Chapter 11 — The Iron Border
Arya stood alone in front of the Adventurer's Guild Hall.
Her hand gripped the cold, freshly-earned Iron Medal hanging on her chest.
She had crossed the border.
From the safe, manageable Bronze tier… into the Iron.
A place where death walked closer, and shadows no longer fled at the sight of a blade.
Inside the guild, the faces were different.
Older.
Tougher.
Eyes that had seen too much and lived through it.
They didn't cheer or clap for new medals.
They watched — waiting to see how long you would last.
Arya signed up for her first Iron-level hunt.
A mission too big for her age, but pride burned hotter than fear.
Shadow Three.
Not the easiest — not yet a legend, but enough to tear the flesh from a careless fighter.
Enough to stain your name in the black books of Versalis.
The fight came fast.
Narrow alleys.
Cold sweat.
A blade that shook in her hand.
The creature was faster than Bronze shadows.
It bled a darker, thicker black.
Its strikes left deep scars on the stone, and on Arya's arm.
She survived.
Barely.
And in its death… a Shadow Crystal.
Back in the inn, Arya sat with her bleeding hand wrapped in rough cloth.
She stared at the crystal.
This was the Iron Border.
A place where mistakes cost more than medals.
A place where Donati's voice haunted the back of her mind.
"You think medals mean you're safe?
Out here… nothing saves you."
Arya felt it.
She was no longer a child.
But she wasn't a legend.
Not yet.