“Be wary that intelligence is not a requirement for something to have strong magic. It is but a tool to make better use of what lies beneath the surface. Time is the true master of magic, and the foes you will face will have lived many of your lifetimes.”

Iwan Vilez - Interdiction Unit Commander

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“You’re the new guy? Symon, right?” A male voice spoke out beside Symon.

Symon lifted his head from where he rested it in his arms. After taking a brief competency test, the clerks had taken his registration form and told him to wait for the time being. That wait had been several hours now and the whole time there had been no end to the chaotic atmosphere enveloping the hall.

“That’s right.”

The man had a much softer appearance than most of the guardians in the hall. Still, Symon had no doubt that he was a guardian himself, he had that unmistakable aura. Whether it be the leather armor he wore which was well-worn, though clearly cared for, or the combat knife at his hip, or the old scars decorating his arms.

The man nodded and offered Symon a handshake. “Names Farolt.” He said.

He looked to be in his mid-thirties, though Symon didn't trust this appearance too much. Magic had an effect of enhancing the vitality of all living things in this world. It was likely that he was much older.

“I’m a guardian in a contract with Gwend over there.” Farolt gestured over towards the guild agents’ desk.

“Actually, she sent me over with a contract offer for you.” He continued. “You interested?”

Truthfully, Symon would take any work he could get, he simply wasn’t in a position where he could refuse. Still, agreeing too easily could put him in a disadvantageous negotiation position.

“What’s the job?” Symon asked.

“Watchtower construction.” Farolt answered. “It's basically a never-ending job, the guild always has a need for more of them. Since you can do math already, your training should be a cinch. You'll work as my apprentice for a few weeks and then be sent out with your own teams if everything goes well.

"So? What do you think?"

"I'm interested, though I'd need to see the full contract first."

"Of course. I have it right here, I know you can read, but this might be a more difficult than you are used to. If you're having trouble, you can go to one of the guild receptionists for help."

Strangely, Symon found that he had no trouble at all understanding written text in this world. It was all written in English, with no deviations. That was a curious thing, as it lent more credence to the idea that he truly was this world's creator and not merely a spectator.

This world shaping reality was a simple consequence of Symon being indifferent to linguistics in his past life. The wide-reaching implications of that made his head spin. Had English developed with the same history here? If he went to ancient ruins, would he find stone chiseled with latin writing? Or had this world taken a different path?

That curiosity aside, there was nothing in the contract that was all too interesting. If anything, Symon was surprised by just how generous it was. It even included generous terms for a loan for him to get some essential equipment like light armor and new clothes.

There was just one major and inescapable problem with the whole arrangement, and that was that Symon had no sense of the value for the currency in this world.

What the heck was a Crystalmark?

Much like linguistics, it simply wasn't something he ever touched in his worldbuilding.

"How much is five hundred Crystalmarks?" Symon finally asked. It was listed as the minimum the guild could enlist him for by compulsion on a weekly basis.

Farolt raised an eyebrow. "You're not familiar with Crystalmarks?"

"Well...I guess not. How much does an average delta-class make?"

"Around here? About five-hundred or so, though in the interior regions it would be about one hundred. Don't get too excited by that figure though. Compulsory service pay is high for a reason. The guild doesn't go down that road unless it's in a tight spot, so the work ends up being quite dangerous. Most guardians usually only make around a fifth of their compulsory service figure."

"So, around a hundred a month?"

Symon asked about Delta-Class because he knew that was the level of an ordinary hunter, and the individuals comprising its ranks were something of a middle-class in this world. Accounting for the region he was living in then, his pay wasn't great, probably enough to get by, but little more. All things considered though, it seemed reasonable. He was a complete unknown, and the guild was already paying for some of his training and offered a generous loan for equipment.

Regardless, Symon wasn't in much of a position to negotiate, so he didn't think any further about it and signed the contract.

"Don't worry. You'll make a lot more than this if all goes well with your training and you can prove yourself."

“When do we start?”

“Our team departs at dawn tomorrow. You’ll need equipment before that though. If you need help, I can show you around, introduce you to some shops and whatnot."

The two of them briefly stopped at Gwend’s desk to turn in his registration and exchange greetings, though the guild agent was far too busy for any more than that.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Gwend was the stereotypical image of a guild receptionist, though perhaps having a slightly shrewder appearance.

With introductions finished, the two of them went out into the streets.

"So? What do you think?" Farolt asked the moment they stepped outside.

"About what?"

"Gwend."

"I don't know." Symon shrugged. "I just met her. She's nice I guess?"

"She's the best option for rookies I think. The other agents are so focused on higher class threats that they've lost touch with danger levels at the lower classes. They'd probably send out a squad of rookies against a tribe of goblins without even realizing something was wrong with the idea."

"Goblins are a low-class threat though, aren't they?"

"Individually yes. But as a group they can be overwhelming. That's the problem with the other agents, they focus so much on quests with only a few powerful targets that they lose appreciation for the threat posed by strength in numbers."

"Are goblins a significant threat in this region?"

"Certainly, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise, they aren't to be underestimated. This is their land, and the deeper we venture, the more troublesome they become."

"Is that so?" Symon said. Was this just a personal opinion of Farolt's? Or was there something more to it? Symon couldn't remember writing all too much about goblins. He was more focused on his world's flashy things. Beings like the immortal monarchs, the sentinels, wyverns, and the like.

It was probably important to commit everything he could remember to writing before he forgot. He mentally noted that he would need to get some notebooks later.

As for what he could remember about goblins, their origins were from one of the first ages of man. They were a genetic engineering experiment probing for ways to reduce mankind's mana footprint by reducing physical size and shifting all magic to controlled biological functions. It meant that they couldn't cast magic, except for the rare mutants, but also that they were quite strong and durable. No sickness would blight them, and they could live in extreme environments and with very little food.

When a mana collapse brought about an end to that age, they escaped confinement and spread into the wider world.

"Anyways I think I’ll ask her out."

“What? Who?” Symon said.

“Were you even listening to anything I said?” Farlot asked. He was pouting, though the emotion didn’t reach his eyes.

Is he messing with me? Symon wondered. If he was serious, this was no drama he had any interest in. There were too many other problems on his mind.

“Sorry. I was lost in thought.” Symon answered.

“Well anyways. We’re here.”

The two of them stood before the least impressive building yet seen in the village. Even then, while it was constructed primarily of wood rather than stone, it still had enough depth to be interesting. There were curved arches of wood, engravings, and artistic mixtures of paint decorating some features of the exterior.

Carved onto a wooden placard which hung out into the street was only the words “Arms and Armor”

“This place has a lot of used and beat up equipment." Farolt said. "There aren’t many rookie Guardians here, so most just come here when they’re looking for some cheap blades for culling small fry.”

As soon as they stepped in, a soothing aroma wafted over him. An earthen blend of metal, oak, and fire. It smelled like adventure.

The room inside was a mess. Weapons were strewn about, leaning against the walls, scattered across tables. Swords were packed together in buckets; many were stripped of their handgrips or even had their hilt removed entirely. All were well worn, dents or chips decorating their edges.

In the back leather armor lay in piles, only loosely organized by size. There were a handful of sets of chainmail, and even a few solid metal armor pieces, but the vast majority was light armor, either leather or thick linen and wool gambesons.

“Farolt! Good to see you!” The shopkeeper said. He was a rotund man, with a thick beard and a short stature.

Cliché. That was all Symon could think. His appearance was simply too cliché. Was he a dwarf? They existed in this world, though rarely ventured out from their homeland in the far north.

“Harold. It’s good to see you are doing well.” Farolt responded with a warm smile playing on his lips.

“What can I do for you today friend?” The rotund man, Harold, asked.

“Our newest guardian here needs some gear. Just the basics, he won’t be a fighter, actually he’ll be training under me for some time.”

“Ho? An apprentice of yours? What’s your name lad?”

“Symon.”

“Symon. I see. May I see your hands? The hands reveal a lot about what weapon a man should wield.”

Symon did as the shopkeeper asked. The man fell into a deep concentration as he prodded at Symon’s hands, mumbling to himself.

“Have you trained with a weapon before?” He asked at last.

“No sir.”

“Interesting. Your hands seem to say otherwise. Perhaps you were just born for holding a sword then, what do you think?”

What Symon thought was that this body’s previous occupant was probably a swordsman. Of course, he couldn’t say that.

“To be honest I wanted to be a mage.” Symon responded.

Harold laughed. “I hear that too often. Today’s youth doesn’t appreciate the art of the sword.” He pouted.

“Regardless. You still need a blade.” He said in a suddenly serious tone. “It’s not worth expending mana for small fry like giant dragonflies after all. The swords in this barrel over here should suit you best. Try them out, see how you like their weight. I’ll give you a discount as a friend of Farolt’s.”

The barrel was stuffed with as many short swords as it could hold, each with obvious defects, be it rust or dents, or the blade honed to the point that it just looked flimsy.

Each sword gave off a slightly different glimmer and had a different subtle hue residing in their depths.

Symon tested a few in his hands, even giving them a swing or two, though he had no clue what he should be looking for.

Instead, he just picked one he felt had a purple hue lurking beneath the surface. It was his favorite color after all.

As he was making this selection however, he noticed a peculiar blade previously hidden from view. It was a dagger. One so honed it was practically a table knife. It was jammed in between the rest of the swords at the bottom of the barrel. It was pitch black in color to the point that no features of the surface could be seen except for the dents that decorated its edges. So many dents, that Symon couldn’t see it as holding any worth other than as scrap metal. It even had cobwebs on it.

It’s just too cliché. He thought. Symon grabbed the blade and tested its edge.

It was blunt. He doubted it would be much good at cutting carrots much less flesh.

If this world followed cliches then this blade would be some long-lost artifact containing forgotten ancient power.

“How much for this one?” Symon asked.

“Hmm?” Harold came over to take a close look at it. “Was this piece of junk in there? You can have it, looks like this metal was remelted too many times, it’s not even worth the scrap metal.”

So cliché! Was all Symon could think. There was no way this blade wouldn’t have any secrets!