Chapter 13

I push through the oak doors of the Clearwater Adventurers’ Guild with a roll of parchment, a half-scribbled map, and Greyson’s voice echoing in my skull.

Secure the Emberdeep permit first, then scour the market for Fire Shield shards—that’s the most common Skill in the Hell’s Sword Set because many Dungeons spawn shards of it. Do not waste daylight arguing with clerks.

The hall smells of salt, ink, and chain oil. Timber beams creak overhead while a breeze sneaks through open arrow slits and flutters pennants that list Guild rules. I cross the tiled floor and queue behind a trio of spear-carriers who bicker about ferry fees. The spear-carriers shuffle aside as the clerk stamps their papers, and I step forward.

“Name?” the clerk asks. His badge reads Haddon and his scalp gleams through thinning hair. He fingers a brass stamp that probably costs more than my weekly salary back in the mines.

“Bocaj Duolc,” I answer, handing my application. “I request entry for Emberdeep Cavern on the next opening.”

He skims the sheet, then raises an eyebrow when he reaches the field that lists my core Skill.

“Hell’s Sword, level forty-three?” he reads aloud with a hint of mockery.

“I will demonstrate if required,” I reply. “The charter says any Skill above the fortieth level secures priority when the Dungeon limit is one entrant per week.”

Haddon barely opens his mouth when the doors behind me slam. Loose parchment takes flight while a guy bursts in, indigo robe still dripping canal water. Silver ribbons shout his wealth, and two servants lug lacquered cases after him.

“Out of my way, rat‑cloak,” he declares for the whole hall. “This week’s Emberdeep slot is my property, Valerius Shellford’s property.”

I nod at the queue. “Stand in line.”

He laughs. “Shellfords do not loiter behind mud‑born scavengers. Haddon, write my permit.”

The clerk brightens at the surname. “Master Valerius—your father’s tariffs were generous indeed.”

Valerius raises one pale hand and orange sparks blossom along his palm. A narrow sword of flame condenses—Hell’s Sword, but raw and wavering. Gasps leap from the benches.

“Behold,” he crows, blade flickering. “Hell’s Sword, level twenty-five. More than sufficient.” He dismisses the fire with a snap. “I claim priority by Skill.”

“Master Valerius—it’s an honour seeing your Skill. Congratulations on hitting level twenty-five.”

A bearded spearman snorts, “Thirty‑five’s solid. Cloak‑boy’s parchment lies.”

Haddon nods, emboldened.

“Guild regulation: competing Skill levels require live display. Mr Duolc—either reveal or amend your form.”

I square my shoulders so the clerk cannot miss the way my spine refuses to bend. “I will reveal it now,” I say, and the words carry no apology.

A lanky bow-woman, still in travel leathers that smell of swamp, whistles. “Forty-three? If he had that kind of mastery he would already be on a royal escort list.” Her companion, a shield-bearing dwarf whose beard is braided with copper links, grunts in agreement.

Valerius flips his wet hair away from his eyes and spreads his hands as spectators drift closer. “This will not take long, Haddon. The form is obviously forged.”

“Clear up the space,” I say. The command is plain, and people obey because the floor slates vibrate under my boots.

I flood energy into the Skill.

Through The Grimoire Extraordinaire I’ve been shaving flaw after flaw from Hell’s Sword. However, after Sir Greyson explained just how

hard

this Skill is to master, everything makes much more sense. Even with the guidance from the Grimoire, it’s been a real struggle. But the difference in mastery between me and this Valerius Shellford is the same difference from the sky and the earth.

I draw with an upward sweep, and the blade condenses from incandescent aura. It is wider than Valerius’s attempt, and its edge does not waver. Instead it hums with runic veins that scroll from hilt to tip.

A collective hush blankets the hall. Valerius tries to sneer, yet the expression falters while heat pricks tears at the corners of his eyes.

The bow-woman steps back until her boots bump a bench. “Saints preserve us,” she mutters. “That is a different class of Hell’s Sword compared to Young Master Shellford.”

I pivot and bring the sword down in a simple vertical cut that stops a finger-width above the flagstones. The air splits. A pressure wave slams into the far wall, rattling shutters. When I end the motion, the stone floor beneath my stance bears a straight groove the width of a hair. Molten light glows in the cut for a heartbeat before it cools.

Silence cracks when Haddon exhales. He lifts both hands. “That looked authentic, yet Guild protocol requires measurement.” He reaches under the counter, produces a walnut box, and opens the lid to reveal a prism of clear jade banded with copper. “Spirit-measuring Lens, Platinum Ranked, calibrated very recently.”

He announces each fact so the assembly cannot doubt the instrument.

I hold the sword steady and let him aim the Lens. Threads of azure light spiral from the jade into the blade, then rebound into the artifact. Copper bands ignite and rotate until they settle at their own angle. A needle behind the crystal face clicks into place above a set of etched numerals.

Haddon reads aloud so everyone hears. “Forty-three entire levels, with resonance traits that match the Hell’s Sword schema. The declaration stands.”

Valerius’s servants avert their eyes. The noble lets his empty hand clench, and his own conjured flame tries to spark yet gutters out in a puff of smoke.

I quench my sword in a slow breath so the fire folds into me rather than dissipates. “Priority is mine by right,” I state, and I add a slight inclination of the head toward the clerk because manners cost nothing.

Haddon is about to stamp the permit at once, but then the shrill voice of Valerius Shellford interrupts him.

“Skill alone isn’t the only metric,” he snaps. He pivots toward his servants. “Bring the case.”

The servants open one of the cases this guy brought with him.

Inside, a sea‑blue sphere glows faintly.

“Tidecaller’s Pearl,” he declares, voice louder than before—as if volume can shovel back lost pride. “Platinum rank, doubles mana. Artifact precedence outranks mere Skill tiers. I still claim the dungeon slot.”

The clerk, scenting fresh drama (and perhaps a bribe), straightens. “Guild charter grants priority to authenticated Platinum artifacts. Thus, the permit reverts.”

Shit

, I swear internally.

I need to get my hands on the Set as soon as possible. I don’t want to wait for this idiot to be done. And what if he doesn’t get the Skill Crystal the first time around, is he going to try again? Will they give the next spot to him?

The Grimoire Extraordinaire flickers behind my eyes.

[Grimoire Material Scan]

Cracked Tidecaller’s Pearl

Functionality – 3 %

Mana Saturation – 5 %

Inner lattice has been sorely damaged and repaired with cheap alchemical inlay.

Primed with low‑grade reagents it will break after any significant draw of mana.

“Hold,” I say. “That Pearl is a

fake

. It’s not a Platinum Artifact. It’s a cracked. It will fail.”

Valerius scoffs. “Silence, rat‑cloak. My father bought it for me.”

Valerius tosses his damp hair again, yet his swagger shrinks when whispers bloom through the hall.

“Did you hear that? He called the Shellford heir’s treasure defective.”

“He must be tired of living.”

“And he still smells of swamp muck. Hah!”

But the bow-woman nudges her dwarven partner.

“Two silvers say the pearl cracks like a barn-egg.”

The dwarf pats his purse. “Make it three; I want the sound of rich boy tears.”

Haddon clears his throat, and the chatter settles although it does not vanish. “Guild protocol allows a challenge. If the artifact’s grade is disputed, a formal test decides the matter.”

Valerius forces a grin that shows too many teeth. “Fine. Fetch your assessor, and let this grub eat humble pie.”

A door swings open at the rear balcony, and a grey-robed examiner descends the stair. Each heel clicks in measured rhythm, and the hall lapses into near-silence. He carries an iron tripod and a crystal orb veined with silver. No one speaks when he sets the apparatus upon the counter.

“Artifact, please,” he says.

Valerius lifts the pearl as though presenting a newborn prince. He places it onto the cradle, then retreats a step. The examiner lays two fingers on the orb and for a moment nothing happens.

“Sir, you might want to move your finger a centimeter up. That’s where the faulty line is at. It’s quite well-concealed by whatever alchemical foolery has been used on it,” I say with a smug smile.

“You little—”

But before Valerius can finish his insult, the examiner shifts his finger slightly and smoke-thin filaments drift from orb to pearl. The copper rings around the tripod spin once, then shudders. A hairline hiss escapes the sphere.

The examiner’s voice remains composed although it carries farther than before. “Mana capacity reads at five percent of nominal. Structural integrity at three percent. Classification: cracked, low grade, unsuitable for field use.”

Gasps leap like sparks. Coins jingle as petty wagers change owners.

Valerius blanches. “Impossible. The Shellford crestsmith guaranteed perfection.”

The examiner withdraws the crystal and folds his hands. “Attempt to draw full mana, and it will rupture.”

I incline my head toward the examiner because courtesy costs nothing.

“Thank you sir.”

“The Guild record now shows that the artifact fails to meet Platinum standard, which returns priority to the higher Skill bearer,” the examiner’s tone never rises, yet it slices through any lingering doubt.

Haddon’s stamp lands on the parchment with a decisive smack. “Permit granted to Bocaj Duolc for Emberdeep Cavern, entry three hours after dawn tomorrow.”

A ripple of approval rolls down both aisles.

“He went and did it.”

“That noble brat looked ready to swallow his tongue.”

“Forty-three levels. Who taught the mud-rat, anyway?”

Valerius’s jaw works, yet no words emerge. His servants elbow each other, unsure whether to bow or flee. At last he stiffens his spine. “You think this ends here? The Shellfords will remember.”

“You can have the next turn,” I say. “You’ll survive a week of humility.”