The sun was rough that day, there hadn't been a single cloud in the sky ever since a week before. The only thing that accompanied Thom in the field was the sound of the buzzing insects, the smell of freshly fertilized dirt, and the rewarding pain that came with each swing of the hoe gripped by his hands.

The land had been left at peace for a good while. Now the thing was to start sowing, to rip benefit from it later. Thom would go at some point, but before that, he wanted to leave a good piece of land to demonstrate he had been there.

In the time he had been there, the debt collectors hadn't shown up. They supposedly passed once every four weeks. It had been two weeks since that incident. The crops he planted for testing had been unearthed completely, and after only two weeks of plowing the land, something ringed inside his head.

「The job-class skill [Farmer] has met the requirements for an upgrade. The skill [Farmer] has been upgraded to [Farmer II]. Control and endurance upgraded.」

Farmer II...

He stopped his plowing, and placed the hoe down. New questions immediately appeared as he heard those words. What did a class upgrade mean? What were the requirements the guide so much spoke of? Not only that, why obtain a skill that upgraded his farming abilities, rather than just getting better at it?

A flood of questions popped in his head in a split second, but he shook them off.

If I ask directly things go better, no?

In that moment, only one question seemed pertinent.

"Hey, Skill Master." He resumed his plowing.

Shack!

"What's the difference between a [Farmer] and a [Farmer II] exactly? Though it's true that the plow seems lighter now..."

「The user now possesses the same skills as the average of The Forest's [Farmer II]. This means an upgrade in speed when performing the job, knowledge in class-related topics, and an overall increase in the expertise in which the user takes related topics into action. As a summary, upgrading a level as a farmer means you are in essence a better farmer.」

"I see..."

So how does it determine that I'm ready to advance levels in a so-called class? It seems oddly aware of my ability. Isn't the Guide just controlling my body at this point, then?

「The guide establishes a route between one class level and the other taking into account the activities of The Forest's denizens. If the user perseveres in a task, the user is bound to get better at it as a rule, even without the use of Skill Master. This progress is gradual, but spikes in output and as such goes to the next level after more than 3/4 of the learning process has been complete.

Since learning is a thousand times faster for the user, this means the requirements are quickly met and as such the acquisition of skills is even faster.」

"Aha..."

Thom bitterly smiled. Although he couldn't understand most of the Guide's words, he didn't need to. As long as the Guide didn't mean him any harm, it was good enough for him.

At dusk, Thom cleaned his forehead, and looked back. His lips parted slightly as he noticed he had finally finished, he had plowed the entirety of the field. Although normally two weeks would be a long time for a field this small, Thom took pride in the fact that he had taken no more than 1 hour per day and still completed it this fast.

"I didn't feel the need to rush. Maybe if I had done it all in one day I would have obtained the job-class upgrade in a single day. But oh well..."

He stepped off the plot and walked trough the dirt road towards the barn, leaving his plow besides the building. He looked at Merry who was calling him from the farmhouse, and smiled as if telling her he'd be there in no time.

He cleaned his hands in a bucket at the side of the barn, and put on his recently dried clothes. He sighed as he cleaned his nose from sweat, and went up the stairs holding the rails at the porch.

His feet guided him trough the open door as he looked inside. There was Merry placing the plates on the table, and Marz sitting on the left end of it. At his side, there was an unfamiliar young man picking up one of the plates.

"Bournd, my boy, eat with us tonight at least..."

Marz pleaded to the young man, but he was completely uninterested in those words. The young bearded man simply sighed, picking up his plate and a wooden cup, taking it into a room on the farmhouse's corridor.

Marz looked dejected as he held his hands together. Thom silently waved at Merry who responded with a heavy nod, and Thom sat besides the old man as if seeking to help him in his pain.

"... Sorry for that. He can be a little rough some times. He has a lot of... Pent up frustration." Marz said with a sad smile.

"He shouldn't have been so rude. You shouldn't be so patient with him. But well... I can tell you love him."

"Of course... Merry and I never had more children. It's a miracle to begin with that we had him."

Merry sat down after placing her own plate, and chuckled after hearing the words coming from her husband. Was it acceptance or mockery? It didn't matter. To Thom, that chuckle simply meant she wasn't thinking of continuing the conversation.

"Well, in rather good news, I think the farm will be ready in a few more days. We could hire a mason to fix the barn and in no time we could also be housing some cows. I've heard milk is selling really well at Pontya these last few days. Something about a love potion. Trends can really get ridiculous."

Thom grabbed the fork on his table, and Marz started eating just before the young one started talking.

"Ou, ma boy..." Merry took a spoon of food to her mouth. "Why worry so much about this worn out and miserable farm? We'll be fine even if you leave it at what you have done now."

"It's true..." Marz added.

Thom smiled as he chewed a mouthful of baked potatoes bathed in sauce, and the salt seemed to touch the perfect spots on his tongue at the same time.

Salt... He thought to himself for a second, and then looked up towards Merry.

"I just think it's the right thing to do."

They kept enjoying their food accompanied by light conversation and awful jokes, which Marz particularly enjoyed. Thom couldn't help but laugh at the jokes that the old man had saved up for so much time to use with his son, but never had the opportunity to do so. They enjoyed a pleasant meal, with pleasant interaction, and then they went to bed. Having read a book, having turned off the lights, the couple went to sleep, and Thom remained to roll in a simple bed at the barn with a full stomach.

The family insisted on him sleeping back at the farmhouse, but there was no need. He asked for a bed and a small desk, a lamp to read at night, and nothing more. It was not a king's quarters, but it was much more comfortable than that. Because, from there, every night, he would gaze at the sky and find the deep dark sky adorned with stars a million, and fall asleep wishing to each one of them.

He could notice a smile forming at the end of his lips, before he quickly dispelled it and sat on the edge of his bed.

"If I want to protect this peace..."

He rubbed the start of his eyes, at the very top of his nose bridge. When he looked up, there was a much fiercer look on his face.

He took an item from his bag—

[Cloak of Indifference. While wearing this cloak, the user is similar to a background object to people that look. People side-eyeing the user will not remember their face once they walk away, and people concentrated on the user will see a face that slightly deviates from the user's.]

Thom put on the cloak over his shoulders, and pulled the hood over his head. He exited the barn with the least of noise he could make, and walked trough the field until he made his way to the gates of the farm. He opened it and closed it with a sigh, centering his sight on the road in front of him.

The farm belonging to the Abhan family was situated in a rural complex that could be easily seen from the walls of the central city of the Goldblack region— the city by the name of Pontya, governed by Duke Panal and the family of the Alleba.

Regardless of the decline of the Abhan's farm, the majority of the farmland around Pontya was greatly thriving. This was because over half of the farms were owned by the farmers who resided there and not by the duke, and as such they could enjoy a hundred percent of their produce, instead of having to hand over 80% of it to the duke. This served for them to sell at the markets, buy new stock, fertilizer, and other necessities for the farm, and the quality of ther products was greatly boosted. Merry and Marz hadn't been that lucky the last years of their life.

The road that connected the farms together was a wide one, enough that it could fit two carriages side to side and not have the mules feel cramped. This road only had a few deviations aside from the ones that took you to the farms, and these ones were all directed to an entry or an exit.

The central road, which eventually vanished into nothing and became prairie, was the biggest one of them all, as it was also connected to the main entrance to the city. Surrounding the road there wasn't only the rural life of farms, but also the slums that boasted of incredible poverty once one neared the city's walls.

For Thom, this was the safest path to take. However, it would mean a long travel from the farm towards the main road. Instead, the young man had been choosing to enter what the citizens would call the eastern gate, which was a usually closed at nights.

The gate would be opened every day after the sun had risen. The top edges of the gate were designed to fall into a encasing of sorts after it landed, to keep it from sliding into the river that flowed below it. It was more complicated than building a bridge— but also an advantage point in the situation of a siege. It also warded off criminals who wished to enter the cities at night, when it was most difficult to find them.

Regardless, Thom didn't have to worry about it.

He glanced at the guards standing at the top of the towers, who waited for a few seconds. Then, after seeing how Thom pulled a small golden coin from his bag and reflected the light of the moon on it's surface, they nodded. A minute later, the gate started to go down. It was surprisingly quiet for the size it boasted of, something everyone involved in this trade was relieved of.

After stepping on top of it, he handed the golden coin to the soldier who tilted his helmet in response.

"Good night, patron."

With the voice of the guard wishing him goodbye, Thom found his way into the city. The shadow at his back accompanied him like a wobbling undead, casted by the light that the torches amidst their burning fires emitted. He made his way trough the drunkards and the guardsmen, walking up the stairs of a tavern's porch, and arriving at it's door with a sigh.

When he entered, no curious eyes were pointed. Only the bartender smiled when he saw the waving cloak that had visited his tavern for the last week without a fault. If one had closely paid attention to the dealings of these men when looking at each other atop the bar's counter, that smile would have an apparent and obvious reason.

Thom smiled back, and sat on one of the high chairs. He pulled a bundle of coins, and tapped them on the table. For any onlooker the placing of three pieces of copper, indicating the cheapest drink that the tavern could offer, wasn't something weird to start a drinking night with. Yet, to the man at the other side of the counter that grabbed the coins with content, it was a special and rare trait.

"Same's always then, aye?" The man grunted in a fake but convincing sigh, and grabbed a cup from behind the counter. He poured a whole cup of a clean and pure looking beer, and a piece of paper to place it atop.

He put it on the counter in front of the cloaked stranger.

Thom opened his eyes in surprise. It wasn't the same beer he had gotten used to drink— no, this one was much more refined. The taste of alcohol could be felt even before it managed to touch his tongue whatsoever.

"Today's full o' good-news. A clean one on da house might suit it better."

He looked at the man, and silently took a sip of the beer. It was a strong and sour sensation that spread trough his mouth, but went down smoothly and refreshingly until the mug was empty.

"Puff..." He exhaled. "You've seen them then."

"A group o' five. Bulky, tall, hired thugs without doubt. Dunno how can these... Richmen hire 'em, nay. But ye've got business with them, so you might know. Whatever ya do with 'em, serves them right." The man scoffed lightly at the end of his sentence, and scratched his arms without a care.

"What do you think I want of them?"

"To pay this much fer information—" the man looked at the golden coin between the the two coppers "—Yer either one of Miel's men trynna dismantel a cartel, or one with a hefty revenge."

Thom smiled at the words of the barman. He didn't have the intention to refute him, neither to nod to his conjectures.

Who was the man named Miel in the region of Goldblack? The commander to all and every soldier that would stand their ground in battle— a fierce man with a gaze like an eagle and skill in swordsmanship to boot. He was renowned as one of the six greatest swordsmen in the Kingdom, and as one of the 8 possessors of a Dominative Skill in all of the continent.

An incredibly lucky, incredibly respected, and incredibly skilled man. Such person was serving under the direct jurisdiction of the duke of Goldblack, Panal Alleba. The full name of Miel, the commander, was Miel Alleba, and he was nephew to the duke.

This much information was easy to gather— it was also possible for Thom to gather that the man who assaulted him back at the prison was known as Chamgue Tothemharf, and was the chief of Blackgold's stationary guard division.

Thom couldn't possible serve under any of these men. But the barman, being a secondary actor to the play, wouldn't know that much. Then, it would seem as if the second option was much more asserted.

However, such was wrong too.

Thom wasn't searching for vengeance. After all, he had not yet been harmed by that band of thugs or the one that had hired them. This wasn't a reactive course of action, but a proactive decision by his side. If the bag that had been handed to him had enough power to end with the organization of thugs that terrorized the surrounding farming families, why not?

Why shouldn't I collaborate like I'd wanted someone to do back when I was in the same situation?

It was only normal to think that much.

"Are they in this city?" Thom asked.

"I heard 'em talkin' 'bout it. Their contractor's a highly reputable man. A small nobleman with a big ego, a boot-licker of the duke, or butt-licker, if ye may. Does some jobs for the duke here and there, lazes all day in his mansion, extorts some people, the usual."

"Is this public information?"

"Hehe, is it? Well, everybody acts like it's nobody's business. After a while ya learn t'do the same. If ya care to keep yo' head on your shoulders, that is. Got a family to keep. Vigilantes never end well."

I wonder if I can make that change. If I've come this far... If I've already killed this many people, what else is there to it? If I'll go down this hole, at least the blood on my hands won't be of good men.

"Then, could you give me a name?" Thom asked impatient as he started to fiddle with his fingers.

"I dunno man... Seems shady what you're doin'. If you get in trouble... Fingers may get pointed—"

"Then I'll buy your finest whiskey."

Without flinching, Thom placed ten golden coins on the counter. The man's eyes almost rolled put of their sockets, as he immediately pushed them inside the counter and threw them to the floor before people could see them.

"Ah! How clumsy! Sorry, I'll get that for ya, of course, of course."

Thom sighed as he looke around the bar after seeing that man's actions.

Ha... Is your safety less important once you've got gold on your hands?

Thom couldn't help but ponder about the real importance of such a thing. Would your life at some point have less value than a pair of pieces of metal? Before he could come with an answer of his own, he saw the barman hastily picking up the coins from the ground like an animal, and the image of his father came around. A pitiful look, there was no doubt of it, for a man dying a pitiful death.

The barman served him a shot of a finely branded whiskey bottle, ornate and intricately designed from it's bottom to it's neck. And when he finished pouring the shot and put the lid on the bottle, he whispered a name trough a smile.

"Piston Cavalle. A knight under the direct order of the duke."