The sun, a brazen eye in the cerulean sky, hammered down on Noah's back, each ray a tiny, insistent drumbeat urging him forward. The air itself seemed to shimmer with anticipation, thick with the dust of forgotten ages and the unspoken promises of a world turned strange. He strode with a newfound purpose towards the looming silhouette of the village temple, its ancient stones, weathered by time and etched with the cryptic symbols of a bygone era, whispering silent promises of a destiny yet unwritten. Dust motes, like tiny golden spirits disturbed from their slumber, danced in the heat rising from the cobblestone path, each step he took echoing in the unnerving stillness, a solitary rhythm in a silent symphony.
A slow, predatory grin stretched across Noah's face, the kind that hinted at a newfound power simmering beneath the surface, a wildness barely contained. "Right, warrior it is," he murmured, the words a low growl of satisfaction in the oppressive silence, a declaration of intent whispered to the empty air. Finally. Something that feels…right. Magic? Too much finger-wiggling and arcane babble. Archery? Too much standing around, waiting for the perfect, picturesque shot. But this…this feels primal. Real. Honest. The decision, forged in the heart of the deserted village, settled within him like a well-worn sword in its scabbard, a comfortable weight of certainty.
"And I've got just the skill for it – Sword Strike!" He punctuated the thought with a visceral, phantom swing, the air itself seeming to recoil from the unseen force of his imagined blade. "Perfect for smashing goblins…or whatever monstrous delights this crazy world decides to throw my way." A thrill, sharp and exhilarating, pierced through the lingering unease, a spark of excitement igniting in the desolate landscape of his bewilderment. Imagine the crunch. The satisfying thud as steel meets…whatever unholy flesh they're made of. Green goo, probably. Or maybe something squishier.
He cast a wary glance at the deserted market stalls lining the path. The perfectly arranged produce – vibrant still lifes of ruby tomatoes stacked in precarious pyramids and emerald cabbages nestled beside golden gourds with unnatural precision – stood in stark, unsettling contrast to the profound emptiness, a silent testament to an abrupt and inexplicable departure. It's like a painting. Beautiful, in a way. But so…static. Lifeless. This meticulous order, in the face of such utter abandonment, sent a shiver crawling down his spine, a cold tendril of unease that the sun's heat couldn't quite dispel. Where did everyone go? Did they just…evaporate into thin air? And why leave all this behind? The tomatoes look like they were just picked.
"Seriously, though," he mumbled, his brow furrowing with a touch of genuine fear, "where in the blazes is everyone?" The question hung heavy in the air, unanswered, amplifying the suffocating silence, a desperate plea lost in the vacuum of the deserted village. This isn't just quiet. This is…wrong. Deeply, fundamentally wrong. It feels like the whole world is holding its breath. The unsettling stillness felt like the breath held before a scream, a pregnant pause before some unknown horror revealed itself.
But then, his gaze snagged on the dragon statue perched atop the rise before the temple. Its obsidian form, sleek and powerful, coiled in silent majesty, its gaze fixed on some unseen horizon, a silent sentinel guarding a ghost town. Sunlight kissed its scales, igniting fleeting sparks of light, making it seem like a slumbering beast, potent and watchful, a silent promise of power and mystery.
"Imagine," he breathed, the predatory grin returning with renewed ferocity, a flash of teeth in the desolate landscape of his face, "me, Noah, the unstoppable warrior! Wielding a legendary blade, carving a path through hordes of darkness…with my earth-shattering Sword Strike!" A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, a defiant sound in the echoing silence, a spark of rebellion against the oppressive stillness. Yeah. That's the image. Not some fumbling newbie lost in a bizarre world. A force of nature in slightly-less-than-new leather.
"Okay, maybe not legendary yet." He flexed his right arm, the unfamiliar weight of the leather gauntlet a tangible reminder of his new role, a solid anchor in the swirling strangeness. The gesture felt a touch ridiculous in the desolate street, a private rehearsal for a grand performance with no audience, a silent vow to an empty theatre. Gotta start somewhere. Even legends had their first rusty sword and slightly smelly armour.
"Show off later, Noah," he muttered, a wry twist to his lips, a self-deprecating acknowledgment of his own bravado. "Focus on the job class. The becoming." The memory of the shimmering choices – Warrior, Magician, Archer, Thief – pulsed in his mind, each word a gateway to a different destiny. Magic? Too much arcane mumbo-jumbo and pointy hats. Archery? Too…passive. Like waiting for a bus that might never come. But this…this is direct. Decisive. You want something broken? I'll break it.
His choice had been visceral, a gut feeling more than a logical deduction, a primal resonance with the very word. "Magic's too complicated," he declared to the empty air, as if arguing with unseen proponents of the arcane arts. "All those fancy incantations and waving of wands. Sword Strike is pure. Unadulterated. Point. Swing. Conquer." The simplicity resonated with the straightforward nature he'd always prided himself on, a preference for action over contemplation. Less thinking, more doing. That's always been my motto, even before…before the world decided to go completely bonkers.
He briefly entertained the thought of archery, picturing himself a silent predator in the shadows, a phantom drawing back a taut bowstring. "Too much waiting," he decided, dismissing the image with a decisive shake of his head. "I'm a run-in-and-smash kind of guy. Besides," he added, his gaze sweeping over the silent buildings, each window like a vacant eye, "this place is creepy enough without me sneaking around like some…well, like a thief." The idea of skulking in the shadows felt cowardly, a betrayal of the warrior spirit already stirring within him, a rejection of the direct confrontation his soul craved.
The temple now loomed before him, its ancient stones radiating an aura of forgotten power, a silent testament to rituals and beliefs long since faded into the mists of time. The heavy wooden doors, etched with carvings that seemed to writhe and shift in the dancing sunlight, stood slightly ajar, an invitation into the unknown, a silent beckoning into the heart of the mystery.
"Alright, temple time," he announced, pushing the doors open with a groan that echoed through the deserted village like the sigh of a long-dead god, a mournful sound that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. The interior was cloaked in shadow, the air thick with the scent of dust and the weight of time, a palpable sense of history and forgotten secrets. Sunlight slanted through high, narrow windows, painting stripes of light and darkness across the stone floor, illuminating swirling motes of dust like tiny galaxies. Feels…old. Powerful, somehow. Like stepping into a story.
His eyes were drawn inexorably to the dragon statue at the hall's end, bathed in an ethereal glow that seemed to emanate from the stone itself. Up close, the obsidian scales seemed to pulse with an inner light, and the carved details hinted at a power both ancient and immense, a silent promise of the magic that permeated this strange new reality. The dragon's eyes, crafted from some unknown, luminous stone, held a captivating intensity, as if peering into his very soul, judging his worthiness.
"Let's see if this magnificent beast can bestow upon me the mantle of warrior," he murmured, a thrill coursing through him, a sense of destiny unfolding. He grinned, letting his imagination soar, picturing the possibilities. A legendary blade, perhaps? Passed down through generations of dragon-blessed heroes? Glowing runes? Maybe it whispers battle strategies? Yes!
"Okay, okay, reign it in, Noah," he chided himself, a flush creeping up his neck, a touch of embarrassment at his own fantastical musings. A bizarre, fleeting image flickered through his mind, completely out of left field, a strange and unwelcome intrusion. Adolfillia…as a dragon? Still kind of…striking? What is wrong with me? Brain malfunction? Too much sun? He shook his head, banishing the strange thought with a mental shrug. Warrior. Focus. Dragon. Job. No more weird dragon-lady thoughts. He strode towards the Wind Dragon statue, his footsteps echoing like a drumbeat in the vast hall, each step a commitment to his chosen path.
As he approached, the air around the statue crackled with energy, a palpable hum that vibrated in his very bones. The obsidian scales shimmered, the carvings seemed to writhe and coalesce into new and unsettling patterns, and the very air hummed with an unseen power, a tangible manifestation of the magic that permeated this strange world. Then, the choices materialized before him, swirling like luminous constellations in the dim light: Warrior, Magician, Archer, Thief. Each word pulsed with an irresistible allure, a siren song of potential futures.
Without a moment's hesitation, Noah reached out and touched the cold, smooth stone beneath the incandescent word "Warrior." A jolt, potent and undeniable, surged through his arm, a raw, untamed energy flooding his senses, a visceral connection to something ancient and powerful. This is it. This is me. This feels…right. It felt like a homecoming, a recognition of a path he hadn't known he was meant to walk, a sense of belonging in this otherwise alien landscape.
In the space where his hand had rested, three tangible items materialized as if conjured from the very air, solidifying from the ethereal glow. A rusty sword, its metal dull and scarred by time, appeared first, resting on the stone pedestal with a soft thud. Beside it lay a set of worn leather armour, the colour faded, the stitching frayed, yet somehow…right, like a familiar garment rediscovered. Finally, three small, corked vials filled with a viscous, faintly glowing liquid materialized beside the armour, radiating a subtle warmth.
A triumphant roar escaped Noah's lips, echoing through the silent temple, a primal sound of victory in the face of the unknown. "Yes!" he bellowed, his voice thick with elation, a release of the tension that had been building since his arrival. Okay, not exactly Excalibur, and the armour's seen a few too many monster encounters, but…it's mine. My starting point. My legend begins now. With a slightly less-than-impressive sword. But hey, gotta work your way up, right? The rusty sword felt surprisingly balanced in his grip, the worn leather a second skin, a tangible link to his new identity.
As the items settled, words blazed into his vision, stark and undeniable, etched onto the very fabric of his perception:
NAME: Noah LEVEL: 3 (2/300) FACTION: Light
RACE: Human JOB: Warrior
BARRIER: 10/10
QI/MANA: 50/50
SKILL:
Sword Strike (F)
Warrior Will (E)
Understanding flooded his mind, an intuitive grasp of these strange new parameters, a sudden clarity in the surrounding mystery. Level three? What was I before? A zero? And those numbers…experience points? Gotta grind some levels, then. Barrier…a shield, maybe? Cool. Qi/Mana…the magic stuff. Good to know I have…some? And Warrior Will…that sounds like something I've got plenty of. Stubbornness counts, right? A raw, untamed power thrummed within him, a tangible manifestation of his chosen path. The familiar, unsettling excitement of this strange new reality surged through him, now laced with a potent sense of purpose, a direction in the bewildering chaos.
He hefted the rusty sword, its weight surprisingly reassuring, a solid presence in his hand. The worn leather armour, as he shrugged it on, felt strangely comfortable, molding to his form as if it had always belonged there, a familiar embrace in an unfamiliar world. The healing potions, tucked into a newly appeared pouch at his hip, pulsed with a faint, comforting warmth, a promise of resilience in the face of danger. This is it. No turning back now. The path of the warrior awaits.
Adrenaline surged through him, a potent cocktail of exhilaration and anticipation, a battle cry waiting to be unleashed. The silence of the deserted village no longer felt menacing but pregnant with possibility, a stage set for his grand entrance. "Alright, new gear, new me," he growled, drawing the rusty sword with a defiant flourish. It sang a low, mournful note as it cleared the scabbard, a whisper of battles yet to come. "Time to test out this 'Sword Strike'…and maybe, just maybe, find out what in the blazes happened to everyone." He was no longer just Noah, the lost stranger. He was Noah, the Warrior, and the silence of this strange world was about to be broken by the clang of steel and the roar of his newfound purpose.
A dark grin spread across his face, a hint of the battle-lust now stirring within him, a primal urge to test his mettle. "The goblin horde's reign of terror ends now," he declared to the empty hall, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that echoed off the ancient stone walls. "Steel meets flesh. The…cleaving…begins!" A burst of laughter, sharp and slightly unhinged, echoed through the temple, a declaration of war against the unseen enemies that surely lurked beyond the village borders. Okay, maybe a little over the top. But the sentiment stands. Time to find some action. Adventure had called, and Noah, the Warrior, was finally, irrevocably, ready to answer. The rusty sword felt like destiny in his hand, and the worn leather armour the first step on a path paved with both peril and the intoxicating promise of something…more. The world outside the temple doors, once a terrifying enigma, now felt like a challenge waiting to be met, a stage for his warrior's tale.