“Move with purpose,” Kalen Onearm barked, his duelling cane poised for the next strike. “I didn’t teach you to be sloppy.”

Gritting his teeth, Harrow shifted into a defensive stance, barely saving his shoulder from another blow. His limbs ached from all the gruelling exercises, leaving him far from his best during the spar—not that it would have mattered. Master Onearm was in a particularly foul mood this morning, not that he was ever kind to his penniless students.

With narrowed eyes, he observed his opponent’s approach. Despite the tall and heavy stature, Master Onearm moved with an agility that belied his year. As his name suggested, the old master had only one arm, but that mattered little, considering he was once a full-fledged knight with decades of training and experience.

Whereas Harrow was nothing but an unawakened bum.

Well, he wasn’t homeless yet, but he might as well be if his Awakening fails.

The old master’s training rod, held high, swung mercilessly towards Harrow in a threatening arc. He managed to block the first strike but struggled to parry the following ones.

There was no room for him to push forward. Harrow found himself constantly on the defensive, forced to withdraw under the unrelenting charge. Each contact between their weapons sent electric spasms through his arms, intensifying the ache.

“No,” the retired knight yelled, his voice piercing the air, unsatisfied. “I ain’t seeing it yet. You are better than this, boy!”

Those words would have struck a nerve before, but after a couple of years under the old knight, it was almost a daily routine. Of course, it wasn’t every day the old bloke was hellbent on destroying Harrow. On most days, he left it to his other students.

Harrow shifted his weight onto his front foot and mounted a more committed stance. His moves lacked refinement compared to his opponent’s, but he poured every ounce of strength into them. It wouldn’t change the outcome—he knew that—but Onearm would be more satisfied seeing him try to land a hit.

“That’s more like it,” growled the old man, parrying his attack. A hint of satisfaction played on his lips.

Harrow liked to think of himself as a swordsmanship prodigy—an unsharpened blade—but such sentiments felt hollow after getting beaten up most days in training. There hadn’t been a single time he could stand up to the old man.

They continued sparring until the sun rose completely from the horizon, leaving Harrow utterly spent and sprawled on the ground.

The old man seriously needs a woman in his life, he thought.

“Clean the pavement and tools before you leave for the ceremony,” the old knight instructed, placing the duelling cane among the rest of the equipment. “Also, don’t come crying if you receive a shit-skill, got it?”

Harrow grunted.

He remained on the ground, still catching his breath. His stomach twisted in hunger. Whoever invented the tradition of fasting before the Awakening was a massive prick—not that he ever came to practice on a full stomach. His thoughts circled around the ceremony.

The Awakening Ceremony was arguably the most important event in anyone’s life. Through this single ritual, one’s fate would be set in stone. A person could become a knight, a common soldier, a butcher, or even a toilet cleaner—all dependent on the skill they awakened.

Honestly, Harrow didn’t think the gods would condemn him to clean shits for all his life, but one never knew. After all, he had spent plenty of time cleaning toilets just to earn some spare change.

Swordsmanship was the art he spent the most time on. Perhaps he could never become a knight, but he couldn’t help keeping his hopes up. The path of a magus was beyond his wildest dreams, as nobody but the nobles knew how to train for that vocation.

It wasn’t like it had never happened, but Harrow didn’t consider himself so lucky.

All he hoped was that the gods wouldn’t be merciless in their choices.

Something poked him on the shoulder. His eyes fluttered open to find a familiar figure crouching next to him.

“Did I disturb your sleep?” Eira chimed, still poking him with a duelling cane.

“I was meditating,” he said in a monotonous voice.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“I believe you,” the old master’s daughter smiled, clad in a simple white gown, ready for the ceremony.

The girl was strikingly different in appearance from her father. While the old geezer was tall, dark, and rough-looking, Eira stood a full head shorter than Harrow, her features delicate and less severe. Her blonde locks were meticulously bound in a braid.

Had it not been for Onearm’s integrity, Harrow would have suspected that the retired knight had stolen Eira from a noble house. Her pearl eyes gave the impression of nobility.

“Didn’t Father ask you to hone all the tools and clean up the rest?” Eira arched her eyebrow. “You’re going to get an earful for that.”

Harrow grunted as he rose and made his way to the toolbox. Gushing over the girl would only antagonise the old man and all her other suitors—which were half of boys his age in town. Who knew when the geezer would run out of patience and ram his sword through some unlucky fella’s chest?

He certainly wanted to do that to Alec, Harrow thought.

Soon the metallic scraping sound filled the air with his fingers deftly grazing a knife against the whetstone. Eira lingered in the yard.

“Aren’t you missing something?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

Pausing his grinding, Harrow lifted his gaze to meet hers. Clueless.

“Aren’t you supposed to wish me luck for the ceremony?”

“As if you need it,” he snorted. “For now, let me cling to the bit of luck I have left. You’ll awaken something good either way.”

Eira arched an eyebrow, her lips curving into a faint smile. She left him to his devices.

Harrow sighed deeply, gazing at the tools scattered around him. All this would take over an hour to finish honing, followed by sweeping the pavement and watering the flowers. This would probably the last time he’d be working here if Solus wishes it.

A few minutes later, Eira emerged from the house with her father. The old knight rarely left home, but today he decided to show up at the temple for his daughter.

Knowing the ceremony would last for hours, Harrow was confident he’d finish his chores and join in due time. Still, he hastened his grinding, swiftly honing the blades one after another. The constant motions took a toll on his fingers and arms. It was a familiar ache—one he had made peace with long since his time being the butcher’s apprentice.

After completing his errands, Harrow ran to the orphanage, which was thankfully just around the block of the temple. His body strained from hunger and exhaustion as he searched for water. Nobody important was present at the orphanage—the Awakening Ceremony was a festive occasion that drew everyone to the temple.

Along with water, he found a loaf of bread. His stomach growled.

Harrow froze, considering the off chance of angering the gods before his Awakening just for a loaf of bread. The gamble simply isn’t worth it.

However, before he could put the bread back, a figure appeared behind him and pulled his ear.

“I should have expected it’s not a cat scooting around the kitchen at this hour.”

“Sister Serena!” Harrow cried. “You haven’t gone to the temple?”

“I was waiting for you.”

He tilted his head.

“I wasn’t waiting to catch you stealing bread.” the nun shook her head and snatched the loaf from his hand. “Good thing you haven’t eaten it yet, or you’d have blamed yourself all your life if you received an inferior skill.”

“I guess I’d be blaming Solas for everything from now on.” He realised he’d said it aloud when she gave him a pointed look.

At least he was glad to learn both Master Kalen and Sister Serena had expected him to awaken a skill—doesn’t matter if it’s the lowest of the low. There were telltale signs that indicated the possibility of awakening a certain kind of skill. Kash—another kid from the orphanage—was nimbler than most kids his age. He had awakened the skill [Light finger (Uncommon)] last year.

Physical traits began to manifest during the adolescent years. It was the magical ones that were difficult to perceive.

Harrow exhibited no particular physical traits other than being a head taller than most of his age. His physique scrawny, and severe for a fifteen-year-old boy.

“Go prepare yourself. I have something for you,” Sister Serena literally pushed him into the washroom.

Refreshing himself, he changed into a more presentable tunic. Bathing was pointless, as he’d be taking a dip either way.

“Sister?” He returned to find her waiting with an old box in her hand.

“Come here.”

She had donned her rounded-framed glasses and was gazing at him with an unreadable, emotional look. He had spent all his life in the orphanage, and she had been part of it for all the years, but he rarely saw her exhibiting such state for anything.

Harrow approached. He’d grown taller than her, though for most of his life he remembered being shorter. She touched his cheek before bringing out a red string, braided in nine smaller strands—each for a divinity.

“Give me your hand.”

She tied the red string to his wrist, praying that Solas would protect him forever.

“What’s in the box?” Harrow asked, his eyes darting towards it.

“Inheritance,” she said softly before opening it to uncover a sheathed dagger. “It’s from your father.”

His heart skipped a beat as he glared at the item. Harrow took it and unsheathed the blade. Though it wasn’t rusty, the dagger had certainly seen better days. Its outward look didn’t indicate anything magical about it, though it rarely did to unawakened eyes.

“I wish he’d left something else instead of a weapon,” she murmured.

Harrow shot her an inquisitive look. “Sister, is this—”

“It’s an Artifact.”

“Really?” His eyes narrowed at the dagger, wondering how to prove it. If cutting himself would, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Well, Sister Serena could see it through the System’s eyes, and she had no reason to lie.

“Your father left behind a donation to the orphanage and the dagger all those years ago,” Sister Serena said with a heavy heart. “I pray to the goddess that you never have to use it.”

“You don’t have to pray for that. I’m going to sell this to the first legitimate merchant I can find.” Harrow made sure to keep my emotions in check. Either way, it wasn’t a terrible choice to sell the artifact, if all it did was remind him that he was abandoned.

The middle-aged woman sighed, looking older than she ever had. “You’re getting late for the ceremony.”

“Right.” Harrow sheathed the dagger and stuffed it into his waistband before walking out. “Pray to the goddess to give me a legendary skill, Sister!