The streets of Brighthaven were quieter than usual. The market square, typically filled with the clamor of merchants and townsfolk, was subdued. The soft clatter of wagons on cobblestones and the distant chirp of birds replaced the usual morning buzz. Even the gulls circling over the docks seemed less vocal, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
Otter sat on a wooden crate by the river’s edge, his journal open on his lap. It was his prized possession, but it was old. The pages fluttered in the breeze, revealing sketches of bugs, rooftop paths, and canal routes. Some of the lines were faded, the images becoming less distinct. The streets he loved seemed smaller. The secrets he’d spent years uncovering felt insignificant.
Footsteps approached from behind, light and familiar. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
“You’re early,” Otter muttered, still staring at his map.
“You’re late,” Erin replied, her voice carrying a teasing lilt.
Otter glanced up, managing a faint smile. But it didn’t reach his eyes.
Erin stepped closer, holding out a small package wrapped in cloth. Her auburn hair glinted in the morning light, and her green eyes sparkled with something unspoken.“I made you something,” she said.
Otter blinked, surprised. “What’s this?”
“Just open it,” Erin urged, her smile widening.
Otter set his journal aside and carefully unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a leather-bound notebook, the dark brown cover embossed with a simple compass design. The leather was smooth, sturdy—built to last.
“For your sketches,” Erin said. “And your maps. I figured you could use something sturdier than that old thing you’ve been carrying around. It looks like its about to fall apart”
Otter traced the embossed compass with his fingers, feeling a lump rise in his throat. “Erin…” His voice faltered for a moment. “Thanks.”
She sat down beside him, her gaze drifting out over the river. “I wanted to give it to you before I left,” she said softly.
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning.
Otter stared down at the notebook, his fingers tracing the edges of the pages. The weight of it in his hands felt heavier than it should—like it carried more than just blank pages. Like it carried expectation.
“It feels… I don’t know… like it’s happening so fast,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “You leave next week, right?”
Erin nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. It had been three weeks since Otter had defeated Bran in the race, and he couldn't help but remember the exhilaration that had filled him when he crossed the finish line. But now, with only a week until Erin's departure, it felt like everything was slipping away. They had always known this day would come, but neither of them were fully prepared for it.
His heart twisted at the thought of Erin leaving. They had been inseparable since they were kids, exploring every corner of the city together and dreaming of adventures. But now, Erin's dream was coming true while Otter's remained just out of reach.
They sat in silence for a few moments, watching the boats glide by on the river. The sun was rising higher in the sky, casting warm rays over their faces.
"Have you started packing yet?" Otter suddenly asked.
Erin groaned and rolled her eyes. She hadn't even thought about packing until this moment. "I suppose I should start," she reluctantly admitted.
Otter chuckled. "Always leaving things to the last minute."
"And you're always too organized," Erin teased back.
They stood up and stretched before heading back into the city. As they walked in comfortable silence, taking in all the familiar sights, Otter couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness wash over him. He knew their time together was limited, but he was determined to make every moment count. “I’m happy for you,” he said quietly. “Really.”
Erin tilted her head, watching him carefully. “You don’t have to say that.”
Otter finally looked at her, a flicker of pain in his eyes. “But it’s true.”
A silence settled between them, broken only by the gentle lapping of the river against the docks.
“I wish you were coming too,” Erin said softly.
Otter chuckled bitterly. “Me? At the Academy? I don’t have a Class, remember?”
Erin frowned. “That doesn’t mean you don’t belong.”
Otter shook his head, closing the notebook. “I’m just a Level 0 villager.”
Erin reached out and grabbed his hand, her grip firm. “No,” she said fiercely. “The System doesn’t know you like I do. You’re smart, Otter. You’ve got more skills than anyone I know. You just need to find your own path.”
His gaze softened, but he still couldn’t meet her eyes for long.“Maybe,” he whispered.
“Don’t give up hope. Your birthday is still a month away. Maybe that’s what the System is waiting for. Maybe they’ll invite you next semester.”
That was certainly a possibility, albeit slim. Something told him if he didn’t go to the Academy now, he’d never get there. Every step he took toward Erin’s cottage felt like one step farther away from his dreams.
They said an awkward goodbye at her door, neither knowing what to do with their feelings, then Otter headed back to the docks.
When he reached their usual spot by the crates, his mother was there, waiting. She stood with her arms crossed, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, revealing forearms strong from years of hard work. Her braided hair was fraying at the edges, and her apron bore smudges of dirt and saltwater.
She watched Otter approach, her expression unreadable.
“Why so glum?” his mother asked softly.
Otter shrugged, setting his new journal down on a nearby crate.
She studied him for a long moment. Her sharp gaze had a way of cutting through to the truth, no matter how hard Otter tried to mask it.
“It’s Erin, isn’t it? She’s getting ready to leave,” she said simply.
Otter shrugged, tucking his hands into his pockets. “She’s my best friend.”
Marla tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing with that knowing look she often gave when she wasn’t buying what Otter was selling.
“Is that all?”
Otter glanced away, scuffing his boot against the dock’s worn boards. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? She’s off to the Academy.”
Marla stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her touch was firm but gentle, the way it always was—grounding him, pulling him back from his spiraling thoughts.
“You’re right,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is what you do next.”
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Otter frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Erin’s not the only one who gets to move forward, Otter,” Marla said. “You’ve got a choice too.”
Otter let out a bitter laugh. “A choice? I don’t have a class, Ma.”
“Who says you need a class? You’ve already got everything you need. You don’t need a class from the System or an invitation to the Academy to prove your worth.”
Otter shook his head, frustration bubbling to the surface. “What good are maps and sketches when everyone else has swords and magic? How am I supposed to compete with people like Bran or Erin? They’ve got classes. I’ve got… paper.”
Marla’s gaze softened, and she turned his chin, forcing him to look at her.
“Listen to me, son. The world’s full of Fighters, Mages, and Scouts. People who swing swords and cast spells. But you? You see things differently. You notice what others miss. You know how to read a situation before it happens. That’s a skill most people would kill to have.”
Otter swallowed hard, the lump in his throat returning. “But what if that’s not enough?”
Marla’s hands squeezed his shoulders gently. “It is enough. It’s more than enough. The problem isn’t what you have, Otter. It’s what you believe about yourself.”
She let go, stepping back and folding her arms again.
“You’ve spent your whole life exploring Brighthaven’s back alleys. Finding paths no one else even knows exist. You don’t need to be the strongest or the fastest. You just need to trust what you already know.”
Otter lowered his gaze, his thoughts swirling. He traced the edges of the notebook with his fingertips. What did he want? What path did he truly want to walk?
“What if I can’t figure it out?” he asked quietly.
Marla smiled faintly. “Then you’ll learn. And you’ll try again. That’s how we all move forward.”
Otter glanced up at her, surprised by the warmth in her expression.
“You really think I can make something of myself?” he asked.
Marla nodded. “I think you’ve already started. You just need to embrace who you are.”
Otter swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “Okay.”
Marla gave him a rare smile, a soft curve of her lips that carried both pride and affection. She ruffled his hair, the way she used to when he was a kid.
“Good. Now get to work. We’ve got crates to load.”
Otter chuckled, shaking his head as he picked up the notebook. “Always with the crates.”
“Work’s not going to do itself,” Marla teased. “And remember—use what you’ve got.”
Later that evening, Otter huddled in his small, drafty room, the chill of the night creeping through the cracks in the window frame. He wrapped himself tighter in his blanket and laid Erin’s parting gift—the leather notebook—on his lap. The weight of it felt comforting, grounding.
He flipped it open to the first blank page and stared at the pristine paper for a long time.
Use what I have, huh? What do I have?
With a sigh, he tapped his wrisplay, the faint glow illuminating his face in the dim light.
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
Jumping Novice- Lvl 1
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
Otter frowned at the screen, tapping through the menu options as if he could discover something new by sheer will.
His stats were painfully average—completely forgettable, as Bran liked to remind him. Nine across the board, except for INT, which sat slightly above at ten. Nothing about it screamed "hero material."
Except for one thing.
Luck: 18.
Otter stared at it, that strange number standing out in a different font from the others. He still didn’t know why.
After receiving his wrisplay, he remembered the official who’d logged his stats commenting offhandedly that a score of 9 was completely average—exactly what the System expected from a standard villager.
So, if 9 was average… what the hell did 18 mean?
Otter had never been able to figure it out. He’d asked his mother about it once, but she’d brushed it off, saying only, “It’s higher than mine.”
Higher than hers? That was all she’d said before changing the subject.
He’d never met anyone who talked about their Luck stat. Maybe it wasn’t something people paid much attention to. Or maybe it was, and they kept it quiet. He simply didn’t know.
And then there was that glitch.
“Luck’s Whisper: Active.”
It had appeared on his wrisplay the during the race, flickering in and out of view. It hadn’t returned since, but Otter couldn’t stop thinking about it. What did it mean?
Slowly, thoughtfully, Otter picked up his pencil and began to write in his new notebook.
At first, he jotted down simple observations about his own profile:
* Level 0.
* No class.
* Luck: 18. Different font.
Next, he scribbled questions, letting his mind wander freely:
* Is Luck a stat like the others?
* Does it affect the world, or just me?
* Why doesn’t anyone talk about it?
* What is Luck’s Whisper?
He paused, tapping the pencil against his chin. Then, he wrote a question in bold letters across the top of the page:
Am I lucky?
He stared at the words for a moment before circling them, then underlining them twice.
Am I?
To answer, he made a list of all the things that had happened to him recently that he considered lucky.
Lucky Things That Have Happened:
* Found 3 rare violet fendermites this year.
* Found 3 copper dregs on the street last week.
* Followed a baby rat, which led me to a new tunnel.
* Mom.
* Beat Bran in the footrace.
Otter paused, tapping his pencil against the page as he looked at that last one. He frowned and crossed it out.
Beating Bran hadn’t been luck—not entirely. He’d worked hard for that. He’d memorized the streets, taken the right shortcuts, and kept his head in the game. That wasn’t dumb luck.
That was earned.
He flipped to a fresh page and titled it:
Unlucky Things That Have Happened:
* Haven’t found my calling.
* Erin leaving for the Academy without me
He stared at it, the words feeling heavier with each passing second.
Finally, he closed the notebook and leaned back against the wall, the leather cover resting on his chest. His gaze drifted to the small window above his bed, where the stars glittered in the dark sky.
“Find your calling,” he whispered to himself. “That’s my objective.”
But how?
Otter glanced at his wrisplay again, the glowing screen casting faint shadows in the room. The Luck stat still stared back at him, enigmatic and strange.
His mother said it wasn’t about finding his calling, it was about making his own path.
He opened the notebook again, flipping to the first blank page. This time, he began sketching a map—not of the city’s familiar alleys, but of ideas. Each line and symbol represented a possibility.
At the center of the page, he drew a compass.
And in the space beneath it, he wrote:
Paths Not Yet Taken.
Otter stared at the words, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He didn’t have a class. He didn’t have a quest.
But he did have Luck.
And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.