Luke entered the main room, and the floor was also wooden. The chairs were only given light cloth padding onto the back piece. The windows were opaque, and a large extended table had four people behind it in noticeably more cushioned chairs.
The room was filled with the low hum of whispers and complaints. Old papyrus and paper dominated the area’s fragrance. Scrolls were stashed in various regions, and two orbs were placed on the central table.
Argel tapped Luke on the shoulder, “This is where we part, farworlder, I wish you luck, and hopefully, you become one of the titled.”
“It’s Luke, Argel, and thanks for your help. If you need something, I owe you.” Luke said and gave the man a handshake.
Argel left, and Luke saw him off for a second before he stopped behind the shortest line. Argel didn’t explain the process, but it all looked similar enough to a government office back on Earth, so he did now as he did then. Stand in line.
Or, as the armed forces liked to put it, hurry up and wait.
The crawling line was a gift in this situation. Luke used the unexpected gap to gather his thoughts.
And create his story.
Luke wasn’t a complete fool; The First Reaver told him to be careful with his class. He’d register, but only with a false class. The rest would be true. It’s often said the best lies mix in the truth, so Luke followed the adage.
The issue now was to figure out one that fit and enabled him to use most of his abilities. Luke didn’t know what classes were standard, nor could he inspect plenty of people to figure it out in good time. Instead, he used his head for more than a hat rack and began to think.
I use swords often. Sure, I cast, but it’s not my sustained way of fighting. I won’t have to worry about elementalization. Wayfinder made it sound like others have the same thing, only with different elements. He tapped his chin. Now, to find a fit that lets me have a companion but can use some magic and swordsmanship.
Reality has a way of gifting you something when you least desire it. The line sped along, and Luke was snapped back to reality without a complete plan when an aged voice said, “Young man, young man.”
Luke shook his head. An elderly tora woman stared back at him, waving him to the chair. The tora’s eyes were yellow-orange, with black circular pupils. The fur not covered by her clothes, such as the upper arms, was reddish brown. Luke took an extra moment to adjust; this was an upright, talking tiger. Where he came from, they certainly couldn’t talk or be friendly. The body language he radiated couldn’t be concealed.
However, his recent becoming a Reaver made him accept outlandish things quickly. He said, “Excuse me,” pulled out the uncomfortable chair, then sat in it. Sooty was inspecting the tora woman, curious as Luke. She seemed to check her feathers and then observe the tora’s fur. Luke let her sort out her understanding of the world.
“You must be a farworlder from the latest group,” the tora said, “most of you have the same reaction the first time you meet anything not human.” She began writing on paper, “I do have to wonder what sort of world only has humans that can speak. It must be horrible.”
The tora woman’s eyes grew sharp, “Although your reaction means I’m one of the first you’ve met. Why is that?” she said.
Luke kept his response short, not wishing to reveal his actual circumstances, “I’m a ferus, or was, at least,” he said.
“The last of you farworlders came here a year ago, and the Duchess changed the policy a few months later. How did you avoid being found all this time?” The woman tapped her finger against the desk, “A ferus couldn’t have had any contact with anyone without being tracked down and given the ultimatum. I was of the mind all of you had been found by the second month after the decree.”
The Reaver ran through his half-baked story internally one final time. It’d likely have holes, but he wasn’t a master liar. Luke only hoped what he came up with would be enough. First, however, he tried to diffuse.
“Does it matter? I’m here to register, as your Duchess decrees. To put it briefly, I was in the Night Moon forest.” He returned a straight gaze to the probing tora, “I’ve been told multiple times how lucky I am to be alive after being in there for so long. I don’t need to hear it again.”
The tora stopped tapping her finger and put a hand under her chin in amusement. Her words said one thing, but her eyes another. “She’s your Duchess now if you’re here to register. Even a provisional will respect the Duchess. She’s much too fair to you ingrates.” The tora stopped writing with her other hand, “I’ll believe your story for now. In the end, if you prove valuable to the Duchy, it won’t matter what the truth is. Read this, and ask me any questions you may have after.”
The elder tora shoved the piece of paper in Luke’s direction. He picked it up and skimmed it over. It appeared similar to a medical sheet you’d receive for a doctor’s visit, but the questions differed—various disclaimers and paragraphs of what he agreed to filled the paper.
“Why are the terms different for a combat class and a non-combat one?” Luke said.
“Of course they would be, boy, the Duchess isn’t the Shattered Queen. She won’t send a non-combat to the border. That would nearly guarantee their death. They’ll be required to attend training to be granted a combat profession, but it’s for their own good.”
Luke didn’t quite understand the distinction outside of what the division in class implied. He said, “A non-combat is probably something like that herbalist class I was offered when I first came-”
The tora interrupted him, “You were offered to be an herbalist by the Interface, and you refused? A true fool, you are, farworlder. While plenty of non-combatants have a hard time earning a living in these lands, an experienced herbalist is not one of them.”
Hearing that, Luke stole a glance at Sooty, and his face morphed for a second before returning to normal. His bird tilted her head at him in wonderment. He exhaled deeply; Luke couldn’t bring himself to hold a grudge against Sooty. He loved that bird too much.
“Is that bird your companion? I’ve never seen one like it. Young man, my name is Yumna, and I’ll be your registering official today.”
Luke brought out his hand, and Yumna shook it. The Reaver responded, “Luke, and yes, this is Sooty, my companion. I’d never have made it out of that forest without her. I came to this world in the middle of the forest and took the only combat class offered. I doubt I would’ve made it out alive had I chosen herbalist or beggar, my last option of the three.”
Yumna grimaced, “The underworld classes are always frowned upon. If you were transferred into the middle of a death zone like that, you’re a walking miracle. Your first decision would’ve killed you if you chose poorly.” Yumna’s sitting position relaxed, “The bulk of you farworlders appear in a village, town, or city. The minority start in the wilderness, and the smallest portion of those end up in a monster land like that.”
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He knew for quite a while now that his start had been rough, so Luke didn’t talk about it. Instead, the beggar class being considered an “underworld” type, caught his interest.
“Beggars are part of the underworld? How?”
“The less you know about the underbelly of society, the better. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Fine then, at least answer the original question,” Luke said.
“Young people, always in a rush. You never know what a conversation may teach you.”
Luke rolled his eyes, and then a slight smile hung on his face as the phrase jogged memories of his grandparents. They said those words once, too. Luke had grown more patient over the years, but that wasn’t always the case, especially as a small boy.
The vanishing had taught him that patience could help with survival. Plenty of times, he had to hide for hours away from wild animals that took over the city he settled in. Eventually, he figured out how to drive most of them out. Nature took over civilization at an astounding speed once people stopped expanding against her.
“Back in your head again?” Yumna said.
“Just thinking about my old home. Now, professions? Non-combat classes? What are they?”
The tora woman bartered, “Fill out that form first; then we’ll continue.” She whispered to the next person seated on her side of the table, an elven man, “Gemel, you don’t mind freezing my line, do you? I’ve got a ferus, and if I don’t teach him some basics, it’ll look bad on the department when he inevitably gets into trouble.”
Gemel responded by standing up, “The fourth line is now closed for closer administration. Please do enter into the other lines in the meantime.” Then sat back down.
Luke dutifully filled out the form, ignoring the multiple glares that bore into his back once the people behind him had their wait unexpectedly extended. He entered in his name, level, transfer point, family history, and lied about his class. He wrote in ‘Spell Sword’. Luke anticipated a generic class like that had to exist, still let him cast and use his swords.
As for Sooty, he’d grow a thick skin and act like having her around as a Spell Sword made sense. He was a ferus after all. What did he know?
Before finishing, he did something most modern people never did. Read the fine print. Most of the print was standard legal jargon, which sounded unsettlingly similar in its vocabulary, but one line stood out.
‘Provisional citizens are required to assist the Dukedom against any monster or beast attacks in the capacity best suited to their class or profession.’
“Mind telling me what this ‘in the capacity best suited to their class or profession’ is?” Luke said.
“That, young man, will come after you declare your intent of contribution.”
“Hard to do that when people don’t give me the details of what that means. Governments and their vague yet broad words.”
Yumna stretched her back and arms. Luke heard more than a few cracks and pops. “I’m getting too old.” Yumna stopped the evasive tactics, “I’ll answer both of your questions. A non-combat class is one that has no naturally intended capacity for combat. They instead focus on the backbone our Dukedom needs.”
“Such as?” Luke said.
“Your alchemists, doctors, builders, farmers, a few new ones popped up with your batch of farworlders. Plumbers have become popular with the nobles, and our sewage and waste systems thank them for it.”
“The Interface lets people get the plumber class?”
“And many other mundane ones, the abilities and passives they gain all enable them to do their jobs far more effectively or in increased capacity. One high-level teacher can guide hundreds with their skills.” Her voice had a tinge of pride. “The personal tutor skill enables them to conjure an assistant that can relay information as the student needs it most.”
Luke looked around the building once more. The craftsmanship certainly seemed too artisan for a town. The roads were maintained, and there wasn’t much waste in the streets; few individuals were dirty or sick.
“I get it. These non-combat classes let people become super workers for society’s infrastructure and social work. What about professions, then?”
Yumna nodded toward Luke, “You’re picking up things just fine. I have a granddaughter who would love to…”
“Ahem. Professions.”
“Stubborn as my grandson.” Yumna raised an eyebrow, “Professions are assistance from the Interface. If you’re a non-combat class and choose to have a profession, it must be a combat type, and vice versa. The difference is that you never gain more than one active and passive ability. It’s usually the two most vital skills for a class.”
“What’s a common combat profession?”
“Most villagers that don’t have a combat class pick the combat profession militia. They’ll gain a passive that increases their proficiency with weapons and one of the basic attack abilities. Enough to fight in a desperate situation and keep away the weaker monsters.”
Luke understood enough at this point. A profession was meant to be a crutch for the opposite of your class. It would give a non-combat class the minimum means to combat and a combat class to perform the vital parts of one non-combat class.
“Any drawbacks? Why hasn’t the Interface told me of this?”
“You can’t use skill points to upgrade your professional skills. You won’t gain stats from levels in it. You can, however, go up in tier, even above your baseline class. You won’t benefit from ascending a second time if your class catches up.” She looked at Luke with amusement, “You’ve been here long enough to know the Interface never tells you everything; come now, no need to tease an old woman.”
He accepted the drawbacks. They seemed fair. Those with a class dedicated to one role naturally have an easier time than those without a class for it. For those entirely against the class they chose, they had an option to choose a profession that suited them better instead. With drawbacks included, that is.
“Now, tell me the real meaning of this intent of contribution,” Luke said.
“Combat classes are desperately needed, as are a select few non-combat classes. The intent of contribution means if you can’t prove you can contribute enough to the duchy to be deemed more valuable than a warm body on the border, then that’s where you’ll go,” Yumna revealed.
Luke studied his gear and Sooty. He said, “I’m sure you can tell by what I’m wearing that I’m a combat class. What does the intent of contribution mean for me then?”
Yumna didn’t answer immediately, “Young man-”
The Reaver handed her back the piece of paper. Yumna looked confused. “You haven’t finished filling it out.”
“I know. Stop calling me young man, Yumna; read the paper. My name is on it, even if my intent isn’t yet,” Luke said.
“Luke Wallace.” She read aloud, “Very well, Luke, to start, you farworlders chose non-combat classes in overwhelming numbers. I’ve had the pleasure of registering hundreds of you. I can piece together the world you were in before. One that was more peaceful.” Her eyes lowered to the table for a moment, “Few of you wish to fight and instead choose to become doctors, tradesmen, enchanters, classes of that variety. That should be celebrated, yet it isn’t.”
She muttered under her breath, “A few became robbers, crime lords, and contraband dealers as well.”
“Your point being, Mrs. Yumna?” Luke’s impression of this older tora steadily improved, and decided to refer to her more respectfully.
“The point, Luke, is that the Duchy needs combatants, and your round of farworlders failed to deliver. That means the few of you who did pick a combat class, knowingly or not, are required to protect Elaria.”
Luke began to protest, but one look from Yumna convinced him to give her time to explain the details. He hadn’t signed just yet. He could go the exile route if things were unacceptable to him.
“This doesn’t mean you go to the front lines, Luke. It means you are required to defend the city you reside in. It could be as a guard, a deployable soldier, a hunter, or a defier.”
“My intent of contribution, then, would be to choose one of those options as a combat class?” He asked.
“While those options aren’t an exhaustive list, they are the most common.”
Luke thought things over. Going to the front line was unacceptable. He wanted to find his dad, not fight for an unknown duchess. He’d been in the military on Earth, and it left enough scars already. As a man, he desired more freedom than that. Luke would go places because he wanted to, not because he was told to. That left Hunter and Defier; he asked about both.
“I used to serve in my home world. I’m not interested in doing so again. Tell me about the hunters and defiers.”
Yumna looked disappointed but understood. The tora woman handed the paper back to Luke, and he accepted it. “Hunters are nominal members of the Defiers guild; they clear the local area of lower-end monsters and beasts, track criminals, and occasionally assist the city guard in town or city-level issues.” She coughed, “They are considered the rank and file but are a different branch.”
“What’s different for a defier if they’re in the same guild as the hunters? Judging by the guild’s name, they must be part of it.”
The assignment administrator lowered her voice as if afraid of something, “The defiers, Luke, are insane people who give everything for a chance to defeat the god-creatures and their ‘diplomats.’”
Luke paused and remembered the words of the First Reaver; his choice was set the moment he entered that trial.
“My intent of contribution is to be a Defier, Yumna.”