During the incident at the library, I paid for the damages on his behalf.

  Almost all the Mana Stones I had left vanished in a single transaction. The boy had nearly bowed himself in half when he saw the amount. Apparently, the compensation was far greater than I’d expected.

  Still, I didn’t regret it.

  As I watched him stand there, shoulders stiff and eyes darting like a cornered animal bracing for punishment that never came, I saw something worth the cost.

  Raw potential.

  An early investment, perhaps, but one that could yield extraordinary returns.

  We walked through the streets of Asterion City side by side, the noise of merchants and adventurers washing over us. He stayed half a step behind me, hands clenched around the food I’d given him, as if afraid it might vanish if he loosened his grip.

  “So,” I said casually, “you never told me your name.”

  He startled. “Ah! It’s Samus. Samus Xavier, Sir.”

  The name stirred a faint sense of deja vu, some heroine from a game I’d once played.

  “I’ll call you Sam,” I replied. “And you don’t need to call me ‘Sir.’”

  He hesitated. “O-Okay… Sir— I mean— Erynd.”

  I chuckled. “We’ll work on that.”

  As we walked, I asked simple questions. Where he lived. How long he’d studied magic. Who taught him.

  Each answer peeled back another layer.

  His mother worked as a maid with long hours and little pay. As for his father…

  “I don’t know who he was,” Sam said quietly. “Only my mother does. She never told me. Never even said his name.”

  There was no anger in his voice, just an absence.

  “I never met him,” he continued. “Sometimes I wonder if he even existed.”

  We passed beneath a stone archway guarded by Royal Guards. Beyond it, the streets narrowed, buildings pressing close, their walls stained with soot and neglect.

  “I live there,” Sam said, gesturing ahead.

  The Eastern District.

  A slum choked with filth, crime, and quiet despair.

  Yet when he spoke again, his eyes burned with something stubborn.

  “I want to leave,” he said. “I want to take my mother somewhere clean. Somewhere safe.”

  “And magic is how you plan to do that?” I asked.

  He nodded immediately. “Yes. Wizardry… it’s the only way. If I can learn magic, really learn it, then—”

  “—you won’t be trapped forever,” I finished.

  His lips parted, then curved into a small, fragile smile.

  Reality, however, was unforgiving.

  The Wizard Academy was not a place for boys like Sam. The tuition alone crushed commoners’ dreams. And even if he somehow scraped together the Mana Stones…

  “They wouldn’t accept me,” he said bitterly. “I’m a bastard. No noble blood.”

  The Academy prized both.

  “I know it’s impossible,” he said, fists tightening. “But I don’t want to give up.”

  That stubborn refusal struck something deep within me.

  It reminded me of someone.

  …Me.

  We stopped.

  “Alright,” I said, gesturing forward. “We’re here.”

  Before us stretched the Lionheart Proving Expanse, a broad field dotted with practice dummies, reinforced sparring rings, and enchanted targets humming faintly with protective runes. Just one of many training grounds scattered throughout Asterion City.

  Sam stared, wide-eyed. “I’ve never been inside one of these…”

  “Consider this your first step out of the slums.”

  I rented a private training area, the distant noise of the grounds fading as the barrier activated.

  “Show me the Fireball you used back in the library.”

  Sam swallowed. “R-Right.”

  He stepped forward, Mana stirring as he raised trembling hands.

  A bright orb of flame condensed in his palm. Dense, unstable, and wrong in all the right ways.

  The Fireball tore forward and detonated against the target in a roaring explosion.

  I blinked.

  That… was big. Far larger than it should have been.

  “Did I mess up?” Sam asked nervously.

  A slow smirk spread across my face. “No. You did very well.”

  His exhaustion vanished instantly. “R-Really?!”

  We trained for hours after that.

  “How many times can you cast before collapsing?”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Can I try lightning?”

  “Again. Focus on control.”

  Each test sharpened the picture.

  His spells hit harder than they should, and drained him just as fast. Sweat darkened his collar. His breathing grew ragged.

  Yet the Mana within him refused to run dry.

  And power wasn’t the only thing.

  “Try replicating this,” I said, handing him a spellbook.

  Minutes later, he did.

  Perfectly.

  It became clear…

  The moment he fired his first spell back at the library, something in him had awakened.

  By the time we finished, the sky had turned indigo. The first stars glittered above Asterion City.

  “Goodbye, Sir Erynd!” Sam called as he crossed the street, clutching the spellbook like a relic.

  “It’s just Erynd,” I called after him. “You’ll make me sound like a noble.”

  He laughed. “You kind of act like one.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “Definitely!”

  I shook my head as he disappeared into the crowd, a quiet certainty settling in my chest.

  This was only the beginning.

  I stood there a moment longer, then turned away.

  I had another matter to attend to.

  My new team.

  ***

  The tavern was warm and lively, filled with the scent of roasted meat, aged ale, and the faint hint of smoke from the crackling fireplace. The chatter of adventurers and bards playing stringed instruments blended together into an oddly comforting noise.

  Two elves. Two druids. One dwarf.

  The new face spoke first.

  “H-hello… I’m Elena Vonn Gwydion. Nice to meet you.”

  Her voice was soft, hesitant.

  She had the same sharp elven features as her brother: high cheekbones, pointed ears, and piercing green eyes. But where Darwyn carried himself with a kind of reckless confidence, Elena seemed reserved, almost shy.

  Still, it was clear she was very close to her brother.

  And in response, Darwyn took on a more serious, protective role when she was around. A stark contrast to the timid and sometimes goofy personality he usually displayed.

  A bow rested against the chair beside Elena, well-maintained but clearly unused for long. When she shifted in her seat, she adjusted the leather bracer on her wrist, then paused, and fixed it again, as if unsure which way it was supposed to sit.

  A beginner archer. Earnest, careful, and inexperienced.

  Next was Orin.

  She lifted her mug in a casual salute.

  “Orin Sylvas,” she said simply. “I can provide you with any potions you need. Well, except for the high-rank ones.”

  She took a sip from her mug, then added with a grin, “And if we don’t die horribly, I’m also very good at making sure we get paid handsomely.”

  No embellishment. No false bravado.

  An unspoken rule we had all silently agreed on: no one revealed too much on a first meeting.

  Before we got into anything serious, we spent some time joking around.

  “Come on, tell us that funny story again, Mister Bromir!” Orin, already a little tipsy, waved her mug enthusiastically at the dwarf.

  Muradin chuckled, stroking his thick beard as he leaned back in his chair. “Ahh, you mean the one about the time I got stuck in a Goblin’s outhouse?”

  Darwyn nearly choked on his drink. “Aah… That is a good one.”

  Orin burst into laughter before Muradin even began. “Yes! That one! It gets better every time!”

  Muradin took a deep breath and dramatically began his tale. “Right, so picture this: me, fresh outta training, barely grown my first real beard—”

  “That tiny thing counts as a beard?” Darwyn teased.

  “Oi, elf, let me tell my story,” Muradin shot back, pretending to be offended. “Anyway! There I was, chasin’ a Goblin through the woods. Nasty little bugger ran straight into this tiny wooden shack. I bust in after him, hammer raised, ready to strike… and boom! The whole thing collapses on me.”

  Orin was already wiping tears from her eyes. “Oh no!”

  Muradin grinned. “Oh yes. Turns out, I’d just stormed into a Goblin latrine. And let me tell you, it was not a dignified way to spend the next hour.”

  Darwyn burst out laughing. “By the Great Tree, how did you even get out?”

  Muradin sighed dramatically. “I didn’t. Not at first. My squad had to dig me out while the Goblins sat on the hill laughing their little green arses off.”

  Orin nearly fell off her chair from laughing. “I can’t... I can’t breathe! This is the best story ever!”

  Muradin smirked, clearly enjoying the attention. “Aye, but the best part? After I got free, I charged right up that hill, still covered in Goblin filth, and knocked their leader flat on his back. They never laughed at me again.”

  “Out of respect, or out of sheer horror?” I asked, unable to stop myself from grinning.

  Muradin shrugged. “Bit o’ both, probably.”

  Orin slammed her mug on the table, still laughing. “Alright, Mister Gwydion, your turn! Tell us something embarrassing!”

  Darwyn groaned. “Oh, come on. Do I have to?”

  “Yes!” Orin and Muradin said in unison.

  Elena and I exchanged amused glances. While the others were fully invested in the conversation, we remained mostly as spectators, occasionally throwing in a comment or chuckling at their antics.

  Laughter came easily after that, the last traces of awkwardness fading beneath shared stories and raised mugs.

  Time had passed, and the lively chatter gradually faded as we shifted to more serious matters. The first thing on our agenda was defining our roles within the team.

  Muradin would stand at the front. With his unshakable resilience and near-indestructible armor, he was best suited to take the brunt of the enemy’s attacks, so the rest of us wouldn’t have to.

  Darwyn and Elena would operate from the rear, bows in hand, thinning out threats before they ever reached us. Orin and I would fill the gaps, weaving support, magic, and utility where needed, adjusting between offense and defense as the situation demanded.

  A simple formation. Solid. Reliable.

  With that settled, we moved on to a more delicate topic. The division of loot.

  As expected, this took the longest.

  “Look,” Muradin grumbled, crossing his arms. “I’m takin’ the hits, holdin’ the line, riskin’ me neck more than anyone. I say I deserve a bigger cut.”

  Darwyn smirked. “And who’s making sure you’re not left to fend for yourself? Oh right, that would be me, shooting arrows into anything trying to rip your beard off.”

  Muradin scoffed. “Bah, like yer arrows do all the work.”

  Orin sighed dramatically. “Do we really have to argue? Can’t we just, I don’t know, all take equal shares and be happy?”

  I chuckled. “That would be ideal. But let’s be honest, some of us are contributing more than others.”

  The discussion went back and forth for a while, voices rising and falling as mugs were set down and picked back up. Eventually, we reached a compromise.

  Muradin and Darwyn, as the most experienced members, would each receive twenty-five percent of the loot. Orin and I would take twenty percent each, with the understanding that Orin would also be responsible for supplying the team with potions and other consumables. That left Elena with ten percent, the smallest share.

  She hesitated when the numbers were laid out.

  “Don’t worry,” I said gently. “This isn’t set in stone. Once you gain more experience, we’ll adjust things.”

  Elena nodded, though a trace of uncertainty lingered in her eyes.

  As for individual accomplishments, we agreed that personal rewards earned in battle would belong to whoever earned them. Soul Fragments and valuable equipment, however, would be discussed and distributed based on what benefited the team most at the time.

  With loot sorted, we moved on to our final topic: the Adventurer’s Guild.

  Registering as an official party would open up far more opportunities. Access to official quests, reputation bonuses, and additional rewards from the Guild itself.

  “I already went ahead and picked up a few available quests,” Darwyn said with a grin, pulling a bundle of parchment from his bag and spreading them across the table. “Some of these have seriously juicy rewards.”

  I leaned in to take a look.

  And froze.

  My breath hitched. My heart began to pound.

  There it was.

  That face.

  Staring back at me with the same cold, calculating gaze I had hoped never to see again.

  The bounty printed beneath the image made my eyes widen.

  100,000 Mana Stones.

  I exhaled slowly. That was… absurd. No. Terrifying.

  I read the name carefully, committing every letter to memory.

  Ryzenethar Baaik.

  So that’s what he’s called.

  MILESTONES

  Patreon Subscriptions - 3 Bonus Advance Chapters

  Dreadspire: The Weakest Druid on my