A crowd filled the city square, one that was somehow not too big, yet somehow not too little either.

Joy was abundant in this place. Jovial laughter filled the chilly air. And with that laughter, a sort of spell was cast upon everyone else present, eliciting even more smiles.

With the way it was looking, it seemed as if the festivities were bound to last long into the night.

Close to a hundred people filled the square. They sat on the benches, in the trees, and even on the cobblestone. Together, they enjoyed laughter, food, and drink. They partied as if it was their last day among the living—and it wasn’t as if this was untrue either..

They were adventurers.

And not just them.

Those that stood on the outside of the square, gazing in. Those that frequented the taverns down the street. Even those that had decided to skip out on the fun and get some shut eye elsewhere in the city.

They were all adventurers.

This place is Ethos, the City of Adventurers, and they were its citizens.

Even Harrow, who sat outside of the square, in the only tavern that bordered it, was an adventurer.

However, he was much older than the others that frequented this profession, as he was pushing into his late-thirties. You couldn’t blame him though. Being an adventurer was a simple, but profitable line of work. The only skill one needed was how to swing a sword. And for someone like him, whose upbringing wasn’t the most ideal, this job was the perfect fit for him.

Come morning, he would head off with his party into the only place that could be considered a “living hell,” the Dungeon.

But that was then, and this is now. Currently, Harrow was content to simply enjoy his ale and watch the festivities. Gatherings like this weren’t anything unusual in Ethos. As the City of Adventurers, its population consisted mostly of its namesake.

Adventuring was a dangerous job. Everyday adventurers would venture into the Dungeon’s depths and slay the monsters that would spawn from its very floors, return home with the spoils of their killings, and then do the very same thing the next day.

Due to the inherent danger of their job, everyday could be an adventures’ last, and so they often partied like it was.

You might assume partying was a fool’s errand. If everyday could be your last, shouldn't you make sure you are prepared for whatever comes at you by being well-rested?

In reality, this was the only place in all of Ethos where something like this was happening. Everywhere else, the city was probably quiet enough to hear a coin fall to the floor.

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The vast majority of adventurers understood the dangers of their job. It was only a small minority that often came together in the plaza, and never for two nights in a row. That small few had a very particular reason for doing so.

Because this place, the plaza, was special. Even more special than this city already was.

In the center of the city square, where one would imagine a fountain would usually stand…was a sword.

A beautiful, dazzling sword—lodged in a crude-looking piece of stone. Elevated on a pedestal, the sword was the centerpiece of not only just the city square, but also of the city itself.

The Holy Sword, Altar, also known as the “Scourge of Evil.” A sword of divine origin and the personal weapon of the Great Hero, Oscar.

400 years ago, at the cost of his life, the Great Hero slayed the Demon King in this very place. It is said that for the final blow, the hero brought his sword down onto the Demon King’s fallen body—almost like a god smiting a mortal.

On that day, Oscar cemented himself as a hero of legend.

Now, 400 years later, that same sword still rests in this place, lodged in the stone, unable—or even unwilling—to be moved. Neither the greatest mages, nor the strongest warriors could dislodge Altar from that spot, as if the sword wished to remain there.

Somehow, the adventurers of Ethos had come up with the tradition of attempting to pull Altar from the stone, thinking it would bless them with some luck on their next adventure. Though it was nothing more than superstition in Harrow’s opinion.

Even if many didn’t believe in it either, none cared enough to vocalize it. If anything, most saw it as dumb fun, seeing novelty in attempting an “impossible” challenge. That’s all it was, an impossible challenge.

Even Harrow himself has attempted to lift the sword. However, he failed to move it even an inch, just like many others before him.

Which is why something caught his eye.

That something was a young man, or a teen, to be specific. He had rather long hair, tied together into a low ponytail that reached his upper back. His build was exceedingly average, some would even call him lanky. And the clothes he wore were nothing special, just a tunic, pants, and leather boots.

It was clear just from his clothing alone that he must’ve been some village boy with dreams much bigger than his pants.

There were numerous allures to Ethos, the mythos surrounding Oscar’s feats, the tales of Altar’s situation, and the incredible riches one can earn from diving into the Dungeon. They all drew people to this city.

That boy, just like everyone else, traveled to Ethos, drawn by those stories and hopes.

The boy was just one of many, his story wasn’t anything special in this city.

Yet, Harrow’s eyes remained locked on that brown ponytail, that softly swayed with the boy’s ga,it.

He entered the square and paused, and Harrow knew exactly what had drawn the boy’s gaze. And just to prove his point, the boy resumed his gait, towards the enshrined Altar.

That cemented it, he must've heard about Altar from some traveling bard and decided to try his chance at pulling the sword from the stone.

Harrow chuckled and raised his mug to take a sip. Unconsciously, he closed his eyes, relishing in the taste of his drink. It was a simple, admittedly innocent habit—one he wasn’t even aware of.

Yet, when Harrow lowered his mug and his eyes found the boy again, he wondered how so much could change in that singular moment.

The Holy Sword, Altar, the “Scourge of Evil.” The same sword that 400 years ago, the Great Hero used to save the world. The same sword that refused to leave the stone sheath it had been unfairly shoved in.

That sword was now being grasped within that boy’s hand, the same boy that Harrow had been following so attentively.

The same boy Harrow had written off as nothing special.