Life after seeing my first raid felt different, heavier somehow. I saw the village differently, each person carrying a burden I hadn’t truly appreciated before. The smiling baker who slipped me an extra roll was a former soldier with scars hidden under his sleeves. The quiet old woman who sold herbs was once a healer who’d lost too many patients. Even the children I played with carried the quiet knowledge that one day, they too would stand on the walls to protect this fragile sanctuary.
Father’s words, “You’ll understand when you’re older,” lingered in my mind. I didn’t need to be older to understand that my childhood would be short-lived.
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In the weeks following the raid, I found myself glued to my window whenever the bell rang. The pattern was as Hexa predicted—raids came regularly, like the rising of the tide. I couldn’t always see the battles from my perch, but the sounds painted vivid pictures in my mind.
“Hexa,” I asked one day, “how do I prepare for this?”
“For the raids?”
“For everything,” I clarified. “The raids, the expectations... life here. How do I get ready?”
There was a pause before Hexa answered. “Your preparation will depend on your goals. Do you wish to survive? To thrive? To change the course of this world?”
I didn’t have an answer. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to just survive or if I was meant for something greater this time.
By my sixth birthday, Father decided it was time for me to start learning basic combat. His lessons were informal and often squeezed between his patrols and other duties, but they were enough to make my body ache in ways I hadn’t known were possible.
He started with stamina training—running laps around the village, balancing on narrow planks, carrying buckets of water. “A strong foundation is everything,” he said, his voice stern but encouraging. “You’ll thank me when you’re older.”
I wasn’t so sure about that, but I followed his instructions. “Father,” I said, panting as I dropped the water buckets I’d been lugging around the yard, “how did you become a Fire Elemental Ranger?”
The corners of his mouth twitched into a small, proud smile. “That’s not something that happens overnight, Wolfhart. Becoming a ranger takes years of dedication, and evolving into a specialized class like mine takes even longer.”
“Evolving?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager.
He set down his bow and leaned against the fence, his voice calm but firm. “Every person’s class is unique to them, shaped by their choices, their training, and the mana they resonate with. You’ll see for yourself one day. But for now, I’ll explain the basics.”
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My father described how classes were divided into broad categories: Warrior, Ranger, Mage, and Healer were the most well-known and respected. However, not everyone followed these paths. Some pursued non-combatant classes, like Blacksmith, Merchant, or Baker, which were just as vital to society.
“When you turn thirteen,” Father said, “your profile will undergo its first evolution. Up until then, you’re considered an adolescent—no real class, just the foundation. Once you start leveling up through experience, your class begins to take shape. Experience is some of the accumulated mana of the slain enemy that is transferred to you upon the kill. This is the main diffrence between combat and non combat classes. At fifteen, that class refines further based on how you’ve spent your time and the skills you’ve developed.”
“So that’s when you became a ranger?” I asked.
He nodded. “I started as a basic Ranger, focusing on archery and tracking. But I had a knack for fire magic. By the time I reached level thirty, I evolved into an Elemental Fire Ranger.” He held up his hand, conjuring a flickering flame. “This didn’t come naturally. It took years of practice and dedication.”
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My eyes widened as I watched the flame dance across his palm. “And after that?”
“After that,” he said, letting the flame dissipate, “you continue to grow. Every evolution opens new paths, new possibilities. But it’s up to you to find them.”
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Later that evening, I sat by the fire, lost in thought as I stared at my own profile. It was the first time I’d really analyzed it since I was old enough to understand what it meant.
Wolfhart Valda-Ashdock
Adolescent Human Male
* Level: 0
* Strength: 1
* Dexterity: 1
* Endurance: 1
* Intelligence: 1
* Wisdom: 1
* Skills: (Soulless), (Redacted)
My stats were pitifully low, but Hexa assured me that was normal for a child. “Your current physical and mental state limits your potential,” it explained. “These attributes will improve as you train and grow.”
“Soulless” was the first skill listed, and its description still unnerved me:
This human was born without the ability to connect to an inner soul, thus making them less empathic and will feel emotional to a negligible degree.
“Hexa,” I asked, “does Soulless mean I’ll never have emotions?”
“Not entirely,” Hexa replied. “You experience emotions differently, but they are present. My integration with your consciousness compensates for the lack of a soul, allowing you to process feelings in a functional manner.”
It was a cold comfort, but it was something.
As for “Redacted,” it was still an enigma. The skill’s description remained unreadable, a blur of static and broken text. Every time I asked Hexa about it, I got the same response: “Access restricted.”
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Over the next few weeks, Father began incorporating more lessons about the class system into our training sessions. One morning, as we stood in the clearing near the lake, he handed me a small wooden bow.
“A ranger’s most important tool,” he said, crouching beside me to adjust my grip. “It’s not just about shooting arrows. It’s about precision, patience, and focus. Traits you’ll need no matter which path you choose.”
I struggled to pull the string back, my arms trembling under the strain. “What if I don’t become a ranger?” I asked, gritting my teeth.
Father chuckled. “That’s up to you, Wolfhart. You might choose a completely different path. Some children from our village have become mages, others warriors. It depends on what resonates with you—and how you use the mana within you.”
“Mana again,” I muttered, releasing the bowstring with a clumsy thwack.
Father stood, crossing his arms as he watched me. “You’ve felt it, haven’t you? That current inside you?”
I nodded. I’d felt it before, a faint hum in the back of my mind, especially during moments of intense focus.
“Good,” he said. “The first step to finding your path is learning to control that mana. Once you do, you’ll see the world differently.”
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That evening, after training, I sat cross-legged on the floor, trying to sense the mana Father spoke of. I closed my eyes, slowing my breathing, and reached inward.
“There,” Hexa said softly. “Do you feel it? The flow of energy just beneath the surface?”
I nodded. It was faint, like a trickle of water through a narrow pipe, but it was there.
“Good,” Hexa continued. “This is the foundation of all abilities in this world. Mana fuels everything, from combat skills to everyday tasks. As you grow, your capacity to channel and manipulate mana will increase.”
“How do I use it?” I asked.
“For now, focus on feeling it. The more attuned you become, the easier it will be to shape it.”
I spent hours that night practicing, losing myself in the rhythm of the energy within me. It was exhilarating and frustrating in equal measure—like trying to control a muscle I didn’t fully understand.
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The next day, Father noticed something different during our training.
“You’re more focused,” he said as I aimed my bow at a target. “What changed?”
“I think I’m starting to understand the mana,” I admitted.
He smiled, a rare expression of approval. “Good. Keep at it. The better you understand yourself, the better you’ll be prepared for what’s to come.”
As I let the arrow fly, hitting the edge of the target, I couldn’t help but feel a spark of pride. My journey was only just beginning, but for the first time, I felt like I was on the right path.
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