Guild Evaluation Hall – Report After the Dungeon
The air inside the Guild Evaluation Hall was still. Too clean. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't welcome you—it examined you.
Leon sat on a hard bench under an arcanite light, shoulders relaxed, fingers resting lightly on the hilt of the borrowed dagger—still stained with dry goblin blood.
Across from him, behind a polished obsidian desk, an officer in silver-threaded robes tapped through a floating interface.
No one spoke for several seconds.
Then the officer looked up. Sharp eyes. Neutral face.
"You were grouped with Elise Harth and Garet Vos."
Leon nodded once.
"They left during a live encounter," the officer said. "Without clearance. Is that accurate?"
"Yes."
"You engaged the elite unit solo?"
"Yes."
The officer studied him. "And you're alive."
Leon didn't respond.
The silence stretched.
The man leaned back, gaze flicking across the interface again. "Elite unit confirmed slain. Dungeon trace corroborates combat logs. Soul-core signature matches your system ID."
Another pause.
"They ran. You didn't."
He clicked something on the screen.
"Team members Elise Harth and Garet Vos are suspended from evaluation trials. Guild advancement blocked pending disciplinary review."
Leon kept his gaze forward.
The officer narrowed his eyes. "And you…"
A new tab appeared. Glowing faint green.
"Solo clearance approved."
Leon stood before the man could finish.
"You're dismissed."
He turned without another word, pushing the door open into the city's night.
Shifting Purpose – Night Outside Ironvale
The streets had emptied. The stalls were shut. Only scattered guards and drunks remained—ghosts of a city that had turned its back on him a day earlier.
Leon walked alone.
The cold pressed against his skin, but he welcomed it.
He passed the billboard again. Damian's name still glowed near the top. Not his.
He didn't care.
He had something else now. Not just a summon that followed orders. A system that evolved. Learned.
And it needed a commander who could keep up.
Descent – Path to the Black Market
Leon cut through narrow alleys, ducking beneath overgrown awnings and rusted archways. He passed signs written in dead tongues, ignored broken steps slick with old oil.
He stopped in front of a door no one else acknowledged.
No markings.
No handle.
Just thick, rune-carved steel.
He knocked twice.
A small slot opened—round mechanical eyes blinked behind reinforced brass goggles.
"You don't look like a regular."
Leon said nothing. He reached into his pouch and held up silver—clean, exact.
The eyes studied him.
Then the slot shut.
The door unlocked with a hiss.
The Magic Gun Shop – Within the Smoke
The air inside was thick. Smelled like charred metal and low-grade ether.
Shelves lined the walls—crossbows buzzing with unstable enchantments, flintlocks etched with dark runes, experimental spell cartridges sealed in glass.
Behind the counter, a dwarf wiped grime off a plated gauntlet. His beard was tucked under a fireproof scarf. Scars lined both arms.
"Haven't seen you," he said. "What're you buying?"
Leon didn't answer.
His eyes scanned the wall—not for power, but for purpose.
He didn't want bulk.
He wanted speed.
Something light. Fast. Direct.
His hand paused over a narrow firearm—runed barrel, blackened steel, small pulse core visible through a transparent panel.
The dwarf followed his line of sight.
"That one doesn't fire bullets. Takes mana input. You charge it, it shoots compressed energy. Clean, focused. One shot at a time."
Leon picked it up.
Smooth grip. No recoil weight. Trigger smooth, zero resistance.
"It burns through your energy pool," the dwarf added. "No charge left, it's dead weight."
Leon flipped the side panel open. The internal crystal reacted to his touch—pulsing faintly in sync with his system tag.
"It calibrates to the user?"
The dwarf nodded. "Takes a bit. But after that? Fires on instinct."
Leon holstered it at his hip.
It fit like it had been waiting for him.
"I'll take it."
Outside the City – Old Training Grounds
The old arena had long since been condemned. The stone dummies were cracked, scorched, half-dissolved by spells from students who had already left Ironvale behind.
Leon stepped into the dust, snow crunching under his boots.
His Zombie Mage stood at the edge, cloak fluttering in the still air, its blue eyes steady.
Leon drew the gun.
Mana flowed from his chest into the chamber—resistance slight, controlled.
The runes along the barrel lit blue.
He raised the weapon.
Aimed.
Pulled the trigger.
A streak of pure mana cut the space between him and the dummy—fast, silent, focused.
It struck center-mass.
Stone cracked.
He fired again.
The head crumbled.
No recoil. No waste. Just precision.
The gun hummed, cooled, ready for more.
Leon adjusted his stance, aimed low, fired once—shattered a stone knee.
Fired wide, then dead center.
Each shot tighter. Each trigger pull faster.
He felt the rhythm forming—not as magic, but as skill. Habit. Muscle memory.
His zombie didn't move.
It watched.
He holstered the weapon.
They were ready.
He wasn't a warrior.
He wasn't a mage.
And he wasn't just a necromancer anymore.
He was something else.
Something this world hadn't seen yet.
And it wouldn't see him coming.