The next few months flew by in a whirlwind of activity. True to his word, my father took me hunting the very next day. My heart raced with a mixture of excitement and trepidation—this was my first real opportunity to test the skills I’d been honing. The thought of matching my father's expertise in the wild filled me with both determination and a hint of nervousness. We ventured just north of the city to the edge of the Elven Forest. While we didn’t dare go too far in—avoiding the ire of the Elves or gnomes who called it home—we found a decent bounty of boars and rabbits near its outskirts.
Our first catch was a rabbit. I took a deep breath and carefully lined up my shot, resisting the urge to rush. When I was confident, I loosed the arrow, striking the rabbit cleanly and killing it instantly. As a habit, I remembered to use Identify before taking the shot.
Rabbit – Level: 1
+1 XP
“I think we should focus on something bigger, Dad. I only got one experience for that,” I remarked, slightly disappointed.
Shortly after, we stumbled upon a smaller boar. It took two arrows to bring it down, but at Level 3, it rewarded me with a satisfying 25 experience points. Afterward, my father showed me the proper technique to dismantle both the rabbit and the boar. Despite the effort, I was surprised that I didn’t gain any new skills. I had assumed tasks like skinning and processing animals would count toward some kind of profession-based skill, given how crafting or practical activities often correlated with skill gains in other systems I’d encountered. Yet, apparently not.
As we prepared to leave, my Panoptic Sense picked up something unusual. A small, furry figure, no more than a foot tall, was perched on a tree limb about 30 feet away, watching us intently. Its movements were deliberate, the faint rustle of leaves betraying its careful shifting on the branch. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with the earthy scent of moss and bark, as the creature’s bright eyes locked onto us with an unnerving focus. Without turning my head, I whispered, “Dad, I don’t want to alarm you, but there’s a tiny, furry creature with long ears and clothes staring at us from that tree behind us.” I tried to use Identify, but the skill didn’t reveal anything.
My father chuckled, clearly amused. “Ah, I’m surprised you noticed. Based on your description, that’s a gnome. They’re clever little creatures—highly intelligent and known for making some of the best gadgets in the world. As long as we don’t harm the forest or attack it, it won’t bother us.”
That evening, my father introduced me to John, one of the quietest people I’d met in both my lives. Conversations with him were... brief. A grunt here, a low growl-like “grmm” there, and on rare occasions, a few clipped words. John stood about 5’7” with brown hair and a lean, muscular frame—likely a byproduct of his career as a hunter.
From that day onward, I hunted with John daily, except when my father was off duty, or my mother needed him. Each day, we brought down at least one boar—sometimes two. Initially, we tried preserving the excess meat and sharing it with neighbors, but it quickly became clear that even these efforts couldn’t keep up with our growing surplus. By the third boar, it became obvious we had far more food than we could possibly eat ourselves.
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On our way back to the city with an especially large boar in tow, we passed an orphanage, its modest stone exterior partially covered in ivy. The sight gave me pause, stirring a mixture of curiosity and a sense of responsibility. I thought of the children who might live there, and an idea began to take shape in my mind. Perhaps this excess bounty could serve a greater purpose than simply filling our storerooms. Orphanages were rare in Magnon; circumstances that left children without families were unusual in or near the capital. An idea struck me.
“Hey, John, can you wait here for a minute? I want to do something,” I said, shifting the weight of the boar on my shoulder. He responded with his characteristic grunt, and I carried the boar to the orphanage.
I must have been a sight—a ten-year-old hauling a full-sized boar on his back. The children swarmed me with questions, their chatter reminiscent of Ayla’s endless curiosity. Smiling, I tried to answer a few, though I kept things brief. Spotting the oldest child, I said, “Could you get whoever’s in charge? I have something I’d like to ask.” The boy nodded and darted inside.
Moments later, an older woman emerged, her expression curious but warm. “Older” was relative—she seemed to be in her late forties, with only a few gray hairs and a face creased with laugh lines. She stood about 5’4”, her posture poised and confident. Using Identify, I learned:
Marian – Level: 72 – Talent: Martial Arts
It took everything in me not to react outwardly, but I could tell she noticed my realization. Her serene smile turned mischievous, her eyes twinkling as though she found my reaction amusing.
“I wonder,” she began, her tone light yet probing, “is that sharp perception of yours a talent, or just something you’ve picked up from hunting?” Without waiting for an answer, she added, “Now, what can I do for you? Also, it’s quite rude to visit someone’s home without introducing yourself.”
“Oh! My apologies,” I said quickly, bowing slightly. “I’m Jace Obexis, son of Ralph Obexis, the guard captain. I’ve been hunting with my father’s friend, John, to prepare for attending Ascension later this year.” I gestured toward John. “We’ve had more success than we can use, and I thought your orphanage might need the extra food.”
“The son of a guard captain, hmm? Thank you, my lord, but we can’t afford to pay for the boar,” she said, her tone sharper than necessary.
I frowned slightly at her “my lord” comment—it was technically correct, given my father’s noble status, but the way she said it felt off. “Oh, my lady, you misunderstand,” I replied with exaggerated politeness, bowing dramatically. “I’m not selling it. As its owner, I can give it to whomever I wish, and I wish to give it to you.”
Her smile widened, a faint glimmer of mischief playing at her lips, and her eyes narrowed with an almost feline grace, exuding a blend of curiosity and knowing amusement. "Well, you certainly have a way with words. Tell you what—bring your surplus here every seventh day, and I’ll teach you something in return. Perhaps it’ll be how to fight, or maybe something unexpected—you’ll just have to wait and see. Either way, it ensures people know we pay our way."
"Will you teach me how to fight?" I blurted, unable to contain my excitement.
Marian’s eyebrow arched slightly, her lips curling into a sly smile. "You seem certain that I am capable of teaching you how to fight. What makes you think that is what I would offer?" she asked, her voice laced with playful intrigue, her gaze sharpening as if daring me to defend my observation.
"Uh... you stand like my dad does, and he’s a front-line fighter," I stammered, my enthusiasm tripping over my words. "My mom fights at range, so her stance is different. It just... seems obvious to me."
For a moment, Marian looked as though she might challenge my words, her gaze holding steady as if weighing her options. Then, with a faint smile that hinted at unspoken amusement, she stepped back. "Be here at first bell tomorrow," she said, her voice calm but carrying a note of expectation, punctuated by a dismissive flick of her hand. "Let’s see what you’re capable of."