As he continued to scale down the stone structure, Tyson’s gaze swept across the bustling Fortress Lee below him. Markets teemed with activity, their stalls overflowing with goods—fresh produce, textiles, and shining wares of iron and copper. A group of children kicked a makeshift ball in an open square. Near the eastern wall, soldiers drilled in formation, the clinking of their armor and the rhythmic pounding of their boots a constant cadence that underscored the start of the day.
Masons worked on strengthening the fortifications, the crisp sound of chisel on stone marking their progress. And then there were the beacons, perched atop the highest points, always alight, their flickering flames a constant reminder of the fort’s everlasting vigilance. A stream of pack animals and traders filtered in and out of the main gate, a sign of the ongoing relationships with neighboring enclaves.
It was a hive of ceaseless activity, a pulsing heart that was more than the sum of its parts. He descended further, finding another foothold, then another, as he navigated his way down.
For his entire life, Tyson had lived within the walls of Fortress Lee. His life had been one of discipline, governed by the cautious words of his parents. While he joined the troops in their daily exercises and assisted the traders or the blacksmiths, he had never ventured beyond the sturdy walls that cradled the fortress. And most important of all, no wielding a core. His world was his home, his studies, his training, and the vantage point from this very tower where he had spent countless hours buried in texts and tomes.
He touched down, boots meeting the cobblestone streets with a soft thud. A street vendor hawked "Fresh cores, get your fresh cores from Washington’s Crossing, Lower Level here!" Nearby, a woman haggled vigorously over a basket of fruits. Somewhere, a baby cried, its mother trying to soothe its wails.
Even as the morning fog began to lift, revealing the full extent of the day's activities, he would maintain his typical routine. Tyson veered off the main street, ducking into a small eatery, which had already begun serving its morning fare. “Morning, Tyson!” greeted Mrs. Ellery, the rotund, middle-aged woman who owned the place. “The usual?”
“Morning, Mrs. Ellery. Yes, the usual, please.”
In a few moments, she set before him a plate of roasted vegetables, thick slices of brown bread, and a steaming bowl of vegetable stew. He ate with relish but did not linger, soon exiting the eatery with a polite nod to Mrs. Ellery, who waved him off with a warm smile.
His next stop was the training yard, where the clang of swords and the thud of archery targets filled the air. Here, members of the fortress's guard practiced their combat skills, honed their reflexes, and sparred with seasoned instructors. Tyson, despite being the son of the head of the guards, was not an official recruit; yet he was a familiar face, having spent countless mornings training alongside them. He picked up a wooden sword and greeted Tomlin, the gruff but well-meaning instructor who often led the day's sessions.
"Ah, Tyson, ready for another round of humble pie?" Tomlin grinned, twirling his wooden sword expertly.
"Always ready, always humble," Tyson shot back with a smile.
For the next hour, Tyson immersed himself in the rhythms of combat, the repetition of thrust and parry, block and attack. Tyson, who'd practically grown up on the training field, could feel his father's influence in every clang of metal and shout of command, even if the man himself was absent.
Though he had no bonded core to amplify his abilities, Tyson had devoted himself so fervently to the craft that he could match some of the bonded recruits in swordplay. It was a point of personal pride. Years of instruction and practice had honed his technique, compensating for what he lacked in augmented strength or agility. However, there were limitations to what raw talent and dedication could achieve. When it came to archery, Tyson was middle-of-the-pack at best. There, those who had bonded to elven cores showed their prowess, their arrows flying with unerring accuracy. Their eyes seemed to hone in on targets in a way that Tyson's couldn't. In swordplay too, there were some recruits against whom Tyson had yet to win a sparring match. Those bonded with cores of creatures known for their extraordinary strength, like Kieran Rivertroll, he could deliver blows that Tyson found nearly impossible to parry. And so, despite his skill, Tyson knew he was fighting within boundaries, within limits defined by his unbonded state.
Nevertheless, he relished the challenge. Each bout against a bonded recruit, each archery competition where he found himself outclassed, served as a reminder of what he could become. It wasn't a source of discouragement but fuel for the fire that Aeris had rekindled in him that morning. A desire not just to belong but to excel, to forge his path in a world teeming with untapped magic and untold possibility.
He placed the wooden sword back on the rack, wiped the sweat from his brow, and bid his instructor farewell. After exiting the training yard, Tyson made his way through the streets of Fortress Lee. His path led him to a peculiar shop at the intersection of two bustling avenues, its facade an intriguing blend of stonework. As he pushed open the door, a bell tinkled overhead
This was his mother's shop; a cross between a library, an armory, and an apothecary. It was here that Nadria Bloodalchemist plied her unique trade. Nadria was a Coresmith, a master of an art that granted her the ability to infuse mundane objects with the extraordinary powers locked within creature cores. Each infusion destroyed the core but created a 'magic item' imbued with a single ability. To possess such an item was a privilege, accessible only to those with the means to procure it. As Tyson entered, he spotted his mother engrossed in her work, her eyes peering through a jeweler's loupe as she carefully sprinkled a powdered core onto a sword hilt.
"Ah, Tyson," she said without looking up. "You're early today."
"I finished my training a bit early," Tyson replied, his eyes wandering across the shelves filled with books, potions, weapons, and an assortment of curiosities.
Eventually, Nadria set her tools aside and looked up, removing her eyepiece. Her face was youthful but pale. The lines of age normally present had never formed; Nadria hadn’t aged a day since she bonded, and never would. Her eyes sparkled with intellectual fire, yet held depths of calculated coldness. She was a complex woman, made even more so by her bond with a Blood Alchemist core. Bonding with an undead creature was extremely rare, so far as those who did, usually became ravenous killers. But his mother had, and instead of going mad, it endowed her with equally rare traits.
Her gaze lingered on Tyson, as though she were sifting through layers of his soul. Finally, she broke the silence. "Is something troubling you?"
The question hung in the air, as loaded as it was perceptive. Tyson hesitated, then spoke. "I've been thinking about my Corequest."
Nadria's eyes met his, revealing a momentary flash of emotion—was it fear? Concern? He couldn't tell. Yet her voice, when it came, was steady. "Cores and the power they grant are not to be taken lightly. You've seen how they can change a person," she said, gesturing subtly to herself.
"I know, Mother. But I've also seen how they can define a person. Give them a purpose, or a role in the world," Tyson countered, his resolve solidifying. "And I think it's time I find mine."
A long silence followed, and for a moment, Tyson wondered if he had pushed too far. But then, almost imperceptibly, Nadria nodded. "Very well," she said, "But before you set off on this path, you must prepare, and we need to have a family meeting."
"I understand," Tyson replied, his heart pounding with a mixture of relief and anticipation. A family meeting would be a hassle, but his mother hadn’t outright rejected him. Somewhat surprising given that it was more than his father holding him back.
She tossed him a pouch of gold. "Go to the market and purchase any core you’d like. Come back this afternoon," Nadria said, returning to her workbench. "We'll craft something for your journey. Tradition allows parents to grant a single item to their child for a Corequest, choose a good one."
Tyson felt the weight of the gold pouch in his hand, its heft symbolic of the monumental choice ahead. A core, a single core ability to start his journey. As he made his way toward the market, he felt the energy of the fortress around him. Traders calling out, children playing, guards marching. Just as he turned the corner, a familiar figure came into view, leaning against the trunk of an ancient oak that had somehow asserted itself through the cobblestones. It was Elandor Elvenhunter. Tall, with sharp features softened by deep green eyes, he exuded an air of composed readiness. His outfit, a mix of leather and forest-green fabric, allowed him the flexibility to vanish into the woods or stand in a crowded room while commanding respect. He was a born leader who understood the value of both action and observation.
"Tyson," Elandor greeted, pushing away from the tree with a fluid motion. "Off to the market, I see. Core shopping for your mother?"
Tyson nodded, surprised. "How did you—"
"Your mother is a creature of habit. Every time she sends you or one of her minions core shopping, she uses that purse." Elandor interrupted a small smile on his lips.
"Yes, she's given me the freedom to choose any core from the market to enchant an item for my Corequest," Tyson explained, feeling a mix of pride and responsibility.
Elandor let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. "That's no small privilege, Tyson. Your mother is one of the few Coresmiths capable of 'double enchantments'. She can combine the power of her Blood Alchemist’s core with one of her alchemical reagents. It turns an ordinary enchanted item into something far more potent."
Tyson nodded, "She has three different kinds of elixirs that can be added to the item: acid, flame, and healing. Each one gives the item an additional property, making it even more versatile in combat or survival situations."
Elandor leaned back, crossing his arms and nodding. "Very well. So, what's your game plan? The market cores are usually on the lower end of the quality scale."
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
"I've thought about that," Tyson replied. "But considering the additional enchantments my mother can add, even a lower-quality core could become something extraordinary in her hands."
"True." Elandor acknowledged. "Have you considered that going forward you can create enchantments yourself? You've been around cores and your mother's workshop your whole life."
Tyson chuckled nervously, "Like the back of my hand… in theory. My mother's always been very protective of me around cores. I understand the process, but I've never actually been allowed to perform an enchantment."
Elandor's eyes twinkled with what seemed like a blend of mischief and mentorship. "Ah, but theory is the mother of practice, my young friend. I have a feeling you'll be quite adept at it when the time comes. You should make the most of your mother's unique capabilities. You're fortunate to be the son of a Blood Alchemist; few have such an edge going into a Corequest."
Tyson felt a flush of pride but pushed it down, "You've led many groups of initiates, Elandor. Which of the elixirs do you think would be most valuable for my quest?"
"Ah, that's the question, isn't it?" Elandor mused, running his hand through his wavy brown hair. "You should know, that I’m heading out soon and will likely lead your Corequest if you decide to join the next batch of initiates. I've seen you in the training yard; you're proficient with a bow, good with a sword, and handy with several other weapons. The acid and flame elixirs would be incredibly powerful combined with the right core on a weapon." The idea of wielding a flaming sword or an acid-tipped arrow was almost too exciting to bear. "But that's not always what's best," Elandor added, his tone turning sober.
Tyson blinked. "What do you mean?"
"What is the main goal of a Corequest?"
"To earn a powerful core bond," Tyson recited, the words tumbling from his lips almost automatically.
"Wrong," Elandor corrected, his eyes locking onto Tyson's. "The goal of a Corequest is to acquire what you need to survive in this world. If you die on your Corequest, all your dreams of a powerful core bond die with you."
Tyson's chest tightened. He had not considered that.
"Many initiates don’t survive or return from their Corequests," Elandor continued, "and death is only one of many possible outcomes that you won't be coming back from."
"But I've trained—"
"Training is essential, yes. But training won't prepare you for everything you’ll encounter in Man'hatta. It won’t prepare you for the unexpected, for the dangers that you can't even imagine right now."
Tyson listened, his mouth dry, his dreams of heroic feats fading before the realistic and grim wisdom Elandor was imparting.
"So, my recommendation," Elandor said, breaking the uncomfortable silence, "is to consider a utility item for your mother's enchantment. Something that would allow you to escape a dire situation or better survive the unpredictable landscape of Man'hatta. The healing elixir might not be the most glamorous choice, but it will likely give you the best shot at survival. And you should know, healing items and cores are exceptionally rare."
Elandor was right; he’d been so preoccupied with notions of power that he’d overlooked the core principle of survival. The healing elixir would indeed give him an edge, one less oriented toward offense, but no less vital.
"Thank you, Elandor. You’ve given me a lot to think about," Tyson said, genuinely grateful.
Elandor clapped him on the shoulder. "That’s my job, lad. To make sure you're as prepared as you can be when you step into the unknown."
Tyson nodded, his mind racing with new considerations for his Corequest. He watched as Elandor turned to leave, his silhouette a steady, reassuring presence against the backdrop of Fortress Lee’s bustling marketplace.
Tyson nodded, his thoughts a whirlwind of new considerations for his Corequest. He watched as Elandor's silhouette retreated, blending seamlessly with the chaotic yet harmonious backdrop of Fortress Lee's bustling marketplace. A fresh sense of purpose settled over him as he mentally echoed Elandor's wisdom: Survival. That was the foundation upon which all else would be built.
Gripping the coin purse his mother had given him, Tyson found a relatively quiet corner of the market square and took a deep breath. He mentally accessed his character sheet; a detailed record of his skills, strengths, and weaknesses stored in the System.
Tyson
Race: Human
Level: 0 (000/1000 exp)
Hit Points: 10 + 14 (Con) = 24/24
Armor: (none)
Attack Bonus: +2
Strength: 12
Dexterity: 14
Constitution: 14
Intelligence: 16
Wisdom: 10
Charisma: 10
Status Effects: (none)
Languages: Basic (English)
Skills:
Athletics: Lvl 2 (Con, Str, Dex)
Survival: Lvl 2 (Wis)
Stealth: Lvl 1 (Dex)
His eyes swept over the display that only he could see, taking in the rows of statistics and abilities. His attack bonus was high, thanks to his training with the guards. He also had skills, which, as far as he knew, was a first for someone still at level 0.
He settled on using his mother’s healing elixir, Elandor was right, healing was entirely too useful to pass up. Now he needed to choose a quality core. Lastly, he’d decide what kind of equipment to enchant.
Tyson strode through the bustling marketplace, enticed by the sizzle of food cooking, ignoring the murmur of gossip, and the clatter of weapons being displayed. His mother's coin purse was tucked safely in his pocket, a reminder of the responsibility that weighed on his decision. Cores weren't just shiny gems; they were embodiments of potent powers, hard-earned spoils from dangerous battles. And the core he chose today would quite literally shape his fate on the upcoming Corequest. As he moved through the stalls, his eyes flitted from one core to another, searching for a creature that would balance his need for survival against his desire for something truly extraordinary.
His thoughts drifted to the Junk Golems he had heard so much about. Formed from a hodgepodge of scrap metals and other debris, these creatures were extraordinarily resilient. Their cores were prized for their durability, often used to enhance armor or shields. Tyson could already picture himself, protected by a shield infused with a Junk Golem core, absorbing blows that would normally kill a man. His mother's healing elixir would further amplify its effectiveness.
But then, his eyes caught the glint of a golden-hued core displayed in a far-off corner, one that seemed to ripple like a mirage in the afternoon sun. The placard beside it bore an image of a majestic eagle soaring through the skies. Peter’s Core. Flight—the freedom to roam the skies, to avoid terrestrial dangers—was an alluring thought. He could become an elusive target, skimming above battlefields, forests, or treacherous terrain. But it was also a less common core, and he suspected, quite pricey.
As he stood there, lost in thought, the words of Elandor echoed in his mind. The primary goal was to survive. Flight was incredible, yes, but it wouldn't necessarily save him from a sudden attack or a perilous situation.
He turned back to the stall featuring the Junk Golem cores. The merchant, a burly man with arms that looked like they could wrestle a tree to the ground, grinned at him. "Ah, young sir, you have a good eye. Junk Golem cores. Tough. Reliable. Perfect for a sturdy lad like you."
"Would it suit a shield?" Tyson inquired.
"A shield, you say? A Junk Golem core would make your shield nearly impregnable! You'll be a walking fortress, young sir!"
The mental image solidified in Tyson's mind—a shield, impervious to most attacks, an extension of his own will to survive. Infused with the essence of a Junk Golem and amplified with his mother's healing elixir, it could be his lifeline in Man'hatta. The merchant noticed his contemplative look and eagerly anticipated a sale, but Tyson continued through the market.
Tyson stood before the collection of undead cores, each one glowing with an eerie, ethereal light. The merchant, a woman adorned with talismans and charms, caught his eye and gestured toward a ghoul core, its radiance tinged with a sickly green. "If it's enchanting you’re looking for, this one here can paralyze your enemies, a true nightmare on the battlefield," she crooned, her voice a hypnotic melody. "One slice, and they'll be sitting ducks for your next move."
For a fleeting moment, Tyson was tempted. He could already picture himself, sword imbued with the paralyzing ghoul core, disabling enemies before striking them down. But then he remembered Elandor's words: "The goal of a Corequest is to acquire what you need to survive in this world."
With a slight shake of his head, Tyson turned his gaze to another core, it was a Beheaded core, its pulsating glow interspersed with tiny, flickering flames. He had heard stories about Beheaded, how their flaming heads roared through leaving a trail of flame in their path.
"Intrigued, aren't you?" The merchant's eyes twinkled as she noticed his lingering gaze. "A Beheaded core offers quite the array of benefits. They’re quite weak, so not good for bonding, but their Flaming supernatural trait is ideal for enchanting. Immunity to fire, a boost to your Charisma. Important for diplomatic ventures, you know, and well, if you've ever wanted your fists to be literal fire, this is the core for you."
Tyson pondered on it. Enchanting this into a pair of gloves could be quite handy. His punch would do extra fire damage, the Charisma boost would only help, and being immune to fire damage would be handy. A well-rounded choice indeed. And yet, he hesitated, his mind returning to Elandor's cautionary advice about survival. Would fire immunity offer enough of an edge to keep him alive in the perilous heart of Man'hatta?
"I'll think about it," Tyson finally said, nodding respectfully at the merchant. "You have quite an interesting selection here."
She chuckled, a sound that seemed to reverberate with centuries of hidden knowledge. "Take your time, initiate."
Tyson's gaze settled on another core, displayed in a small, darkened compartment at the corner of the merchant's stall. It was a Shadow core, its aura like a wisp of smoke, almost imperceptible amid the other cores.
"Ah, you've found the Shadow, have you?" The merchant's eyes narrowed as if gauging Tyson's depth of understanding. "Not as visually striking as the others, but in the right hands, its subtlety can be its greatest strength."
Tyson felt a ripple of excitement. Shadows were not strong creatures, but their incorporeal nature made them elusive. In all his years, he’d never seen one for sale. Enchanting a piece of jewelry to grant him the same intangibility would make him virtually untouchable.
However, the more he considered it, the more Tyson realized the limitations. The incorporeal state would remain constant so long as he wore the enchanted jewelry. That meant he couldn't interact with physical objects, something that could be as much a hindrance as it was a benefit. Then a thought struck him. What if he enchanted the core into a weapon instead? Drawing the weapon would make him incorporeal, allowing him to phase through obstacles and evade attacks. Sheathing it would bring him back to corporeality, letting him interact with the world normally. Plus, an incorporeal weapon would pass through normal armor, making his strikes devastatingly effective.
The weight of the decision pressed heavily on Tyson. The Junk Golem core would create a near-impenetrable shield that could keep him safe. The Beheaded core promised a balanced mix of offense and defense, lending fire immunity, fire damage, and a touch of charisma boost. And the Shadow core offered an unparalleled edge in evasiveness and precision strikes.
Each had its merits, each came with its set of drawbacks. And yet, choosing the right core felt like a keystone decision, one that would shape his Corequest and, potentially, the trajectory of his life beyond that.