“Status.”
A muted chime rang in his head. Lines of faint light pulled together, sketching a window into the air—shimmering, semi-translucent, waiting.
Status Window: Corinth von Caione
Race: Human
Title: Candidate
Hidden Title: Dragonslayer (Locked)
Trial Clears: 1
Gold: 350
Attributes
- Strength: 21
- Agility: 34
- Intelligence: 30
Skills
- Summon Weapon – 2%
- Burst Step – 37%
His eyes settled on the name.
Corinth von Caione.
He let it sit.
It felt right in the mouth, but meant nothing. A label for a stranger.
He skimmed past the common title, pausing on the one beneath it—grayed out, locked.
Dragonslayer.
A flicker behind his eyes. That corpse from the last trial, half-crushed beneath shattered armor—his own corpse.
Was that who I was?
He didn’t know. And until memory returned, speculation was useless. He moved on.
The attributes were next: Strength, Agility, Intelligence. Neatly packed. Too neat.
“Only three?” he muttered.
The window shimmered in response. As if reacting to his curiosity, the entries expanded—sliding downward with a soft pulse. More details unfurled, lines of clean text branching out beneath each quality.
Strength: Governs power, endurance, and physical resilience.
Agility: Governs speed, reflexes, coordination, and sensory awareness.
Intelligence: Governs spirit, thought, willpower, and the flow of mana.
He blinked. So that’s how it works.
No wasted words. No flair. Just structure—logical and direct, like the system knew he didn’t need hand-holding.
Everything’s bundled together. Efficient.
He didn’t dwell on the specifics. What mattered was that they weren’t static. Each trait fed into more than one part of him—his body, his mind, the way he moved.
Both skills floated beneath the attributes—Summon Weapon and Burst Step—each accompanied by a slim bar and a percentage. One read 2%, the other 37%.
He narrowed his eyes.
“Proficiency…?”
The meaning sank in without instruction. There were no levels. No flashy tiers. No branching choices to agonize over. Just progress—measured not in milestones, but in how far he’d come through use alone.
It felt honest—skills earned through use, not intent. If he stopped using them, they'd stagnate. If he pushed them, they'd evolve.
The bar wasn’t just a number. It was a mirror. A quiet record of effort.
So it’s not just about having the skill. It’s about mastering it.
He didn’t know where that thought came from. But it settled into place like something remembered.
Still, the thought gnawed at him.
Skills are useful, but relying too heavily on them could be dangerous. They won’t always be there when I need them...
He wasn’t a fool. Skills were tools, not crutches. And tools could break. He needed to be adaptable, to fight with what he had inside, not just what was given to him.
He dismissed the window with a faint sigh.
Better to trust my instincts... when I have them.
He stared at the bars for a moment longer, then let the window fade.
Corinth stepped back into the tavern’s lobby, the warm flicker of lamplight tracing gold across polished wood and stone. The air was thicker now—heat from bodies, scent of drink, the faint tang of something roasted. Most tables sat empty.
A voice called out.
“Hey, brooding statue. Over here.”
The elf sat behind the counter, one leg draped lazily over the rung of a stool. The sharp disdain she'd carried earlier was gone, replaced by a faint smirk and flushed cheeks. A glass dangled from her fingers, half-full with something silver-clear, and a nearly empty bottle stood guard beside her elbow.
She gave him a quick once-over, eyes flicking over his cleaner appearance.
“Huh. You actually look half-decent now. Didn't expect the ragged ghost routine to clean up so well.”
Corinth said nothing, but arched a brow. Her smirk widened.
“Don’t get cocky,” she added, setting the glass down with a clink. “I’ve just had enough to stop caring.”
She gestured vaguely at the corner of the room. There, sprawled in an awkward heap, was the Leviathan—limbs limp, mouth slightly open, tail twitching now and then.
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“Big guy tried to drink with me. Lasted two shots. Lightweight,” she muttered.
A quiet clink sounded beside her as the bottle nudged against her knuckle.
“The panther’s sipping milk,” she added with a scoff. “The rest scurried off to bed or vanished into shadows. This place’s dead.”
Corinth approached the counter, silent. His gaze moved from her to the glass, then to the bottle.
“Glass,” he said simply, directing the word at the automaton standing watch nearby.
The metallic attendant, precise and polished, stepped forward and placed a clean tumbler in front of him. Its eyes flickered a dull gold.
“Warning,” it intoned, voice smooth but edged with protocol. “Moonshine is a spirit typically favored by elves. Humans don’t particularly enjoy it.”
Corinth lifted the glass, uncaring. “We’ll see.”
He poured, watched the liquid catch the light, then downed it in one long, steady pull.
The automaton froze mid-step. The elf blinked.
“No grimace? No sputtering?” she leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Either that wasn’t your first drink, or you’re too numb to notice your insides burn.”
Corinth set the glass down, unaffected.
“Bit warm.”
The elf stared like he’d just bitten into molten steel and shrugged it off. She let out a surprised laugh, tipping back her own glass in reply. “Maybe I’m seeing you in a new light, human.”
He didn’t answer. But when she refilled his glass and nudged it toward him, he didn’t hesitate.
They drank through the quiet hours, the bottle between them growing lighter with each pour. The night thickened. For a while, the weight of survival faded behind the burn of drink and the strange comfort of company.
Corinth leaned back, glass still warm in his hand. His eyes flicked to hers, catching a brief stillness in her gaze. The fire's light danced across the surface of the bottle between them.
“…Corinth,” he said at last. “That’s my name.”
The elf blinked, as if startled that he’d shared anything at all. Her lips tugged into a crooked smile, one corner lifted higher than the other. She swirled the liquid in her glass, the silence stretching between them like an invisible thread.
“Elaris,” she replied, after a moment. “Didn’t take long to get there, huh?”
He gave a small nod. “Didn’t feel urgent.”
“Still isn’t,” she said, tipping her glass toward him. “But it’s good to have something solid. Even if it’s just a name.”
They drank again, slower this time. Not from caution—just the calm that settles in once the need to talk fades.
Elaris exhaled, eyes half-lidded now. “Corinth,” she murmured, testing the name like it had a flavor to it. “Sounds like someone who keeps standing after the world’s turned to ash.”
Corinth turned his glass slowly in his hand. “I wouldn’t know,” he said, voice low.
Elaris glanced at him, her expression unreadable. Then she let out a short laugh—soft, dry, a little bitter.
“I figured,” she said. “Thought I was alone in that.”
She leaned back, tilting her head toward the ceiling, eyes half-lidded.
“If I’d really died,” she said, “I expected to wake beneath the roots of the World Tree. Thought maybe the spirits would carry me home.” Her voice trailed off, not mournful, just matter-of-fact. “Instead, I got… this.”
She gestured loosely at the tavern around them, at the stone and timber and flickering lamps. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Corinth gave a small nod. “Some afterlife.”
Elaris smirked. “Depends on the drink.”
Their glasses clicked softly, the silence between them now familiar.
Then—
whir — click — hiss
The automaton behind the counter stirred, head tilting slightly as it stepped closer. Its brass faceplate gleamed dully in the hearthlight.
“You are not dead,” it said, voice smooth, almost conversational. “Your vitals are functional. You are very much alive.”
Corinth’s gaze shifted. Elaris raised an eyebrow.
A low rumble of a sigh came from the next stool over. The panther therianthrope—tall and lithe, her sleek frame cloaked in dark fur patterned like drifting smoke—was hunched over a shallow bowl of milk. Golden eyes flicked their way, unimpressed.
“Well, that’s a relief,” the feline drawled dryly, licking milk off his whiskers. “I was beginning to question the taste of this drink.”
Elaris smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Then what are we?” she asked, her tone no longer playful. “Why have we been brought here?”
The automaton’s eyes flickered once. “You are… candidates… for—”
A sharp buzz cut through its sentence. The lights in its eyes dimmed.
“…can… didates… divinity—”
zzkt
Its voice warped and broke, lines of speech tumbling into static. A low, uneven whirring filled the moment. Then it straightened, and the brightness returned to its eyes.
“Drinks are two gold,” it said cheerfully, gesturing to the bottle.
Silence.
Corinth and Elaris exchanged a glance. The easy mood between them fractured, replaced by a shared unease. Her earlier smirk had vanished, her expression sharpening with something almost wary.
“Candidates for divinity?” she echoed under her breath. “What in the name of the moon does that mean?”
The therianthrope snorted, finishing the last of her milk in one long sip.
“If this is some kind of divine trial,” she muttered, “the gods have a strange sense of humor.”
Corinth didn’t reply. He simply stared at the automaton, eyes narrowing.
“Tch,” Elaris exhaled sharply, tilting her head back. “Mood ruined.”
She tossed the last of her drink down her throat and set the glass on the counter with a soft clink. “Just when I was starting to enjoy myself.”
The automaton seemed to respond to her tone.
“If you wish to rest,” it said, voice regaining that polished courtesy, “there are quarters prepared upstairs. Simply choose any unoccupied room.”
Corinth glanced toward the stairs, then at the quiet hall. Most had already vanished to their rooms. Only the faint sound of snoring—presumably from the leviathan slumped in the corner—filled the silence now.
Elaris leaned on her elbow, eyes still fixed on the automaton. “You break down in the middle of a sentence and expect us to sleep easy after that?”
The automaton’s head twitched faintly, as if parsing the words, but it gave no reply.
The panther therianthrope let out a long breath through his nose. “I’ll take my chances with a bed,” she muttered, rising with a stretch and tail curling lazily behind her. “Milk was decent, at least.”
She padded away, steps silent despite her size.
Elaris stayed seated a moment longer before pushing herself up.
“Well, I’m not sleeping on this stool,” she muttered, brushing a silver strand behind her ear. Her voice softened slightly as she glanced Corinth’s way. “You coming, or going to try your luck with the creepy bartender?”
Corinth gave the automaton a final glance. Its brass face was unreadable, frozen in place. That earlier stutter—it hadn’t been mechanical. It had been restrained. Held back.
He rose, his chair scraping quietly across the wood.
“I’ll come.”
Elaris smirked, half amused. “Let’s hope the sheets aren’t cursed.”
They ascended the stairs together, steps light and quiet. Behind them, the fire crackled low… and the automaton’s eyes glinted faintly once more.