Among the Guilded
The sun had not yet risen above the walls of Oria when Koda arrived at the Shield Guild's forward station.
It was a low, broad building of reinforced stone tucked just inside the city's middle ring—more a bunker than a guild hall, with layered steel doors and arrow slits instead of windows. A large sigil of the twin-bladed shield had been hammered into the wall above the entrance, burnished so many times it gleamed silver in the faint dawn haze.
Inside, the scent of old sweat, oiled leather, and brewed tonic clung thick in the air. Not unpleasant—just lived-in. Well-used.
The hall was already moving. Hunters in partial armor tightened straps, checked satchels, sorted potion kits into worn pouches. Most of them didn't notice him. One or two gave him cursory glances, the way one might clock a stray dog lingering too close to a food line.
But the five waiting by the side door—the ones who did notice—would be his team.
The first to speak was a woman in mottled grays and green, crouched low beside a rack of shortbows. She had a scarf wrapped tight around her lower face, and a single braid of copper hair hung from beneath her hood, streaked with ash at the tips. Her movements were fluid, barely making a sound even as she stood.
"Fresh blood," she murmured, her eyes assessing. "You're early."
Koda nodded once. "So are you."
She smirked behind the cloth. "Good. You've got a spine, at least." She tapped the bow at her side. "Name's Renn. Scout class. Eyes first, arrows second."
Renn's gear was light—soft boots, dark leathers, and a half-length cloak clipped at her shoulder with a small iron sigil. A gift of the Shield, no doubt. Her bow, though modest in appearance, bore the fine etching of runework across its spine—likely enchanted for range or silence. Possibly both.
Next came a tower of a man—nearly two heads taller than Koda—who stepped forward in iron-layered plate. His chest piece bore the full crest of the Divine Shield, but it was the scars on his gauntlets that spoke louder: worn grooves, knuckle dents, claw scrapes and all. This was a man who blocked blows most would dodge.
"Grent," he said simply, voice a low grind of gravel. "Tanker."
His helmet rested under one arm, revealing a broad, weathered face and a shaved head patterned with old burn marks. He didn't offer a handshake—just a slow nod of acknowledgment.
Behind him stood a thin man, older than the others, his robes dyed a deep ink-black lined with soft violet trim. He wore spectacles chained to a clip at his collar, and he studied Koda like one might a curious footnote in a field report.
"Erilan," he said, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. "Control magic and combat records. I keep us from being torn to shreds by packs twice our number. Usually."
His fingers glowed faintly with spell-ink that shimmered with his pulse. On his belt were scroll tubes and a glyph-bound slate—tools of a trained librarian, an auxiliary mage whose power came from prepared incantations and battlefield tactics. His was a mind meant for order in the chaos of combat.
The fourth member stood quietly at the back of the group.
She was younger than the others, no older than Koda. Her robes bore the pale white and jade of the Holy Mother's church, and a small incense burer swayed at her hip, unlit for now. Her dark hair was braided in a ceremonial style, and her expression was cautious—but not unkind.
"I'm Lumia," she said softly. "I'll be watching your health, so… try not to be a hero."
Koda offered her a short smile. "No promises."
Her cheeks colored slightly, but she nodded.
That left him. The stranger. The variable. He stood a half-step behind the group, dressed in the basic leathers the guild had issued and his orphanage tunic repurposed beneath it. No church colors. No official guild brand. But he was armed. Present. Clearly awakened.
Which guild are you out of?" Erilan asked, mildly.
Renn was already squinting at him. "That weapon. You summoned it, didn't you?"
Koda nodded once.
Grent's brow rose slightly. "Forger's mark, then?"
Koda didn't correct them.
Let them think what they wanted. It was safer that way.
"Fine," said Renn, rolling a shoulder. "As long as you keep pace and hold your line, I don't care if you're blessed by the moon itself."
Erilan raised a single, skeptical brow. "Just don't die. Paperwork gets annoying."
Grent grunted his agreement.
Lumia simply smiled.
And then the doors opened, and the team stepped into the waking light, Koda with them.
Together, they walked toward the gate—and the wild beyond it.
They followed the North Trade Path for over an hour before the first real silence settled between them.
It was the kind of quiet that came not from unease, but from practiced routine—each step measured, each breath tuned to the rhythm of movement and alertness. The frost on the grass had long since melted into a pale shimmer, and the shadows of the wall had stretched into the sparse trees beyond the city's edge.
Koda found himself a step behind Grent, whose heavy footfalls crushed dry twigs with a sound like bones splintering. Lumia kept near the rear, soft and watchful, occasionally casting glances at the treeline as if expecting the air itself to tremble with danger.
Renn moved like a whisper ahead of them all, bow in hand but not yet drawn, her eyes sharp and distant.
"So," she called over her shoulder, voice low but teasing, "new blood—what level are you sitting at?"
Koda hesitated.
Grent didn't look back. "Don't ask questions you won't answer yourself."
"Oh, please," Erilan muttered, barely glancing up from the floating glyph chart beside him. "We're a field team, not a dinner party. Full disclosure saves lives."
"I'm ten," Renn said casually. "Three years in. And before you ask—yes, I shoot fast enough to earn it."
Grent gave a grunt that might've been approval.
"I'm twelve," Erilan said, pushing his glasses up. "Before you ask, no—I don't swing a sword. I think fast enough to earn it."
Lumia gave a shy smile. "I'm only six. But I've been healing since before I awakened, since I was ten."
Then eyes turned to Koda.
He shrugged once, quiet. "Three."
Erilan raised a brow.
"You're either very confident," the mage said dryly, "or very lucky."
"We'll see which," muttered Grent.
A bird called overhead—shrill and sudden—and the team froze mid-step.
Renn's hand lifted in a sharp gesture. "Movement. Left ridge. Something small."
Koda's fingers brushed against the hilt of his will-formed blade, not yet summoned, just ready. The wind shifted—and with it came a smell.
Rot. Wet fur. Blood-slick iron and old, moldy bone.
A slithering rustle in the brush ahead became a low, gurgling hiss.
Then it emerged.
The kobold was unlike anything Koda had expected.
It wasn't the scaly, impish thing described in books or in whispered tavern tales. It was taller—at least five feet—with warped limbs that bent unnaturally as it crouched, fingers ending in split, bony claws that twitched with frantic hunger. Its hide was mottled with patches of wiry fur and gray scale, the skin beneath torn in places like old leather left too long in the sun.
Its mouth—if it could be called that—was stretched impossibly wide, filled with rows of teeth too many for the jaw to contain, several snapped off at the base. A frothing film coated its tongue, black and bubbling, and its yellow eyes rolled erratically in their sockets, one drooping almost out of place.
From its neck dangled a cord of old bones and cloth scraps—likely trophies from some prior scavenged kill. Its ribcage heaved with each breath, and the gurgle that came from its throat sounded almost like… laughter.
"What the hell…" Koda whispered.
"A runt," Renn muttered, drawing her bow but not loosing. "Sick one. Still dangerous if desperate."
"It's rabid," Erilan added. "Magic rot in the lungs. Probably cut loose from a failed warband."
Koda stepped forward instinctively, but Grent's arm blocked him like a wall.
"Don't move. Let's see who it wants."
The kobold sniffed. Its head jerked in spasms. And then it charged.
It came fast—unnaturally so, bounding low and wide like a spider—but its claws made too much noise in the brush, and Renn's arrow struck true, punching into its thigh with a wet crunch.
It stumbled, screeched—and Koda moved.
He summoned the Blade of Conviction mid-stride, the weapon forming in a shimmer of silver and black light. The moment it finished shaping, he slashed upward—catching the creature across its midsection.
The blade sank deep. Too deep.
It screamed in something between a hiss and a choking bark, blackened blood spurting across Koda's forearm. The kobold staggered, swiped blindly, and caught Koda's shoulder with its claws—a burning rake of pain that tore the leather clean open.
Grent moved past him in a blur.
The tank's shield came down like a hammer, crunching against the kobold's head and pinning it to the earth. There was no elegance in the final blow—just weight, and steel, and a final crack that silenced the creature's cries.
Stillness.
The marsh birds scattered overhead.
Koda winced, clutching his shoulder.
Lumia was already moving, hands glowing with the soft pale light of the Holy Mother's mercy. She pressed her palm to the wound gently.
"This wasn't hunting," Erilan murmured, checking the corpse. "It was dying already."
"Desperate things fight hardest," Grent grunted. "And he'll need stitches. That hit deep."
Koda didn't speak. Not at first.
The stink of the creature still lingered in his nose, acrid and hot. His fingers still trembled from the blade's impact. But there was a calm, too—underneath it. A rising certainty.
He hadn't died.
And next time, he'd be faster.
As Lumia finished sealing the gash in his shoulder, Koda let out a slow, shuddering breath. The light faded from her fingertips, leaving behind a faint warmth beneath his skin and the memory of pain fading like a retreating tide.
"You'll bruise," she said softly, "but it won't tear again."
Koda nodded his thanks but didn't respond aloud. His ears were ringing.
Not from the blow. From something deeper.
The moment the kobold's body went still… something inside him had stirred.
Like a breath being drawn in a place where no lungs should be.
Ding.
A pale ripple of gold—subtle and quiet—danced across his vision.
[You have gained a level]
Current Level: 4
All attributes +1.
Balance had distributed his points evenly.
HP, Mana, and Stamina increased.
He blinked, keeping his eyes on the dirt to avoid drawing attention.
It hadn't been his kill alone. Grent had landed the final blow. Renn had injured it first. Yet still… he'd earned full experience.
Not shared. Not halved.
Full.
It shouldn't have been possible.
But then again, his path was not theirs.
Not tied to mana. Not tied to spell or even sword, he remembered the words whispered in the Grove. Traces of divinity. Purpose given shape.
The Order had called it rare.
Koda was beginning to understand why.
His fingers twitched slightly, the memory of his summoned blade still echoing in the tendons of his hand.
He brought up his status window quietly, the flicker of translucent light hidden by his crouched posture.
⸻
Koda of the Eternal Guide
Level: 4
HP: 67 / 80
Mana: 75 / 80
Stamina: 70 / 80
Stats:
Strength: 8
Vitality: 8
Agility: 8
Intelligence: 8
Wisdom: 8
Endurance: 8
Traits:
Balance (Divine) – All stat increases apply equally to all attributes. Harmony is growth.
Skills:
Blade of Conviction – Active
Summon a weapon forged of pure will. The more clarity and purpose you hold, the stronger the blade. Willpower and Wisdom affect damage.
⸻
Eighty in each core reserve. Eight across every stat. Just three weeks ago, he'd barely stood above an unawakened civilian.
And now?
He stood quietly among four battle-tested guilders, wounded but alive, hands still trembling, and yet rising—slowly but surely—through something none of them could see.
He looked up just as Grent turned his way.
"Not bad for a rookie," the tank muttered. "You didn't freeze. Took a hit and stayed in it."
Koda gave a tired nod.
"I'll do better next time."
Grent grunted. "You better."
As they resumed their patrol, Koda walked with a quiet smile behind his eyes.
Balance is growth. Purpose is power.
And he had both.