The Great Wilds parted at dawn, their shadows slinking back as Valewood's weathered palisades rose into view. Three years had forged Dante into something else, a stranger to the town that had branded him nothing. At seventeen, he was lean, muscled, scars tracing his chest beneath a blood-crusted tunic. His dark hair hung wild, eyes cold as tempered steel, carrying the weight of his power. The black sword, its etched flames dormant but alive, rested at his hip, concealed beneath a tattered cloak. He was Dante, Blade of Darkness and Flame, Level 6, with skills—Ember of the Void, Ashen Reaver, Cinder's Grace—burning in his soul. Valewood would see he'd changed, but his class and blade were his alone, secrets to guard until Aetherion's Guild halls tested him.
Valewood was a stagnant speck, mud houses and wooden fences clinging to the Wilds' edge. Farmers froze, hoes mid-swing, as Dante passed the gates. Whispers spread like fire through dry grass. Old men squinted, women clutched shawls, children stared wide-eyed. "Dante?" "The classless one?" "He's… different." Their shock was palpable, but Dante's gaze stayed forward, steps steady. He wasn't here for their awe or pity. His path was his own—adventure, strength, a name carved in Eryndor's heart, alone.
The Adventurer's Guild branch crouched at the town's center, its stone walls and faded griffon banner a stark contrast to the mundane. Dante pushed through the oak doors, the creak cutting the chatter of F and E-rank adventurers nursing ales. Their eyes locked on him—blood-streaked, cloaked, a stranger's hardness in his frame. Guildmaster Torren, scarred and broad as a boulder, stood behind the counter, his gaze sharpening with recognition.
Dante: "I'm registering. I have a class."
The hall hushed. Torren's eyes narrowed, skepticism etched in his scars. He gestured to the Aether Crystal on the counter, its surface swirling with unreadable hues.
Torren: "Prove it. Touch the crystal."
Dante stepped forward, hand steady beneath the cloak, brushing the sword's hilt. He pressed his palm to the crystal. Aether pulsed, and it flared—a chaotic swirl of black and crimson, raw, unrecognizable. Gasps broke the silence. Torren leaned in, runes flickering across the orb, unreadable even to him.
Torren: "A class… but unknown. What is it?"
Dante: "Doesn't matter. Register me."
Torren grunted, pulling a ledger. "Fine. F-rank, hunter designation. You want to climb? Grind dungeons—goblins, dire wolves, low-rank lairs around Valewood. Loot and levels come from kills, quests bring coin and rank points. Aetherion's main Guild branch demands C-rank minimum, so gear up and prove yourself. Don't waste this."
Dante nodded, cold and focused. Torren slid a bronze Guild badge across, etched with his name and rank. Dante pocketed it, turning away as whispers rose. A wiry adventurer smirked, ale in hand.
Adventurer: "Back from the woods, classless? You stink worse than a goblin's den."
Dante's eyes flicked to him, sharp as a blade. "Keep talking. I'll bury you in a dungeon."
The hall tensed, but Dante left, door slamming. He was Guild now, F-rank, his first step to legend.
His shack teetered at Valewood's edge, a crumbling relic of his father's drunken years. Inside, mildew stung the air. Dante kicked the door open, finding a cracked basin and stale water. He stripped his ruined tunic, wincing as dried blood tugged at scars. The bear's claws had carved him deep, but Cinder's Grace had woven them shut—gashes now faint lines, bruises mere shadows. He poured water over himself, scrubbing blood and grime, the cold sharpening his focus.
Clean, he stood before a chipped mirror. The man staring back was a stranger. His face was angular, jaw set, eyes carrying a cold fire. Scars traced his chest, proof of battles won. His body, honed by years of training, was taut, ready. The boy who'd fled Valewood was dead. In his place stood a hunter, bound for Aetherion, needing no one.
He dressed in a spare tunic, simple but whole, and adjusted the cloak to hide the sword. His class, his blade—they were secrets, leverage for when the Guild's eyes truly mattered. The bronze badge burned in his pocket, a key to his future.
Before leaving, Dante stopped at the blacksmith's forge, smoke curling into the morning sky. Old Harlan, grizzled and built like an anvil, hammered a blade, sparks flying. He'd been one of the few who never mocked Dante, tossing him iron scraps for practice when others turned away. Harlan looked up, hammer pausing as he saw the change—the scars, the steel in Dante's gaze.
Harlan: "Heard you joined the Guild, lad. Got a class?"
Dante: "Yeah. F-rank hunter."
Harlan's weathered face cracked a grin. "Knew you'd do it. Always saw the spark." He set the hammer down, ducking into the backroom. He returned with a bundle—dark brown leather armor, sturdy yet light, with a harness to sheath a sword on the back, and a rugged adventurer's bag, patched but reliable.
Harlan: "Made these for a deadbeat hunter. They're yours now. A goodbye gift. Go show 'em what you're made of."
Dante took the armor, fingers tracing the leather. The harness would keep his sword hidden, its weight balanced on his back. He slung the bag over his shoulder, meeting Harlan's eyes.
Dante: "Thanks. I'll make it count."
Harlan waved him off, hammer ringing again. "Don't die, lad. That's thanks enough."
Dante donned the armor, its fit snug, the sword now sheathed across his back, concealed by the cloak. The bag settled comfortably, ready for loot and supplies. He left the forge, Valewood's stares trailing him, but he didn't glance back. This town was a shadow, its people irrelevant. His path lay ahead—dungeons teeming with goblins and wolves, quests to hunt beasts and gather relics, levels and gear to claim.
The road stretched beyond Valewood, dust rising under his boots. The Wilds loomed to the west, their dungeons a forge for his skills. Torren's words echoed: grind, level, reach C-rank for Aetherion's gates. He'd slay monsters, complete quests, grow stronger—alone. The sword's flames flickered faintly, a silent ally. Aetherion waited, its Guild a crucible for legends. Dante would rise, his name a fire no one could ignore, forged by his own hand.
He walked on, bag heavy, sword steady, a lone figure against the dawn. Valewood faded, swallowed by the Wilds. Eryndor's heart pulsed ahead, and Dante would claim it, one bloody step at a time.