The heavy oak door of the tavern burst open with a sudden crash.

  A bear-sized man stormed in, bringing a rush of cool outdoor air that stirred the warm, slightly stale haze inside.

  He crossed the room in three long strides and slammed up to the bar, making several empty mugs jump on the worn surface.

  “Old Barnaby! Quick—give me a big one! My throat’s on fire!”

  His massive, callused hand slapped down on the polished dark wood with a resounding smack. His voice boomed, roughened by long travel and carrying a faint pant.

  Behind the bar, Old Barnaby didn’t even look up. He continued meticulously filing away the last burr on the rim of a freshly turned oak mug with a small rasp.

  He merely wrinkled his nose in displeasure, eyes fixed on the cup. His voice stayed low, but carried the quiet, unchallengeable authority of an old-school hunter:

  “Mind my bar, Jarek, you reckless ox. This beechwood top has been with me thirty years—smoother than your ugly mug. Keep slapping it like that, and I swear I’ll use this rasp to file the burrs off those paws of yours first… then break one of your legs so you can learn what standing on one feels like.”

  Jarek yanked his hand back as though burned. The frantic energy on his weathered, forty-ish face instantly gave way to sheepish embarrassment.

  He scratched at his tangled, grass-flecked hair. Despite the scars and years, in front of Old Barnaby he suddenly looked like the half-grown boy who once got his ear twisted for skimping on sharpening arrowheads.

  Old Barnaby was one of the living legends of the hunting team—one of the few who had ventured near the heart of The Duskwood’s edge and come back mostly whole.

  His missing right arm and left leg were heavy “medals” bestowed by time and danger; every scar told a story that could fill half the night.

  Every hunter in the tavern—regardless of current strength or temper—tempered their edge in his presence and showed genuine respect.

  Even Brog, the current captain and a Tier 2 berserker whose raw combat power far surpassed the crippled old man’s, always greeted him first with a respectful “Uncle Barnaby” before speaking.

  It wasn’t mere courtesy to an elder. It was silent homage to experience bought with flesh and blood, to sacrifices made.

  “Jarek! Over here! We’ve been waiting—what took you so long?” Brog’s booming voice cut through from a large table against the wall, breaking Jarek’s awkward moment.

  Two other veteran hunters sat with him. They watched Jarek shrink in front of Old Barnaby with barely concealed grins and raised their mugs in teasing salute.

  “Coming, coming! Boss!” Jarek seized the escape gratefully. He glanced back, eyes pleading as Old Barnaby worked with deliberate slowness. “Uncle Barnaby, come on—hurry up! The boss’s drinks are almost gone!”

  “Little monkey, what’s the rush? Good ale is like hunting—get impatient and the flavor runs off.” Old Barnaby snorted. At last he set down the now satin-smooth mug.

  He turned. With only his left hand, yet with uncanny steadiness, he reached behind to the rack, lifted the largest oak tankard, and moved to the massive barrel beneath the bar that exhaled rich malt fragrance. He deftly popped the bung; clear golden liquid poured in a steady cascade, foaming perfectly just below the rim.

  The one-armed motion was smoother and more precise than many two-handed men could manage.

  “Here. Take it. Spill one more drop next time, and you’ll be licking the bar clean with your tongue.”

  “Thanks, Uncle!” Jarek cradled the heavy mug like sacred water and tiptoed toward Brog’s table—far more careful now than when he’d barged in.

  “Those damn kids…” Old Barnaby watched the bear-like back retreat clumsily, the faintest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. He muttered under his breath, shook his head, and returned to his high stool.

  He picked up the unfinished mug and rasp again, continuing his single-minded polishing by the flickering firelight. Rough fingertips traced the smooth grain with the focus of a craftsman shaping art, not merely a drinking vessel.

  The tavern’s noise seemed separated from him by an invisible membrane, leaving a quiet island around the old man.

  Jarek set the tankard down gingerly. A few drops sloshed; Brog laughed and cursed good-naturedly.

  Jarek stole a glance at Old Barnaby—saw no eyes on him—and finally relaxed. He traded a laughing curse with Brog.

  Then—clink!

  Mugs met. Heads tilted back. Cold ale rushed down throats, washing away fatigue. Jarek let out a long, satisfied breath; his usual bold demeanor returned.

  “So—how’s that little ‘spear hawk’ of yours holding up? You ran him ragged again today, didn’t you?” Brog set his mug down, wiped foam from his beard, and grinned.

  The “spear hawk” was Jarek’s young trainee—a rare “Spearmaster” profession among the reserves.

  “How could I not drill him? Boss, you didn’t see—the kid nearly brought me back from the dead with frustration!” Jarek’s face crumpled at the memory, voice thick with exasperation. “A full Spearmaster! Supposed to be a mid-range precision striker, a heavy armor-piercing point! But the way he handles it? Like child’s play! The little ‘rat’ from the next squad—barely trained any longer—already dances circles around the weakest Tier 0 Mossback Boars with just a dagger! Can’t kill them yet, but at least he looks the part!”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The more he spoke, the angrier he got. He drained another long swallow before continuing: “But my precious apprentice? Ten throws and one barely grazes the target—he calls that a good day! All brute strength, zero accuracy! If your aim’s trash, what kind of Spearmaster are you? Wasting a rare profession! Watching him fumble makes me more frustrated than when that Ironback Lynx chased me up a tree years ago!”

  The two other old hunters at the table shook their heads and chuckled; clearly they’d heard the complaints before.

  Brog slowly turned his mug, watching golden liquid swirl along the walls. His smile faded slightly, replaced by thoughtful gravity.

  “Can’t entirely blame the boy for being impatient, Jarek.” His voice was calm but carried weight. “A Spearmaster… you know how it looks to most young people—especially those dreaming of knights, mages, or berserkers. No flashy blood aura, no dazzling spells—just throwing spears. And everyone knows the profession’s ceiling isn’t high. The kid’s got a knot in his heart, resistance to his own awakening. Hard to put real effort into training when you’re already half-convinced the road dead-ends.”

  He lifted his gaze, sweeping across Jarek, the other two veterans, then the rest of the tavern—weather-beaten, resolute faces laughing loudly or drinking in silence.

  “Don’t push him too hard… the road’s still long.” Brog’s voice stayed low but reached them clearly, carrying the quiet authority of a leader. “Us old bones are still solid. We can carry the weight a while longer. This forest, this village—they don’t need to dump the heaviest burdens on kids whose minds aren’t fully set yet. Let them grind slowly. Let them find their own path. Sometimes it isn’t the person who chooses the profession—it’s the profession that eventually shapes the person.”

  In this world, the first true gift fate bestowed on everyone was the Profession Awakening.

  Professions spanned a vast spectrum, broadly divided into two paths: the “livelihood professions” that colored and built daily life, and the “transcendent professions” that commanded elements and extraordinary power.

  Among transcendent paths, the most coveted were those with complete, clearly ascending ladders reaching toward the heavens.

  At the very summit stood two pillars: Mage and Knight.

  The mage system had been perfected by countless sages into a towering, well-documented spire.

  From apprentices sensing mana ripples to Archmages summoning meteor showers, up to the mythical Tier 9 “Archmage Gods” who wielded partial dominion over world laws—the path was clear, the grimoires endless.

  The knight path was equally grand: from squires igniting life-fire, through apprentice and full knights, forging body and will, condensing battle qi, culminating in Tier 9 “Holy Knights” who tempered belief and power to the absolute peak.

  Their lineages were guarded by ancient orders and temples—likewise highways to the pinnacle of strength.

  These two professions commanded universal admiration not only for their world-shaking might and battlefield dominance, but for their “completeness” and “forward vision.”

  Several of the continent’s current apex powerhouses hailed from these lines; their explorations had already pushed beyond Tier 9 legends into the hazy realm dubbed “demi-god” or “beyond legend.”

  That promise—“there is still road ahead”—was an invaluable beacon for any soul chasing ultimate power.

  Next came professions with genuine Tier 9 potential: Archers (Legendary Bow Saints), Alchemists (Sages), Priests (Saints), and so on.

  They too could scale great heights, but their traditions lacked the breadth, depth, and systematization of the mage and knight monuments.

  They might reach the Tier 9 threshold, but most still groped within it—far from mastering or transcending the realm.

  That was the gap in foundation.

  And for most transcendent professions, the path upward was far rockier—or openly capped.

  Swordsmen honed blade skills to deadly precision, yet consensus placed their ceiling at Tier 8 “Sword Saint.” Beast Tamers were limited by soul contracts and partner potential, rarely advancing past Tier 7 “Beast Speaker.”

  From the moment of awakening, professions drew different ceilings across the sky.

  That was why, when Brog mentioned Jarek’s young trainee—a Spearmaster—the knowing, complicated sighs that passed among the veteran hunters carried more than mere sympathy for Jarek’s frustration.

  A Spearmaster specialized in mid-to-long-range precision throws and armor penetration. Its theoretical ceiling stopped at Tier 3.

  For a freshly awakened youth brimming with hot blood and boundless dreams, that was a bucket of ice water over the head.

  Who hadn’t fantasized about roaming the world with sword in hand, chasing the limits of power? Who didn’t hope their path stretched beyond the horizon?

  To finally break free of mediocrity, step through the transcendent gate—only to find the corridor behind it extraordinary yet clearly walled-off at the far end… the disappointment and resistance were understandable.

  That soul-deep dissatisfaction with one’s “ceiling,” that subconscious rebellion against fate’s limits, could become an inner demon—severely blocking acceptance of the profession’s core inheritance, suppressing talent bonuses, even preventing full commitment to basic training.

  That was exactly Jarek’s headache.

  “Always chasing the horizon!” Jarek drained the last of his ale and slammed the mug down hard enough to rattle the table. The complaint ignited like a spark in oil, instantly kindling a shared resonance that had simmered in the tavern for years. “Tier 3! So what if it’s Tier 3? A peak Spearmaster can still put a spear clean through an Ironhide Rhino’s eye! That’s better than awakening as a ‘Farmer’ or ‘Bookkeeper’ and never even touching the transcendent threshold! They stare at mage and knight Tier 9 legends all day, but can’t be bothered to count on their fingers how many living Tier 9 Archmage Gods or Holy Knights exist on the whole continent—barely enough to fill one hand! Obsessed with how low their own ceiling is, but never asking whether they have the grit or the luck to even reach up and touch their own ceiling. Kids these days—haven’t even planted their feet, and they’re already whining the road isn’t long enough…”

  “Who’re you telling?” The lean, brown-haired, brown-bearded hunter by the door jumped in immediately, voice thick with liquor and long-held frustration. “The kid I’m training—eyes darting everywhere during drills, mind drifting off to who-knows-what fairy forest! Ask him to swing a blade three hundred extra times and he acts like you’re asking for his life. Arms sore, he says. But mention some genius mage breaking through or a knight getting an ancient inheritance? His eyes light up brighter than an owl’s at midnight! Sky-high ambition, zero willingness to sweat and bleed for it. Wants to ascend to the heavens and look down on everyone else, but can’t stand a single blister. Where in the world is that kind of bargain?”

  “Exactly! My apprentice too—awakened with Tracker talent, born sensitive to every trace in the woods. Perfect seedling! But the moment someone says the profession grows slowly, peaks around Tier 5, he deflates. Training’s half-hearted… sigh!”

  “And over there—my bunch spend more time comparing whose profession ceiling is higher than who’s actually mastering their skills. One Rune Carver moping every day because he’s not an Elemental Artisan. Hasn’t even stabilized basic runes yet, and he’s already sighing about the ‘injustice’!”

  The tavern turned into a collective venting session. Hunters traded stories, unloading days—years—of helplessness, disappointment, and anger at their trainees’ lack of resolve, all fueled by ale.