Chapter 9

As night settled in, the streets had quieted, conversations faded as shops shuttered their doors and lanterns flickered to life. James walked with steady steps toward the outskirts of town, where the old orphanage stood—a place that had been his home for years.

The worn wooden building had seen better days. Its stone foundation remained strong, yet time had etched its mark on the weathered walls. Still, it held a warmth that newer dwellings lacked—a lingering sense of familiarity, a sense of childhood memories woven into its halls.

James stepped through the worn wooden doorway, the familiar creak of the hinges breaking the silence of the night.

The orphanage stood still, untouched by the town's busyness resting quietly on the outskirts. Once it had been filled with voices—laughter, arguments, whispered stories shared beneath flickering lanterns. But those days had long since faded. One by one, the children had left, chasing their own futures. The old caretaker–the one who had kept the place running despite its age–had passed years ago. Now, only James remained.

The building pitch black when he entered, he fumbled briefly, then a lantern flickered to life in the corner of the main hall, casting uneven light across the worn wooden floorboards. Dust clung to untouched shelves, and the air carried the scent of aged parchment and lingering memories. He had stayed not out of sentimentality, but out of familiarity–stability. He knew every creak in the floorboards, every worn mark on the walls. It had been a home, and in some ways, it still was.

Setting his bag down, he exhaled,rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. His first hunt had been a success, his next steps carefully planned, and his earnings well spent. With the town settling into silence and the orphanage standing unchanged, he allowed himself a rare moment of stillness.

James made his way through the dim halls, his footsteps stirring dust that had long settled. The orphanage remained unchanged, yet his presence felt different—no longer a child wandering its corridors, but a man returning to something both familiar and distant.

Reaching the small washroom, he turned the rusted faucet, listening as the pipes groaned before releasing a thin stream of water. He filled the old porcelain tub, watching steam rise as the heat softened the chill in the air.

Lowering himself into the warm water, he exhaled slowly. The heat seeped into his muscles, easing the strain of travel, the weight of the past few days.

James dried off and dressed, making his way to the old kitchen. The room was as he remembered—simple, worn, but familiar. The wooden table bore scratches from years of use, and the scent of aged spice lingered in the air.

He rummaged through what little remained in the pantry, pulling together a modest meal. The orphanage had never been a place of abundance, but he had long since learned to make do. As the fire in the hearth crackled softly, he ate in quiet solitude, listening to the distant hum of the town beyond the orphanage walls.

For now, he was alone. But in the quiet, there was a strange comfort—an understanding that, even in its emptiness, this place had always given him something to return to.

James finished his meal, running a hand over the worn wooden table, its surface scarred from years of use. His thoughts drifted to the monster cores packed in his bag—silent, waiting.

Each one pulsed faintly with residual energy, remnants of creatures felled by other hunters. He had chosen carefully—not for raw strength alone, but for steady progress. The cores were low rank, their energy controlled, manageable. Anything stronger would be dangerous—too volatile for his current level, too much for his body to absorb without consequence.

Absorption was the key to growth. By taking in the cores, he could push his level higher, strengthen his body, sharpen his reflexes. He was nowhere near ready for advanced techniques—not yet—but leveling up would bring him one step closer. One step toward true mastery.

Westmere awaited, a city where knowledge and resources could refine his abilities even further. The deeper mysteries of rune mastery, the finer control over energy—those would come in time. For now, he needed power. And power required patience.

James sat cross-legged on the worn wooden floor, his bag open beside him. Carefully, he pulled out the five monster cores—his entire haul from the mission hall—and arranged them in a circle around him. Their soft glow flickered in the dim light, faint pulses of energy trapped within crystalline shells.

Only five.

They didn't come cheap, and every one of them mattered. He couldn't afford waste, couldn't afford recklessness. Each core was an investment, a step forward in his growth.