While spending time with Yen, mostly talking about in-world stuff and avoiding the topic of the real world — not a topic to be discussed among denizens — Aren noticed something odd. One of the notice boards in front of the Adventurer’s Guild had a few posters, and some had pictures. The One-Eyed King and the Scar of Rakab were both crossed out with a red marker, but another figure drew Aren’s attention. It was a one-armed orc, and his alias was the Lightning Bringer. In fact, Aren took a moment to study the poster in question and it was the same orc, without a doubt — the one that nearly killed Aren at the cost of his own left arm. But he was dead, right? Aren mortally wounded the orc.

WANTED DEAD: Lightning Rider, leader of the Lightning Bringers. A group of orcs that have begun worshiping Spirits of the Lightning Plane. Extremely dangerous. Gold Rank and up only*. Reward: 100 platinum.*

Spirits of the Lightning Plane? Aren blinked at the explanation. The group Aren fought certainly had absolutely nothing to do with Lightning. The only one in that fight that used lightning was… could it be?

Another poster drew his attention. This one was a silhouette, with a question mark on the center of its head.

WANTED DEAD: The Leader of the orc warband known as the Celestial Flash. A group of orcs that have begun worshiping Spirits of the Lightning Plane. Extremely dangerous. Platinum Rank and up only*. Reward: 500 platinum.*

When Aren inquired how long these notices had been up, he was told that they were put up a short time ago, when a group of adventurers returned from the newly liberated city of Rakab.

That pretty much confirmed his suspicions. Could it be that Aren created these monsters? Could it be that the orcs stole his Lightning Blade? He actually had to check his quest, which had a failure condition that stated he would fail the quest if he allowed someone to steal his Lightning Blade class. He confirmed that not only did he not lose his quest, but that he was under the wrong impression the entire time. He would fail the quest if he lost the Lightning Blade class. Though, he assumed that if someone stole it from him, he would lose the class as well — or at least, it would be replaced with the non-Unique version.

After finishing his stroll with Yen, during which he submitted his armor and weapons for repairs, Aren returned to the Adventurer’s Guild and also made a visit to the Army Citadel. He was given two pouches full of gold, in total, bringing up his wealth by around five hundred gold coins. He received his new tag from the Adventurer’s Guild, and an optional insignia that he could put on his armor from the Coalition Army — and speaking of armor, the Coalition gave him a license to carry large weapons in the city, carry concealed armor like chainmail shirts, free lodging in the militia tenements and finally, access to the armory where he could pick whatever he liked.

In regards to the Coalition Army benefits, Aren wasn’t sure if this was thanks to his new rank or because the Officer really, really, liked him. The Officer, Donovan, kept calling Aren son and my boy, ruffled his hair and tried his damnedest to tell the young prospect about how amazing it was to be so young and so successful. Aren was in a hurry, so he didn’t realize it immediately, but in hindsight, it was probably because of Aurora’s Favor that he was received so positively by the Army Officer.

Aren was in a hurry because he wanted to learn things from the Striker Guild Spellblade Trainer, Elzo Lunare.

The Strikers Main Guild House was located in Leone, which was pretty convenient for Aren. It had many Guild Houses across the world, offering largely the same services, but its roots were in Leone, and all the best trainers were here. The Guild itself was neither popular nor unpopular — it walked the middle line between financial ruin and financial success. The reason was mostly because Strikers were few and far between. The idea of killing disgusting, but intelligent monsters was already hard enough for some people to accept — because of their life-like behavior — but touching disgusting monsters with one's bare hands and feet had even less appeal. Besides, it was a fantasy world — why would someone not want to swing a giant sword or weave awe-inspiring magic?

But the Strikers guild was smart, and, at its base, promoted the strength of body and mind over matter. It was verifiably provable that following the Striker path in Singularity improved mood and performance in the real world. On top of that, it’s base was suitable for a variety of playstyles, and the iconic skill set Inner Strength was the reason why such monsters like the Zealot class, the Spellblade class and the Reaver class were so potent and, in some places, so popular. The Zealot fought with a sword and chain, setting foes ablaze and burning them to death with Pyrokinesis, the Spellblade could channel arcane magic through the fabled shadowblade and the Reaver, wielding large two-handed weapons, could slay an entire army without breaking a sweat.

To put it lightly, the Main Guild House was large. It had several courtyards where denizens and adventurers practiced their katas and routines under the watchful eye of teachers. It had tracks for running, obstacle courses, dojos, arenas, the whole gamut of features was available. It even had a laboratory for alchemical practices and an enchanting room.

Finding Elzo would be harder than Aren initially thought, and after wandering aimlessly for ten or so minutes, and realizing he was lost, he stopped pretending he knew where he was going, and asked for directions. Unsurprisingly, it turns out he was going in the completely wrong direction.

Backtracking took almost just as long, but eventually Aren found a hallway that had a sign that said Spellblades. The hallway connected to an empty training yard, an obstacle course devoid of students, and then a dojo with a single occupant.

The man in question was seemingly emptying the contents of a hidden compartment under some floorboards and stuffing them in an enchanted satchel. The items in questions were large weapons of various makes and materials, armor pieces, folded up cloaks, and bags — most of which were larger than the satchel itself, which was what gave away the container’s enchanted nature.

“Mister Lunare?” Aren asked, quietly, but loud enough for the man to hear.

“What do you want, boy?” The man snapped, unhindered in his hurry to stuff more items into his satchel.

Not a follower of the Light Pantheon, huh? Elzo Lunare was perhaps the first person to not jump to his feet, hug Aren, or chant praises.

“Are you going somewhere?” Aren asked, trying to sound concerned or interested. In truth, Aren did not really care. But anything he could do to improve his chances of getting some answers, and perhaps a few lessons, would help.

“No, I am packing for fun,” the dark-haired man replied sarcastically. It seemed like the rumors about Elzo Lunare were not exaggerated at all. The man was a jerk. “Fuck off. I am busy.”

Yes, definitely not exaggerated. Aren was even starting to get angry. Why now? Elzo Lunare could have decided to move away a month ago, or a month from now. Why did it have to be exactly on this day? Why?

“Why are you still standing there? Listen, boy,” Elzo looked up from his bag. “Tell you what. If you help me pack, I’ll maybe listen to what you have to say.” The man smiled, and Aren could tell from a mile away that he was lying. He just wanted to take advantage of Aren.

And that was enough to push Aren over the edge. Without really thinking about it, he placed his hand on where he thought he would find the shadowblade, only to realize that he turned it in for repairs.

The death line, however, appeared nonetheless, and for better or for worse, Aren seriously considered following it.

Elzo Lunare speared Aren with his glare, and slowly stood up, leaving the satchel on the ground. Aren was sure that Elzo couldn’t see the death line, but judging by the man’s expression, he was more than aware of it.

He stared at Aren for what seemed like a good minute, perhaps waiting for the boy to attack, or who knows why, but eventually, the man smiled. “Boy, are you a Deathblade? Come closer.”

It seemed like a genuine invitation, so Aren took the offer and took several steps closer, consciously maintaining the death line which began to shift, twist and disperse as it couldn’t seem to find a solution to deliver a fatal strike on the man, now that he was aware. More importantly, this gave time Aren to think. He had no idea what a Deathblade was, or why Elzo would think so. If Elzo could see the death line, that would explain things, but the man’s eyes never even so much as grazed the red thread of fate.

“Who knows,” Aren replied noncommittally. “Right now, I am just someone who is trying to make some silver by helping a man pack his things.”

Elzo seemed even more impressed by the reply, and he even chuckled. “Good, good,” Elzo said, though it was unclear what was so good to merit saying the word twice. “Maybe I have some time for you. What do you need? Just so you know, I cannot teach you any Deathblade skills.”

Aren smiled. “Then, what can you teach me?”

“I like your spirit, boy,” Elzo said and nodded. “Cutting right through the bullshit and getting straight down to business. But, I don’t like you that much, yet. However, if you prove yourself to me, I might allow you to learn the Nightblade class.”

Aren shook his head. “Not interested.”

Elzo narrowed his eyes. His shadow shimmered. “Not interested? Boy, do you even know what the Nightblade is? Everyone who comes through that door —” Elzo pointed at the entrance of the dojo, “Wants to learn it or steal it from me.”

“I am not everyone. Like I said, I don’t care about Nightblade,” Aren said.

Elzo laughed. “I like you. Just what kind of appetite does a little monster like you have, if Nightblade is not enough.” The man traced a finger along his neck, and then stopped at exactly the point where the death line ended. “This is where you want to strike me, isn’t it? It is. I can tell.”

How did he know? Could he really not see the death line?

“You are wondering how I know, don’t you? Your eyes give you away. You are not a killer yet. But you have talent,” Elzo said. “If you want, you can give it a try. Go ahead. Try it.”

Aren could tell that this was a test, and, in movies, this would end in a life-changing lesson. In a movie, Elzo would become Aren’s teacher, master, grandfather — whatever — and it would be great. But this wasn’t a movie.

Aren hesitated. It was a death line after all. Even though the line shimmered, twisted and sometimes completely broke apart, it was still supposed to be a guaranteed death.

“Do it,” Elzo spurred him on.

In the end, Aren decided against it. First of all, he didn’t have a weapon. In this situation, he could only use the [Vessel-Breaker Palm]. Second of all, he didn’t want to give away any secrets about his class or abilities. Aren could tell that Elzo was a dangerous man. Elzo was a heretic, which was the least of Aren’s concerns, and Aren had many concerns regarding Elzo.

But it was already too late.

“I can smell the ozone on you,” Elzo said. “So I know you use plasma. The blisters on your right hand, but not the left hand, suggest you use a single weapon. Your pants are torn on the knees, and there’s a tear also on your left hip, which means you are acrobatic and tumble a lot.” With each word, Aren came closer and closer to the decision of giving the death line a try.

“You are also not afraid of me, which means you think you can kill me,” Elzo continued, expression neutral. “And lastly, you don’t care about Nightblade, which means you have something better.”

Aren licked his lips, frozen in place like a statue. A cold focus descended on his features, and the death line intensified in its brightness and certainty. It stopped twisting and struggling and instead fiercely attached itself to Elzo’s throat.

“Either way, whatever you are, I cannot teach you,” Elzo said. “If you were a Shadowblade or a Nightblade it would be a different story. But both Deathblades and Duskblades — whichever one you are — mostly don’t exist in this world anymore. Finding a trainer will be extremely difficult,” Elzo explained, for some reason, seeming open about the whole matter, and willing to discuss it.

Aren didn’t know how many blades there were in existence, but he was thankful to every single one of them, because they all made it incredibly hard to guess Aren’s true nature at a glance — and Elzo was apparently really good at doing exactly that.

“I am looking for a special shadowblade,” Aren said. “One that suits my abilities.”

Elzo shook his head. “No one alive makes those anymore.”

Great. All of this for seemingly nothing. Elzo was a hair’s breadth away from discovering all of Aren’s secrets, and Aren had nothing to show for it.

“I see,” Aren said, turning around. “Thank you.”

“Where are you going?” Elzo asked, before Aren could take a simple step.

Aren sighed inwardly. He just knew something would come up. He wasn’t stupid enough to invite bad luck by thinking the situation couldn’t get any worse — no, he pointedly avoided having such thoughts — but it seemed like it didn’t matter.

Fight to the death it is, Aren thought to himself as he turned around. “I am leaving,” he said, coldly, as his buffer opened in anticipation of battle.

“Boy, I said I cannot teach you Deathblade or Duskblade, but I can teach you the basics,” Elzo said, frowning. “Do an old man a favor and stay for a few hours. I haven’t had the honor of teaching an actual half-decent prospect in more than ten years.”

Aren licked his lips again, blinking. “Really? I don’t have any money, though.”

“Consider this one was a freebie,” Elzo said, smiling. “And if you ever make it, and come to Pallas, come pay Uncle Elzo a visit, yeah?”

Aren blinked. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

It turned out, Elzo wasn’t a heretic. He was just an asshole.