The guild hall erupted in shouts that slowly faded into a background susurration. A few voices rose above it.

“Did you hear that? The guild accepted a monster.”

“What did he say his name was?”

“Shronk Lee?”

“Scrumble, I heard.”

“No, that’s a drink you daft ninny! Ye can’t be namin’ yerself after a drink.”

“Say that to Vodka Carter over in Sleit and you’ll get a face full o’ knuckles.”

“How can a monster become an adventurer?!” a burly Barbarian demanded, slamming his empty tankard upon the round table.

“Shrubley, the monster adventurer?” a Mage whispered in awe.

Sel hid her face in her hands. Shrubley was too full of mounting pride at his wondrous new name to hear the whispering behind him.

“Your name is… Shrubley?” Sel asked. She had to make sure.

Then her thoughts caught up to the reality of her situation. You’re registering a monster, Sel. And yet this thing just radiates pure sugary sweetness. It’s not stupid, but it’s not too bright either. A fair bit brighter than a lot of people we get signing up nowadays, that’s for sure. So what if it wants to call itself Shrubley? There was that Wainrite family over in Sleit that had kids with names like Brutality Wainrite, Tonka Wainrite, Septic Wainrite, and so on, just because they liked the sounds of the words!

The bush–no, Shrubley–nodded emphatically, rustling his many glossy leaves. Drops of dew fell like glittering diamonds and splashed on the polished countertop.

Sel bit her lip and wrote down the name on the pane of glass used to register every new member. “And what are you, Shrubley?”

That question was easy. “Shrub.”

Sel looked around to her superiors for some help, but none of them would move closer. A great many of them were going red in the face. Their mouths twisting to hold back their laughter.

“Dear?” Sel asked, leaning once more onto the counter. “Perhaps you misunderstood me.”

“But I am a shrub,” Shrubley said. It was very obvious. The shrub motioned with his long wiry arms at his round leafy body.

A snort of laughter came out from somewhere behind Shrubley, but the little shrub ignored it.

Shrubley was a shrub. There were many books that the Druid possessed, and he had read all of them many times. It clearly stated that he was a shrub. Not a flower. Not a tree, most certainly not common grass.

“You are a shrub,” she agreed. “But that is your race.” Sel paused for a moment, an unsure look in her amber eyes. Then she nodded, gaining confidence, and placed a hand on her chest. “I am an elf. Do you know what that is?”

Shrubley did. Elves were popular within the books the Druid carried. They, among all the core races, cared most for the natural order of things. But Shrubley never saw one before and would not have known one if they introduced themselves.

Even as Sel proclaimed herself one, the little shrub was unsure what she was getting at. “You are an elf?”

The woman nodded. Despite her earlier trepidation, she smiled. Seeing it made Shrubley feel good. Like soaking up fresh rain with his roots and clear spring sunlight with his leaves.

“Can I be an elf?” Shrubley asked. Being an elf would be fun.

Seeing where the little bush was going with this, Sel shook her head. “No, dear.” She quickly held up a hand, seeing the widening of Shrubley’s glowing eyes set deep in a dark hollow of its leafy body. “You cannot change your race. That is what you were born as. Do you understand?”

Now Shrubley understood. The shrub’s opinion of this elf rose considerably. She had taken the time to teach him like the Druid did. “So I am a shrub… but I am not a shrub?”

After a moment of processing the sentence, the woman shook her head. “Do you use any magic or have any powers?” she asked helpfully. “Fighters are usually pretty good with weapons. Knights and Paladins wear heavy armor… no offense, but I don’t see you going down that road. My guess is you’re a scrappy little guy, that about right? Maybe a Rogue?”

Shrubley thought very hard on his answer. And then it came. The most obvious answer ever. Shrubley wanted to be like the man that had given him the Adventurers Guild invite. He was kind and gentle.

Sel had no idea if a monster could have a Class. But clearly this was uncharted territory, and she wasn’t about to skip an important question just because she was unsure of how a monster progressed.

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

Aside from growing in ranks, Sel didn’t know that much more. Monsters didn’t gain levels. That was a people thing. The core races leveled, but the monsters only had rough ranks to assign power.

That made them easy to deal with as they tended to only gain power when they advanced and otherwise were rather static.

They also didn’t have Classes, since you could only acquire a Class when you maxed out your essence sockets. And no monster had essences. Of that, she was sure.

She would later find out how wrong she was.

But Sel was nothing if not thorough. She expected the cute little bush man to ask her what a Class was.

It came as quite a shock when Shrubley made a motion with his thin branch-like arm and dexterous little twiggy fingers.

He’s manipulating Shardscript! Sel’s thoughts screamed at her. She’d recognize that motion anywhere.

Shrubley wanted to be a Druid, but he vaguely recalled seeing the word “Class” before, so he pulled up his status.

Golden lettering etched across the space in front of him, visible only to his eyes. His little leafy body bristled with joy every time he saw Shardscript. It meant he was on the path to being a Hero.

Monsters didn’t have Shardscript. Only Heroes.

[Shrubley]

Race: Soul Shrub

Class: Insufficient Essences

Rank: Mundane

Level: 1

[Attributes]

Strength: 5

Skill: 8

Hardiness: 11

Willpower: 17

Arcane: 13

Restoration: 15

[Essences]

[Curiosity (Black)] (Copper II Rank)

* [Lifelong Student]

[Empty]

[Empty]

[Racial Abilities]

[Solar Synthesis]

[Verdant Inventory]

[Leyline Roots]

[Awakened Intellect]

[Garden Cultivation]

[Shardic Creature]

[Monsterfolk]

Shrubley combed his glowing eyes over the script from top to bottom, then back up to the top to the word “Class”. He nodded to himself.

“My Class is, Insufficient Essences,” Shrubley said proudly.

The laughter her superiors and fellow guildmates were holding back broke like a dam. The shock of a monster potentially having a Class was too much.

“Dear?” Sel asked, leaning once more onto the counter. “That is not a Class.”

“But it says ‘Insufficient Essences’,” Shrubley said.

Sel cupped her chin in her palm and drummed her fingers thoughtfully. Oh, by Wisdom’s Grace, surely not? “Do you have any essences?”

“Just one,” Shrubley said proudly. He looked like a big leafy balloon.

The laughter was immediately cut off. It rippled across the room like a blanket of black velvet.

The elf swallowed nervously. She slid the [Registration Tablet] toward Shrubley. “Please place your… er, hand on the tablet, please.” And then, because she felt an odd sense of affection for this little guy, added, “It won’t hurt. It’s just to record your essences. Every adventurer does it.”

She didn’t know how it was possible, but Shrubley seemed to swell up with even more pride. He gingerly set his knotty hand onto the glass. The transparent pane turned black as night.

Sel’s eyes nearly bulged out of her face. Black?!

There was a series of creaks as countless necks craned to see the hue of the tablet, which would tell what color of essence Shrubley had, if any.

Furious whispers picked up as the news got around.

“I thought only hot shot adventurers up in the Inner Ring had black essences?” one man said.

“Must be broken. No way anybody from ‘round here has a Black essence, much less him.”

Sel should have been trying to pick her jaw up off the floor, but she found herself smiling. Not only were people impressed, more than a few had stopped referring to Shrubley as a monster.

After all, monsters can’t use essences. Everybody knows that.

Her eyes drifted back to the tablet. “Thank you, Shrubley, that is all.”

Black essences were unique. They were absent of color to signify that very thing. In her decade of being an adventurer, she’d only seen 2 Black essences. And never one like this.

Curiosity Essence, huh? For some reason, she couldn’t help but think that it suited the little guy.

Despite the strangeness of the whole thing, it put Shrubley ahead of many newcomers to the guild. Most people lacked the money, connections, or suicidal tendencies to get their hands on even one essence.

Fuming with fury, Lurl, the Barbarian, had had enough. What were they playing at, letting in a bleeding monster of all things? Why wasn’t anybody stopping this foolishness?

Lurl had defeated all comers to gain his first Green Essence at the tender young age of 13, and he would feel the Boot of War on his backside before he let a monster equal him.

He had been legendary for joining the Taamra Adventurers Guild branch with his own essence. The Barbarian could see his legacy going up in smoke before his eyes.

Nobody would talk about Lurl, the Barbarian. Not after today. They’d talk about this little pipsqueak who had come into town not only as a hideous little shrub barely big enough to take a leak behind, but that it also had an essence. And a Black one at that!

Monsters didn’t have essences! It wasn’t right. It wasn’t nat’rul.

He was a Bronze Rank adventurer, and one of the people in this pathetic backwater village that had a Class. He’d show that little upstart.

Roaring an ancient battle cry, spittle spraying from his lips, the huge man flipped the table, toppling his group’s lean Mage with it.

She cried out in pain and surprise, but the Barbarian didn’t care. He was far past caring for the weak and worthless. He would take care of this monster that had cast a spell on everybody else and he’d be lauded as the hero he truly was.

Lurl, if it wasn’t obvious, was a Barbarian. And Barbarians were notoriously thick-skulled. Mind magic tended to bounce right off or go through one ear and out the other without finding much brain to impact.

If Almora had modern age doctors, Lurl would be diagnosed with severe CTE. As it was, they did have a name for his affliction.

They were called Barbarians.

Green smoky Rage essence billowed from his furs, bulking his already oversized muscles. The energy visibly channeled into his limbs, concentrating into an ability.

The Barbarian charged at Shrubley with murderous intent, unslinging a wicked greataxe from his back. Whirlwind essence gathered on the greataxe’s cutting edge, turning it blood-red as it built up for a deadly blow.

It was time to chop some wood.