucen exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.

The wind was there—eager, responsive. But he pushed past it, reaching deeper.

Heat.

It stirred in his gut and pulsed into his hand. He opened his palm.

Fwoosh.

Flame burst from his fingers in a sharp arc and veered wide. It missed the practice target entirely, scorching a long, jagged line through the grass.

Lucen pulled his arm back, jaw tight. “Too far.”

“Again,” Veyren said flatly.

Lucen steadied his breath and reached again—this time pulling on the memory of calm, of last night. The steady glow in Nyari’s eyes. Her fingers on his wrist. Her voice when she told him he wasn’t alone.

The flame rose again. Slower. Smoother.

This time, it struck the wooden post squarely, hissing against the outer bark.

Lucen opened his eyes, a thin line of smoke curling up from the center of the blackened mark.

Veyren approached, his boots crunching lightly through the mist-damp grass. He stared at the mark in silence, then turned his head.

“Sit.”

Lucen obeyed without question.

Veyren raised his hand, conjuring a glowing arcane glyph in the air—two concentric rings with a rotating point of light at the center. As he touched it, the rings began to spin.

“This,” he said, “is resonance. When a mage channels one element, the ring aligns with the core. It spins steady. Balanced. That’s the natural flow.”

He tapped again, and a second ring appeared. It spun unevenly, intersecting the first at unstable angles.

“But the more elements you awaken, the harder it becomes to maintain control. The rings interfere with each other. Some overlap. Some pull away. And if your core isn’t stable…”

He snapped his fingers. The glyph shattered in a spray of fading light.

Lucen watched, brow furrowed. “You’re saying I’m destabilizing.”

“I’m saying you’re waking too fast,” Veyren replied. “Most mages take years to reach a second affinity. You awakened Wind on day one. Now Fire’s responding. And fast.”

Lucen looked at his palm, where faint warmth still lingered. “You already know I have all six. The guild measured it.”

“I know,” Veyren said, stepping back. “But knowing you have them and watching them awaken is not the same thing.”

He turned to face him fully, tone serious now.

“Your body isn’t trained for six elemental flows. Your mind hasn’t adapted to their contradictions. Wind lifts. Fire consumes. Water grounds. Light expands. Darkness folds. Earth resists. Each one carries different emotional triggers—and you? You feel everything.”

Lucen swallowed. “So what do I do?”

Veyren pointed to the target. “You slow down.”

Lucen blinked. “That’s it?”

“You control your core—your emotions. Right now, your mana reacts to fear, instinct, and protection. That’s why it responded to Nyari. You need a focus. Something that steadies all six channels when they start to stir.”

Lucen nodded slowly. “Like… an anchor?”

“Exactly.”

Veyren looked up at the grey sky.

“You’re not just talented. You’re overloaded. Your mana isn’t walking a path—it’s racing down all six at once. And if we don’t teach you to pace it…”

He trailed off. His eyes narrowed—not out of anger, but out of something closer to worry.

“…you won’t be able to control the storm when it finally hits.”

Lucen sat quietly as the words settled in. The fire in his chest had dulled now, but not faded. It was still there, waiting. Wanting to be used again.

“I’ll learn,” he said finally.

Veyren nodded once. “You’d better. Because if you burn too hot…” He let the rest hang.

Lucen looked up.

“…you won’t just take yourself out. You’ll take her with you.”

Falridge Road – Mid-Morning Breeze

The walk into town was quiet, the kind of quiet that let the air settle between them without weight.

Lucen kept one hand lightly clenched, flexing his fingers now and then just to be sure no fire sparked. His palm still tingled faintly from the training earlier, but the soreness wasn’t what bothered him.

It was what Veyren had said.

You’ll take her with you.

Ahead, Nyari strolled casually down the packed dirt road, her tail swaying behind her in slow arcs. She wore her travel cloak draped loose over one shoulder, the hood down, ears twitching lightly in the breeze.

“You’re thinking too hard again,” she said, not turning around.

Lucen blinked. “How do you know?”

“Because when you’re brooding, your steps get uneven.”

He looked down at his feet, then at hers. Sure enough, he was half-stumbling into the edges of the road while she walked like a breeze on stone.

“Guess I should practice walking next.”

“You should. You suck at it.”

He caught up to her with a soft laugh. “Thanks.”

She glanced over at him. “You’re not going to fry me, you know.”

Lucen didn’t answer.

She bumped him lightly with her elbow. “Hey. I trust you. That’s the only reason I don’t stay out of reach.”

Lucen exhaled. “That’s a bad reason.”

“No,” she said, smiling faintly. “It’s the only one that matters.”

As they approached the city gates, the usual clatter of carts and chattering vendors filled the air. The distant sound of a smith’s hammer rang through the wind, and the warm scent of baked bread drifted from the merchant square.

Lucen let the noise pull him forward.

They were just two adventurers heading to the guild.

And for the first time since that spark ignited in his hand, he felt like maybe he could handle what came next.

Falridge Guild Hall – Midday Rush

The hum of adventurers echoed through the vaulted hall—boots thudding, voices clashing, and the clatter of steel mingling with the scent of parchment and cooked nuts. Lucen stepped in beside Nyari, brushing past a pair of loud Silver-ranked mercs comparing wound scars.

He flexed his right hand slightly as they approached the front counter.

A soft glow pulsed in his wrist—the sigil.

“Try not to catch fire again while we’re inside,” Nyari muttered.

“No promises,” Lucen replied.

At the desk, Eyla looked up, already grinning. “Well, if it isn’t Smokestep and his shadow.”

Lucen sighed. “That nickname better not stick.”

Eyla leaned forward on one elbow. “Your glyph’s glowing, Copper boy. Let’s have a look.”

Lucen held his hand up. With a small channel of mana, the Arcane Sigil Interface shimmered into view—a translucent pane hovering above his wrist. Lines of text hovered in the air:

Eyla whistled. “Three down. Not bad. You’ve been busy—Rivvy’s forge run, that mangled boar you skinned with a table knife, and the felmice extermination.”

Nyari snorted. “It wasn’t a date.”

Eyla smirked. “Tell that to the flickering heart rune.”

Lucen deactivated the sigil with a slight twitch of mana. “So I need one more?”

“One more, and you’re officially out of Copper. Bronze means better pay and fewer ‘carry this box’ jobs.”

She turned and flicked her fingers at the board behind her. A fresh quest sheet floated off the posting and into her hand.

Request: Eliminate Orc Scout Group

Location: Eastwood Creek Fork

Threat Level: Moderate

Details: Orc scouts have been reported harassing merchant paths southeast of Falridge. Five to six targets. Aggressive behavior noted.

Reward: 2 silver per confirmed kill. Bonus pay for recovered gear. Proof by marked ears.

Guild Credit: Promotion-eligible

Verified by: Kalen’s Crest Guard Patrol

Lucen took it. “Orcs.”

Nyari read over his shoulder. “Scouts. Light weapons. No shields.”

“They’ve already wounded two guards,” Eyla said. “Low-tier for experienced parties, but for Copper rank? It’s a rite of passage.”

Lucen nodded. “We’ll take it.”

Eyla tapped her finger on the counter. “Clear it, come back alive, and that sigil of yours will shift color the second the system verifies it. Automatic rank-up.”

Nyari glanced at him as they turned to go. “You ready for this?”

Lucen glanced at his wrist, where the faint glow of the sigil had already begun pulsing brighter.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I am.”

As they walked away, Eyla leaned over the desk again and called out, “Oh—and Lucen?”

He looked back.

“When you hit Bronze, people start watching.”

Nyari smirked. “Let ’em.”

Eastwood Creek Fork – Late Afternoon

The forest had gone still—unnaturally still.

Lucen crouched beside a moss-covered ridge, peering down into the overgrown clearing where two thin creeks met in a fork. Sunlight broke in scattered beams across the clearing, but what caught his eye wasn’t the light.

It was the movement.

“Ten… eleven,” Nyari whispered beside him, her ears flicking with tension. “There’s more than we expected.”

Lucen nodded slowly. “Original posting said five to six.”

“Scouts, my ass,” she muttered. “This is a forward team. Look—gear piles, weapon pit, supply crates. They’ve been here at least a day.”

His eyes followed hers to the rough camp setup below. A smoldering fire pit. Two guarding the far edge. One bigger than the rest stood near a moss-slick boulder, barking orders.

Lucen flexed his fingers. His Arcane Sigil Interface pulsed faintly at his wrist—active quest tracking, kill counter at zero.

He drew his blade and murmured, “We still taking it?”

Nyari didn’t hesitate. “If we leave, they’ll hit a caravan. If we wait, we lose the element of surprise.”

Lucen took a breath. “Alright.”

Nyari’s tail twitched. “Don’t hold back. If fire wants out, let it—but don’t let it eat you.”

He gave a faint smile. “I’ll try not to roast you.”

“Appreciated.”

She moved first—vanishing into the trees, silent as smoke.

Lucen closed his eyes, summoned the wind, and dropped over the ridge.

The Battle

He landed hard, knees bending, wind carrying his descent like a rolling step. The first orc barely had time to lift its head.

Lucen’s sword came down across its chest—sharp, clean. He twisted and pivoted just as a second orc charged from the right, swinging wide with a chipped axe. Lucen ducked, air swirling tight around him, and struck low, sweeping the creature’s leg from under it before driving the blade into its ribs.

Behind him, Nyari dropped from a tree and plunged a dagger into another’s throat mid-turn. She spun away from the blood and hissed, “Four on your left!”

Lucen didn’t think. He moved.

Wind surged into his legs. He dashed forward, evading a club swing by inches, and slammed his shoulder into an orc’s gut. It reeled—Lucen turned, planted his feet, and reached inward.

Not for wind.

For fire.

It came slowly—but it came. Heat pulsed from his core into his arm, lighting the blade with a soft red shimmer. Not wild. Not raging. Just present.

He slashed.

The sword carved across the orc’s chest, the edge burning as it passed through flesh and bone. The orc dropped without a sound, steam curling from the wound.

Lucen turned again—blocked another strike, rolled back, slashed twice—and dropped the seventh.

Nyari danced through the fight like a ghost—cutting behind legs, ducking under arms, leaping off a boulder to drive both daggers into a captain’s shoulder. One orc managed to clip her side, but she hissed, rolled away, and spun into a kill.

By the time Lucen slammed his blade into the last standing orc’s chest, the forest had gone quiet again.

He stood panting, blood on his forearms, hands shaking slightly—not from fear, but from effort.

Nearby, Nyari stepped back from a fresh kill, flicking her blades clean.

“Eleven,” she said, breathless.

Lucen glanced down at his wrist. The sigil glowed faint green.

[Quest Complete – Kill Count: 11]

[Verified: Orc Scout Elimination – Rank Advancement Pending]

Lucen gave a slow breath of relief—then froze as Nyari crouched beside a body and started cutting.

“…What are you doing?”

“Ears,” she said flatly.

He blinked. “You’re serious?”

“They won’t pay us just because the sigil says we did it. They need proof to verify which orcs we killed and what group they belonged to.”

Lucen grimaced. “I thought the Glyph did that.”

“It tracks. It doesn’t count.”

She handed him a torn bit of cloth. “Get to work. Eleven pairs. Clean cuts.”

Lucen stared at her.

She smiled sweetly. “Or I’ll take it out of your share.”

They worked in silence.

It was brutal, smelly, and just graphic enough to make Lucen breathe through his mouth. But he didn’t shy away. He wanted the promotion. The pay. The respect. He needed to earn this like everything else.

By the end, his pouch was knotted, stained, and full of orc ears—tied in pairs with torn rope and cloth scraps.

Lucen stood, wiped the blood from his gloves on a rag, and looked over the camp. Crates. Weapons. Gear. Most of it scorched or broken, but some salvageable.

“Think the guild’ll pay extra for all this?”

Nyari nodded. “They better.”

Lucen tapped his wrist.

The sigil pulsed again.

[Status Logged – Awaiting Guild Confirmation]

Falridge – Early Evening

The sun was sinking by the time they reached the edge of town.

Lucen’s back ached. His sword arm throbbed. And the pouch at his side—heavy with eleven pairs of orc ears—reeked worse than anything he’d ever carried.

Nyari walked beside him, shoulder lightly bumping his as they moved past the city gate. Her hood was up, tail flicking lazily with each step.

“You smell like blood and tree bark,” she said.

“You smell like fire and sarcasm.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

They passed the bakery—Lucen caught the faint scent of spiced bread—and crossed the main lane toward the guild, boots scraping dry dust from the road. A few adventurers lingered outside, talking over drinks. One glanced at Lucen’s blood-spattered boots and blinked, then nudged a companion.

Lucen didn’t stop.

He pushed through the guild doors, pouch in hand, Nyari trailing just behind.

Falridge Guild Hall – Evening Glow

Eyla was still at the counter, legs crossed, leaning on one elbow as a pale lantern glowed at her side. She looked up as they entered—and her eyes widened at the state of them.

“Gods. Did you two walk through a battlefield or make one?”

Lucen stepped forward, tossed the pouch onto the counter with a soft wet thud, and replied, “Both.”

Eyla wrinkled her nose. “Don’t unwrap it. I’ll take your word.”

Nyari smirked. “Eleven.”

Eyla blinked. “The report said six.”

Lucen nodded. “We found a full forward group. They were setting up something bigger—supply crates, fire pits, command structure. One of them had armor.”

Eyla’s usual grin faded slightly. She tapped her finger against her desk and turned toward the crystal slab on the wall. “Let me log this.”

Lucen held up his wrist. His sigil flared, projecting its glow.

[Quest Complete – Confirmed Orc Kills: 11]

[Verified by Guild Tracking System]

[Threshold Met – Promotion Eligible]

A second glow surged across the surface of Lucen’s sigil.

The copper hue shimmered—then deepened into a burnished bronze.

The change was subtle, but unmistakable.

Eyla turned back to him and smiled. “Well. Welcome to Bronze, Vale.”

Lucen exhaled slowly.

That… felt good.

She tapped a few more entries, then pulled a sealed pouch from beneath the counter and handed it to him.

“Standard payout plus a combat discrepancy bonus. That’s eighty silver and two copper.”

Lucen stared. “That’s…”

“Enough to finally stop mooching off Nyari,” she said sweetly.

Nyari laughed. “He can afford his own bread now.”

Lucen nodded, tucked the pouch into his belt, and stepped back. “Thanks.”

Eyla leaned forward slightly. “You keep this pace, you’ll be Silver in no time. But don’t get cocky.”

“I won’t.”

As they turned to leave, she added, “And Lucen?”

He looked back.

“That bag of yours better not still be leaking.”

Mirra’s Goods & General – Nightfall

The crooked sign above the door still hung at its usual angle, creaking softly in the evening breeze.

Lucen and Nyari stepped onto the weather-worn stone step, dust clinging to their cloaks and the weight of the day riding on their shoulders. The bell overhead jingled its familiar rasp as they entered—still sounding like it had a cough.

Inside, the shop was just as cramped and overstocked as last time. Shelves leaned under the weight of bundled rope, stacked trail kits, weather-stained bedrolls, and sealed jars of dry rations. Along the back wall, a fresh row of glowing orbs sat nestled in a crate like oversized fruit.

Mirra stood behind the counter, just as before—short, sharp-eyed, sleeves rolled to her elbows, and thick-rimmed glasses catching the lamp glow. She didn’t look up from the scroll she was scribbling on.

“You smell like dried blood and burned leather,” she said flatly. “Rank up?”

Lucen stepped forward and set a tight pouch of silver onto the counter with a muted clink.

“I’m here for a magic bag,” he said.

Mirra glanced up, eyes flicking to the faint bronze shimmer pulsing beneath his wrist. Her mouth twitched—half smirk, half appraisal.

“Well, look at that. Bronze boy made it after all.”

Nyari leaned lazily against the counter. “We told you we’d be back.”

“I assumed you’d crawl in with bandages and excuses,” Mirra muttered. “But alright. Let’s get you upgraded.”

She ducked beneath the counter and pulled out a folded satchel—dull gray with faint shimmer-thread runes along the seams, sturdy straps, reinforced trim. No frills. All function.

“Eighty silver. Standard containment, weightless interior. Won’t hold your ego, but you’ll fit most monster parts.”

Lucen passed the coins across without hesitation.

The moment he touched the satchel, it pulsed softly—attuning to his mana signature. Light. Cool. Balanced. The subtle hum of enchantment settled into his grip.

His first real piece of adventurer’s gear.

Nyari grinned. “Now you just need to stop stuffing ears into cloth bundles.”

“I was improvising.”

“You were being disgusting.”

Mirra rolled her eyes. “He’s Bronze now. Still legally allowed to be disgusting. One more rank and I start charging extra for the smell.”

Lucen slung the bag over his shoulder. “We’ll try to keep the gore outside next time.”

“Do that.”

She nodded once, already turning back to her scroll.

“See you when you’re Silver.”