Chapter 27 - The Rank up test

Arthur Gravewalker opened his stat screen with a yawn, his tired eyes scanning the glowing letters.

NAME: ARTHUR GRAVEWALKER 

AGE: 14 YEARS OLD

RACE: HUMAN

CLASS:

 SPEARMAN: LVL5 (Basic) (Imperial)

LVL1 (Basic) (Falling Sun style (12.0%) 

 SKILLS :

MANA BOOST (lvl2) (45%)

AURA : LOCKED

BLESSINGS:

Hades Will -

Sun's Concept -

AFFINITIES : BLOOD, EARTH (locked)

Fire (lvl1) 10%

STATS -

RANK F+ -------------> Rank up test available

STRENGTH: E-

AGILITY: E-

STAMINA: E-

INTELLIGENCE: E-

MANA CAPACITY: E-

CHARM : F

[ Falling Sun style (****) (LVL 1 – 4.0%)

First move – Shooting star : Proficiency Lvl1 (35.0%)

Second move ???

????? ]

 Tomorrow marked the end of his grueling training under Master Syar. Dawn would bring his return to Fort Lanai, where General Thanason was preparing the next step in their campaign.

He dismissed the screen with a swipe, flexing his sore muscles. He had been holding off on the Rank Up Test. He wanted to do it and the very end of his training when he'd be the strongest. The tests were said to be as varied as fate itself—some a mere formality, others treacherous and strange. It was common for the rank up test to be easy, like ticking a box or something.

 But then again.

Knowing his luck. That's what he was going to get. No doubt about it.

With a deep breath, Arthur sank into a meditative posture, feeling the mana in his veins hum and flow. It soothed him, like a warm river coursing through his body, sharpening his focus. Slowly, his consciousness began to fade, swallowed by the rhythm of mana and the weight of anticipation.

[ ENTER RANK UP TEST. Y/N]

'Yes.'

When Arthur opened his eyes, he was no longer in the cavern.

Instead, he found himself sitting in a small wooden boat, rocking gently on dark, glassy water. The air was thick with an unnatural stillness, broken only by the faint strumming of a strange instrument. Across from him sat a man—if he could be called that.

The figure's weathered face looked as though it had been carved from ancient stone, each wrinkle a story of hardship and time. His grey eyes were lifeless yet piercing, like they could see straight through Arthur's soul.

Draped in simple robes, the man strummed a stringed instrument—part lute, part guitar—with long, spindly fingers. The melody was haunting, a tune that seemed older than the stars themselves, but at the same time, it was jaunty like folk music.

Arthur stared, feeling both drawn and repelled by the man's presence. There was an undeniable weight to him, like standing before the edge of a bottomless chasm.

"Do you want to hear a story?" the man asked, his voice low and heavy, as though each word carried centuries of sorrow.

Arthur hesitated. "A... story?" 'This is a bit of an odd test.?' He felt a strange sinking feeling that had nothing to do with the rocking boat.

The man smiled faintly. It wasn't comforting. It was a smile that hinted at secrets, at truths Arthur wasn't ready for.

"Yes," the man said softly. "Three, in fact. I'll let you choose which one you wish to hear."

Arthur frowned, unease curling in his chest. "What kind of stories?"

"The first," the man began, "is about a friend. The second is about a wolf in the snow. The third... is about a criminal who dies."

Arthur frowned, "None of these stories sound too interesting,"

The man laughed, "Quite so! No, nothing important is ever as priceless on first inspection as it is after you know its stories."

"So, these stories are all priceless?"

The man turned his gaze onto Arthur, and he felt trapped under their profound energy. "Maybe not to you, however even you wouldn't have reached this far without them, hmmm?"

Arthur looked at him confused. "Uhh, sure?"

"So which story do you want to listen to?"

Arthur thought for a moment, none of these stories sounded too particularly interesting. 'Hmmm.'

 Yet for some reason, the story of the criminal who died drew him in the most. It felt the most relatable.

"The one of the criminal who dies."

The man nodded, "Yes, I thought that might be of interest to your soul."

Arthur frowned, his confusion deepening. "What do you mean?"

"Storier."

"Storier?"

"Yes, storier, that's what you may call me."

"How does this story affect me, Storier?"

The man nodded, "Wait and find out, it's never good to skip ahead a couple of chapters eh. It might seem nice at first, but at the end, you'll always be left with regret. So be patient alright?"

"You know, boy, I've never been a good story teller, despite my moniker." He chuckled to himself, his eyes glinting with sadness, "I've always been more of a reader, than an author. So, bear with it."

The Storier leaned forward to pluck a single, resonant note on his instrument. The sound rippled through the air like a stone dropped into water. Arthur felt himself growing dizzy, his vision darkening as the Storier spoke once more.

"In this story, watch, and remember: the ink of the story needs to stain the soul, otherwise you'll never have art."

Before Arthur could reply, the darkness swallowed him whole.

 .......

When I opened my eyes, I was somewhere else entirely.

The cold hit first, cutting through my ragged clothes like a knife. Around me, towering buildings rose into a grey, smog-filled sky. The streets were filthy, paved with cracked stone and littered with debris. People bustled past me, their faces hard and indifferent, as though I didn't exist.

And maybe I didn't.

I looked down at my hands—small, dirt-covered, trembling from hunger. These weren't my hands. This wasn't my body. My heart raced. My mind felt fractured, like trying to piece together a broken mirror.

My name is James, I reminded myself. Or... was it? The memory felt hazy, like a dream slipping away. I was sure I was someone else. Someone different.

However soon reality set in mercilessly

' I'm James. I live on these streets. I beg, I steal. That's all there is.'

My stomach growled, a hollow ache that gnawed at my insides. I rubbed it absentmindedly, eyes scanning the street for scraps. Maine Street—the rich side of town. The perfect place to play on guilt and sympathy.

"James," I muttered under my breath, trying to ground myself. 

'I need to eat. I need to survive. That's all that matters.'

The days blurred together, each one the same. Begging, scrounging, avoiding the gangs that prowled the alleys.

Not all of the people who lived on the streets were beggars. As always, groups formed. And in groups, beggars suddenly find the courage to become a little more. Instead of asking for money, they'd demand it. And no wasn't an answer a person could say and walk away.

"Lucky bastards" I sighed enviously, turning into one of the side alleys where I could sleep peacefully.

The night was cold, colder than most, and curling into a ball to maintain heat no longer seemed like enough to stave away death. But I had different heat keeping me warm. Not fire, nor heaters or anything else.

Rage.

A pure unfiltered hatred of the world. I hated everyone, anyone. Hated the fact that my life was like this. I had done nothing to deserve this.

To be abandoned by my parents, I had done nothing.

"No", I whispered. "You did do something James. You were born."

I stayed out of sight, kept my head down, and tried to ignore the laughter of the street kids.

And then I met him.

It happened on a cold night, colder than most. I was curled up in an alley, shivering and cursing the world under my breath. That's when the boys found me. A gang of them—six or seven, all lean and hungry-looking, with eyes that burned brighter than their gaunt faces. It was a haunting look.

"Is he dead?" one of them muttered, prodding me with a stick.

"Nah, just cold," another said.

"Then he's alive," the leader chimed in. He stepped forward, a boy my age, with fiery red hair and a grin that seemed to light up his dark, calculating eyes. "What's your name?"

I hesitated. The gangs rarely hunted beggars, not because of any reason for working together. It was more that it simply wasn't worth it. Then again, there were always those who just like picking on those weaker than them

 "James."

"James, huh?" He crouched down, his smile widening. There was something magnetic about him, something that made it impossible to look away. "I'm Red. You hungry?"

He held out a piece of bread. My stomach growled loudly, but I didn't reach for it. I knew better than to trust kindness.

Red's grin turned into a smirk. "Smart. You don't trust me. Good. But if you want this bread, you'll have to trust me eventually. Join us."

"Why?" I asked bluntly.

He laughed, the sound sharp and careless. "Why not? We look out for each other. It's better than starving alone, isn't it?"

I hesitated, my eyes darting between the bread and his face. He saw my struggle and leaned closer, lowering his voice.

"Tell me something James, are you angry?"

I looked up at him silently.

"I am", Red gestured to himself. "We all are. At the world, at all of those bastards that had left us here", his voice dropped, brimming with a furious intensity. "Aren't you angry James?"

I nodded, Red had mirrored everything that I'd felt ever since being abandoned. I could see, looking in those dark eyes, Red understood.

"Yes", I whispered softly.

" Stick with me, and I'll make sure that anger counts for something." He proffered the bread again.

The hunger won. I took the bread, sinking my mouth into it.

Weeks passed, and I became one of them. Red's crew wasn't like the others. They didn't just survive—they seemed to thrive, making this hell hole into something that could even be considered enjoyable. Red was the heart of it all. Charismatic, cunning, and fearless, he could turn even the coldest night into something almost bearable.

It was nice. Being part of a group.

When we had forced robbed someone, I had been hesitant at first, receding to the back of the group. It felt wrong robbing someone, as if I was crossing some imaginary line.

Yet Red came later that day and spoke to me.

His eyes glinted with an unusual fierceness.

"Look James, I won't force you to do anything you don't want to" he had said one day, taking me to the side.

I had been silent all day since robbing the man, and he'd noticed. He always noticed when one of us was unhappy.

I nodded silently, still not saying anything.

"But I want you to understand", he continued, "That it's not wrong what we're doing. We've been given nothing, dumped on the roads for no reason, living this life, because of them. They left us here, and let us beg here, and die here during the winters. You've got no reason to feel sorry for them, they won't for us."

I nodded again, meeting his eyes this time. His anger mirrored my own, the anger at the world. A blind, hatred.

"But then again", he sighed, "I won't make you do it."

"Really?" I asked.

He smiled. "You're part of my crew James, that's for life. I won't ever make you do stuff you don't want to."

He placed his hand on my shoulder, before turning away.

"I'll do it" I whispered softly.

Red turned around, a smile on his face. "Okay."

.........

Months had gone by now

I joined Red on another raid. I used to feel bad about them when I was younger, but I understand now. It was us or them. And any beggar that chose them would inevitably die.

A couple of weeks ago we found a sharp metal stick lying on the road. I had no idea where it'd come from, but I took it, giving it to Red. He had loved it, brandishing around like he was some knight.

I ran around with them, on another raid, as we looked for someone easy to rob. Red already knew who it was going to be. He would scout out targets days before, in order to make sure the robbery went off without a hitch.

Today was an old man. He was a librarian, from what Red had told me, he seemed ordinary enough. There was a small side of me that felt bad for robbing an old man, but it was either you were to be a predator or food.

And I'll never be food.

"Oy old man" called Tanner, barricading the side street. "Can you lend me some money?"

I smiled, blocking the other side of the street with the others.

The old man stopped, worried.

Red laughed, his voice cold. "Come on old man, I know you got something. Why not share?"

The old man stuttered, panicking.

Ferra stepped forward, kicking the back of the man's knees, causing him to fall to the ground.

We laughed, taking a sick pleasure in his pain.

"O-okay" the man stuttered. "Here, take it, have it all." He proffered his wallet. I raised my eyebrows.

Many tried to resist because of our age, it wasn't often to find someone proffering their entire wallet.

Red smiled coldly. "Pleasure doing business." He stepped forward, metal stick in hand.

He whistled, "Bloody hell old man, you ain't too far from being one of us" as he inspected the wallet.

"I'll tell you what, if you do become a beggar, come with me." Red's eyes glinted coldly.

I hated when he acted like this. I hated those people as well, but, Red, he always seemed too angry. Always willing to take it a step further.

"I'll be sure to show you the sights!" He continued, gesturing around the dirty streets as if it were some grand city. The rest of the group joined in with the laughter.

The man slowly got up to his feet. "L-look, I run a centre near here. We can provide hot food, and clean water if you want it."

Red's face turned ugly and he kicked at the old man, causing him to fall back onto the floor heavily.

"You think we need your charity", he snarled. "We'll take what we want, I don't need your, shitty. Fucking. Help." He punctuated each word with a kick.

"H-hey Red" I called, "Calm down." This felt wrong. All too wrong. That anger in Red's eyes seemed to be growing, and growing. He'd always been a dangerous person, even though I hated to admit it..

He seemed to calm down a little after seeing me. Grunting in disgust, he turned away from the man.

As he did so, I saw the old man's hand grip Red's arm, pulling him back. "I can hel-"

Before he could finish, Red had turned around, obviously believing the man was trying to attack him from behind.

Before anyone knew what was happening, the man collapsed to the floor. Blood poured from a wound in his stomach, where a metal stick lay embedded into his body.

There was silence for a moment. My heart dropped. He had done it. Red had finally gone too far.

Then the silence shattered into panic, as every single person apart from Red and myself ran for their lives. Scared.

Red and I stood there, dumbstruck.

He turned to me. His face was pale, dark eyes wide.

"Run," I muttered.

He flinched but didn't move.

"Run!!!" I screamed.

That finally seemed to push through the fog, and his legs finally kicked into motion, as he ran as fast as he could out of the side street.

I moved to follow him, but something stopped me. Looking behind, I saw the old man. He was still alive, his dark eyes fixed on me.

I wanted to run. Soon someone would find out he was missing, and he'd be found. If I didn't move, I'd be caught.

But I just couldn't.

Instead, I calmly walked back to him, and sat down. His stomach was bleeding badly. I tried putting my hands over the wound, to stop the blood.

It didn't work.

"Run."

Huh. Looking down, I saw the old man, his mouth moving slowly as he fought to say the words.

"Run."

My heart took another plunge. The old man's final moments, he was trying to save me.

"Shut up," I muttered, tears blurring my vision. "You're not dying. Not here. Not like this."

Taking off my dirty shirt, I tried to plug the bleeding with it, but even that never worked. It didn't stop me trying, as I used all my might to stop the bleeding.

"HELP" I screamed, trying to get someone's attention. A part of me told me to run. To get away before it was too late.

But I didn't. I couldn't.