to follow Lewis's command. "But Al'dross is still just a Baron, one who has been out of favor for years."

"A Baron who can intimidate a Colonel of the Immortals," Avery mused in his velvet voice. "Your contingency may fail as well."

Seth hated hearing those words, but he didn't glare at his advisor. "That will depend on you. Does Al'dross intimidate you as well?"

"He does." Avery brushed at his scarlet silks with long fingers. "And the Sergeant, as well. I couldn't Identify either, and both sensed my attempts."

Seth stiffened in his chair. "That's impossible!"

Avery Cordwain was an Agent, a Class with little combat potential, but one which was unmatched in the realms of infiltration and information gathering. What little following Seth had managed to claim for himself was directly related to Avery's Skills.

"If Bromden will not depose the Baron for us," Avery began.

"Watch your words." Seth shot out of his chair. "Are you trying to get us both arrested?"

That had not been a concern before. But now, in the face of Bromden's rebuke and that uncouth Sergeant's threats, Seth was very aware that there was no Royal safety net to catch him in this keep. Plans made in the comfort of his personal villa felt riskier now that they were being put into play.

"There's no reason to worry," Avery said mildly. "There are no spy holes in this room, nor are there listening enchantments. I almost think Al'dross has no Spymaster. Or if he does, the man's skills are frightening."

Seth didn't like hearing that word from Avery. "Al'dross doesn't hold me in high esteem. Perhaps he doesn't think it necessary to monitor my actions." The thought rankled but was more acceptable than the keep holding a man more at home in the dark than Avery.

"Perhaps," the Agent murmured, "it would be best to proceed cautiously

with any further plans. This place may not be as simple as we believed."

"Keep an eye on my sister," Seth said darkly. "If all else fails…"

"That was never a sound plan," Avery replied firmly. "Eliora's death will have your father dragging us all into a truth circle."

"Nonetheless, if her death could be laid at the Baron's feet, this territory would fall into my hands readily enough." It was all Seth dreamed of. He could never hold the Royal Class, and without a territory to lord over, the Noble Class brought little benefit. It was his aunt's visit that gave Seth a slim glimmer of hope.

Vanessa Al'dross was tolerated at court because the King still looked fondly on his younger sister. Her visit made it clear to Seth that she had no allies other than the King. Of course, she needed no others, and if the Al'dross had not been isolated, that support would have sufficed. Combined with a conversation Seth had overheard, where his father spoke of Lewis Al'dross as if he hated the man, Seth had seen his chance.

The King would welcome an Al'verren ruling over this territory. Seth could finally have the title he deserved. All he had to do was force Lewis Al'dross to commit an act that would justify his fall, a minor thing in the Al'verren capital. Here, in the presence of a man with the Right to Rule…

All of Seth's plans seemed farfetched now. Seth had brought the most problematic Nobles he could find with him to cause trouble in the city. He had thought Al'dross would hesitate to act against the younger Nobles he had invited, and that when Lewis did, their families would pressure him.

Counts and Earls would tremble before a hundred Immortals, but Colonel Bromden had been cowed by a single Sergeant! It was inconceivable, yet Seth had seen it with his own eyes. Seth suspected his "friends" would be in the city jails at the first sign of trouble.

Blaming Al'dross for Eliora's assassination? That was a pipedream, though one of Seth's favorites. He had wished his sister dead the moment he realized the king favored her over him. Her death would bring the Immortals

and the inquisitors in force. Those men wouldn't settle for an official story; they would have the truth. They would punish any who had even thought of harming the king's favorite. Seth would be no exception.

"Where does that leave us?" Seth ran his hands through his hair and tugged at the ends of his auburn locks.

"Patience," Avery said with a shrug. "You made your plans from three thousand miles away. They won't work. That doesn't mean there isn't one that will; we just have to find it. Easier to pluck a thread from a shirt you are wearing than one in your wardrobe.

"In the meantime, Al'dross is expecting you for dinner." Avery stretched his arms wide. "I suggest you apologize to him. Blame today on the stress of travel. Try to get on the man's good side. It doesn't help if he has his guard up around us."

At the mention of 'guard" Seth unconsciously began rubbing his shoulder. That soldier had nearly pulled Seth's arm from its socket when he grabbed hold. Seth would find a way to pay him back for that. Lewis Al'dross might be out of reach for now, but the Immortals would relish the chance to show up a common Corporal. Seeing the soldier beaten would calm Seth considerably, and it would take the lightest of prodding.

"What will you be doing while I'm making nice?" Seth asked, a hint of sullenness slipping into his tone.

"We need information." Avery smiled and walked to the door. "You show Al'dross how well behaved you can be, and I will find a knife you can slip into his back once you've gotten close."

Outside the guest chamber, Avery's crimson silks became the black and silver of an Al'dross servant. The disguise wasn't perfect, servants rarely wore silk, but with the right posture, a busy eye would drift past him. Avery's Class ensured that all but the wariest would see what was expected to see.

Avery had been blessed with an honest but plain face. Wearing a lost

expression and carrying a bundle of Seth's clothing, he looked like a new hire that was confused by the keep's layout as he began his search. He was careful not to overdo it. Show too much confusion, and someone might take pity and lead him to the laundry. The right amount of perplexed determination had the Guardsmen he passed making wagers on when he would stop and ask for directions.

Avery had been in service to Seth Al'verren for close to seven years now. He couldn't ask for a better master. Seth was conceited, overreaching, and blind to his own faults. He was also a Level 8 Scribe, planning to usurp the territory of a man married to the king's sister. Avery would not bother trying to further those plans.

He would, however, encourage them. Seth's conspiracies absorbed money like sand held water. It was easy for Avery to repurpose some of those funds for his own needs, and as long as Seth was fed a little flattery and a touch of truth, gold continued to flow.

Avery had begun his life on the streets of Al'verren's greatest city, the capital, so cleverly named after its rulers and their kingdom. The royal family stamped their name on every landmark they could. Were they worried their citizens would forget them if a reminder wasn't around every corner?

Avery certainly never forgot. Looking at the palace from the slums, he swore he would walk its halls one day. It had been a shorter road than he thought it would be. He had a talent for being overlooked, and he played it to the hilt.

While other urchins cut purses and picked pockets, often losing a hand for their troubles, Avery used his ears. He listened and filtered the information others never understood to be the true treasure. When Avery's hand dipped into a pocket, it was for a slip of paper rather than a coin.

He discovered where merchants and other rich men hid their valuables and sold those locations to thieves and local gangs. He told jealous wives where they could find their husbands when those men stayed out too late. He advised those same men when they should return home if they wanted to catch their wives, while the women were getting their revenge. It only paid a

coin or two in most cases, but he built a reputation, which was the point.

He came to the attention of Seth Al'verren when the man, who styled himself a prince, invested with a group of smugglers who were supplying a rebellion. Avery had almost let the opportunity pass him by. He wanted to walk in the palace, but he had no love of Royals. It would have been amusing to see Seth drawn and quartered for funding his father's enemies.

He had warned Seth, though. He brought the Noble proof and asked for no reward. He had to do that twice more before Seth took Avery on as his servant. Seth was nothing if not consistent. The man never saw a lame horse without betting on it. He was exactly the type of lord Avery had been looking for.

At least that was true at the time. Avery was tired of pulling Seth out of messes. He had ambitions of his own, and while Seth wanted the land that was a Noble's birthright, Avery merely wanted the title. Minor Nobility could be gained through service or marriage. Once the Class filled the second slot in his Status, Avery could acquire land the same way he earned everything else. Deception and hard work went together better than people wanted to acknowledge.

This latest debacle of Seth's was Avery's dream. Lewis Al'dross was a generous lord with two unmarried daughters. The man who could warn Al'dross of a plot inside his own house could expect ample rewards. Knighthood wasn't Avery's ideal path, but he'd take it, and if the Baron offered him a small town where he could live as mayor? Avery had mastered the art of bending the knee while looking sincere.

There was still Eliora to consider, as well. Eliora Al'verren was smarter than her brother but just as sheltered. In some ways, she was more vulnerable. She thought herself canny with her Assassin and Shadow Mage Classes. To Avery she was an open book, one he could read but never put on the shelf.

It was Eliora that Avery found while looking for a noose to slip around Seth's neck. Dressed in black leather armor, a black Cloak covering her silver hair, the girl was making her way through the keep, quite obviously not

heading towards the dining hall.

Curious, Avery tucked his bundle into the Storage device on his wrist and followed behind her. His silks changed to more common greens and browns, and by the time he left the keep at a discreet distance from Eliora, he looked more like a laborer than a noble's servant.

He didn't add any of the necessary accouterments to complete this facade, as the person he was hiding from never looked back once. Eliora, despite her Assassin's black, never once considered that she might be followed. Everyone who might be interested in doing so should be occupied with their meal at this time.

Avery followed Eliora to the local Guildhall and watched as she paid the silver for a Guild Token. As Eliora cradled the wooden disk like it was a precious treasure, Avery's lips split into a smile. The girl had come to this distant city with plans of her own, and now the Agent was confident he knew what they were.

Chapter Eleven A young Elwire tree was just as sought after as the more mature variety.

Perhaps more so. After a few years of growth, an Elwire couldn't be felled until after it died. The young trees yielded to axe blades, and while the amount of wood produced was only suitable for crafting small trinkets and weapons, that was enough to make men rich. Weapons carved from Elwire wood were as hard and sharp as steel but lightweight and easily enchanted.

Trent was in a Craftsman's dream. His furtive wandering had brought him to a grove of Elwire too young to resist Strife's blade. If it had been a real dream, a sleeping Craftsman would have viewed it as a nightmare, seeing an amateur chipping away at bounty meant for experienced hands.

Trent had had to look up the tree in a Fairy's Garden to discover its use. He might not have done that if the razor-sharp leaves hadn't cut into the shoulder of his mail when he brushed up against them. He'd thought the grove, which was approximately a hundred square feet, a Safe Zone, given the way the Wererats circled it but didn't enter. Now, he understood that the Trial Beasts avoided the grove because any careless movement resulted in serious injury.

Even a young Elwire was resilient. The half-blade of Trent's knife cut and absorbed the hard wood, but, because he could not make much noise without drawing attention, it took Trent an hour to fall a single six-foot sapling. He chipped and sawed more than he hacked and often stopped to listen for approaching footsteps.

Stripping the small tree of branches and leaves took nearly as long. Once he had a straight staff, he stored the wood, collected the trimmed branches, and, switching knives, started on another. Cutting through a single Elwire only restored a small percentage of Sorrow and Strife, but there were dozens of trees. By the time Trent was ready to begin his project, ten Elwires occupied his Storage, and his knives had grown from half an inch to nearly two inches long.

With a six-foot length resting on his knees, Trent envisioned the spears he had seen Guardsmen train with. Along with the image came a feeling of disquiet. He had never trained with a spear, and, like other times when he considered doing something unnecessary, he could hear Sergeant Cullen telling him to think carefully.

Actually, the booming words in his head told him not to be stupid. They said to concentrate on what he knew and not go pissing about inventing trouble. Was Trent a Spearman now? Had he become a Weapons Master while turning cartwheels on the road to Bellrise? Maybe he should pull his head out of his ass and remember that his sword techniques were better developed than all his other Skills!

The blade that formed under his knife was thin and three feet long. Single-edged with a slight curve, it resembled an Al'rashian longsword without a crossguard and lacked the comforting weight of a metal blade. A test with his thumb told him the edge was dull, and Appraisal confirmed this. Trent had created a training sword with a Damage Rating of 1.

He produced a vial of Liquid Silver with the intent of coating the wooden blade but pulled back. This was wasteful! How much damage could a training blade do even when covered in corrosive poison? He should carve all the wood away and try to restore his knives.

The Dog sleeping beside him woke up and yawned. Brown eyes blinked up at Trent, and a black tail began to sweep the ground. Trent sighed and rubbed the back of the Dog's neck.

"What would you know? I had to try!" He muttered at the puppy, tossing the failed sword aside and setting his hands on his knees. "It wouldn't have been a waste of time if it had worked."

The Dog yawned at him again and nudged his hand. Its nose pushed against the red jewel set in the knuckle of his glove. Brown eyes questioned him silently.

"You think I should see what happens?" The Dog's head tilted and one of its ears perked up. "Fine, what do I have to lose? Besides one of the few

effective weapons I have."

Trent retrieved the wooden sword and opened the vial of Liquid Silver. He meticulously applied the poison to the blade, attempting to coat the entire length. The pores of the Elwire wood seemed to suck the Liquid Silver up. When Trent finished, he could see no noticeable difference in his homemade weapon.

"I told you," he rebuked the Dog. "I don't know what I was thinking, trusting you to…"

Trent was about to toss the useless blade in his hand aside again when it caught fire. Bright, flickering light filled the grove as a pure flame erupted. The heat of the flame would have been welcomed if it had not been so damning. Trent had counted at least three Wererats that patrolled the perimeter of the grove in irregular intervals. If one were doing its rounds now, there was no way they would miss the flare in Trent's hands.

"No, no, no!" Trent hissed. He waved the burning blade futilely, trying to cast the flame aside. He was about to attempt plunging the wood into the ground, when it occurred to him that he had a more practical solution. Fire Manipulation had been used to keep him warm in this Trial, but that was hardly its purpose.

Connecting with the flame using his Ability, Trent tried to put it out, to disperse it. Nothing happened. It was his first time working with a flame besides a campfire or that he had created with a charm, and though he could feel it, it didn't respond to his will.

He concentrated, wrapping the flame in his Mana. He could not put it out, but that wasn't something he had ever tried to do before. Most of his practice had been in controlling the intensity at which a fire burned or shone.

Trent pushed at the flame, not outwards but inwards. He begged it to dim its light, to burn softer, to withdraw into the wood. The fire responded, although not in the way Trent expected. All at once, the fire dove into the blade. There was a rush of wind, and the smell of fresh cinnamon and honeysuckle filled the air, refreshing, spicy, and sweet.

Trent let out a soft sigh of relief. The yellow wooden blade had turned ashen and felt even lighter than before. It was still a waste, but at least the fire was out, and his hiding place had not been exposed.

He looked down at the wide eyes of the Dog. "You shouldn't worry so much. I know what I'm doing."

The puppy might have disagreed with this statement, but Trent was spared its judgment. The Dog's attention went from Trent to the form that was rushing through the Elwire grove, ignoring the cuts it accumulated from the sharp leaves tearing through its skin. One Wererat had noticed Trent's experiment and had decided to object.

Trent came to his feet. His shield formed on his arm even as he realized Sorrow and Strife lay forgotten on the ground. His few remaining vials of Liquid Silver were locked away in Storage, and the only weapon at hand was the ashen branch in his hand.

He had only cleared a ten-foot section of the grove cutting down the Elwires, and unless he wanted his own skin torn to shreds running through the leaves, there was nowhere for him to move to. The Wererat's first blow knocked his shield aside, and a second set of claws slashed his mail, slicing his chest.

Trent swung the wooden blade in his hand instinctively. The sword slammed into the Wererat's paw as it drew back to strike at his throat. It screamed as its stubby fingers were cut away, and it jumped backward, hunching over.

The ash of Trent's blade fell away. Underneath, the yellow wood had turned black. Trent had carved the sword to have about a palm's width, but all that was left now was about two inches. Judging from the severed fingers on the forest floor and the blood that spurted from the Wererat's stumps, the edge of the blade was not dull anymore.

Trent followed up his first cut with a slash. Three bleeding wounds decorated his chest, and it was only fair the Wererat experienced that indignity itself. Blood flew as fur and hide parted. Twisting his wrist, Trent

cut into the paw that attempted to bat his blade aside, and when the Wererat stepped back, Trent thrust, piercing the Beast's heart and ending its life.

The corpse collapsed at his feet, and he wrenched his sword free to stare at the blade wonderingly. The puppy pounced forward and seized the Wererat's foot in its mouth, biting savagely and growling in victory.

Trent looked down at him. He had been thinking of the Dog as an it to keep his distance, but the pup was clearly male. Watching the Dog pulling at the corpse, Trent noticed that even with the Wererat dead, the Dog's teeth could not penetrate the Rat's hide.

"Stop that!" Trent said, pushing the Dog back with his foot. The pup dropped to his haunches and perked up both its ears. "You can't eat it."

The Dog's nose wrinkled, and it sneezed, expressing its disgust at the very idea. Trent shook his head. He had to stop interpreting the animal's random actions as attempts to communicate. The Dog wasn't as intelligent as the mare he had once ridden, after all.

Turning his attention back to his new sword, Trent Appraised the blade.

Imbued Elwire Longsword

Basic item/Average Quality

Damage Rating 20

Permeated with refined Liquid Silver from a Wolf Vine's petal, this blade will do 30 Damage to the Moon Cursed.

Trent whistled softly as he read the description. This accidental creation did more additional damage than any blade he had ever wielded. The Damage Rating alone was almost as good as the second form of Sorrow and Strife. When combined with the bonuses from Military Fencing and his mastery of Basic Longsword…as long as it didn't break…

Trent used the Elwire sword to Harvest the Wererat's Core. The blade parted the Beast's hide with hardly any effort. After he collected the drops,

Trent sat down and added three more teeth to his knife's length.

They restored less than one percent to the blades, but Trent no longer felt discouraged by the minuscule progress. His armor was broken now. Appraisal said the Wererat's claws had dropped its Defensive Rating to 2. It was a good thing he had a reliable means of defense in his new sword. He had a weapon, the resources to restore Sorrow and Strife and time, and all the time in the world!

He lost himself to carving new weapons out of the remaining nine Elwires he had already cut down. After whittling two short swords out of a single log, he received a welcome notification.

You have learned Weapons Crafting Level 1. You will now find it easier to craft simple weapons. 1 Dexterity. 1 Wisdom. 200 Experience

for learning Class related Skill.

Trent worked in a frenzy. He carved the remaining logs into various types of swords and knives, and when he ran out of wood, he collected more and continued. Weapons Crafting reached Level 3 and provided another point to his Dexterity, before he concluded that creating the same types of weapons repeatedly no longer raised the Skill.

Best of all, the wood that Sorrow and Strife had absorbed increased their restoration to eighty percent. He used two more complete Elwires to finish what he had started and Appraised the results. The axes, the first form, had their Damage Rating back at 15 and as knives, the soul-bound weapons were at 25 again. Seeing that he could channel his spells through the knife form, now that they were repaired, caused Trent to chuckle wickedly.

This sound caused the Dog, asleep tucked in beside his leg, to wake up and whine. Trent ruffled his ears absently as he considered the armory laid out in the grass. The original sword had not degraded yet, leaving Trent to hope the imbuing process had solved that issue.

If so, five more blades could be coated and turned into real weapons without the worry that he was wasting his resources. Even if the corrosive effect of the Liquid Silver was only delayed, putting them in Storage would

keep them sound until he needed them. Trent picked out two short swords and three longswords that he was happy with and stored the rest away.

Sorrow and Strife were settled on his hips as Trent stood and stretched, a vial of poison in one hand and a wooden short sword in the other. His movements disturbed the Dog, and he sat up and yipped. Trent frowned.

"We have a problem," he said, lifting his mask to peer at the animal with an uncovered face. "You're going to die here." The Dog's ears wilted.

"You have no pack and no way to hunt," Trent continued mercilessly. "The only way you will level up is to join my party, my pack."

Feeling a fool, Trent extended an invitation with his Leadership Skill. The Dog was an animal, not a Beast, certainly not a high-leveled intelligent Beast. It probably would not understand what was happening.

Trent felt a tug in his chest as the Dog accepted his invite. His hand went to his sternum, and he rubbed at his chest through the hole in his armor and shirt. He winced as his fingers flaked away the scab that had formed there. In his excitement, he had forgotten to take care of the wound. Checking his Status, he saw he was still down 30 HP. That shocked him enough that he disregarded the strange feeling that forming the party had caused. It had not been more than a scratch, and he lost 30 HP! Balm restored 3 HP per use, and Trent started casting as he considered his new party member.

With Tersa and Orion, Trent had been able to see their Levels and Health when he concentrated on the party link. He also had a vague sense of their position and Skills. With the Dog, all Trent got was that it - he - was a Level 1 animal with 30 HP. Trent's brow furrowed.

If the Dog had any Skills, Trent could not tell what they were, and yet, he had seen the animal take a hit as hard as the one he had taken. It should have killed the Dog, but he had walked away with a limp.

The Dog hopped and pranced around the feet of its new pack leader, oblivious to Trent's suspicions. The pup rubbed against Trent's legs and pulled at his pants. It wanted something from him.

"No, I'm not giving you a name." Trent met the Dog's expectant gaze. "That's not my place. I will call you Pup, but it is not a name. Do you understand?"

He squatted down and leaned over Pup to impress upon the Dog his seriousness. Pup placed his front paws on Trent's knees. He had to leap to deliver a lick of agreement.

Pushing the Dog away, Trent wiped his face and pulled his mask back on. He now had another reason not to take it off. The wound on his chest was healed, but he continued to apply pressure on the area it had been. He could still feel an ache there, not on the surface but beneath the muscle. He checked his Health pool and double-checked his Status, but his Health remained full. If he had been poisoned, the effects weren't apparent.

Enough! He had work to do. Telling Pup to stand back, Trent armed himself with a wooden short sword and took out a vial of Liquid Silver. The process was the same, and as the liquid burned and imbued the wood, a chittering call sounded through the woods, and a Wererat rushed for him.

"Time to level up, Pup!" Trent met the running Beast at the end of the clearing he had created. It dropped to all fours and lunged for him, but Trent stepped to the side and used Long Slash to remove a front limb and carve a bloody groove in the Beast's side. It fell to the ground with a wail.

Trent would have finished it off ,but his pyrotechnic performance had brought him two Wererats, the second following on the heels of the first. The second howled with its Paralyzing Skill, and Trent gritted his teeth as he felt his body start to seize up.

Pivoting, Trent angled his body and extended his arm in a thrust before the Skill could take hold completely. The charging Beast impaled itself through the throat on the tip of his short sword. Its Skill failed as life fled the Beast, and Trent was free to move again.

The first Wererat had recovered and lashed out at him with its remaining arm as he was turning. Using Parry, Trent struck the back of the Beast's claws, intent on forcing the Beast's arm out of position. The imbued short

sword was too effective for this maneuver, and Trent found himself removing half the Wererat's hand instead.

Teeth snapped in his face, and blood sprayed across his torso as the Beast came on undeterred. Elbowing the creature's jaw, Trent stepped back and delivered a backhanded swat. He brought the flat of his blade slamming into the Beast's eye, and there was a popping, sizzling sound as the weapon made contact. The Wererat reeled back, clutching at its ruined face. The imbued short sword only needed to touch to deliver the 30 extra damage it promised.

Basic Small Blades now Level 5. 1 Dexterity.

The notification came as Trent slit the throat of the Wererat, putting it out of its misery. That was one of the conditions of leveling his Survivalist Class, level 5 Basic Small Blades and 4000 XP. He was over 1000 XP short, but that was a small matter. At 100 experience apiece, the Wererats would provide what he needed soon.

A little longer, now that Trent was sharing the XP from his kills with a mooching Dog, but the Moonlit Forest was filled with Wererats. Trent could spare a bit for Pup. When he cut out the Cores and found Pup sitting up on his hind legs, his front paws curled against his chest, staring at one of the Cores and whining, Trent started to have second thoughts.

"You want this?" Trent held up the Core in question. Pup's eyes grew wider. "Sure, why not?"

The Core was almost as big as the Dog's head. Thinking the animal would get tired of the toy quickly, Trent tossed it to him. When Pup pounced and started licking the Core, Trent thought hunger had gotten to the animal. The Winter Wolves had said hunger sharpened the hunter, but they had not turned down a meat skewer. Was Trent going to have to feed this freeloading scavenger?

The Core dwindled beneath the Dog's tongue, and Trent's jaw dropped. When the Core disappeared, and Pup looked up with a burp, Trent almost dissolved the link connecting them. The Cores were the only decent loot this Trial provided. In the back of Trent's mind, he already saw himself trading

them for new clothing, armor, and supplies. It was unacceptable for the Dog to eat them.

Then Pup howled.

"Arooow!" It was a weak, pathetic sound that Tersa would have described as cute. However, Trent did not find him cute. He shivered as a Skill washed over him. As a party member, Trent was mostly protected from the effects, but his legs still stiffened briefly.

Pup had just learned the Were-Beast's Paralyzing Skill.

Chapter Twelve You have learned Sewing Level 1. You will now find it easier to

repair and create items made from cloth and leather. 1 Dexterity. 1 Wisdom.

The notification confirmed a suspicion that had lingered in the back of Trent's mind. Learning Skills manually provided an increase in Wisdom that Skill Stones did not. He would need to discover more Skills that could be acquired this way. His Mana regeneration was still abysmal, and only Wisdom could cure that.

Trent held up his shirt and examined it with a critical eye. It had been repaired by unskilled hands, and that was apparent. Sewing revealed all the things he had done wrong, which was basically everything. The stitch was too loose, the knot was on the wrong side, and he had used the incorrect knot at the beginning and end. All in all, the Mend charm would have done a better, cleaner job, but Mend did not provide increases to his Attributes.

Pulling his shirt back over his head and resettling his weapons belt and mail over it, Trent flexed his fingers. They felt cleverer, faster. His wrist was sure, and his arm steadied in a way that had nothing to do with Strength. Putting away his sewing kit, Trent snatched up the imbued Elwire short sword beside him and stood up.

His actions disturbed Pup half laying in his lap. The Dog would have settled between Trent's knees completely if Trent had not pushed the animal away. Pup was always sleeping, it seemed, much to Trent's envy.

As he tested his new Dexterity, working through the forms of Basic Small Blades and combining it with the footwork of Three Steps, Trent suppressed a yawn. Endurance allowed him to press on without sleep much longer than the average Adventurer of his Level, but there were limitations to all things. How long had it been since he had gotten more than a few minutes of rest snatched here and there?

The Moonlit Forest was almost worse than the Land of the Undying Lord in this regard. In the Survival Trial, at least Trent had Tersa or Orion to stand watch while he slept. Here, Trent only had Pup, and the Dog was next to useless as a guard. He took those moments when Trent's eyes were shut to curl up on the boy's lap and go to sleep himself.

Body warm and loose, Trent lowered his sword and shot a glare at Pup. The Dog was lying on its back, paws swatting at the air. Sensing Trent's gaze, Pup flipped to his feet and pounced forward to latch onto Trent's pant leg, shaking his head as he growled viciously. The Dog had reached Level 5 over the last few encounters, another fact which made Trent want to abandon the leach.

The Trial's clear conditions stated that killing 10 Wererats was necessary to achieve a simple clear. That description did not mention that any Wererats killed after 25 would no longer provide XP, but that was how it was. Trent could level his Skills using the Trial Beasts as sparring partners. His personal Level was stuck.

Killing two or three Wererats was easy for Trent now. Was he ready for Wolves yet? He thought that with traps and ambushes, his wooden blades would bring him victory, permitting him to avoid the flesh-melting howl of the greys.

But he had not come across another Wolf Vine, and he was out of Liquid Silver. If he ran into another black Werewolf unexpectedly, the creature would slaughter him. Trent was certain of that. The memory of the dark- furred Trial Beast showing up suddenly, where he had never seen one before, still caused Trent to shudder.

He had been putting off increasing a lesser Class in hopes of finally bringing Survivalist to Level 3, but Trent needed to be more capable now. Pulling up the Class section of his Status, Trent went over his options. There were plenty.

Swordsman would provide him with another Skill or 2 and 4 Attribute Points. Trent set that aside. A new Class, one with ranged attacks, would counter the howling of the Wolves, and that was what he needed.

He ignored the Basic Classes and looked through the Specialized ones. A Mage Class would give him what he wanted, so he concentrated on those. There were two, Charm Specialist and Fire Elementalist. Honestly, the Charm Specialist sang to his curiosity the most but, with a sigh, Trent began to funnel XP into Fire Elementalist. He had obvious advantages there, and it was time to use them.

It should have taken less than 1000 XP to choose the Specialized Class, and given the nature of leveling, it was a process that was practically instantaneous. When a minute passed and no changes occurred to his Status, Trent knew something was wrong.

No matter how he concentrated, Fire Elementalist did not add itself to his Class list. The XP he assigned to it refused to flow and remained at 3845, no matter how he issued his mental commands. He had a panicked moment as he wondered if his Status was broken!

Then he caught sight of Pup through the transparent screen that filled his vision. The Dog's ears were perked up, and a high-pitched woofing noise escaped its jaws. Pup sneezed and began rolling in the grass, continuously emitting a sound that had better not be laughter!

"What's gotten into you?" Trent demanded querulously, his eyes narrowing.

Pup sat up and pointed at Trent with his muzzle. The Dog looked up at the full moon, then around at the shadow-filled forest with exaggerated motions. Looking back at Trent, Pup's lips curled upwards to reveal milk teeth, which he snapped in a manner Trent presumed was supposed to be menacing. Darting forward, Pup clamped down on Trent's pants, mimicking a hamstringing attack, then rushed away and repeated.

After the third repetition, Trent reached down and grabbed the animal. "You think the Trial only allows physical Classes to level?" Pup responded by licking the metal of Trent's mask.

Returning his attention to his Status, Trent attempted to prove Pup wrong by channeling XP into Swordsman. When 2000 XP disappeared and 4

Attribute Points, along with the Skills Light Armor and Flash Strike, added themselves to his Status, Trent's fingers tightened around the smug Dog.

With the poor state of repair his scale mail was in, Light Armor, which lessened the weight of armor while increasing its effectiveness, was little help. Flash Strike, at Level 1, was merely a rapid attack. With the increase in his movement that Dash provided, Trent could see the nimble Flash Strike, with its low cost in XP, becoming a staple of his repertoire. However, neither Skill promised to allow him to defeat a Werewolf safely.

"How did you know I was trying to level up?" Trent voiced the question the second it occurred to him. Pup's ears perked up, and his brown eyes bulged as Trent's hands squeezed harder, attempting to force an answer out of the animal.

Pup squirmed and hooted in his hands, and Trent eased his grip. The Dog had been right. Trent did not know how that was possible, but he had to admit it. And Pup being correct was better than Trent's Status being broken… probably.

Pup whined and pushed at Trent's hands with his paws. Instead of letting the animal loose, Trent's fingers pinched Pup's muzzle shut. Pup started to object, then recognized the tilt to Trent's head and the stiffness in his shoulders as a sign that something was off, and quieted.

The odd pair of boy and Dog had made camp in a clearing while Trent mended his torn shirt and practiced his Skills. They had only done so because Trent had not seen any Trial Beasts other than the rats in the area. At this point, he had little to fear from the lesser Beasts of this Trial.

The one aspect of the Wererats that was superior to the Wolves was their silence. Werewolves could be heard approaching from a distance, but several times Trent had been surprised by a Rat leaping out of the bushes. The clearing solved the problem of the creature's stealth, requiring them to break out of cover to attack.

The sound that Trent's Perception brought to his ears could have been the wind rustling through the trees. It could have been a pack of outside Beasts

challenging the Trial in their own way. Trent set Pup down and traded the short sword he had been working with for a longer wooden blade because he knew he was not that lucky.

The skittering sound was Wererats, and if those slinking Beasts were making noise, more than two or three were headed his way. Trent let his ears guide him until he was facing the right direction. Pup, having grown used to watching Trent prepare, scuttled back.

Pup's paralyzing howl wasn't strong enough to do much more than cause a Wererat to falter for a moment, and his teeth could no more pierce a Rat's hide than they could Trent's clothing. His role in the coming fight would be to stay out of the way. He would risk Trent's displeasure to use his howl or throw himself at an ankle when he could, but those times were few.

Trent took a deep breath and pushed it out in a rush as eight Wererats broke out of the tree line. His hands shook, then tightened around his hilt, as he noticed a larger, darker form at the center of the mischief of rats. The Trial had tired of Trent treating its Beasts as training partners and sent a Guardian to reprimand him. Trent should have expected that.

He did not need Identify to recognize the superiority of the black Rat or confirm its position as a Guardian. He felt the same wave of authority coming from the Beast that he had in the underground prison when he fought Krip, the Tainted Terror. He had not recognized the sensation at the time. It was apparent to him here.

Trent took a one-handed grip on his longsword and called forth his shield. Eight Wererats were too many. He would need to fight defensively if he could and run when an opportunity presented itself. Even with a shield, Trent though his odds of walking away from the coming fight unscathed were nonexistent. He quickly assigned his 4 Free Attribute Points, 2 to Constitution, 1 to Strength, and 1 to Agility, before dismissing his Status. He doubted even that would be enough to keep his skin intact.

Martin Vane wrapped one arm around the throat of a Moon Cursed

Ratkin. He plunged his knife into the Beast's lower back, holding tight as it sought to throw him off. His knife flashed in and out of the Beast, once, twice, and before it could enter a third time, the Trial's creature dissolved. It left behind three teeth and a chunk of meat.

Martin's boots kicked the teeth aside like the worthless trash they were. He reached down and closed his fingers around the meat. He brought it to his nose and took a deep breath. The meat was grey and riddled with green lines, smelling of rot and foulness. The scent caused drool to leak over the edges of Martin's muzzle.

He had not had a full stomach in days. He knew this flesh was cursed. The Kindred told stories of these types of Dungeons and what could be found in them. Martin had learned what would happen should he eat this putrid tissue. The plague of the Moon Cursed could be passed on, and giving into hunger was the way the curse spread.

With a frustrated trill of his tongue, Martin hurled the meat away. His claws ripped a piece of bark from a nearby tree, and he stuffed it into his mouth. The bark was bitter, tasting of mold and moss. He swallowed it and tore off another piece.

It annoyed Martin that he couldn't remember the name of this tree. No, he was annoyed because he was forced to rely on half-remembered knowledge to survive. The name escaped him, but his father's descriptions of edible plants were fresh in his mind.

Maybe it was because he had sworn he would never use it. His parents may have been happy killing Beasts in the city sewers and dancing under a full moon with others of their kind, but Martin had run from that life, never looking back. Why fight Beasts for money when money was available in almost every pocket? Why run through the sewers when a bed covered in rose-scented sheets could be rented for a few silvers?

Martin had never had any use for his animal form. Clawed hands were not good for picking locks. A Rat's ears and tail brought curious eyes, the bane of a Thief. A rodent's teeth were good for persuading a reluctant mark, but Martin's knives served just as well. Yet, despite his distaste for his

heritage, he had spent days now, perhaps longer, crawling about a forest on all fours.

A bugling noise, followed by a series of short grunts and the trample of hooves, caused Martin's head to snap up. His nose twitched until it found a scent, and he rushed through the trees following it. A short distance away, he slowed his pace and dropped into Stealth.

An Elk and a Wererat were fighting among the trunks. The Elk, tall and proud, lowered its head to charge at the Beast, and the Rat narrowly avoided being stomped upon, lashing out with its claws as the animal went by. The smell of blood clogged Martin's nose, and he clutched his hands in excitement.

The Elk whirled on its hind legs and rearing, struck out with its hooves. The smaller Wererat was pushed to the ground, one of its arms snapping under the weight of the Elk. Teeth bit into legs, and the Elk bugled again, this time in pain. It stamped and crushed the Rat creature angrily. For every blow it landed, new lacerations opened up on its legs and belly, as the Rat dug in with its claws.

The Elk was a common animal, the Wererat a Beast, but where the Rat was the lowest of its kind, the Elk was a protector and champion of its own. While it took grievous wounds killing the Wererat, its victory was never in doubt.

Martin watched as the Elk sunk to its belly and then lay on its side, chest heaving. The body of the Dungeon Beast disappeared, leaving the same disappointing loot that Martin had received. The Elk, however, valued the drops. It tossed away the meat and took one of the teeth in its mouth. Martin watched as it began to chew.

Martin had thought this part of the stories he had heard to be untrue. He was not pleased to see his father vindicated. The drops of a Hunter's Dungeon could be used as a restorative for Beasts and animals. If they were unharmed, the teeth would strengthen Attributes and sharpen the Elk's natural weapons.

Standing up and assuming his preferred state, an ordinary man with a plain face, Martin went forward. He held his arms wide, showing he was no threat. His gesture was unnecessary. The Elk chomped at its prize, unconcerned with Martin's approach. A curious light in its eyes said the Elk was wondering what his intentions were. It allowed his approach, unafraid. In this place, it did not fear any but the Dungeon's creations.

"What Level are you, friend?" Martin murmured, stepping slowly forward. "Father said an animal must reach Level 20 before it can become a Beast. Are you close? Or have you already passed the mark? Are you here seeking a Name? A Title? Will you become a Forest Lord soon?"

The Elk chewed and swallowed, picking another tooth to gnaw on. It listened to his words, and either it heard nothing worth responding to, or it was incapable of understanding. Martin did not care either way. His words were a peace offering, a gentle extension of goodwill. His questions were for himself; it was the tone that mattered.

The Elk didn't object when Martin stooped down to examine its wounds. "These are bad. No, you have not reached Level 20. You're powerful for an animal, but still only common prey."

The Elk slumped over, its heart stopping as Martin's long, thin knives pierced its brain. He pulled them loose and licked the blood from their blades. "Just prey."

Martin used his animal form and tore into the slain Elk's stomach with his teeth. His jaws closed over warm muscle and he ripped it off. He nearly choked as he gobbled the flesh, hardly bothering to chew. He slurped the Elk's blood, the salty, metallic fluid was more satisfying than the frost- covered leaves he had sucked on for moisture.

A stomach that was happy to be filled with raw meat was a gift to all Kindred, one that Martin had never appreciated before. As he filled his with hair-covered hide and gnawed the flesh from bone, he found the benefit of his race. When his hunger was sated at last, Martin collapsed to the earth, panting, a wide crimson smile on his face.

He rubbed the blood from his muzzle and licked it from his palm. A Truce amongst Hunters? Another lie proven true! That dumb animal had just let him walk right up! It would take some of the thrill out of being a Thief, but Martin wished more victims were so accommodating!

Standing up, Martin stretched. He felt good! Then the air, the mood of the Dungeon changed. Martin's shoulders hunched as a weight settled on them. His head darted from side to side. He could feel angry, disapproving eyes watching him, but he could not determine where they were coming from. He drew his knives and activated Stealth, preparing himself.

A shriek and a high-pitched howl caused his ears to swivel. A threat was directed at him. The screeching and thudding indicated that someone else had walked into trouble first. Creeping towards the sound of battle, Martin licked his lips. Was his next meal being prepared? He hid at the edge of a clearing and waited.

Hidden at the edge of a clearing, Martin was astonished to find the kid, Trent, still alive. He had thought the boy lucky if he survived a minute in a Field Dungeon, yet here he was facing seven Moon Cursed. No! Eight Wererats flung themselves at the Swordsman; the black one was bigger but harder to see in the moonlight.

Martin waited for Trent to fall. At Level 20, Martin would never dare confront eight Wererats alone. Granted, his Class was not suited for direct Combat like the Swordsman Class, but Trent was as green as a Wood Ranked Adventurer could be. The kid's death was assured, and his gear would finally belong to Martin! It was a shame that whatever was locked in Trent's Storage would be lost. Martin would have to accept that that was the way things went sometimes.

When the thin blade of Trent's sword cut the head from one Were-Beast, and he proceeded to disembowel another, Martin's jaw dropped in astonishment. That sword was not the same one the kid had had when Martin left him for dead. That cheap Basic blade had nothing in common with the elegant weapon that cut Wererats as easily as it would paper! The design was strange, lacking any protective protrusions to shield the hand, but Martin's nose twitched as he wondered how much coin selling the blade would bring.

The kid was quicker than Martin expected. The Kindred's tail swished as Trent batted a Beast aside with his shield and then pivoted, severing the wrist of one sneaking up behind him. The Swordsman seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, and every time Martin expected to see him surrounded or overwhelmed, Trent's feet danced their way out of range.

But Trent did not escape untouched. No matter how he dodged, occasionally a claw would mark his shoulder, or teeth would nip his side. Blood flowed freely from several light wounds. Trent never slowed or acknowledged the pain. Although beneath that silver mask, his face must be twisted in a grimace, Martin could see no sign of it in the boy's movement.

And his movements were precise! Each step, every attack, carried Trent to exactly where he wanted to be. He moved towards the greys and away from the black. The most dangerous Were-Beast gnashed its teeth as its subordinates continued to hamper its attacks instead of dragging the Swordsman to the ground.

The last of the greys fell, and then it was only Trent and the dark-colored Wererat. Martin's hackles rose. If Trent could defeat seven Moon Cursed, didn't that mean he was a match for the Thief? The memory of Trent's hand closing on his wrist when Martin had tried to cut his purse prodded at the man, reminding him that his Stealth might not serve him against Trent.

Martin wanted Trent to die. Now, as Trent faced off against the last Wererat, Martin internally cheered for the Moon Cursed. Swordsmen were not known for their forgiving natures. Were Trent to survive, the day might come when he would demand an answer from Martin for his actions.

The Greater Were-Beast approached Trent with short erratic bursts. Trent appeared calm, but Martin knew that under that mask, the kid must be trembling. For a moment, the two opponents stood mere feet apart. Trent, with his sword raised and shield ready, and the Rat motionless, except for the swishing of its tail.

As if reacting to some agreed-upon signal, both surged forward. Trent's blade whistled as it cut through the air under the influence of Flash Strike. The Trial Beast's claws blurred as they reached for Trent's chest. Claws and

sword connected at the same moment and Trent came out the loser. His blade hardly scratched the Beast's side while it twisted, sliding past his shield to rend his shoulder.

Trent stumbled to the side, his feet working to keep himself upright. Stabilizing himself and ignoring the pain, he thrust towards the creature. A paw closed around the dark blade, and Trent's thrust came to a halt inches from the Wererat's chest. Martin thought he could see smoke rising from the Beast's fist, and he could smell burnt flesh from where he lay.

Trent strained to push the blade forward, then stepped back and attempted to wrench his sword free. The Wererat did not budge, only chittered mockingly, before tugging the sword out of Trent's grip and tossing it aside. Martin marked the location where it fell. If he could not have the contents of Trent's Storage, he at least wanted that sword.

When Martin looked back to the fight, it was just in time to be blinded by a stunning white light. His eyes teared up, and when they cleared, Trent and the Rat were dancing around each other, each evading the other's attacks by the narrowest of margins. Having lost his sword, Trent had replaced the weapon and his shield with two thick bladed knives. Fire lined the edges of the blades, and Martin's nose twitched.

The discarded sword he would sell, but once Trent's body fell lifeless, those knives would belong to him! And Trent's end was moments away. Martin could see that the kid wasn't as skilled with the shorter blades. The one in his left hand looked especially sluggish.

Trent did manage to score a few hits on the Beast's hide. He paid for each one by taking a wound himself. Where Trent's blades scratched, the Rat's claws scattered scale mail plates and soaked Trent's torso in blood. When the Beast slapped one knife out of Trent's right hand, and the other slipped from his weakened grasp after a bad cut, Martin trembled in anticipation of seeing this fight finished.

The boy refused to quit! Throwing himself into a roll, Trent came to his feet, running behind the back of the Wererat. Screeching, the Trial Beast pursued. Trent was becoming desperate if he thought he could outrun a

Wererat in the dark, and Martin was eager for the kid to discover his error.

They reached the edge of the clearing, and claws were once again slashing, this time towards Trent's back. Leaping, the boy caught a tree branch and swung up, lifting his legs high. The Rat ran beneath, unable to stop. Trent twisted and dropped back to the ground. Without pausing, he sprinted for the center of the clearing.

Once there, he retrieved his lost sword, and when the Were-Beast came howling back, it faced a more confident opponent. Sword held in both hands, Trent delivered sweeping strikes and slashes. His feet hardly moved more than a step at a time, but he always avoided the Rat's counters, and unlike his knives, the sword was able to harm the Beast.

The Wererat was unable to avoid Trent's blade long enough to employ its vocal Skills. Its rage mounting under Trent's assault, it had one last trick, one the Swordsman had never seen, and Martin nearly swallowed his tongue when it was employed. The Wererat vanished and reappeared several feet in the air above Trent. It fell towards the Swordsman like doom given life and form.

Martin would have died under this attack. Trent never looked up or back. Stepping back, he lifted and reversed his blade over his shoulder. The Wererat's body slammed into him, and they both crashed to the ground. For a moment, all was still.

Trent pushed himself up, grunting from the effort. It was the first sound Martin had heard him make. A second grunt and Trent heaved the corpse from his back and scrambled to his feet. Panting for air, Trent's shoulders slumped, and blood dripped from the tips of his gloves. He stumbled, retrieving his sword from the scabbard of the Wererat's heart. His hands shook as he picked up those magnificent knives, and it took him three tries to sheathe them.

Martin's first thought was to flee a Swordsman who could do what Trent had just done. Seeing Trent's condition, his twitching nose convinced him to leave his hiding place. Trent's back was to him as he stepped into the clearing and dismissed his animal form. It was time to collect what the boy owed the

Thief as compensation for all the trouble he had caused.

Chapter Thirteen "I got to admit, kid, that was unexpected," Martin drawled, slapping his

hands together in drawn-out mocking applause. "Too bad it left you in such bad shape. Not good to get cut up like that; might give some people the wrong impression. Make them think you're vulnerable."

"Third bush to the right of the aspen," Trent uttered this nonsense without turning. Martin thought he must have misheard or that Trent was hallucinating from a poison in the Wererat's claws.

"Did I lose you, kid?" Martin came to a stop ten feet from Trent's position. "I need you to come back now, come back and empty out your Storage. Place your weapons on the…"

"Third bush to the right of the Aspen," Trent repeated, carefully, turning around.

"What are to you babbling about, boy? I need you to snap out of it. You're carrying things of mine that I'd like to have!" Martin drew his favorite persuading knife to show to Trent.

"Do you not know what an aspen looks like?" Trent dragged out the words, speaking as one would to a small child. "It's that one, with the white, white-grey bark, and the yellowish leaves."

"Think I'll look, and you can jump me, kid? That's just insulting." Martin was going to enjoy cutting the tongue out of Trent's head.

"I don't need to trick you." Denying the accusation blandly, Trent's head tilted. "You were in the bush, the third one to the right of the aspen. You sounded like you thought you were sneaking up on me. You were wrong."

"Bullshit!" The tip of Martin's knife pointed in Trent's direction. "You don't see shit unless I want you to see it! You are done, kid! And if you keep pissing me off, your screams will bring every Beast in this fucking place running!"

"I didn't even need Perception to notice you. There's no place for you to hide, not anymore." Trent started coughing. Or that was what it sounded like at first. After a moment, Martin realized the hacking held more laughter than pain.

"The time for mind games is over," Martin said, gritting his teeth. "I have the upper hand here. Now empty your Storage or…"

Trent's broken, jerky chuckle increased in volume. "Or what? You are a walking corpse, and you don't even see it. My belongings won't help you, and your threats are empty wind. No one would believe or trust an honor-less dead man. I certainly won't do it twice."

Trent pushed his cowl back and Martin saw his face for the first time. Trent's complexion was pale from blood loss, but his eyes burned with a violet glow. He called Martin a corpse. Under the moonlight, Trent looked like a ghost, a specter sent to claim souls. Martin wanted to open his mouth to refute Trent but was afraid the scream welling up from his chest would escape if he did.

"I did not understand why you attacked me when we entered together." Trent took a step forward. "Then I baited a Werewolf. Meat and blood; that was how you intended to use me, yes?"

"Stay back, kid, I'm warning you!" Martin drew a second knife and dropped into a defensive crouch.

"It's too late for warnings, Martin. Afraid I'll kill you? I could… but I don't need to. Can't you feel it? You broke the Truce. There is not one place you can hide in this Trial. I can see the mark on you. You spilled the blood of another hunter, another challenger. You're finished."

Trent grew before Martin's eyes. Not a dramatic change, no more than an inch, but in Martin's current state of mind, Trent became a giant. He became a vengeful wraith, bringing judgment. The flames that enshrouded the Swordsman's body enhanced this image.

"You should put your knives away, Martin; throw them away. They won't help you, and the extra weight will slow you down." Trent moved faster than he had against the Wererats, his palm lashing out to strike Martin's sternum, and Martin's chest burned! He lost hold of his weapons as he found himself being hurled backward.

Hitting the ground hard, Martin's vision clouded for a moment. When he could see clearly, his eyes found Trent standing, shaking with laughter. "I don't need a weapon to kill you, Martin. But you needn't worry. I'll spare you today. You should run now. The hunt is coming, and you are the prey."

Martin was fleeing before Trent finished speaking. He fell further into his Beast form than he ever had before. His chin sunk and his nose extended. By the time he reached the shelter of the trees, fur covered his entire body. Martin ran without looking back, and he felt eyes in the darkness following him.

Heart of the Inferno. It was the first Ability Trent had ever acquired. It

provided him with resistance to fire and enhanced all fire-related Skills and Spells, reducing their costs and giving them a purifying effect. These were passive benefits, but when it had leveled up, the Heart gained an active effect. At the cost of all his Stamina, Trent could increase his Strength by 10 and radiate an Aura of Fire for thirty seconds.

Martin should have looked back. If he had, he would have seen the flames surrounding Trent fizzle out and the boy collapse to his knees. Trent had only used this active Ability of the heart once before, and that time it had been cut off prematurely. Now that Trent's Stamina was depleted, he did not have the energy to even raise his head. He would never touch the gift of the Inferno again if this was the price he would have to pay.

Numerous notifications were begging for his attention, but Trent was preoccupied with more immediate concerns. He had suffered serious injuries in the fight with the Minor Guardian. His upper arms, his legs, and side all showed signs of conflict. He could feel a wound on his back that still dripped blood down the length of his spine. Only his forearms and head had escaped the Wererat's claws, protected by soul-bound equipment.

Orion didn't step forward to heal him, and Tersa didn't tell him to drink a Health potion, then call him stupid for not having one. The Health pool at his center felt alarmingly low, and Trent pulled up his Status. His HP was at 231/585, and his Stamina was empty. As he watched, his Health continued to drain away. More disturbing, his SP didn't recover. Endurance was unable to support him due to the damage he had taken.

He was still bleeding. That was the only explanation Trent could fathom for his dropping health and weakness. He had to bind his wounds! Numb fingers clawed at his belt and tugged at his armor. Removing his mail and shirt caused pain to ripple through his body, and he groaned.

A soft whimper answered Trent's murmured expression of discomfort. Pup, hiding during the battle and the ensuing confrontation with Martin, placed his front paws on Trent's hip and began licking at the gash in his side. Trent did not have the energy to push the Dog away. He winced at the animal's ministrations and focused on cutting the remains of his shirt into strips.

Wrapping the injuries on his legs, he did his best to do the same for his side. His arms were harder to bandage, and Trent wasn't satisfied by the

loose-fitting job he had managed to achieve. The wound on his back was still a problem. He could not see it, much less reach it. The trickle of warmth told him it was there.

He needed a Healing potion, and the Trial refused to give him one. Balm only restored 3 Points of HP. That wasn't enough to counter the Health that was still seeping away. He opened Storage to take out a second shirt to cut up for bandages.

Greenhouse was his newest addition to Storage. He hadn't had much time to fill the space meant for herbs while in the Moonlit Forest. Wolf Vine was the only valuable plant he had come across here, and its petals came away as glass vials. A hundred slots meant exclusively for plucked plants were all empty.

However, Greenhouse had a second use. It had five spaces meant for cultivating seeds. Seeds planted in these spots grew at an accelerated rate. It appeared that the five seeds Trent had placed in them were ready.

Herbs had to be prepared by an Herbalist or refined into potions by an Alchemist to be most effective, but even freshly gathered, they had their uses. Set Leaf, Wild Garlic, Aadrage, Terah's Mercy, and Gray Mint; of the five, it was the Set Leaf and Garlic that caused Trent's eyes to brighten.

Herbalism told Trent that Wild Garlic restored 20 HP when eaten and reduced bleeding. He tried to take it from Storage immediately and was presented with a choice.

Wild Garlic is ready to be collected. You may choose to pick five cloves, or three cloves and two seeds.

It was agonizing to wait, and the increasing ache in his body demanded that he take the five cloves. Trent remained clearheaded enough to go with the second option. Three cloves of garlic fell into his waiting hand. Of the two seeds, one filled a Storage slot for later and the other was planted.

Trent's quivering fingers peeled back the garlic's sheltering leaves and popped the bulbs into his mouth one after another. A pungent taste filled his mouth, and it was a tossup whether the tears that welled in his eyes were from that taste or his pain. He swallowed hastily, gagging slightly as the half- chewed mush slid down his throat.

Unprepared Herbs did not work as fast as magic or potions. However, checking his Status, Trent saw his Health had stopped declining and was slowly starting to recover. His Stamina also started to refill, and the worst of Trent's shaking ceased.

He received another message when he took out the Set Leaf and made a similar choice. Holding the three red leaves in his hand, Trent encountered a dilemma. Set Leaf wasn't meant to be eaten. You had to turn it into a paste and apply it directly to an injury.

That would work for the wounds on his legs, arms, and side, but the more serious laceration on his back Trent could not reach himself. His eyes drifted from the leaves to the Dog lying in front of him. Pup was covering his nose with his front paws and staring at Trent with wide worried eyes.

"I need your help." Trent held out a leaf. "You'll have to chew this and apply it to my back. Can you do that?" He was prepared to bribe the animal with dried meat, but Pup chomped down on the leaf without delay and began chewing.

Trent had a horrifying moment when he realized that there was no reason Pup should be able to understand his directions. He expected to see the Dog swallow the herb and then beg for more. When Pup padded around and pushed at Trent, urging the boy to lay flat, Trent obeyed, wondering how the animal knew what to do.

Circulating Spiritual Flame with Fire Manipulation to protect his bare skin from the frozen grass, Trent gasped as tiny claws pricked their way onto his back. A retching noise accompanied Pup's spitting of his mouthful of herbs, and Trent winced as a smooth tongue spread the plants evenly across the gash.

When he was finished, Pup hopped down and pranced in front of Trent, his tail swinging violently enough to cause his hind end to wobble. Muttering a thank you, Trent eased his way back up and settled into a kneeling position. Numbness replaced the ache on his back and from the way Pup's tongue lolled out of the Dog's mouth, he was feeling the effects of the Set Leaf as well.

Grey Mint was used to treat disease, and Terah's Mercy was a poison. Neither would help Trent. And Aadrage was a mystery. When he tried to remove it from Storage, he was informed that his Skill Level was too low to pick the plant. He would look it up later. Trent applied the Set Leaf to his other wounds and waited for the Herb to take effect.

It was terrifying to be sitting here in a Trial, with his body slowly growing numb. Had Martin or a Wererat returned, they would have found Trent helpless, his limbs clumsy and unresponsive. He distracted himself by eating and tossing bits of dried meat to Pup. Pup thought this was a grand

game and wasn't upset when his own unresponsive jaws failed to catch the treats.

When Pup collapsed with a full stomach and fell asleep, Trent pulled up the notifications he had ignored earlier.

Dash leveled up. Dash now Level 10 (MAX) 1 Agility. Dodge leveled up. Dodge now Level 6.

Three Steps leveled up. Three Steps now Level 2. You have learned Enhanced Jump Level 1. Enhanced Jump increases

leaping height by 10٪ when activated. May fail if activated incorrectly. 1 Agility.

You have defeated Level 16 Shadow Wererat (Minor Guardian). 1000 XP gained. Harvest Beast for additional reward.

It was a puzzling series of messages. He had not learned an improved version of Dash after the Skill reached Level 10 like Sergeant Cullen had said might happen. Unless Enhanced Jump was a movement Skill, not unlike Dash. Had he learned it for mastering a Skill?

Trent had unconsciously pushed Stamina to the souls of his feet while leaping for the branch to avoid the Shadow Wererat's claws. It had been a desperate action, and while it had worked, the note that the Skill might fail concerned him. Trent wasn't sure if it was an inherent part of the Skill itself or due to the way he had learned it.

Feeling somewhat stronger, Trent forced himself upright. He wobbled as he took his last shirt from Storage and pulled it on. He left the ruins of his armor on the grass. There wasn't enough of the scale-plated leather left to serve any purpose.

Trent trudged to where Martin had dropped his knives and collected them. Lighter than Trent preferred, they still had their uses. He gathered his belt and placed one of the blades on it before swinging the rig around his hips. Then he turned to the corpses of the Minor Guardian and its minions.

After Harvesting the Beasts, Trent piled up the loot and sank cross-legged to the ground. He had gained seven grey Cores and one black, along with an assortment of teeth, as expected. The drops from the Shadow Wererat caused a low laugh to rock Trent's body. Two greater Healing potions laughed back at him as they sat beside a pair of grey boots and pants.

His health had recovered to 347/585. and he drank one of the potions to complete his healing. The sweet-tasting liquid banished the lingering garlic in his mouth but left Trent's tongue and mood bitter. Appraising the clothing

restored his faith in the fairness of Trials.

Witching Hour Boots

Part 1 of 4 Advanced Items/Good Quality Armor Rating 20

Complete Set to unlock additional features

Witching Hour Pants

Part 2 of 4 Advanced Items/Good Quality Armor Rating 20

Complete Set to unlock additional features

Made of the same soft grey and white leather, the clothing clearly went together. But as the Moonlit Forest had been particularly stingy when it came to equipment drops, Trent didn't see how he could complete the set. He certainly had no intention of challenging any other Guardians.

Still, they were better than what he was wearing. His boots and trousers had been made for a boy with Attributes that made people wonder how he was able to hold himself upright. Their Armor Rating was 1. Standing, Trent changed into the new equipment.

His movement disturbed Pup, who woke and began sniffing at the teeth and Cores. While Trent was buckling his sword belt back on, Pup pounced on the Black Core, and before Trent could stop him, consumed it. With a furtive glance at the dumbfounded Trent, Pup seized two teeth and darted away to chew on them.

"You didn't earn those, you thieving…" Trent faltered, trying to come up with a derogatory term for a Dog. Pup growled at him and continued to chomp away, his hackles raised.

Trent snatched up the rest of his loot and stored it, getting it away from the greedy puppy's eyes. He had no use for the drops himself, but he had fought and bled for them without any help. Connected as they were through the party link, Pup was lucky he got XP and should have been satisfied! He had no right to claim any of the spoils!

"See if you get anything else out of me!" Trent stormed. Pup's tail wagged as if to ask how Trent could resist his charm. Trent thought the Dog's stiffened hair was the answer to that.

"Your name should be Leach," Trent muttered, tugging his cowl up and fixing his mask in place. He did not waste any more time with the Dog. He was ready to find the exit to this Trial. It was obvious he wasn't going to achieve a perfect clear. Not now that the grey rats had stopped supplying XP. The Werewolves might or might not be as strong as the Shadow Rat, but Trent had nearly died facing the Guardian. He could accept that he wasn't ready for the Moonlit Forest.

Quest received. Kill Martin Vane - One of the Kindred has broken the Truce amongst Hunters. The Forest calls for his life. All exits have been sealed until the hunt has been completed. Reward - 2000 XP, 2

pieces of Witching Hour Set, Unknown.

Trent's head fell backward and he stared up at the moon. He had only taken a step. He had not acknowledged the notification. It had been forced on him. It had filled his vision, demanding to be read.

Trent had never understood Tersa and Cullen's propensity to shout obscene phrases or rail blasphemies at the gods. He did now. Some emotions could not be expressed in the everyday Common tongue.

"Damn it," Trent hissed. The howling of Wolves on the hunt answered him.

Chapter Fourteen The trap was too obvious to have been set by competent Bandits. Orion

could see the cut in the tree from where he sat cross-legged on the road one hundred yards away. That wasn't what gave away the ambush, though. It was the smell that alerted Orion.

Cutting a tree without felling it was an often-used tactic. A second tree some way down the road would be similarly prepared. When a cavern passed by and reached the second point in the trap, both timbers would be tipped over simultaneously. This would not bar the path of a floating wagon, but even those enchanted vehicles required draft animals to pull them. Stop the animal and you halt the Merchant's train.

However, true Bandits concealed their efforts better. Not only should the cut be invisible, but the smell of the alchemical substance used to hold the tree upright should also be masked. Orion doubted that whoever was waiting for him to walk into their ambush had had much success at a Bandit's trade.

Orion's nose wrinkled as the wind carried the acrid scent of the chemical paste to him. As far away as he was, the smell burned his nostrils. It had to be worse for the ambushers, which made the wait for them less aggravating for the Al'rashian. They could remain subjected to the stink for the rest of the day for all he cared.

They would not, though. If what Orion suspected was true, the would-be Bandits were already squirming in their hiding places. They would not be able to stand inactivity for long. Orion, nonchalantly sitting in the road, was burning at their patience the same way the odor was his sense of smell.

His staff lay across his knees and he rolled it with his palms. His rare Class, Dominating Tyrant, urged him to act. It told him to cast his spells and draw his sword. He knew the location of every ambusher, thanks to his Wind Elemental scouts. He could stroll down through the trap; slaughtering those that had set it would hardly delay him.

Orion suppressed the weakness of his Class with some difficulty. He had been sitting patiently for twenty minutes and was tired of postponing his journey. The sun was still high, and this stretch of the road was peaceful. There was no reason to delay. No reason except for the chance to wrestle with the inner voice that railed at him to act.

"At last," Orion murmured, as a figure stepped out of the woods. The man struck a jaunty pose in the middle of the road. Hands on his hips and chin lifted, the long feather in his brimmed hat fluttered in the breeze as the man peered in Orion's direction.

"We are at something of a pass, it seems!" the man shouted. From this distance, Orion could not make out the details, but he saw a short sword on the man's waist. The only armor he could see was a leather vest that was doing a valiant job of holding back a gut of epic proportions.

"Perhaps you mean, 'impasse!'" Orion called back. He stood, and, holding his staff tucked behind his left arm, made his way forward before the shouting could become tedious.

"Yes!" the fat man cleared his throat nervously, "We seem to be at something of an impasse."

"But we are not," Orion replied, rolling his shoulders. "I am giving you the chance to walk away, and you are failing to see that that is in your best interests."

"You're brave for a lone traveler!" Wrenching his sword from its sheath, the man flourished it in a manner that made Orion want to take the blade from him and use it as a teaching aid. Being slapped with the flat of your own sword was always an effective lesson.

"Brave, but foolish," the man continued. "I have twenty-seven men with me, and… stop right there! Didn't you hear me?"

"This is not a play, and bandits do not converse with their victims. I suggest you gather…" a scream from within the trees covered what Orion might have said.

The Al'rashian paused a dozen feet from the supposed robber. His hand tightened around his staff as Reann lightly called out, "Three Archers taken care of. Last one didn't go easy as the rest."

"There are four Archers." Orion briefly considered not warning the woman. He had told her to wait. He had said that things were not as they seemed, but Reann had a reasonable hatred for those that attacked travelers. He hoped she would not regret her actions. He suspected she would unless Orion killed all the ambushers before they could speak.

"Four?" Reann's question was accompanied by the twang of a bowstring, and she cursed. The sound of breaking branches followed, then a rushing swish and a gurgled scream. Seconds later, Reann stepped back onto the road, knives in hand.

"You were right; there were four." Reann's cloak was thrown back over her shoulders, revealing her red leather armor and chainmail shoulder guards. There were several twigs stuck in her long brown hair, and sweat covered her oval face. "That was closer than I'm happy to admit."

"And the spellcasters?" Orion asked flatly.

"Mages! They have…" Reann threw herself to the side as a Firebolt lanced towards her. She activated a Skill as she fell and a green light in the shape of a blade was launched in the direction the Spell had come from. The Wind Cut was rushed, but as Reann rolled back to her feet, an older man tumbled out of the woods, clutching his side.

A second Firebolt from the other side of the road narrowly missed the fat man in the hat as it raced towards Orion. Orion lifted his staff, the tip glowing red, in time to intercept the Spell, and the Firebolt vanished, absorbed by an Elemental.

A bearded man with a staff stepped out of cover, but instead of continuing his assault, he threw his weapon in the dirt. "Spare us, Archmage!"

"Archmage?" The leader of the bandits hurriedly took a step backward.

"What else could he be? He cast Mage Shield without a chant!" The bearded spellcaster screamed, "You've brought us to ruin with your moronic plans, Paulus!"

"Enough!" Orion chanted the Spell for Entanglement and, with his left hand, slammed the butt of his staff against the earth. Startled cries came from the trees. Orion concentrated as Qoeveht had taught him. He had not spent much time at the practice of altering his magic, but a tier-one Spell should be within his grasp.

The process did not go as smoothly as Orion imagined. Tier-one Spells were not meant to be modified, they were beginner's tools. Orion managed, but, as thick vines dragged men from the cover of the trees, he noticed several faces were strained as their owners' bodies were being squeezed by his Spell. Orion almost lost control of Entanglement as he forced the vines to allow the prisoners some breathing room.

With four archers dead, two spellcasters out of the fight, and twenty-one men captured with a single Spell, it was enough to convince the man who had surrendered that he had done the right thing. "I told you, Paulus! An Archmage! Get on your knees and beg, you fool!"

"Quiet, Samuel!" Paulus shouted. "I'm still free, and the Al'rashian is no Archmage! Unhand my men or…"

Paulus gulped as the metal of Orion's sword pressed against his neck.

"You are free because your life has been in my hands from the start." Orion swatted the short sword from Paulus's hand with his staff. "You can answer my questions or…"

"Should I kill the Mages?" Reann had a distasteful twist to her lips. Both men she assumed were Mages were cowering on the ground. One knelt and pressed his forehead to the earth, and the other was holding the slight cut on his side as if he were preventing his insides from falling out.

"Scribes, not Mages," Orion never took his eyes from Paulus, "And you can kill them if you like, though why you would escapes me."

"Scribes? You said they were Mages! Why would Scribes be working with Bandits?" Reann made her way through the squirming vines and their captives to stand beside Orion.

"I said spellcasters, you said Mages," Orion corrected. "And they aren't Bandits, not yet. There are no combatants here, just Profession holders who have been listening to the wrong stories."

"No combatants? What about the Archers?" Reann's eyes widened at Orion's words.

"They weren't Archers!" Paulus said shrilly, "They were Laborers! You murdered…"

"Watch your tone… Carpenter," Orion pressed his sword harder against Paulus's neck and made a guess at the man's Profession based on his calluses. "You should have known men would die when you set your trap. She isn't at fault here. You are."

Paulus clamped his mouth shut and tried to glare at Orion. He carried too much guilt in his expression to intimidate, and the way his body sagged announced his acceptance of the truth. "Well, you've won Al'rashian! What will you do now?"

"Now?" Orion lifted an eyebrow. "Now, I will release your men, and they will tend to the wounded Scribe while you answer my questions."

Orion did not wait for the fat man's reply. He released his Spell and sheathed his sword. While Reann stood uneasily beside him, several of the freed men dropped their weapons running to help the bleeding spellcaster, and Orion pinned Paulus in place with a stare.

"Are things so bad in Wallander that Carpenters must become highwaymen?"

"Bad? You could say that," Paulus grunted. "Three Dungeons collapsed. It's a guess, but it can't be less than three, not with the number of Beasts roaming the countryside."

Orion kept his expression neutral. Bad did not cover it if three Trials had collapsed. That would almost explain why Paulus had brought these men out to claim this section of the road, but it was hard to believe even one Trial had dissolved.

There were Adventurers who made it their trade looking for new or unclaimed Trials. Finding a Dungeon could make an Adventurer rich. With so many eyes on the lookout, it was unheard of for a Trial to collapse in a populated area.

Trials are meant to be challenged. When they go without challengers, a Dungeon's domain weakens until it fails, and when it fails, all the Beasts it contains are released. A small Trial might unleash a few hundred creatures but a larger one…

"How did this happen?" Orion asked, slightly breathless.

Paulus shrugged. "No one knows. Some suspect a plot against Wallander's governor."

Orion closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "If that's true, why are you here, attempting to rob travelers? Wallander and the surrounding towns have walls and Trials of their own. They should be able to hold."

"We would have!" Paulus flushed, his hands balling. "But the fighting in the cities is worse than what is happening in the countryside. Some of the Noble families are rebelling in the chaos.

"Rebelling, pah." Paulus spit to the side. "They call it rebellion, but we can all see that they're trying to seize power for themselves. They're fighting each other as much as the Governor's men, and they'll cut the throats of any Commoner that doesn't declare for their side!"

"I've heard there are Al'rashian clans working in the area. Who has hired them?" Orion's stomach clenched. In such an unsettled situation, there was a possibility that more than one clan might have been offered a contract. It was something that Al'rashians tried to avoid, but mercenary work had its own issues. From time to time, one clan might be pitted against another.

"Governor Kalis. Some of the others tried to hire the Ridings, but from what I heard, they were turned down. Al'rashians refused to get swept up in the infighting. They're doing the work of the Governor's armies. Trying to contain the collapse and escorting refugees," Paulus's bluster leaked out of him. "It was Riders that saw us safe on the road south."

It wasn't an apology, and his eyes were still hard when they looked at Reann, but there was pleading in them when they turned to Orion. Pleading, if not for forgiveness, then understanding.

"Do you know which clans have sent Riders?"

"Nah, the Riders aren't much for gossip." Paulus hurriedly added, "Not that I blame them. They've got their hands full. Focused on their business. I can appreciate that."

"The men what saw us down the road wore red and yellow, if that helps," Paulus volunteered, seeing Orion's mood sour.

"Red and yellow?" Orion almost rolled his eyes. "Clan Borrain's colors are crimson and gold with…"

Explaining the intricacies of a clan's colors to a Carpenter was an exercise in futility, and Orion did not bother correcting the man. Besides, for all Orion knew, Paulus was correct. He might have seen red and yellow. He could have been escorted by a minor clan or a group of mercenaries and not Clan Borrain's Riders.

"I'll have to see for myself," Orion said under his breath. Louder, he said, "A word of advice for you Carpenter, or a caution. Take it how you will."

Paulus and his men had been thoroughly cowed. Orion might not be the Archmage that the Scribe claimed, but his single Spell had wrapped them up smartly enough. Every ear listened closely to what Orion had to say. "The stories you have heard are true. But it will take more than a robbery to achieve your goals. You'll need to get your hands bloody. From what I've seen, you don't have the stomach for it."

Pushing Paulus to the side with his staff, Orion started out. The man would heed his warning or not; it wasn't Orion's concern. Though if the defeated looks on the faces of the men he and Reann passed were any indication, there would be one less group of highwaymen in the area come tomorrow.

Once they were out of earshot, Reann spoke up, her voice falsely cheerful, "What was that about? Giving them lessons on throat cutting?"

"It's an ancient story. Most dismiss it as an old wives' tale, but desperate men will listen to it." Orion's staff tapped against the ground as he walked. "A story about how a Profession holder can gain a Class."

Reann snatched up a stalk of grass and chewed at it. "Yeah? Never heard of that happening outside a Dungeon. How's it done?"

"The easy way?" Orion almost didn't answer; some knowledge was better forgotten. "Murder, torture, and worse. Paulus probably thinks he can become a Bandit with a little roadside robbery. He can't, but if he works up the nerve, he can kill his way to a Class. The World recognizes deeds."

The stalk fell from Reann's lips. "That's the easy way?" She swallowed and coughed on grass seed. "What's the hard way?"

Orion snorted a laugh. "Any man, woman or child can become a Hero." He did not add that nearly all died trying. Gleefully cutting down another for a handful of coppers could earn you the Murderer or Bandit Class, but to become a Hero required knowingly facing your own death, and you might not see the change to your Status as you breathed your last.

"Why would they want the Bandit Class anyway?" Reann dryly dismissed Orion's tales of Heroes.

"You saw those Scribes cast." Orion looked back over his shoulder. "One Spell and they were done, and those Firebolts were as weak as they come. Without the bonuses of a Class, they are vulnerable. And if things are as bad in Wallander as they sound, every fighter for hundreds of miles is probably caught up in it."

Reann ran that thought around her head for a bit before changing the subject. "Hope the next village has a decent inn. A good meal and a soft bed…"

"You can forget about stopping at… actually, you do as you like, I won't be joining you." Thoughts of what his clansmen might be facing in Wallander caused Orion to pick up his pace, but it was for Reann that he was foregoing a rest in the next village.

It wasn't a gesture that the woman could grasp. "Trying to ditch me again?" she asked suspiciously. "Thought we had an understanding! I proved myself back there, didn't I?"

"You killed four Laborers after I told you to wait." Orion stopped, and turned to face her.

"They were planning to…" Reann started to bluster, then paused and took a deep breath. "I was spotted. I wanted to wait, but… I didn't know they were…." No excuse she could offer felt right. It was true, she'd slipped up, but if she had known they were Profession holders, she would have disabled them, instead of… the memory of a young tawny-haired man, who got off one shot before her Wind Cut caused him to choke on his own blood turned her stomach.

"They may not have deserved what happened, but they asked for it," Orion said firmly. "However, they were not Bandits; they were villagers. I will not be stopping at the next inn because more likely than not the men you killed will have family there. Family who won't care whether your actions were justified or not."

"Unless your poison resistance is especially high, I don't recommend eating food that is prepared by people who have reason to hate you." Orion cut off a lecture and started walking again. "Then again, if you can survive it, Blue Devil Weed grows in the area. You won't find a better spice."

"What happens if you can't survive it?" Reann pulled her Cloak around herself, chilled by the thought of a town that might hate her as much as Sweet Meadows had despised the men who murdered her friends.

"Your organs melt, and," Orion searched for a way to describe the effects of the poison, "you release an unpleasant gas as you die."

"That was a joke, right? You're trying to cheer me up with a joke?" Reann tripped over her feet, trying to get a better look at Orion's face.

"You won't think it's a joke when you smell it." Orion shuddered. "The stench is fierce; it will tarnish your memory in the minds of those who knew you. No deed is great enough to cover such a death. It's better to die running from a Grak than of the windy curse of the Blue Devil Weed."

Reann spent the next several miles watching Orion out of the corner of her eye, waiting for the Al'rashian to crack and snicker at what had to be a juvenile attempt at humor. He never did, and they were a day beyond the next village before she saw him take a deep breath.

Chapter Fifteen Quest Complete - Survive alone in the Wilds for two weeks. Reward

1000 Experience, 1 Free Attribute point. 1 Free Skill point.

The notification greeted Trent as he opened his eyes. He wouldn't have thought that a Trial counted as the Wilds, but given the challengers in the Moonlit Forest, maybe he should have. He looked down at the puppy sleeping in his lap. He had let Pup rest there. Trent could maintain his balance on the branch of the silver tree while unconscious. Pup could not.

"It looks like you don't count, Dog," Trent muttered. The animal had been stealing half, if not more, of all the XP Trent earned. At least the Dog hadn't cheated him in respect to his Quest. Thinking of Experience Points, the completed Quest had pushed him over the edge. He could finally level Survivalist.

You are now a Level 3 Survivalist. You have learned the Skill, Arrows Flight Level 1. You have learned the Skill, Bloodletting Level 1.

6000 Experience and Basic Spear Level 10 required for next level up.

Trent was still learning about this first Class he had chosen. Ranar had said Survivalists were violent, their Skills meant for getting close to and facing their opponents. Arrows Flight and Bloodletting seemed to confirm this.

Bloodletting was meant to be used in conjunction with an attack Skill like Thrust and would add a greater bleeding effect to any wound caused. Trent's recent injuries had impressed upon him just how crippling deeper wounds could be. Bloodletting was a Skill he was happy to see added to his Status.

Arrows Flight was another Skill like Enhanced Jump that had a possibility to fail if Trent got the timing wrong. When used correctly, the Skill would propel Trent along the course of an arrow that was being fired towards him, faster than the object itself. He could approach an Archer and attack while the bowman was still fumbling for a second arrow.