The prison cell was cold and dank, a cage of grey concrete and rusty iron bars. Dirt creeped along the stained and marked walls, an exhibition of the prison’s poor maintenance. The room was stark and bare except for a single bed and a toilet. The bed was a harsh metal construction, boasting a single mattress which although must have gleamed a bright white at some point, was now a macabre grey, crusted and stained with dirt and dust. No sheets or pillow graced these sleeping arrangements. The cell however, did have one redeeming feature, one many inmates coveted but never received. A tiny window, at the top right hand corner at the back of the cell. It stood encased in ancient faded brown iron bars which in some places glittered in the sunlight. A tiny ray of luminescence could just penetrate the fog of darkness that permeated the room like a noxious gas. This shard of light illuminated a solitary prisoner, lying on the floor, curled into a protective ball. Bruises marked his face and he sported a black eye. Despite this and his somewhat demeaning position, the boy had an expression of fierce anger upon his face, a demonstration of defiance. A showcase in strength. While his body might have been pummelled and defeated, his spirit was in no way broken.
The boy, as if shuddering awake from a nightmare, began to rise, forcing his burning muscles through an excruciating haze of pain and into use. Slowly and unsteadily, the boy rose onto his hands and knees, and then to a standing position. As if guided by the fragment of light, the boy turned to stare longingly out of the miniscule window.
Slowly returning to him, through a foggy cloud of pain, the boy remembered the events that had lead him to this place. It had been a week before his sixteenth birthday, when the God would bestow upon him a class and he was given the ability to manipulate life essence. He only had to survive until then. He had been walking the streets of Lorlen, the small town which for this year he had had no choice but to call home, when he spotted an opportunity too good for his empty stomach to miss. Ahead of him in the crowded market, a merchant had just left his stall, probably chasing after a thief. A stall that was covered in sweet treats and delicious pastries, dusted with sugar, bursting with jam and honey, all freshly baked. Their taste bud tingling aromas were wafting through the market and overpowering the usual smell of refuse causing the boy’s mouth to water and his eyes to widen.
This opportunity was too good to be true.
His stomach urging him on, the boy slowly walked to a destination slightly to the right of the stall. Averting his eyes from the stall using the power of sheer will, the boy casually darted out his left hand to grab onto a pastry before, at the same walking pace as his previous one, ducking into an alley and then darting into the shadows. All this was done quite inconspicuously and the boy was quite pleased with himself. Without wasting any time he bit into the pastry, heavenly tastes flooding his mouth in a cacophony of wondrous flavour, he couldn’t believe his plan had worked.
And then everything went to shit.
Three armoured men rushed into the entrance of the alley. Each had a metal breastplate with the house symbol of Lorlen painted on it in black, a mage’s hood. The artwork was fairly good, although the boy was too busy trying to stuff the pastry into his mouth to care. He couldn’t escape the guards, he might as well be beaten on a full stomach instead of an empty one. He cursed himself, he should have ran once he reached the alley, saved the pastry for later. Oh how his stomach had damned him.
The rest of what happened that day was a blur, he remembered being thrown to the cold hard stone of the alley’s floor, his fall only broken by discarded refuse and probably some other worse things the boy refused to think about. His memory of the beating was hazy but he remembered the guards dragging him through the street and into the prison, he remembered the door being slammed shut in his cell and then he remembered falling into the pain-numbing darkness of sleep.
And here he was: alone, bruised and beaten, with little chance of escape. Slowly, mindful of his bruised muscles and aching limbs, the boy began to rise, his legs wobbling beneath him. Once he reached a shaky standing position, the boy moved towards the door of the cell. He noticed that the metal lock was firmly fixed to the door, without an inner keyhole. Anyone with the skills of a contortionist would find it easy to bring themselves into a position to pick the lock. Anyone else was stuck in the cell. Sighing, the boy moved to the bed, it was stained and dirty and the boy wouldn’t be surprised if it was infested with lice. It was better than the rough stone floor in the boy’s opinion though. Easing himself down onto the bed, the boy relaxed, there was nothing he could do about his current situation except wait.
While waiting, the boy had time to think, to ponder his life and the decisions that had lead him up to the awful situation he was now in. The boy’s first memory was of him sleeping on the street while he was around four or five. After begging that day a kind philanthropist had given him a small blanket, although scratchy and patched in certain places the blanket was able to keep the icy winter air at arm’s length.
One night, a few weeks after the boy had received the unexpected gift, the boy noticed a hardness in the blanket, almost like a stone was embedded into it near one of the corners. Curious, the boy ripped through the material in the corner, careful not to damage the blanket too much, after all, it was the only thing ensuring his survival in the glacial winter climate. Looking inside the blanket, the boy found a solid stone, its composition likened to onyx. Wondering if the stone was valuable and perhaps worth a few hot meals, the boy held it in his hand and pinched it between two fingers. The tiny amount of pressure seemed too much for the stone and so it crumbled into a fine dust which seemed to disappear. Shocked and disappointed the boy couldn’t help but wonder how the stone had survived this long inside his blanket when it seemed to be that fragile. The boy had just wanted to check its hardness. Shrugging, the boy decided to forget about the stone and decided to catch a few more hours of sleep before he would be forced to work.
After that, the boy had travelled from small village to small village, avoiding the guards who worked to remove vagrants from their towns. The boy did a succession of odd jobs for members of every class from farmers to merchants to labourers, of course no noble would need him nor offer him a job. Through this, along with a few acts of well-placed theft, the boy managed to eke out a living, doing nothing but trying to survive until his sixteenth birthday. On that day the God could free him from his life or cement it. On their sixteenth birthday every child would be given their class by the God. No one was ever given more than one class, but classes differed immensely in strength. A young adult given a strong class such as a warlock would almost immediately be snapped up by a noble house and given a cushy life; as long as they promised service, that is.
The boy hoped to be given a combat class such as a warrior, maybe even a ranger, a spearman, or perhaps knight if he was unbelievably lucky. He was most likely to become a labourer though. There were at least ten warrior classes and receiving one could allow a young adult a way to escape the cycle of poverty, they could become guards for illustrious noble houses or become soldiers in an army. They could see the world and live comfortably with the amount of money the nobles had to throw around. A magic class would unlock even more doors, but they were exceedingly rare.
The boy had only days until his sixteenth birthday, but since he was locked in prison, it was unlikely he would ever have the opportunity to complete the ritual allowing him to be assigned a class. He had to enter a temple and kneel before the altar, a flash of light later and a symbol would appear on his right wrist showing the classification he had received. Once he could manipulate life essence he would be able to view his stats and upgrade his classification. Although a person might share a classification with another, one could upgrade their classification and become immensely powerful, increasing their statistics until they were practically invincible compared to their former selves. By earning world essence from killing monsters and other humans alike a person could upgrade their classification and unlock new skills and new magic. No two people would end up with the same two skills or statistics unless they planned it that way.
The boy had heard there was a temple in Lorlen and so had decided to travel to the small town almost a year ago in preparation for his birthday. The smaller hamlets he had once called home were much too insignificant to warrant a single priest let alone a temple itself. For this reason the boy had to enter Lorlen. Feeling fairly confident upon entry, the boy quickly became more and more disheartened as he realised that it was unlikely he would ever find any sort of work in the town. The inhabitants seemed to hate him, calling him an undesirable and a vagrant. There seemed little work free, even less that would be offered to him. That was until, he had met an old bookseller. He was a kindly old man, definitely in his late sixties. He wore ancient wire spectacles and was slowly balding, his slate grey hair sticking from his head in unruly tufts. The man was once married but his wife had passed on years ago. Akkarin the bookseller was a speck of light in the darkness for the boy.
Immediately after watching the boy beg for work in the street and being snubbed, Akkarin approached the boy and asked if he would be interested in a position at his book store. Approaching his seventieth year, Akkarin was in no state to be lifting and carrying heavy tomes and so he seemed to need the boy as much as the boy needed him.
Almost three quarters of a year later, the boy had filled out his frame somewhat, after being fed decent meals every day by Akkarin. The bookshop turned a tidy profit and with Akkarin’s help the boy had even learnt some basic reading skills. This, along with a copper coin a day kept the boy in decent health, especially considering that the boy was allowed to sleep in a bed, for the first time in his life.
The boy had an incredible thirst for knowledge, constantly barraging Akkarin with questions about everything he could think of. Akkarin had done his best to sate the boy’s knowledge but had found his own lacking in some respects, despite his class as a librarian, granting him much superior knowledge compared to other classes. Despite this the boy had still learnt more than he had dreamed possible.
It had been a dream, a long luxurious dream the boy had no intention of waking up from. His life became an exercise in decadence compared to what it had been before. For a time the boy was truly happy, truly free. He had something he had never experienced before. A home.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
That was, until, the guard came. It seemed Akkarin had angered the local lord. Why? The boy had no idea. But when three members of the noble guard smashed through the front door of the bookshop, shattering the large glass window and sending shards of glass careening through the air, the boy felt a hatred bloom for the lord. Not stopping there, the guards drew their swords all at once and began to converge on Akkarin. Being of the librarian class, Akkarin could do little but watch in horror as he was impaled upon the first guard’s sword. The boy had tried to intervene, he had ran straight at the guard, fury and rage burning through his eyes. But it had been no use, the guard simply held his hand out and the boy crashed into it. The guard didn’t even flinch. He was an impenetrable barrier, insurmountable at this moment to the boy. The guards then turned as one and left, leaving a corpse bubbling with blood and a boy with a broken heart.
A week later, the boy had ran out of money, the bookstore had been seized by the lord and the boy was kicked out, turned back into a street vagrant. The lowest scum of the city. The starvation mixed with grief had been main factors influencing the boy’s descent to prison. Becoming more and more desperate, the boy found he had no choice but to resort to drastic measures he would have previously shied away from. In a way, the local lord, Lord Lorlen, could be blamed for all the boy’s misfortunes. But the boy blamed laid no blame at his feet. Instead the boy blamed one person, one who was too weak to fight back and defend what he loved, one too slow and foolish to avoid being caught. The boy blamed himself. Lying on the lice infested mattress, the boy scolded himself. He should have been stronger, faster more powerful, he should have done more to help Akkarin; he should have done more to fight the guards.
All of these thoughts however, were useless. The boy was stuck in this prison, he would be likely executed and he had no hope of redemption. The city wasn’t forgiving. It was hard to be in such a land as this, where crops grew in small numbers and poor quality.
Jolting the boy from his self-pitying thoughts a clang reverberated through the dungeon.
Proceeding it were heavy footsteps, the sound of hard boots hitting even harder stone. Guards he mused. Although whether they were coming for him, or for some other unfortunate prisoner, the boy had no hope of guessing. He had yet to hear any screams or moans in the prison, so he assumed that either he was alone, or that the guards forced prisoners to remain silent.
Slowly, the footsteps loudened, sending vibrations through the prison, the slap of boots on the rough ground rising to a forte, until a guard emerged from the shadow of the corridor and approached the boy’s cells. Studying the guard, the boy took in his chiselled muscles and toned physique. Matched with this, the guard stood rigidly, wearing an immaculate suit of chainmail. The guard’s face was grey and coated in stubble, lines crossing it like tilled fields. They were a testament to all that the guard had seen and experienced, evidence of the torment of humanity. Seeing the boy studying him, the guard’s expression darkened.
“What is your name?” The guard questioned his voice rough and gravelly.
“Never had one,” the boy replied.
Frowning in confusion the guard looked the boy over. Surely even a street urchin would have been given a name at some point in his life? It seemed odd the boy had no name. But, perhaps that was an advantage on the harsh world of the streets, the guard considered. No matter, the boy’s execution was already scheduled. It was a well-known fact that Lord Lorlen gave the pleasure of executions to those who pleased him. It was a very useful position, not only did it remove criminals from the city and stop them causing any further damage, but it also allowed the executioner to gain some easy life essence, allowing them to level up their class slightly faster. Whenever a human killed another human, life essence, or as it was sometimes called, experience, was given to the killer based on the strength of the deceased. Little to no life essence was given to a person for killing another that had not already received a class. Therefore, killing children was in no way a lucrative business strategy.
The guard asked another question: “Have you received a class yet?”
“No” the boy replied simply. He did not know what the guard wanted, he was hoping that by keeping his replies monosyllabic the guard would be forced to share his intentions.
“Show me your wrist,” the guard commanded.
The boy did so, exposing his skinny and pale wrist through the iron bars of the cell. His wrist was bare of any mark indicating the boy’s class, proving the boy’s statement was true to the guard. A shame, the guard thought, he could have been useful. Maybe the boy was close to receiving a class though, his execution could be useful for Lorlen, given as a favour to another.
“How old are you?” the guard asked the boy again, in his gruff tone.
“I should be sixteen soon, what’s the date?” The boy replied slowly. Still wary of revealing too much information but deciding not to antagonise the guard further the boy kept his reply succinct.
“Two weeks and a day till God’s day.” The guard replied in his signature rough tone.
The boy’s eyes rose in surprise, he had either been unconscious much longer than he thought or he had managed to completely lose track of the calendar. It was his sixteenth birthday today. The day he should have been receiving a class. Instead he was rotting in this dark hellish prison. The boy wondered why the guard wanted to know when his sixteenth birthday was, they would obviously have checked his class before throwing him into the prison, some classes, the boy knew, would be able to break out of this prison blindfolded and with both hands tied behind their back. Shrugging internally, after a long silence, the boy finally replied: “I’m sixteen today it seems.”
This seemed to make the guard visibly brighten, the array of creases on the guard’s weathered forehead seemed to lose their severity and the corners of the guard’s lips rose slightly, although almost imperceptibly.
Reaching for the keys on his belt, the guard stared at the boy, a harsh glint in his eye: “come with me.” The boy did as he was told, rising, even as his aching limbs roared in protest. The guard opened the cell door and attached a pair of manacles to the boy’s hands, preventing him from moving them almost entirely. The cold metal ached and chafed but at least he still had his hands the boy mused, many thieves in cities just like this one were unlikely to be as lucky.
Descending a large staircase, the boy proceeded to follow the guard through a maze of dank passageways and tunnels. Each was shrouded in an army of deep shadows, only curtailed by the flaming torch the guard brandished. It seemed to the boy that the prison was almost completely underground, apart from his cell apparently. He wondered how long-term prisoners would be able to cope here. Surely they must lose their sanity awfully quickly. Especially with the prevalence of moisture and the feel of thousands of tons of earth pressing down from above. The prison was a claustrophobic nightmare which seemed almost fathomless, he doubted even if a prisoner escaped their cell that they would ever be able to find their way out of the prison.
The boy wondered, not for the first time, how the guard was able to navigate this maze after passing through a long series of junctions. But before he could ponder this anymore he was jolted from his thoughts by the sight of light just ahead of him. Not natural light, but the light of torches and braziers. These glowing torches illuminated a staircase, carved out of the earth. Six guards stood, safeguarding the staircase, obviously preventing escapes. Each guard was holding a spear and standing impossibly still. Meeting the guards, the boy’s guard gave a nod. At his gaze, the six guards saluted and then moved aside, allowing the guard and his prisoner through. Glancing furtively at the guard’s wrists, the boy saw a spear on one of the guard’s wrists and a short sword on the other. The guards boasted spearman and warrior classifications. These were quite common classifications, almost as common as merchant classifications. However, the guards looked poised and professional, definitely able to subdue the boy with ease. Curiously, the boy glanced at the guard “escorting” him trying to surreptitiously see his wrist. The boy gasped at the sight, a tiny picture of a knight’s helm. The boy had never seen a knight before, they were a rare and powerful class that only the most powerful of nobles could afford to recruit in large numbers. The boy’s guard was obviously powerful. Deadly, in fact.
After ascending the staircase, the boy and his guard finally reached the light, they emerged in what seemed to be the basement of the Lord’s fortress. Although the boy was too busy thinking internally about his predicament and ways to escape it, he did manage to take in some of the surroundings. The fortress was a monolithic square building made entirely of grey stone. It was ugly and uninviting but it had tall walls that would be difficult to climb. In each corner of the fortress was a stubby guard tower fixed with crenulations. Exiting the fort through the raised portcullis the boy and his guard continued onwards, walking a well maintained road until they reached the town. From there, they walked through many different winding streets, navigating the maze of the city until they reached the temple.
The temple was the oldest building in the city, or so it was claimed. It was an elaborate structure constructed almost entirely out of pure white marble with golden leaf decorations. The temple boasted two spires which flanked its entrance. The temple was open to everyone, as evidenced by the wide open gate lit with torches that stood as its entrance.
Internally, the boy grinned, maybe he would have a chance to receive his class after all.
Walking through the centre of the entrance along with his captor, the boy took a second to look over the interior of the temple. Emancipated hooded figures walked around him like wraiths, the cowls of their hoods hiding their faces. Where the temple wasn’t lit up by torches a strange etheric light seemed to permeate the darkness, illuminating the faceted marble walls.
Looking forward, the temple’s altar finally came into sight. It was surprisingly humble compared to the rest of the temple. The boy assumed this was because it was a level 1 altar. This was by no means a prestigious temple and most of the priests there were low level. Shrugging, the boy continued, it wasn’t like his captor would give him a choice about what temple he could level his class at, after all it was doubtful the level of the altar would even impact such a low level ritual as receiving his class. The altar was a simple wooden table, covered in a clean white cloth. A candelabra stood in its centre, three out of its six candles lit, marking the level of life essence around the altar. Stepping towards the altar, at the nod of a priest from his right, the boy touched his hand to the white cloth and then kneeled. Almost instantly, a bright purple light began to glow, surrounding the boy in its luminescence. The boy was completely submerged in purple, his vision became pure violet and his other senses were dulled to the point of uselessness. The light was a strange mixture of calming and numbing, but it also seemed to be infused with vitality. The boy’s muscles relaxed, the strain and worry which had once permeated every pore of his person abaited.
Without warning, the boy felt a searing pain in his right wrist. He opened his mouth to scream, but his exclamation was swallowed by the all-encompassing purple light. The burning pain continued, spreading along his arm like wildfire, the fury and rage of an exploding supernova screaming across his skin. When the pain became so unbearable that sweat began to roll down the boy’s brow and darkness began to overcome the boy’s vision, the pain stopped.
Whole. That was how he felt. As the darkness receded, the boy’s vision was overtaken by another screen. The infamous status screen.
Name: Unknown
Class: Blade God (level 1)
Age: 16
HP: 30/100
Mana: ∞
Strength: 9
Agility: 10
Dexterity: 11
Charisma: 7
Resilience: 9
Intelligence: 10
Luck: 0
Experience: 0/100
(Two skills waiting to be assigned)
(Name ready to be assigned)
(One incoming mail)