Becoming an Adventurer

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the sprawling city of Verdeloth, nestled deep within the territory governed by a Viscount of the Kingdom of Velmora.

Though not the capital, it was a prosperous city—rich in trade, vibrant with travelers, and steeped in local lore.

Alaric walked its cobbled streets with his hood drawn low, the hem of his robe brushing the ground.

His steps were light, silent, almost weightless—yet every sense was sharpened, drinking in the foreign textures of city life.

He drew a few glances as he passed, his small frame unmistakably that of a child. But no one stared long or commented.

In a world like Elarion, such things were neither rare nor safe to mock. Countless tales existed of individuals with youthful forms who wielded power that could level mountains or twist minds.

People had long learned better than to assume weakness based on appearances. Those who made that mistake often disappeared quietly—or became cautionary stories whispered in taverns. Some of those "youthful" beings were known to take a special kind of joy in being misunderstood… and in correcting that misunderstanding with ruthless efficiency.

Besides, in cities like Verdeloth, where livelihoods hung on sharp timing and swifter coin, most people didn't spare time to ponder how others looked or lived. Survival left little space for curiosity.

You could have horns, wings, or a tail and still be just another passerby as long as you kept moving.

So Alaric moved, unnoticed in the ways that mattered, and free to observe.

The city felt alive.

Merchants shouted their wares in the open-air market. Children darted between carts and carriages, laughing. Guards in blue-plated armor stood at intersections, directing foot and beast traffic. Birds circled high above the clay-tiled rooftops.

But amid the color and rhythm, Alaric's gaze lingered on the alleys, the weary porters, the sharp-eyed beggars, and the weary, hopeful faces of adventurers returning from distant gates.

He was looking for The Adventurers' Association.

Verdeloth was divided into six districts, and the Bronzeforge District was where most of the city's mercenaries, blacksmiths, and adventurers gathered. It was the beating heart of steel and grit—so naturally, that was where the Association would be.

Alaric passed by a series of inns and taverns. The scent of sweat and ale lingered on the air. Then, as he turned the corner past an iron-spiked archway, he saw it.

A grand structure of redstone and graywood stood at the center of a wide plaza: tall banners depicting a lion's paw gripping a sword fluttered above its carved facade.

Twin bronze statues of armored warriors flanked the entrance, one male, one female, both weathered by time and countless storms.

Above the door, etched in deep runes:

"Valor in Deed, Not in Dream."

He had found it.

***

Inside, the Association buzzed like a hive. A great central hall opened before him, its walls lined with boards covered in parchment notices—quests, missing persons, escort requests, monster sightings, medicinal herb gathering, even help for lost cats.

A circular counter stood at the center, with clerks managing lines of aspiring adventurers, shouting names and calling for form submissions. Behind them, rows of shelves filled with documents, enchanted crystals for verification, and orb-lights suspended by brass arms.

Alaric stepped forward, approached a clerk with tied-back auburn hair and sharp eyes.

"New registration?"

She asked, barely glancing up.

He nodded.

She handed him a worn pamphlet and gestured to a bench.

"Read that. When you're done, I'll process your preliminary ID."

---

Excerpt from the Adventurer's Pamphlet – "So You Want to Be an Adventurer?"

Becoming an adventurer is not a romantic choice. It is not for thrill-seekers or glory chasers. It is a calling of iron will, sharp mind, and unshakable spirit.

To qualify as a novice adventurer, one must complete 30 minor requests, ranging from delivering packages to locating lost items, assisting merchants, helping farmers, and working guard shifts.

These are not mere errands. They test one's persistence, patience, reliability, and awareness.

Why? Because in the wild, it isn't just your life at risk. You will be part of a party, a team whose survival depends on your resolve.

A half-hearted adventurer becomes a liability. In moments of true peril, those who have not faced hardship crumble, dragging others with them.

After the 30 tasks are completed, each requestor gives a review.

If the reviews are positive and show proof of good conduct, the Association grants formal adventurer status and issues a [Greade-F] Adventurer's Token.

If not—if too many reviews are poor or inconsistent—you must begin again.

Because the world outside the city walls does not offer second chances.

The Association does.

---

Alaric closed the pamphlet slowly, golden eyes unreadable beneath his hood.

He thought back to Morga. The burning of Branmere. The helplessness of the villagers. The weight of his choices that night.

Yes, he thought. They're right to make it this way.

"Are you ready?"

The clerk asked.

Alaric stepped forward and gave a small nod.

"I am."

The clerk gave him a long, unreadable look, as if measuring something more than his height or his age. Her eyes flicked to the small crystal orb embedded into the counter. She tapped it once, and it glowed faintly in response.

"Name?"

She asked.

"Alaric Aurelian."

He answered.

The orb pulsed once—recording, binding.

A thin slip of parchment rose from the counter's mechanism, lines etching themselves across it in glowing ink.

"Place your hand on the seal."

She instructed, rotating the parchment so the waxy blue rune at the bottom faced him.

Alaric did so. It was warm—then cold—then warm again, as though the paper itself was breathing.

"Good,"

She said, watching the rune accept his mana signature.

"That registers your intent and your identity. The city has strict guidelines on who gets to swing swords in its name."

From beneath the counter, she retrieved a small iron tag on a leather cord. It was simple, but firm—etched with his name and the title: Initiate Applicant.

She handed it to him.

"This is your provisional ID. Don't lose it, and don't damage it. You'll use this to take on tasks and track your progress."

She then leaned forward, lowering her voice slightly.

"You'll find the missions posted on the green board—far wall, right side. Don't touch anything tagged in blue, red, or black. You're not cleared for those, and trust me, the magic will know."

Alaric nodded once.

And with that, he turned, his robe trailing behind him as he stepped toward the mission boards—toward the first thread of the path he had chosen to walk.

The scent of parchment and old stone filled his nose.

He didn't need glory.

He didn't crave titles.

But to help… to grow… to prepare…

That, he would pursue with everything he had.

***

The green board loomed at the far end of the hall, half-swallowed in shadows cast by the arching beams above. A faint hum of enchantment buzzed across the parchment-studded surface—wards meant to preserve, protect, and prevent tampering.

Alaric stepped closer, weaving through others gathered around. He passed a tall woman with a longspear slung across her back and a dwarf muttering to himself while scribbling notes.

No one spared him more than a glance. As the clerk had said, appearance meant little here.

The notices were varied in style—some written with elegant penmanship, others scrawled in haste.

Each bore a color seal denoting its danger level: green for minor tasks, blue for standard adventuring contracts, red for high-risk ventures, and black for restricted missions requiring special clearance.

Alaric's gaze drifted over:

[Courier needed: Parcel to west gate.]

[Elder missing cat again. Respond quickly.]

[Need help rearranging crates at market stall—injured back.]

[Street cleaning assistance required: Sector 7 drainage path.]

He paused at the last one.

Simple. Thankless. Likely dirty and ignored by most.

But the description was clear:

[Supervisor: Foreman Darnel. Meet by the drainage canal entrance, Bronzeforge District. Broom and tools provided. Duration: until sundown or completion. Review will be submitted to Association.]

It was mundane. Menial.

And that made it perfect.

He gently pressed his tag against the notice. A faint pulse of magic triggered as the mission bound itself to his ID.

The parchment curled in on itself and vanished in a small flash of light—already routed to the records.

***

Bronzeforge District – Drainage Canal Path, Sector 7

The sun had risen higher, but the Bronzeforge alleys ran cooler, lined with stone gutters and winding canals. The air smelled of smoke, metal, and the sour tang of stagnant water.

Alaric stood at the edge of a mossy slope that led down to the lower walkways of Sector 7. Old barrels, broken crates, and sodden leaves choked the narrow channels between cobblestones.

Waiting there was an older man—bald as the sky above, with a long grizzled beard and a mustache that curled like dried vines. His arms were folded, and a mop leaned against his shoulder like a weapon of war.

He spotted Alaric approaching.

"You the one from the Association?"

"I am."

The man gave a skeptical once-over.

"You're... what, Six?"

Alaric said nothing.

The old man narrowed his eyes. Then, suddenly, he barked a dry laugh.

"Hah! Don't matter, I guess. World's got weird little monsters hiding in pretty shells and children throwing lightning bolts from their eyes."

He jabbed the broom handle toward the gutter.

"You don't run, you don't complain, and you clean proper—then we'll get along."

"I'll do it right,"

Alaric said simply.

The old man—Foreman Darnel—grunted in reply and handed over a bundle: a ragged apron, a wide straw broom, and a pair of tongs for grabbing refuse.

"Start on the north lane. Work your way down. Trash goes in the barrel. Broken stones in the corner. Water grates—clean but don't stick your damn hand in. Got that?"

Alaric nodded, pulling the apron over his robe. The broom was nearly taller than him, but he didn't flinch.

As he turned to begin, Darnel spoke again—quieter this time.

"City's a living thing, kid. It remembers who tends its wounds."

Alaric looked back.

"So do I,"

He replied.

Then he got to work.

***

Verdeloth – Sector 7 Drainage Canal, Late Afternoon

The sound of Foreman Darnel's boots faded into the distance, replaced by the quiet trickle of water through the narrow, stone-etched grooves.

Alaric stood still for a moment, the faint creak of his broom handle in his hand grounding him in the silence that followed.

Then, he descended into the half-shadowed underpath of the sewer canal.

As his boots touched the damp, moss-streaked stone below, a heavy, cloying stench hit him like a wall—rot, mold, something long-dead and left to fester in the bowels of the city.

The scent was so thick it felt almost solid, like a fog that clawed its way into his throat and lungs.

He gagged reflexively, staggering back half a step.

But then—like a ripple through still water—something stirred in his chest.

The Divine Heart Core

It pulsed once, warm and silent. And from that still center of his being, divine energy flowed outward—like liquid light through unseen veins.

It surged gently into his nostrils, across his tongue, behind his eyes. The world sharpened.

And suddenly, the rot was gone.

The air around him no longer reeked of waste and decay. It was fresh—cool, light, even faintly floral, like the wind that passed through sunlit meadows.

His body relaxed without realizing it, the tension in his shoulders melting as clarity settled over him.

Alaric blinked slowly, golden eyes glowing faintly beneath the shadow of his hood.

"What… was that?"

He murmured, voice low and awed.

The energy was still there—coiled within him like a living flame, calm but responsive.

He closed his eyes and focused on that moment. The sensation of the divine energy purifying the air—its path, its purpose, the silent command it had followed without hesitation.

He didn't chant. He didn't invoke a spell circle. It had responded to his intent alone.

A whisper of will.

So he tried again.

He raised his small hand and breathed in slowly. Purify, he willed—not as a word, but a feeling.

And the light answered.

From his palm, a soft golden-white glow bloomed—like dawn rising within a crystal. It was quiet, reverent, not blinding but sacred.

The kind of light that chased away rot not with heat or violence, but with dignity. It crept along the walls, curling around each splotch of moss, each trail of grime and filth, dissolving them into motes of dust that shimmered as they vanished.

The air shifted. The walls themselves seemed to brighten.

Alaric's eyes lit with wonder. The corners of his lips curved into a small smile—genuine, delighted.

"So I can do this…"

With childlike eagerness, he summoned more. His Divine Energy surged from the core, pulsing to his chest, arms, fingertips.

It flooded the air around him, cascading in radiant waves of purifying light.

The sewer no longer felt like a damp, forgotten corridor beneath the city.

It became a cathedral of light, a place sanctified by his presence alone.

The deeper he walked, the more the glow followed him, spilling over stone and water. Every speck of rot evaporated.

Even the scuttling of rats ceased as if the very vermin were stunned or repelled by the overwhelming sacred force.

The entire section of Sector 7 shimmered under a warm, mythical radiance.

Had anyone walked past the grates above, they might have glimpsed it—the golden-white glow dancing like sunlight beneath their feet. But at that time of day, the alleys were still, and no soul wandered near.

It was his alone.

And in that light, for a brief moment, Alaric didn't feel like a child playing adventurer.

He felt like what he was—a being touched by divinity, quietly reshaping the world in his own way.

The light continued to ripple gently, undulating like a calm ocean under moonlight.

And then he lowered his hand, the energy settling like a sigh across the stone.

The task was complete.

Not with brooms or buckets.

But with will.

With faith made manifest.

And in the quiet aftermath, standing alone in the newly purified corridor, Alaric whispered—

"This… might not be so bad."

*****

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶

✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧

⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

*****

Verdeloth – Sector 7 Drainage Post, Late Afternoon

Foreman Darnel leaned back in his creaking chair, the worn wooden frame groaning beneath his weight as he propped a boot on the edge of the desk.

The smell of pipe smoke still lingered faintly in the air from earlier, mingling with the musky scent of old stone and damp parchment. In his hand, he idly rolled a chipped mug of lukewarm tea.

His eyes drifted toward the shadowed path where the tiny figure had just vanished—hooded robe too large, sleeves fluttering like a child playing dress-up in a priest's garments.

"Tch"

He scoffed quietly.

A kid. Barely five or six by the look of him. Too quiet. Too composed. His eyes didn't fit that small body—calm, clear… and ancient.

Darnel squinted and tapped the edge of his mug.

"Either that's a child, or a monster in a child's skin."

If he was a kid, he was in for a rough day. Cleaning these old sewers wasn't for the faint-hearted—hell, even seasoned adventurers groaned about the stench.

The thought of those tiny boots sloshing through filth made him snort.

"Hah. Let's see how long he lasts."

He let his eyes drift shut and settled deeper into his chair. The minutes passed slowly in the comforting silence of routine. Until—

Tap. Tap.

Tiny footsteps. The door creaked open.

Alaric stood before him, his robe slightly damp at the hem, his golden eyes unblinking beneath the shadow of his hood.

"I've completed the task,"

He said softly.

Darnel stared at him.

Then blinked once.

And burst into a lazy snort of disbelief.

"Yeah, yeah. Sure you did."

He waved a hand without even rising.

"I'll give it a look and file the report to the Adventurers' Association."

The boy said nothing. Just nodded once, turned, and walked away.

Darnel sighed dramatically and hauled himself out of his chair, muttering curses under his breath.

"Damn nobles sendin' us their brats. Probably ran away halfway and now expects a gold star."

Still grumbling, he stomped toward the sewer entrance. He wasn't expecting much—maybe a few half-hearted scrubs, maybe nothing at all.

Either way, he had to walk in, give it a look, and jot down something so the Guild could wipe their hands of it.

He approached the old drainage gate—and stopped.

His brow furrowed.

The iron bars, once streaked with rust and grime, gleamed faintly in the late sun. The surrounding stone, once blackened with algae and the scum of years, now bore a gentle sheen. It looked… not just clean, but restored.

As if it had been scrubbed down with enchanted tools—or time had reversed.

He bent down, brushing his fingers against the stone.

No slime. No muck. Just smooth, dry surface.

A flicker of wariness darted through him, and he shook it off with a grunt.

"Hmph. Lucky guess. Maybe the kid's got decent tools."

He stepped inside.

And froze.

Gone was the usual throat-burning stench of rot and stagnant water. In its place was a cool, refreshing breeze—barely there, like the whisper of wind through a sunlit grove.

The faintest hint of wildflowers tickled his senses—honeysuckle, maybe. Something light and natural. Not magical. Not artificial.

Real.

The walls glowed faintly—not with light, but with cleanliness, like stone that remembered sunlight.

Darnel blinked again, mouth slightly ajar. His boots echoed on dry, gleaming pathways that shimmered with residual dew. And then he noticed it—

A pulse.

A subtle, ever-so-faint glimmer beneath the flow of water running through the canal. Not enough to call it Spirit Water.

But there was mana in the stream. Trace amounts. Natural mana drawn in and refined, lingering like the scent of incense in a temple long after the fire has gone out.

He felt the hairs on his arms rise.

This wasn't just cleaning.

It was purification.

His breath caught for a beat.

And then he laughed.

At first, just a soft chuckle. Then louder—shoulders shaking as he staggered slightly, holding the edge of the wall for balance.

"Hah… HAHAH! What in all the burning hells…"

He ran a hand down his face, dragging away the disbelief. And under his breath, voice low and gravelly, he murmured:

"This… this is gonna get real interesting."

With a final glance over the gleaming canal, he turned and made his way back up the passage—footsteps light, almost giddy.

He had a report to write.

And this time, he wouldn't be writing a dismissal.

No.

This time, he'd be writing about a miracle.

***

Verdeloth City – Adventurers' Association Guildhall, the same day

The sky was pale with early light as Alaric stepped once more through the arched stone entrance of the Adventurers' Association.

The building hummed with familiar life—the shuffle of boots on stone, the clink of armor, hushed voices over parchment and missions.

Behind the front desk, the same clerk from his first day looked up from a stack of quest forms, her face still framed by that air of practiced detachment.

She didn't speak.

She didn't need to.

Alaric approached with quiet confidence, extending his wooden trainee badge. The woman took it, glanced over the mission board behind her, and handed him a slip of paper.

"Delivery request. Merchant shop to alchemist, district two,"

She said flatly, stamping the form.

"Return here once complete."

Alaric dipped his head in thanks, his golden eyes calm.

He left the guildhall behind, merging into the morning bustle of Verdeloth's inner ring. Horse-drawn carts rattled past cobbled streets, banners fluttered from rooftops, and the smell of warm bread and morning dew filled the air.

The merchant shop wasn't far—a cozy establishment tucked between an herbalist's and a scroll seller, its carved wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze.

The bell above the door jingled as Alaric entered.

A middle-aged receptionist glanced up from the counter. Her eyes landed on the boy, flicked to the badge in his hand—and widened for just a moment.

That flicker of surprise passed quickly, replaced by cool efficiency. She nodded, ducked into the back, and returned with a small, rectangular box sealed with wax and cloth string.

No words passed between them.

Alaric accepted it with both hands, cradling it carefully.

He stepped out, and once out of sight of the shop, gently exhaled.

His hand pressed lightly against his chest, right above where The Divine Heart Core pulsed faintly beneath his ribs. Willing the energy to respond, he whispered to himself.

"Buff: Light. Aura Suppression."

Golden-white light shimmered faintly around him—brief, radiant, beautiful—but then dimmed, folding inward as if veiled.

His divine aura, so bright and difficult to contain before, obeyed his will this time, curling close to his skin, hidden beneath his presence like sunlight behind clouds.

A soft smile touched his lips.

"So it can be controlled…"

He thought, feeling something warm stir inside his chest.

A new step in understanding. A deeper bond with the power within.

Then, with barely a sound, Alaric vanished into motion—his figure a quiet blur down the streets, wind brushing through his golden hair as he ran. Passersby barely registered the breeze that followed in his wake.

The delivery went smoothly.

A simple knock, an exchange, a thank-you from a distracted alchemist's assistant.

He returned to the inn by dusk, the quiet comfort of routine settling over him like a blanket.

The small rented room greeted him with silence—the scent of worn wood and drying herbs, the scratchy linens of a bed that had slowly become familiar. He changed clothes, washed up, and settled beneath the sheets.

Not a word was spoken that night. But in the quiet of his room, Alaric smiled softly to himself.

He had learned. He had grown. And tomorrow, something awaited.

***

Fifteen Days Later – Guildhall Courtyard, Midday

The courtyard of the Adventurers' Association bustled with activity. A small group had gathered—trainees lined in a neat row, their faces a mix of exhaustion, excitement, and relief.

Alaric stood among them, dressed simply in a clean tunic and his usual robe, golden eyes glinting in the sun.

The clerk from the front desk now stood behind a wooden podium. A box of polished iron-tier badges sat beside her—each one a small but powerful symbol of acceptance.

"Thirty tasks completed,"

She declared.

"All verified, all recorded."

She didn't smile, but her tone had lost its indifference.

One by one, she called names, handing out the badges.

When she reached Alaric, she paused—just a breath—and then extended the small iron emblem to him.

"Alaric Aurelian. Official Adventurer. Welcome."

He accepted it silently, his small hand closing around the cool metal.

It was weightless, and yet heavy with meaning.

Thirty odd jobs. Crates lifted, errands run, books copied, streets swept, deliveries made. Menial. Mundane. But not without purpose.

They had taught him the rhythm of the city, the pulse of the people, and—most importantly—they had allowed him to grow, slowly and in peace.

He pinned the badge beneath his robe, just over his heart.

As the group dispersed and congratulations were shared in soft murmurs and claps, Alaric stood still for a moment longer, the breeze tugging gently at the hem of his cloak.

A new chapter was about to begin.

But for now… he allowed himself the quiet satisfaction of progress.

-To Be Continued