Once upon a time, there was a young boy. This young boy, at the age of eight, had the most generic, normal, average—you name it—upbringing. His parents didn’t hit him, he had some close friends and many acquaintances in his small village in Ailendamus. He had no deviant traits and his interests were the same as most other young kids in a highly developed nation, give or take to account for personal interests.

Really—he was exceedingly normal. Boring, even.

You see, the quaint little village of Portraire was new, even for Ailendamus. Mere weeks old—its inhabitants moved and shuffled around the nascent nation like pieces on a chess board.

Ailendamus was a new nation. No, ‘new’ wasn’t an adequate adjective. Calanfer was new. Ailendamus was an infant nation, still wet from the womb.

And what a baby state it was. It had stolen, improved, and pioneered myriad technologies that allowed it to rise to the level that it was dominating its foes—which was, of course, any one nation that defied it.

It was the textbook example of building a prosperous, dominant nation, would that there was such a book to instruct one of such things. It was impractical to even suggest; the sheer magnitude of funds, manpower and levels most of all meant that it was firmly in the realm of fantasy. Almost like it was there was some cheating going on.

Anyway. Portraire wasn’t known for anything—yet. No farming villages that supplied the nation with its terribly nutritious fruit and vegetables that fed the nation. Or the barley, wheat and rye for the beer that sated the thirst of all. Nor was it a village among the great boughs of the nation, or Research Township, with its [Grand Researchers] and [Supplement Alchemists].

It was just Portraire. Its [Village Head] had yet to change her class to fit her new, eventual station.

The point is that local customs, attitudes and whatnot that naturally developed had not yet done so when the young boy of six, Callan, arrived and moved in with his family. You see, nothing was forced upon you in the Kingdom of Glass and Glory—there were juicy benefits to those who accepted the great call of His Majesty, King Itorin Zessoprical II. Those who moved to Portraire found themselves with great two-story houses, built by the finest [Builders]. A sewerage system, courtesy of the [Sanitation Engineers]. Enough glass to (theoretically) backfill a desert…

The point, again, was that people wanted to go. Their old lives were still good—but there was always something better.

Now, Callan took the move well. Fortunately, a whole class of students—including their [Teacher]—made the move, so there was immediately a sense of normalcy. Sure, there were now a lot of strangers, but that was always the case no matter where you were.

By the time Callan was eight he had even received his first class—the first of his, well, class! Wow. He was a level 1 [Fledgling Leather User].

It wasn’t a rare occurrence for a child to gain a class—especially in an enterprising nation like Ailendamus—[Scribbler], [Cutter], anything with a ‘Young’ prefix, or even [Child] if they were weird enough. Those tended to progress into [Sages], [Geniuses] and [Hermits], though. This class, however, was… funny. Leather user? Fledgling? Was he a bird?

Alas, no, he was not. Callan just liked playing with scraps of leather and poorly cured animal hides left by [Leatherworkers]. He was the talk of the town—his parents were terribly pleased. Why, they hadn’t received their [Scribe] classes until their teen years!

Life was good for Callan Wattles, and for the townsfolk of Portraire. There was no hunger, thirst, children—even adults, if they wanted—received an education if they so wished… there were no ills in this here city of Portraire.

… But some could come in. Even in what some (read: citizens of Ailendamus) called a paradise, some things slipped through the cracks. And this was no more apparent than when the Wattles family received a visitor from Wrmeriye, the nation’s grand capital. A distant relative the family would host when she was a child—for, you see, family was important to those of Ailendamus, no matter how thin the connection of blood.

She had turned up at the Wattles household in the early evening, unannounced.

“Come in, Kitty!” Ayela, Callan’s mother, had said enthusiastically upon opening the door and instantly recognised the now grown woman.

“Thank y—”

“My, is that Kaya? How you have grown!”

She had smiled timidly at that. Callan, sitting on a cushion with a thin square of ratty Hydra leather between his toes, thought she looked terribly embarrassed. She was as red as the setting sun!

“Mmhm. Hi Ayela, Itor.”

Callan shrugged, pulling lightly on the leather as if playing tug of war against his foot.

“Kitchen—let’s go in there. Callan, sweetheart, would you tidy your room? We have a guest.”

“Oookkaaayyyyy…”

Why would this random woman be coming into his room, anyway? Not to mention the fact that his room was already tidy!

He was scowling like only a child could at such a hideous and unfair demand. His and Kaya’s eyes met briefly as she passed him on the way to the kitchen, and she smiled at him.

Callan, in response, recoiled quickly before quickly pivoting to a smile.

“Ew,” he thought, “her skin is flappy!”

He was a smart boy—he knew that because he’d been told, and he had come third in his biology class!—old people had that kind of skin, and she had to be younger than his parents.

Almost as immediately as he thought that, he thought of his dinner—that’s what they were going to cook! Yippee!

He’d heard the first crash as he picked up his box of drawings. His clumsy daddy, always going too far with his little jokes! One time, he’d dropped an entire tray of yellats and tuna bake for real when he had feigned a slip. Callan giggled at the memory, especially upon seeing his mother just put her head in her hands.

He placed the box, which had been inoffensively placed next to his bed thank you very much, on his step-desk. He lifted up his foot and retrieved the Hydra leather and placed it next to said box. He didn’t want to get his treasure yucky and foody!

“What’s for dinnnnaaaaa~”

He skipped out of his room, singing to himself.

“Yum, yum, yum, I lo—huh?”

Callan stopped dead as a doornail upon seeing the equally still figures in the kitchen. His mother’s eyes darted towards him.

“Callan, go have a quick nap in—”

“Oh! It’s you again. You didn’t mention him at all. Why?”

Callan was untensed at this totally unserious situation.

“Hi. I’m Callan, who are you?”

“Kaya! See, I’m not scary, am I? I used to come to your parents when I was your age, you know! Let’s sit down and have some fun!”

Kaya fumbled to her left, retrieving a dirty glass bottle. She took a quick glug.

“He’s just a boy. Let him go, please.”

She ignored Ayela and took Callan’s hand, ushering him back to the living room.

“Did you drop dinner? Is that why my parents are being angry at you?”

“They’re cunts. Do you like wood? Potions? G-glass?”

Callan raised an eyebrow at her. They were sitting on their couch; he on her knee. He felt like saying ‘I’m not a kid’, but she was a guest, and it was rude to be rude to guests.

“They are what? Um, wood? It’s… okay? Glass is fun, but easy to cut your fingies on. I haven’t drank a potion before. What about you, miss?”

She squinted her eyes shut, licking her lips rhythmically.

“Miss? Are you thirsty? Want some water? We have this yum—”

“I DON’T NEED WATER, YOU LITTLE SHIT! FUCK YOU!”

—————————————

When Callan opened his eyes, he thought he was dreaming—the couch was on the wall, everyone was sideways! Then he realised he was just on the floor. And his face—hurt. It hurt!

Something in him, though, knew not to make a peep. Even when he felt the sharp prick of glass up against his throat. He wanted to cry out, ‘what did I do wrong?’

“Don’t cry, baby! I won’t hurt you. Here, up… up you get. Back on, like when I was a kid. Your ma…”

She withdrew her weapon from Callan’s neck, and pulled him up with a spontaneous bout of strength. With it, she effortlessly grabbed him by the back of the neck and plopped him on her knee, as before, but now she was sitting down.

“See? Everything’s fine!”

A tear fell from his eye moments before his mother spoke.

“There is help, back in Wrmeriye, for… [Alcoholics]. There’s—”

“Not. Another. WORD!”

Her voice was warbling with moments of… something. Ayla backed up, her hands clasped on her chest.

“Just for a week. A month at most!”

…

…

No one said anything. This upset her.

“I will KILL your kid! LET. ME—hyuuk!

Callan would, later, know that this killing would be what began the whole thing. The only Skill he had at the time—[Good Grip]—had caused his act of self defence to be, well, successful.

The authorities ruled it as such. The [Judge] declared it the easiest open and shut case of his career thus far, though perhaps that was to assuage the fears of the two terrified [Scribes] who never had cause to break any law.

A fine [Pediatric Thought Healer] was sent by House Shoel, upon hearing of poor Callan’s case. She had helped scour any kind mental malady to take root in him, but refused on principle to make him forget the ordeal. It simply became a memory for him—any emotions that arose from thinking of the event were natural, and allowed Callan to think objectively about it. As much as a child could, anyway—in his case, it became possible to counter any negative thoughts with ‘I did it in self-defence; I’d have died otherwise’ and have it actually work.

Problems started when Callan entered puberty. Arguably, that’s when everything goes downhill, as any [Parent] could tell you!

For our poor Callan, however, the thoughts he was having weren’t just of girls, awkwardness and stretch marks: it was also of that fateful night five years ago.

They weren’t intrusive, nor were they dominating the thoughts of his maturing brain. But they were there.

By 15—big jump—he was thinking about it daily. What it would be like to end a life; to kill someone. Intentionally. That had started as early as a year after it happened.

Of course, this was all above board. He’d talked to Portraire’s resident [Thought Healer] about this, and he’d said it was concerning, but relatively normal—’you’re never going to actually do it, so letting yourself indulge in a fantasy created by the mind could be a way you cope’, he had said. Callan agreed, and was grateful for being assured he wasn’t a lunatic.

… Until an opportunity presented itself. Facts and logic paled in comparison to the developing brain’s idea about itself. In other words: young people were real stupid and, importantly, unpredictable.

His first murder happened barely a week after that visit to the [Thought Healer]. One of the residents who had been farming this land before it had been renamed Portraire was elderly. Elderly to the point where medicine and [Physical Therapists]’ exercises helped his ailing bones not; only the cool chill of the night’s breeze, and the rustling of his crops could soothe him to sleep.

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Everyone loved him. He wasn’t a pillar of the community—only Level 21 in his [Farmer] class; kind of terrible really—but everyone popped by to help harvest his yields, bring him some treats, or just keep him company.

A great test subject!

It was as simple as, under the cover of night, sneaking out and making the half-hour’s journey to the edge of the town, and right in through the open door. And it was almost unsatisfactory.

Callan had removed his shoes and tip toed carefully through the door’s archway, and over to the old [Farmer], sleeping in his reclining chair. He was old old, Callan realised; he’d not seen him since he’d first come to Portraire, and he looked like the living dead. A child’s perspective for what was an otherwise spry 88 year old man.

The man before him, though, looked like he was already dead. It was only the slight rising of his chest that told him he yet lived.

As his eyes further acclimatised to the darkness, he knew how he was going to end the [Farmer]’s life.

Callan carefully placed his hands around the [Farmer]’s neck, briefly flinching at the loose skin. And squeezed.

In truth, he felt a bit silly. How long was he meant to do this for? Would he just… explode, when he died? Maybe he’d just fart out the air he would have otherwise breathed.

… He was no student of biology, for all he excelled as a kid. His hands hurt, as well. It was time to go home.

And that was it! He’d gone home, had a nice sleep knowing that he’d got it all out of his system, and woke up the next day, looking forward to going to the [Leatherworker]’s shop. He was an [Apprentice], see!

He hadn’t made it two blocks before he ran into his boss, who had told him about the public funeral. Oblivious, he had asked for whom.

“For ol’ Gerald, kiddo. Died in his sleep.”

“Aww man, that’s awful.”

“Sure is. Was only there fixin’ that chair of his not three days ago.”

Callan began to flush scarlet; his heart skipped a beat, before pounding. Surely that wasn’t?

“Yeah. I wonder how Gez is going.”

The [Leatherworker] stared at his [Apprentice] with disbelief.

“Kiddo, that’s Gerald.”

Callan’s eyes widened, and turned his head down to avoid his boss’ gaze. He put his arm around Callan and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“A right awful loss. C’mon, let’s head over there.”

Callan nodded, wary of raising his head. Not, as the [Leatherworker] thought, because he was ashamed to be seen as upset or to be crying.

It was because his grin was so great, his cheeks were hurting.

He’d done it! He wanted to kick himself for not bothering to even check if the old man had died or not; there was no handbook for this sort of thing, after all. Or…?

The little ceremony for the [Farmer] was whatever. He’d forced down a bit of his elation, since smiling so much at a funeral was freak behaviour. His bright red face helped—most people there took that to mean that he had been crying.

The only vaguely interesting thing was what he was overhearing, near the end of the whole thing. He’d shot a cheeky glance at three figures under the canopy of a short, but leafy, tree.

“... the body, [Executor]. We must see the body! He was perfectly fine during my last checkup!”

“With respect, the family—and the deceased himself—knew that they were running on borrowed time. Humans seldom live so long. The man’s Skills kept his body strong… but all good things, as they say.”

The half-Elf [Executor] sighed. Explaining ageing to Humans was like speaking with a brick wall, as far as he reckoned it.

“Until I see the body and examine it myself, I will be insisting. My class on it!”

The [Physician] was livid—she knew there was a chance she was wrong, but she had years of records on the man. Years, and her Skills to boot!

“It is not that simple,” the third person, a man, said. “The law is ironclad, and the [Executor]’s work is similarly so. I have [Read Over the Case], and there is nothing in law I can do to enforce your will. You may try to convince the family to exhume the deceased, but…”

The [Procurator] shrugged, in a rare display of emotion during his work-day.

“Look. I’ll use one of my Skills—pro bono—since I sympathise with you, [Physician] Gloria. Should anything come of it, I will investigate further.”

She and the [Executor] nodded, the former tense with anticipation.

“Excellent. [Detect Guilt – The Death of: Gerald Spottle].

Callan almost vomited on the spot.

The [Procurator]’s Skill hung in the air, hard at work.

“It will take a few minutes, as I’m surveying in a one mile radius. Statistically, the guilty attend the ceremonies held in honour of the dead. Perhaps in another 20 levels I will be able to detect the guilty party, would that such a Skill existed. It would perhaps destroy our great judicial system, should it exist. Ah—here it comes. No one has any guilt regarding the death of Gerald Spottle, not even benevolent guilt from the family. Apologies for the anticlimax—[Physician] Gloria?”

“I… yes. I won’t push the issue. Likely died by natural causes.”

———————

That night, Callan slept like the dead.

[Novice Killer class obtained!]

[Novice Killer level 2!]

[Skill – Close Call (Authority) obtained!]

[Skill – Steady Hands obtained!]

[Skill – Check Vitals obtained!]

_______________

The weeks that followed were filled with thinking, planning and general musing on his new class. He knew, from the rigorous education he and all others his age received, that a class need not dictate your life. That a [Baker] could be a [Performer] in their non-working life, and vice versa.

But Callan knew he wanted this. It felt right. He felt a dark satisfaction knowing that he’d gotten away with murder—literally—that if he wanted to keep killing, he’d need to be sneaky about it. His new Skill would help with that, but it nonetheless meant he had to be careful.

Ah, the genius of youth.

… But there was a problem. One that need not be elaborated on, for even Callan knew of it immediately. After some deliberation that went nowhere, such as sneaking into the [Healer]’s clinic and depriving them of their critical care (or just strangling them), he floated a new idea.

Animals.

Ironically, the thought upset him—it only existed in his mind for as long as it took him to paint the picture in his mind before he struck it down immediately. What probably didn’t help was that he knew one of his… classmates… was the local [Cook]’s [Apprentice], who liked to dispose of the half-dead rats that the cats would catch with a little bit too much satisfaction.

So, people. He had to kill people. His greatest ally turned out to be the town’s [Librarian], whose skills allowed him to create temporary copies of any book he had worked with—and he’d moved to Portraire with Callan’s group.

Tales of great [Heroes], and stories like The Lightning Thief, and The Wolf-Men of the Woods provided him with great entertainment. And learning.

You see, everyone loved a good story—that’s why The Lightning Thief was so damn popular, and that his legend lives on. [Dread Authors]’ tales inspired terrible, exhilarating fear in the souls of their readers. Truth and fiction mixed together to make a compelling story.

For Callan, the start of a set of rules. The Stitchfolk whose threads turned them into terrifying beasts taught him the value of covering yourself; of ensuring that you either mutilated your victims enough that a true beast was the culprit, or that you made sure the evidence was never found.

Oh, and he worked for the library by mending the leather on mangled books.

[Leatherworker level 10!]

[Skill - Bound Spell: Mite-Not Oil obtained!]

[Skill - Familiar Touch obtained!]

Fine Skills, he’d been told. Mite-Not Oil was a Lizardperson thing, apparently, thus the weird name. [Familiar Touch] let him remember the feel of things; useful for identifying the level of degradation and/or quality of leather.

Unfortunately, for Callan, however, there were no level-ups for his other class. A shame. Shame, shame, shame.

________________

After seven months, Callan had left Portraire. ‘To see the rest of Terandria and level up’, he had told his parents, friends and employers, which wasn’t really a lie.

His timing was deliberate. As the town began to grow, so did the responsibilities of its [Mayor]. More [Guards] were needed, who had access to artefacts to keep the town safe. Not things like Scrolls of [Disintegrate], but good quality truth detection stones, weaponry, and skills. Skills and Skills—specialised [Guards] whose preventative measure Skills ensured that as few incidents happened as possible.

Callan heard it through his parents, whose work had them reach out across Ailendamus—and beyond—to offer the city’s employment. It was an off-handed comment that he had overheard that was the catalyst for his departure.

“Our little town—[Murderers]? Better safe than sorry, I suppose. Cuppa?”

And that was that. People were confused as to why anyone would want to leave their paradise of Ailendamus, but wanderlust defeated sense sometimes. Before he knew it, he was on a carriage from Portraire, bound for the next ‘up and coming town’, where he could provide his modest leather-repair services.

The level-ups came in shortly after. An [Apple Picker] harvesting valuable Twilight Apples in the dead of night, oh what a terrible shame to have lost such an asset. Slipped on some mulch and hit his head on the bricked walkway, did he?

That [River Netter]—did you hear? Washed up some miles downstream, blue as the water she was found in! Tangled up in her own net and drowned. Or suffocated, then to drown.

[Novice Killer level 5!]

[Skill - Improvised Murder Tool obtained!]

[Skill - Quiet Steps obtained!]

The real ‘level-up’ was the knowledge that if you just… killed some random person, then you’d probably get away with it. Not having a motive meant no one suspected anything—though he knew it helped that he was in backwater places that hadn’t the tools to deal with him. And they certainly did not—both kills, separated by mere days, were deemed accidents. It was quite funny to him that their peers even commented on their clumsiness and carelessness!

The other was that it was terribly easy to manufacture a situation where you could get away with it. You learned the [Guards]’ rotations, when Miss Florentine the whatever hung the washing out on the line, when Freddy the [Apple Picker] was on night shift on his lonesome, when Prissy the who cares went on their jogs…

________________

Callan Wattles had long passed the point where killing of irrelevant nobodies would level up his class—that had happened surprisingly early, around level 13. Then, the destabilising of lesser villages and towns by taking out their [Mayors] and whatever ‘high-levelled’ person the settlement relied on, ofttimes barely higher than level 20.

The [Disinterested Serial Killer] had joined the 30-under-30 club at the age of 25, and had levelled only once in the two years that followed. Every code and convention he’d developed for himself, he realised, needed to be made lax. [Lordlings], lesser, third removed [Ladies] and influential personnel were now what needed to pave his way to further greatness.

No longer could he rely on his incredible authority-concealing Skills that allowed him to enter anywhere save the palace of a [King] without needing to worry about immediately being decapitated for his class. No longer could his first major capstone Skill, [Defy Local Zeitgeist], allow him to rock up as an [Itinerant Bookbinder], stay for a few weeks practising his craft, murder someone, and then move on to the next. All without anyone connecting the dots. A terrifying Skill.

Now, it was one he couldn’t rely on. It took, by his count, 350 kills on people 1) above level 15 and 2) were at least four degrees of separation from someone actually important before he reached level 31.

That’s when he made the long trip to the charming, seaside nation of Pheislant. To him, the logic was sound: scope it out, see if it was worth all the trouble he would inevitably have to attract… and if it wasn’t, then what better place to be a [Bookbinder] than a nation of grand libraries!

______________________

Callan’s first kill came after four months of meticulous patience, planning, and persistent early-morning and late-evening walks. He knew in his heart of hearts that he’d prepared well-enough, and a simple kill would go off without a hitch. It needed to be one that generated some hubbub; a ‘gateway kill’ that would more or less alert the city of Phel’s Light that there was someone here causing mischief. That’s how he’d level.

It went smoothly, of course. A pitiable [Mage] coming out from a late-night scrap in that ridiculous sparring hut. They died instantly, obviously. It was Callan’s go to in-and-out kill routine.

“[Moonlit Shadowmeld]. [Stored Strikes]—[Arterial Strike], [Palm of Peace], [Stealth: Homing Heartstrike].”

Absolute overkill. Callan even chuckled to himself—this poor sod was going to die so thoroughly. Bad luck of the draw for him, he supposed.

Callan was standing up against the fence of the adjacent house, invisible. One of his better stealth-Skills that would guarantee his escape. His weapon hand—left—held a simple dagger made by a budding [Blacksmith]... was it [Hardened Metal] that he was known for? He was dead, of course, so there wasn’t much point reminiscing.

Neither his dagger nor his free hand glowed, nor did it emanate any visible power from his Skills—not that anyone would be able to notice.

The [Mage] did a big stretch, yawning loudly as he exited the quaint gate at the front of the Relic Mage’s abode. Callan walked up to him and unleashed his [Stored Strikes]. His hand instantly covered the [Mage]’s mouth, preventing the in- and exhalation of air, while his other hand stabbed his neck and then heart in two lightning-quick motions.

Nothing too flashy, other than the blood spurt that hit his [Victim Liquid] Skill and routed down onto the pavement.

Callan disengaged quickly, keeping his [Moonlit Shadowmeld] active until he made the walk to his apartment a few blocks away. His heart wasn’t pounding, his emotions were level, and he certainly didn’t feel close to levelling. Just another day at the job.

Then, he had a bath, dried himself off, and popped himself into bed. He smiled as he began to drift into sleep, knowing that he’d done a good job that night.

…

…

…………

…

………………………….

Callan shot upright in his bed, his head pounding as if it were going to collapse in on itself.

He felt no less than fifty lesser Skills get repelled by his own Skills in the space of a few seconds—some of which he could not identify—and began to panic.

He bit into his tongue to prevent him from screaming, and reached for his Bag of Holding. He could not repel all of the high level skills that were locked on to him; Callan whimpered as he pulled out a dull amulet from his Bag of Holding and smashed it on the ground, shattering it into a thousand little pieces… that began to disintegrate and dissipate in a grey haze.

The throbbing in his head stopped. The Zoar Amulet of Slaughter, his most powerful artefact—nigh on the level of a relic—instantly purged the intruders worming their way into Callan’s head. He breathed a sigh of relief, not mourning the loss of his greatest possession. By his count, he had just over a fortnight of immunity against identification and detection Skills that were used by anyone under level… 34. The result of a decade of successful murder, and claimed by chance from a run-of-the-mill adventurer. Or not.

He resolved not to do anything other than stay in his apartment for two days to let things fizzle out, as they always did. Callan then did what he always defaulted to if he felt concerned about his safety, or anything really: he consulted his ratty notebook. It contained, among other notes and musing, eight potential targets in Phel’s Light. All either over level 30, or were highly notable in some way.

He felt like vomiting. He hadn’t felt this way for a long, long time. He was in proper danger now; the only reason his head hadn’t been removed from his head was that a [Royal Detective]-adjacent class from the Crown hadn’t been sent to sniff him out. Yet.

Despite it all, he gave himself ten days to get it done, escape the city, and lay low. He wasn’t in over his head yet. He believed in himself.

The man named Callan Wattles levelled that night, as news reached him that there was now a strict curfew in place.

[Disinterested Serial Killer level 32!]

[Skill Change – Affable Personality → Charisma: Tell Me Everything!]

[Skill: Charisma: Tell Me Everything obtained!]