Private Conversation with Valen
Inside the Crit Happens Guild Suite – Side Room
The room was quiet, insulated from the noise and laughter still echoing from the main lounge. A circular table sat in the middle, bare except for two glasses of water. Dillion sat stiff-backed, his shield resting against the chair, unsure if he should lean into it or stand ready.
Across from him sat Jerek “Stormblade” Valen — still in his half-armor, jacket unzipped, relaxed. He stared at Dillion for a long second, then broke the silence.
“You know,” Valen began, his voice casual, “I wasn’t supposed to make it this far either.”
Dillion blinked. “What do you mean?”
Valen leaned back, letting one boot rest on the edge of his chair. “Wasn’t born gifted. Didn’t have sponsors. Just outlasted people. Logged more hours. Took more hits. Got back up more times than anyone else. Eventually… people started calling it talent.”
He took a sip of water.
“You? You’re different. Raw, but sharp. Dangerous if focused.”
Dillion looked down at his hand, the Soul Mark faintly glowing under his skin. “I’m still figuring it out.”
Valen nodded. “Good. That means you’re not faking it.”
There was a long pause before Valen sat forward and rested his arms on the table.
“I’m offering you something. Not a full invite — not yet. But a probationary spot in Crit Happens. No guild crest. No fanfare. But you get access to our rooms, our gear, and if you want it… some mentorship.”
Dillion stared, surprised. “Why me?”
“Because you made it to the semifinals with two logins,” Valen said, matter-of-fact. “Because you beat people who’ve been here for years. Because you’re doing something none of us expected — and we need that kind of energy.”
Dillion hesitated. His fingers curled around the rim of his glass. “I’m honored. But… I don’t know if I’m that kind of player.”
Valen gave a small smile.
“Doesn’t matter what kind you are. You’re here now.”
Another silence passed. This one wasn’t heavy — it felt… like a door opening.
Dillion nodded slowly. “Alright. I’ll give it a shot.”
Valen stood, offering his hand.
“Welcome to the storm, Water Gun.”
Dillion cracked a grin and shook it.
A knock tapped twice against the wooden door.
Valen and Dillion both turned as the door creaked open. It was the receptionist from the front desk — the same one who had guided Dillion through the outpost on his first day back.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, holding out a small, hand-carved wooden box. A soft blue glow pulsed from a rune sealed across the lid — unmistakably a Blue Soul Mark.
“This was left for you, Dillion. No sender listed, but… it kind of hummed your name.”
Dillion took the box gently, heart already racing. As the receptionist turned and left, he sat back down, flipping the lid open.
Inside was a ring — not metallic, but carved from a crystallized soul gem. It shimmered faintly with deep ocean hues, humming with a soft pulse of energy that felt… familiar.
Etched into the inside of the lid was a name, scrawled in messy script:
Zren.
Next to it, a folded slip of parchment.
Dillion unfolded the note.
“To the boy who broke my orb.
You’re starting to look like someone worth watching.
Wear this when the fog rolls in.
– Z.”
He turned the ring in his fingers, a slow grin spreading across his face. The gem felt cool to the touch, but alive — almost like it was breathing with him.
Valen leaned over, eyebrow raised. “Friend of yours?”
“Sort of,” Dillion said. “An old soul reader. Eccentric. Brilliant.”
Valen nodded in approval. “And now you’ve got fans. Be careful with that — fame makes you a bigger target.”
Dillion slipped the ring onto his finger.
A faint pulse of energy surged through him — steady, controlled. His Soul Gem responded instantly, syncing with the new enchantment.
[Fog Ring Equipped]
+1 Level to all Fog-based spells.
He exhaled slowly.
The air felt just a little thicker… like it was waiting for his command.
Dillion stood, still adjusting to the faint pulse of Zren’s ring on his finger, as Valen opened the door to the guild suite’s main room.
The moment they stepped through, four pairs of eyes turned their way. Kael was mid-air, balancing himself on the back of the couch in a dramatic pose. Lana was oiling the shaft of her spear. Mika sat cross-legged with a steaming mug of something that smelled like mint and metal. Gorran was rolling dough between his hands on a portable cookstone near the back table.
Valen raised his voice with casual command.
“Alright, everyone. Dillion’s agreed to run with us — for now.”
Kael tilted his head. “So the Water Gun joins the storm?”
“Probationary,” Valen clarified with a smirk. “No crest yet. But that might change soon.”
Dillion offered a small nod. It still felt surreal — standing in the center of the room with these high-ranked players, with eyes that had seen battle after battle now sizing him up.
“I figured we’d break him in the right way,” Valen continued. “Arena session. All of us. One-on-one sparring.”
“Ooooh, field trip,” Lana said, standing and cracking her neck. “Let’s see if the meme can dodge a spear.”
Mika sipped her drink. “Let’s see if he can dodge Gorran’s cooking first.”
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
“I make great stew,” Gorran said, not looking up. “I just don’t label the ingredients.”
Everyone laughed — including Dillion, who was still absorbing the fact that this was his life now.
Valen grabbed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. “Pack up. We’ll train at the main arena. Private wing’s open for guilds today.”
As they moved toward the outpost’s main lobby, the doors hissed open and curious heads turned. A few bystanders whispered to one another, pointing discreetly at Dillion.
He couldn’t help but notice how different this walk felt.
Not just because he was walking with Crit Happens.
But because, for the first time… he wasn’t walking alone.
The stone hallway echoed under Dillion’s boots as he followed Jerek “Stormblade” Valen and the rest of Crit Happens through a sealed side passage of the Arena. This wasn’t one of the public wings. It was a private chamber — no Eden cameras, no audience. Just fighters, runes, and stone.
A pair of steel doors opened with a hiss of pressurized air. Inside was a massive training floor, square-cut and polished smooth, enchanted lights glowing overhead. Practice dummies stood along the walls, and Soul Crystal arrays hummed quietly in each corner.
Kael let out a low whistle. “Arena staff must really like you, Valen.”
Valen didn’t look back. “They like results.”
Lana cracked her neck. “So, boss, we really sparring the newbie?”
Valen gave a short nod. “You all saw the tapes. He's raw, but there's something there. I want to see how he fights when he’s not one match from death.”
Kael turned to Dillion, smiling. “Alright, Water Gun. Let’s see if you squirt under pressure.”
Dillion exhaled and stepped into the center of the room. “Let’s do it.”
The others spread out around the arena floor, forming a loose ring around Dillion. Kael rolled his shoulders, his green Soul Gem glinting faintly on his chest as he drew a curved bow from thin air — summoned through his gear enchantment.
“Hope you’re good at dodging,” he said, casually nocking an arrow that shimmered with wind energy.
Dillion readied himself. His shield appeared with a flash of blue light, his fingers curling around the familiar leather grip. His knife was still sheathed at his hip — this wasn’t a real fight.
Just a test.
The whistle of the arrow was his only warning.
Dillion moved on instinct, sliding to the left as Kael loosed a volley. The projectiles curved unnaturally mid-air, following his path — wind-assisted tracking shots. He raised his shield to deflect, but the second arrow skipped off the ground and clipped his side.
“Point,” Mika called out from the sideline, her voice cool and unreadable.
Kael grinned. “Next time, lead with Fog.”
Dillion narrowed his eyes. He called the mist — a burst of low fog spilling around his feet. He ducked into it and started circling, water coiling at his fingertips.
Kael took a step back. “Nice. Smart boy.”
Then the fog burst outward with a sudden gust — dispelled by a whip of wind. Kael’s spell wasn’t powerful, but it scattered Dillion’s cover enough for him to see an arrow flying his way.
Dillion deflected it with his shield — barely.
“Alright, alright,” Valen said, stepping forward. “That’s enough dancing. Lana, you’re up.”
The red-haired warrior stepped forward, spear in hand, her stance aggressive and grounded. “No more running, fog boy. Let’s see if you can take a hit.”
Dillion swallowed hard.
Lana twirled her crimson spear with ease, her red Soul Gem pulsing steadily. Her presence was different from Kael’s — heavier, anchored. She didn’t flinch, didn’t grin. Just assessed.
“Don’t hold back,” she said flatly. “I’ll be disappointed.”
Dillion raised his shield again and spread his stance.
“You ready?” Valen called from the sideline.
Dillion nodded.
“Begin.”
Lana exploded forward, her feet barely touching the ground. Dillion tried to track her movements, but she was faster than he expected. The tip of her spear struck his shield with a loud clang, the impact reverberating through his arm. He staggered backward, only to feel the blunt end sweep at his legs.
He jumped — barely clearing it — and summoned water to his hands. Finger Pistol.
Lana was already turning. The water bullet flew past her head, missing by inches. She lunged in close and jabbed her spear straight into his side. It didn’t pierce — it didn’t need to.
“Point!” Mika called again.
Dillion winced, stepping back, the blue glow on his ribs flickering. His Soul Gem was absorbing the hit, healing him quickly, but the sting was real.
“You hesitated,” Lana said, withdrawing her spear. “Try again.”
They reset.
This time, Dillion didn’t wait. As soon as Valen gave the signal, he rushed forward, fog billowing out in a tight burst. He circled around her blind side and shot a water blast toward her feet.
Lana didn’t move.
She spun, letting the spear arc in a wide circle. Dillion ducked under it, but she twisted mid-spin and drove her elbow into his back.
He hit the floor hard.
Lana stood over him, unimpressed. “Creative. But you fight like someone who’s used to being underestimated.”
Dillion groaned as he pushed himself up. “Am I not anymore?”
She paused, then nodded once. “You’re not.”
Valen clapped. “Alright. Mika?”
Mika sighed from her seat. “You know I’m not a fighter, right?”
“You’re still up.”
She stood, her long coat brushing the floor as she walked. Her Soul Gem glowed a soft yellow — not offensive, not aggressive. But when she raised her hands, Dillion’s own Soul Gem reacted.
His body tensed.
“I’m going to test your focus,” she said calmly. “Try not to black out.”
The duel began without movement. Mika simply raised a single finger.
Dillion’s head swam.
It was like gravity had doubled. No—tripled. His vision blurred, and pressure swelled behind his eyes. Panic clawed at him as he tried to stay upright.
He activated Shield Guard and grounded himself.
Overwhelming Strength. Dexterity. He cycled his buffs.
The weight lessened, just slightly. Enough to breathe.
He aimed a finger, water swirling—
—and Mika vanished.
No. Not vanished. Just… moved.
She was behind him, a finger pressed gently to the back of his neck.
“Point,” she whispered.
Then she stepped away like nothing had happened.
Dillion turned, stunned. “What the hell was that?”
“She’s our anchor,” Valen said, chuckling. “When she’s serious, no one stays on their feet.”
Mika gave a small shrug. “Don’t fight the pressure. Let it guide you.”
“Next,” Valen said. “Gorran?”
The last member of Crit Happens stepped forward. Stocky, broad-shouldered, and wearing a simple smith’s apron, Gorran cracked his knuckles. His Soul Gem glowed a calm silver — a rare sign of a hybrid Mark.
“Don’t worry,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll take it easy on ya.”
Dillion raised his shield, knife in hand. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”
The massive figure stepped forward with a grin that could’ve broken boulders. Gorran was built like a blacksmith’s forge: broad, scarred, and steady. His armor, dulled by soot and time, still bore the faint gleam of soul-forged runes. A silver Soul Gem shimmered faintly over his chest.
“I’m Gorran. Tank. Crafter. Pretty decent cook, too,” he said, rolling his shoulders as he entered the circle. “Let’s see if you can crack this shell, rookie.”
Kael leaned against the wall, nursing a drink. “Try not to get flattened.”
Valen gave a short nod. “Begin.”
The moment the word dropped, Gorran moved—fast, faster than he should have. A shoulder charge hit Dillion’s shield with the weight of a falling mountain, sending him skidding backward across the arena floor. He managed to stay upright, knees shaking.
“Come on, Water Gun,” Gorran called, spinning a hammer made of compressed earth in his hand. “Hit me.”
Dillion darted left, flinging up a layer of fog between them with a sweep of his hand. The mist curled around them, swallowing the arena’s edges.
“Clever,” Gorran muttered. “But I’ve been in worse storms than this.”
Dillion crouched, reaching into his Soul Gem. Weak Point. A red dot glowed faintly over Gorran’s right shoulder. He lined up the shot—Finger Pistol—and fired.
The high-pressure jet of water burst through the fog, striking true. Gorran grunted, staggered—but didn’t fall. He turned and plowed forward, swinging his hammer blindly into the mist.
Overwhelming Strength, Dillion thought, his body surging with brief explosive force. He charged, shield first, slamming into Gorran’s gut.
It was like ramming a wall.
The bigger man wrapped an arm around Dillion and tossed him across the floor like a ragdoll. Dillion hit hard and rolled, skidding to a stop beside one of the soul arrays. His vision danced, but his body moved on instinct.
Shield Bash.
He rose and launched forward again, his shield catching Gorran under the chin this time. The tank actually stumbled back two steps, blinking.
“Not bad,” Gorran said. “Almost felt that.”
Dillion dropped more fog—thin this time, just enough to obscure vision—and danced through it, jabbing with his knife, firing water bullets. He never stayed in one spot longer than a second.
But the moment he got too close, Gorran caught his ankle.
A twist, a heave, and Dillion slammed down onto the floor. Hard.
Valen raised a hand. “That’s enough.”
The fog dispersed. Dillion lay on the ground, panting, arms spread wide. Gorran stood over him, still catching his own breath.
“That was fun,” Gorran said, offering a hand.
Dillion took it, groaning as he was pulled to his feet. “You call that fun?”
“You’re still breathing, aren’t you?” Gorran grinned.
The group reassembled near the entrance. Lana gave Dillion a nod of approval. Kael clapped him on the back—hard enough to almost drop him again.
Valen stepped forward, arms crossed but his voice calm.
“He’s got grit,” he said. “And more than that—he learns. Fast.”
The teasing slowed. Mika actually smiled.
Kael shrugged. “Guess we’ve had worse.”
Lana smirked. “He’s not terrible.”
Gorran nudged him. “Not bad for a foggy little water gun.”
Dillion looked around, exhausted, bruised, but standing.
And for the first time in Sora—or maybe in his life—he felt something solid beneath his feet.
A place.
A team.
Maybe even… a home.