The streets of Brighthaven bustled with life, alive with the sounds of vendors hawking wares, children laughing, and the occasional clang of a blacksmith’s hammer. But for Otter Bennett, it all faded into background noise. He strolled through the market square, head down, nose hovering over his wrisplay, cycling through options with a quick tap of his finger.
The auditory interface update was the System’s newest feature, and Otter loved it. It allowed him to block out the world, replacing the city's din with something calmer.
Babbling brook.
Rain on a tile roof.
Soft birdsong.
He paused on birdsongs, letting the gentle melody drown out the noise of Brighthaven. The sound reminded him of peaceful mornings, sitting by the riverbank, sketching in his notebook.
Otter adjusted the laundry sack slung over his shoulder. He had to get these over to Ethel’s quickly and then deliver a clean load somewhere else. He consulted his mental map, making sure he was on the quickest route.
Maps were his thing. He’d spent the past few months remapping every alley, canal, and shortcut in the city, convinced that if he proved his value to the System, it would finally grant him a class. He’d picked up the skill primarily because the stupid compass on his wrisplay didn’t work. It was supposed to point you in the direction of your current objective, but his only ever pointed north.
Unfortunately, even leveling up his Navigation (urban) skill to level 4 hadn’t had any effect.
It had been three years since Otter received his wrisplay, and for the first two, he hadn’t worried about his classless status. Most kids didn’t get their class until around fifteen, usually after discovering a talent or skill that aligned with the System’s pathways.
But now Otter was nearing his sixteenth birthday, and the Adventurers’ Academy would begin its new year in five weeks. Erin, his best friend, had already been invited. She’d gotten her Scout class a couple of months ago. He couldn't figure it out. He had more skills than she did, and her Navigation (urban) was only at level 2.
But becoming an Adventurer was about more than being left behind, more than making enough coin to ensure his mother would never have to move crates at the docks again. It was how he would find his father.
He never really knew his father. The man had disappeared when Otter was only five. His memories were few, but he always thought of him as larger than life. He had been an Adventurer, or at least that’s what he’d pieced together from overheard conversations. He honestly hadn’t thought much about the man until his fourteenth birthday.
That was the day he’d found the letter.
He’d been tracking a pileated woodpecker. He knew they ate bugs and hoped to find something new for his journal. It landed on the eaves of his tiny cottage and began pecking. Otter noted the spot, then ran up and shooed the bird away and started to climb up the wall so he could ferret out whatever beetle or grub lurked within. He hadn't gotten very far when his wrisplay buzzed, startling him. He lost his grip and fell. It wasn't far, but he panicked, scrabbling to grab hold of anything. He caught hold of a siding board and it came loose in his hand. After he dusted himself off, he went to put the board back and saw an envelope tucked in the hole. He pulled it out and read.
Dear son,
I hope you never read this. I hope I’ve returned to be the father you deserve. But if you ever find this, I’m sorry. Do whatever you can to be invited to the Adventurer’s Academy. You’ll find answers there.
I love you more than anything.
Da
That’s why he had to go to the Academy. But to get invited, you had to have a Class. More importantly, you had to have an Adventurer Class.
He’d tried everything. Odd jobs. New skills. Mapping every corner of Brighthaven.
But the System remained silent.
Otter sighed, wiping the back of his hand across his brow. It wasn’t fair. He’d worked harder than anyone he knew, and yet he was still stuck at Level 0, with no class and no clear path forward. “Come on, System,” he muttered under his breath. “What am I missing?”
As he rounded a corner, his wrisplay glitched, blasting his ears with a sharp screech.
“Gah! What the—?” He dropped the sack of laundry and swatted at his wrist. Thankfully, the noise cut out, returning to the peaceful birdsong. As he bent down to pick up his fallen laundry sack, something caught his eye.
A flash of purple, glinting in the sunlight.
Otter froze.
At the edge of the road, a beetle crawled across the cobblestones. Its iridescent shell shimmered like oil on water—a rare find.
“A violet fendermite!” Otter whispered, his eyes lighting up. “Haven’t seen one of these in months.”
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Otter abandoned his laundry and scampered off the road, chasing the beetle into a nearby alley. He felt a slight breeze at his back, but paid it no mind.
He crouched over the beetle, studying it carefully. Its carapace shimmered with shades of violet, emerald, and deep blue.
Otter grinned, pulling a small notebook out of a pocket. It was something he carried everywhere, just in case of times like these. He took out a pencil to make a quick sketch and scribbled a few notes in the margins, carefully detailing the beetle’s unique markings and behavior.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Satisfied with his sketch, Otter turned back to retrieve the laundry sack and found it driven deep into the muddy rut.
How did that happen? Otter wondered. Followed by, How mad is Ethel going to be about this? “Eh, they’re already dirty,” he muttered. “Won’t make much difference.” He picked up his sack and continued on his way.
***
From the top of the hill, a bearded man in a fine silk suit sat at a table outside a small cafe, gazing down at the runaway cart incident. It was only a minor disturbance and folk were already clearing away the debris. No one was hurt, which was lucky. It could have been much worse.
Most people dismissed the event as a simple accident. But Silas Blackwood was not most people. He had honed his Observation skill for decades, and he had witnessed everything.
He had watched the cart driver struggle with a knot in his mule’s reigns, heard the man’s triumphant shout when he loosed the beast from his harness and the following cry of alarm when the old mule bucked, kicking the cart with its hind legs. The cart shuddered then began to roll down the hill. It picked up speed on the cobblestones, the barrels inside rattling with every bounce.He watched as the cart grazed a vendor’s stall, knocking over a stack of crates. The old cart driver chased the cart futilely.
Most interesting to Silas was the young man walking down the center of the street who seemed to have some sort of fit, dropped the sack on his shoulder, then carelessly crawled on hands and knees to the mouth of a nearby alley. The cart missed plowing into him by inches. After a few moments, the young man turned to retrieve his burden, completely unaware of the disaster that had almost befallen him. The entire sequence of events was uncanny.
Silas felt a stirring in his gut. It was a sensation he hadn’t felt in a long time—one of opportunity.
He flagged down a server. “Do you, by chance, know the name of the young fellow at the bottom of the hill carrying that muddy sack over his shoulder?”
The server squinted his eyes, peering in the direction his customer indicated. “Oh yeah, that’s Otter.”
“Surname?”
“Bennett,” the server replied.
“Thank you.” Silas paid his bill and left the server a handsome tip. He picked up his walking cane and left the cafe. That name, Bennett, rang a bell. He needed to find out more.
***
Otter pushed open the door to Ethel’s Laundry and dropped the sack onto the counter.
Ethel, a no-nonsense woman with a sharp tongue, narrowed her eyes at the state of the laundry. “Otter! What on earth happened to these?”
“They were like that when I found them,” Otter said, shrugging.
Ethel gave him a look that said she didn’t believe a word of it.
“Right.” She handed a copper dreg to the boy and lifted a clean stack of garments wrapped in a neat brown paper package onto the counter. “See that these are delivered without a speck of dirt or I’ll take it out of your hide.”
“Yes ma’am,” Otter promised with a grin.
After dropping off the clean laundry only a block away, he headed back across the city toward the docks. His mother would be waiting for him. While he walked, he checked his display again.
Name: Dwayne Shi’longh Bennett (Otter)
Level: 0 XP: 0
Class: None Life Force: 4
Stats
STR 9
DEX 9
CON 9
INT 10
WIS 9
CHA 9
Luck 18
Skills
Knowledge (Entomology) Novice- Lvl 3
Knowledge (Mathematics) Novice- Lvl 2
Navigation (Urban) Novice- Lvl 4
Observation Novice- Lvl 4
Persuasion Novice- Lvl 3
Reading Novice- Lvl 4
Swimming Apprentice- Lvl 5
Writing Novice- Lvl 4
Current Objective: Find Your Calling
Still no change.
He fought down the frustration. There was still time, he told himself. He had five weeks to “Find his Calling” and pick a class. If he was lucky. Which, according to his stat block, he certainly was. But the odds of being offered an adventuring class were still very low. Most people ended up stuck as a level 0 class like Merchant, Craftsman, or worst of all...Villager. In a city of thousands, most people were still considered villagers by the System.
As a level 0 class, the only method of advancement was through skills. Otter knew of a blacksmith who had Master level in two skills, affording him renown and a handsome chunk of coin. But adventuring classes were the real deal. With one of those, you could improve your base stats, gain access to class-based skills, increase your life force, and—best of all—learn magic.
Otter swiped his wrisplay again, watching the screen glitch briefly before settling back to normal.
"Strange," he muttered.
The display shouldn’t be acting up—not with the System's recent updates. Bugs were rare these days, and Otter knew a thing or two about bugs. The kind that crawled around on six legs, that is. The System’s inner workings were a mystery to him.
The sun was on its way down, casting long shadows on the cobblestones, but work in the city was never done. Bakers stacked loaves of rye and oat onto carts, their aprons dusted with flour. Butchers sharpened knives with rhythmic scrapes of steel, and cobblers hammered nails into the soles of worn boots.
The air was rich with scents: fresh bread mingling with wood smoke, the tang of fish from the docks drifting on the breeze. Children darted through the alleys, laughing as they chased wooden hoops and tossed beanbags.
He wove through the crowd with ease, sidestepping a barrow full of cabbages and ducked under a banner advertising The Autumn Fair—Three Days Only!
He glanced at the banner and sighed. Nothing ever changed. Same fair. Same streets. Same faces. In Brighthaven, most people lived and died as Level 0 townsfolk. No adventure. No grand quests. Just work, family, and a quiet end.
Otter longed for more.
He passed an elderly basket weaver sitting on a low stool. Her fingers moved quickly over the reeds, weaving them into tight, perfect circles. Next to her, a young boy carved a wooden figure—a simple toy soldier.
He couldn’t blame the kid for carving soldiers. Everyone dreamed of being a hero. But most were doomed to a boring life. Most, but not all.