By the time the last turtle fell, the clearing looked like a massacre committed by toddlers. Little shells lay cracked in uneven lines, some neatly broken, some crushed entirely, some kicked so far that their owners had to sprint after them like they were chasing runaway toys.

  Greta stood in the center of the carnage with her hands on her hips, surveying her army of exhausted, sniffling, dirt-smudged children.

  "Good," she said. "None of you died. A fine start." She nodded once, as though this was a genuine accomplishment.

  We gathered around her in a lopsided circle, holding our respective turtle corpses. Mine looked like a stomped pastry. The dwarven girl’s was perfectly cracked. The orc boy held his like it was a funeral offering.

  Greta pointed at him first. "Good clean kill. That shell is usable. Good work." He nodded quietly, still sad.

  She pointed at the dwarven girl. "Yours too. Fine work."

  Then her eyes landed on mine.

  She stared.

  She sighed.

  "Runt," she said, "you turned yours into soup."

  I looked down at the smear in my hands. "It… fought well?"

  "It did not." Greta pinched the bridge of her nose. "We cannot use that. Not for anything." She walked over, plucked the ruined shell from my grip, and tossed it aside.

  "Luckily," she continued, "Hammer Turtles are everywhere." She reached down, grabbed a living turtle by the neck, and snapped it with one clean motion like she was breaking a twig.

  A few children gasped. One kid screamed and fell backward.

  Greta ignored all of it and held up the limp turtle by its shell. "This one is yours now. Try not to ruin it twice."

  She crouched and set the turtle on the ground, then pulled a small knife from her belt.

  "Before we start," Greta said, raising her voice so everyone heard her, "all of you get one of these." She reached into a pouch and began handing out small blades to each of us. "This is your Tin-ranked carving knife. It will cut through most anything that is Tin-ranked. There are better knives for higher ranks. You will get one with each advancement. These are used to carve through monster materials and harvest anything useful. You can use them on mundane animals too if you need to." She gave a pointed look at one boy who had already nicked his thumb. "If it really comes down to it, you can use it as a weapon. It is not a good weapon, but it can be used as one."

  "Now, pay attention. Hammer Turtles have exactly two useful materials on them." She tapped the helmet-like plate on the creature’s head. "Underneath this bone cap is a lump of condensed fat. The dungeon makes it so they do not scramble their brains when they headbutt things. This lump is the first useful part, the impact-fat that keeps them from scrambling their lack of brains."

  She slid the knife under the plate and pried it off in one smooth motion. Beneath it was a pale, translucent ball about the size of a small plum. It jiggled slightly even though she had not touched it.

  Several kids recoiled.

  "Yes, it looks disgusting," Greta said. "Because it is. But it is useful. Not magical. Not valuable. Just good-quality grease that takes well to enchantments and does not rot quickly. Blacksmiths use it. Leatherworkers use it. Hunters use it for their bowstrings.

  She hooked the lump out with the knife tip and dropped it into a small jar.

  "That lump is one of the two parts worth selling. Everything else is useless. The shell is the second useful material. It is only strong enough for Tin-ranked gear, yet still good for beginner shields, small armor plates, or basic training equipment. If you don't ruin the shell," she looked directly at me, "you could make something good out of it.""

  "And before any of you get curious," Greta added, lifting the knife so we all paid attention, "monster meat is not edible. Not safely. The only time you eat monster meat is when you have absolutely nothing else. The reason is simple. The meat is full of mana, but it is unstable. The second it enters your body; it starts corrupting your mind. Not your mana system, your mind. So, even though none of you use magic it will drive you mad with rage, and the more you eat, the worse it gets. You will get stronger for a short time, yes. Fast. Wild. Enough that it might save your life if you are starving or trapped or desperately trying to escape something. But it will come with a cost you do not want to pay. If it is the only option between life and death, then you eat it. But do not choose it. Ever. If you do it by choice, you already lost."

  I felt several eyes drift toward the flattened smear that had once been my turtle.

  "We will practice shield-making in a future lesson," Greta said. "For now, your job is to collect the fat lump from your own turtle. If you caved the skull in too much and popped it, you get nothing."

  A few horrified groans rose from the group.

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  Greta shrugged. "Then do better next time. Life is full of second chances. Turtles are not."

  She stood, wiped her knife on the grass, and clapped her hands. "All right. Pair up if you need help. I will come around and tutor the ones who look likely to stab themselves by accident." She paused and looked at me again. "Runt, that means you."

  I nodded solemnly. "Understood."

  "Good." She gestured to a freshly-killed turtle she had killed earlier. "Start with this one. I want you to learn the proper method before you start on your own."

  She crouched again and guided my hand as I pressed the knife under the bone cap.

  "Steady pressure," she said. "Push, do not jab. Feel for the edge. There. Now lift."

  The cap came free with a soft crack. The lump sat beneath it, wobbling.

  "See? Easy. And you didn’t even make it into jelly."

  A few kids laughed. I felt my face warm.

  Greta raised one eyebrow. "Good. Once you have your lump and a usable shell, we will head to the Guild Hall. If you ruin the lump or the shell is too damaged to salvage, tell me and I will get you another turtle."

  Several children froze. A few looked around in horror, their eyes wide as they imagined more turtles being snapped like unlucky chickens.

  Greta continued without concern. "It happens. Beginners make mistakes. Materials get ruined. That is part of learning. If you need another, I will handle it. Do not try to hide it. Do not pretend you harvested something you did not. Just tell me." She tapped the jar with her knife. "The Guild does not give partial credit for imaginary grease."

  A couple kids whimpered quietly.

  Greta sheathed her knife. "All right. Now harvest.”

  The clearing shifted into a quiet chaos as everyone knelt beside their chosen turtle, blades in hand. A few kids stared at their knives like they were holding venomous serpents. One boy held his by the very tip of the handle, arm stretched as far away as possible, as though the blade might leap up and bite him.

  I crouched beside Greta’s demonstration turtle, trying to mimic her posture. My new knife felt heavier than it should have, the weight of it reminding me how small my current hands were

  Greta walked between us, her boots thudding softly against the grass. "If you are going to carve, grip it properly," she said, nudging the boy holding his knife like it was diseased. "You are more likely to cut your own face off holding it like that."

  He squeaked and adjusted his grip.

  Another child poked the turtle's shell with the flat of the blade repeatedly, whispering apologies each time the tip slipped. Greta leaned down beside her. "You are not blessing it. Cut it."

  The girl made a noise somewhere between a sob and a hiccup, then finally slid the blade under the bone cap.

  "Better," Greta said, rising. "You will get used to it."

  Across the clearing, the dwarven girl had already harvested her lump and was now helping two other children who seemed too squeamish to look directly at their turtles. She worked with steady efficiency, hands sure and movements precise. The orc boy was kneeling beside his kill, staring at it with a soft, sad expression. He pressed his blade lightly along the shell but hesitated.

  Greta approached him quietly. "It is not wrong to feel sad," she said. "But you still do the work. That is what makes you an adventurer instead of a spectator."

  He nodded slowly and began carving.

  I looked back at the turtle Greta had given me. The shell was intact. The bone cap was clean. I placed the tip of the knife beneath the edge and pressed. It felt unbelievably awkward. My fingers slipped several times before I managed to catch the ridge. The knife scraped. The cap lifted unevenly. The wobbling lump beneath it quivered like it was mocking me.

  I swallowed and cut deeper, remembering Greta’s instructions. Steady pressure. Push, do not jab. Feel for the edge.

  The cap came free with a heavier crack than before and rolled aside.

  Greta, watching from a few paces away, nodded. "Good. Clumsy. But good."

  I hooked the lump out with the knife tip and dropped it into the jar she had set beside me. It made a wet plop. My stomach tightened.

  "You will get used to that too," Greta said.

  Around us, children called for help, asked questions, or groaned in disgust. One kid shouted that his turtle had "exploded wrong." Another said hers was "leaking something weird." Greta visited each one with calm efficiency, fixing hands, correcting angles, redirecting blades, and occasionally snapping yet another turtle’s neck when someone needed a fresh one.

  Every time she dispatched another turtle with that clean, sharp motion, a ripple of horrified whispers spread through the group.

  A boy whispered, "She kills them like chickens."

  Another whispered, "Chickens aren’t that cute."

  Greta ignored all commentary.

  After a while, the clearing smelled faintly of damp grass, blood, and the strange oily scent of turtle fat. The jars began to fill. The pile of collected shells grew steadily.

  Greta clapped once to gather our attention. "Listen up. The Guild pays for cleanly harvested materials. Sloppy work gets you less coin. Broken shells, punctured lumps, cross-contaminated fat, all of that lowers value. That matters. You will rely on this work to live one day. So, take it seriously."

  We all nodded, some more eagerly than others.

  She picked up one of the cleaner shells, turning it in her hand. "These shells are weak, but they make good starter shields. With the right reinforcement, a Tin adventurer can block an actual strike using one. We will work on that another day."

  I glanced at my completely destroyed first turtle and sighed. Greta noticed.

  "Runt," she said, "you will get your chance. Not with that one, obviously, but with future monsters. You cannot expect to be good at something on your first try."

  "I know," I said quietly.

  She softened, just slightly. "And you tried. That matters."

  The dwarven girl approached us with two jars in her arms. "Greta, these are full. Do we start a new one?"

  "Yes. Set them beside the shells."

  She nodded and did so with the pride of someone who had completed every task perfectly.

  The orc boy returned as well, his lump carefully cradled in a jar. He handed it to Greta, who inspected it with a thoughtful hum.

  "Clean work," she said.

  He smiled just a little.

  Greta turned back to the entire group. "Once everyone has their lump and a usable shell, we will form a line. The Guild Hall is not far, but we will be crossing into the Iron Zone. That means you will keep your eyes up. You will stay beside me. You will not wander. Nothing in that area should be able to touch you while I am here, but I do not tolerate foolishness."

  A few kids straightened at her tone.

  "Good," she said. "Finish up. We leave soon."

  As everyone bent back to their turtles, I closed the jar containing my harvested lump. It wobbled inside the glass like a pale, unsettling pearl.

  The clearing around me buzzed with whispers, soft cries, and the scrape of blades. For a moment, I looked at the scattered shells and limp bodies and felt something strange settle inside me.

  This was grotesque.

  This was unpleasant.

  This was far beneath the grand battles I had once fought.

  But this was the beginning. My beginning.

  The first step of adventuring was not glory or power.

  It was kneeling in the dirt, carving a dead turtle with a knife so small it felt like a toy.

  And somehow, that felt right.