Chapter 17: The Irregular at Magic High School
Most classes levelled up following classical RPG conventions. Soldiers gained experience by killing enemies, farmers by planting and harvesting crops or rearing livestock, crafters by successfully crafting, and so on. Reach an experience threshold, and then level up: nice and simple.
The more complex a class, however, the further from the norm the levelling requirements might deviate. The Healer was an example I knew well: they levelled up by healing injuries, and not self-inflicted ones either, so they couldn’t level simply by repeatedly breaking skin. This necessarily placed a limit on how many Healers could be found in each town or village: any more than a handful in peacetime, and there simply wasn’t enough experience to go around.
Unfortunately, this was where things became tricky for me. Most irregular classes were still known quantities, which meant learning how they worked was simple: a newbie would find, or be found by a veteran, who would show them the ropes in a traditional master and apprentice relationship. But, as my class was deemed unique by the System, well, I’d have to figure it out on my own. I could only hope I’d get a notification when I did something right, otherwise, it was going to be rather difficult to say the least.
I still stayed in the woods, even after this discovery, both because I wanted a sample size greater than one for my theory, and also to keep the Guardsman Spike from getting suspicious. Any excited newbie, given the chance to explore for the very first time, would at least keep until they were a bit tired. So, I summoned my knife, stood right where I was, and waited for a few more mobs to arrive. They did so, gradually appearing one at a time, truly like the mobs in a tutorial level. Firstly, I watched a small red Slime emerge from a thin stream, and stabbed it half a dozen times until it deflated. Next up, another rat, alive this time, but trying the exact same approach as its dead predecessor. I didn’t let this one bite me, instead, one quick kick sent it flying off into the distance, assuredly wounded if not already dead. Finally, to my bemusement, I saw a small treasure chest appear, right at my feet. I stabbed it, because I wasn’t born yesterday, and the tiny mimic keeled over and died.
By that point, with still no experience forthcoming, I was ready to call it a day on exploration. I’d spent almost an hour in the woods, interspersed between fighting and waiting, and had even broken enough of a sweat to be a convincingly tired youngster. As I dismissed my knife and went to head back the way I came, I heard a soft meow. At first, I thought I was more tired than expected, and my ears were playing tricks on me, but then I heard it again, and again, each time growing closer, and soon accompanied by the soft rustling of grass behind me as well. Bowing to the inevitable, I turned back once more, and there he was.
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[Cat - Level 1]
A striped brown tabby cat, with hints of orange lightness showing in patches. A domestic shorthair, if I had to guess, the most common category of cat back in England, not so much a breed as a descriptor that excluded the presence of any particular lineage of note. He was padding up to me with a curious lack of fear, given I was a stranger, though perhaps the mangled rat carcass in his mouth explained that. Even a single kick would have imparted some of my scent onto the prey animal, and if it was subsequently found by a cat, who now saw me as the provider of sustenance? Well, why not? I always liked cats, and they’re a supervillain staple for a reason.
So I leaned down, held a hand out within reach, and let the cat sniff my hand, to build an association between my scent and a full stomach. He was a friendly one, and took barely a few minutes before he was pressing his head up against my palm, allowing me to go in for a bit of petting.
“Looks like I’m adopting,” I joked, rubbing his cheeks and behind the ears, too, for good measure.
Of course, this raised more questions, like how I was going to provide for a pet when I currently lacked any income, or even a place to sleep for the night. But in truth, I’d already decided that it hardly mattered: if I couldn’t even handle a single pet, which was a considerable step down from managing a team of hundreds of people (even if some of them were considerably dumber than a cat), then I was clearly already doomed. So, I continued petting the cat, who had now taken on the form of the loaf, when a stray thought struck me.
[Money in the Pocket: A private storage space for your personal belongings.]
Like the rest of my Class, my inventory was fairly nondescript, but back in England, certainly, pets were considered to be personal property. This cat was clearly attached to me, had accepted my food and my hand, so if I put all of that together, and even believed it…
[Cat stored.
Would you like to assign a name?]
“It worked!”
I barked out a laugh, delighted; this wouldn’t solve all of the issues with having a pet, but it would make transportation simple, at least.
[Would you like to name the cat “It Worked”?]
“What? No, definitely not,” I backtracked immediately, before the System could confirm something very unfortunate. “Let me think for a second, here.”
Thankfully, that utterance wasn’t suggested as another choice; the System chose to spare me a second round of panic. In that time, I considered the cat’s demeanour, his friendliness, size and colouration, and ultimately, I came to a decision.
“Pumpkin.”
[Cat has been named Pumpkin.]
If that decision bore the same name as my favourite childhood fruit? Well, that particular factoid can stay as our little secret.