Grone pushed open the restaurant door, stepping out into the bustling street. Tyler followed close behind, his eyes darting around, taking in the other hunters. His system, ever vigilant, displayed their levels as text boxes above their heads. He did a double-take at one familiar hunter—a level 62. It was Gary. Gary was a "level 62"? The surprise was fleeting, however, as Grone abruptly changed direction, gesturing towards a building constructed of brown bricks. The building was a two-floor structure, unremarkable except for the inscription above the door. Tyler stared at it, surprised. The words "Rank Assessment Building" were clearly visible, yet they weren't written in any language he recognized. They were more like stylized scribbles, a completely alien script. And yet, he understood them perfectly. He muttered to himself, "Is this... the Rank Assessment Building?" Grone, beside him, nodded. "Yes," he said, "We should go in." The door creaked open under Grone's hand, revealing th

Tyler pointed towards the distant houses. "Is that the place we're supposed to go?"Grone looked, then leaned back against the bench. "No. That's Lyria. It's one of the villages near the Crossroads base. It just means we're close. Don't worry, we're be going straight to town, Just rest up. We're getting close." Grone closed his eyes again. Tyler looked down, lost in thought.His clothes were dirty, and he thought about his crafting skills. He had crafted armor once—chest armor, to be precise—though the system classified it as regular clothing. That was when he first arrived in this world. Given his ability to craft weapons and armor, why wouldn't he make shoes? He wasn't sure. He looked up and quietly muttered, "Status."SPECIES: HumanNAME: Tyler EvansRANK: G LVL: 4CLASS: CraftsmanHP: 37/37 MP: 33/33STR: 22 AGI: 15 DEF: 39STATUS: HealthySkills: Armour Craft, Weapon CraftHe hadn't checked his status in a while. Seeing it now, he considered becoming a hunter like Grone. Then he

Hector Dry used Skill: Reinforcement. The system immediately displayed a text box above him. The sword in his hand instantly began to darken, a black wave spreading from the hilt to the tip. A sharp, metallic scent filled the air. Hector Dry looked at Tyler, a strange glint in his eyes. "And that, kid," he said, tossing the sword to Tyler, "Is how you make a sword."Tyler caught the weapon. "You see that whetstone?" Hector Dry asked, pointing to a white stone on the floor. "I need you to grind this until it's razor sharp. The edges are sharp, but they're still blunt. Sharpen both sides—it's double-edged."Tyler examined the sword, his amazement palpable. The silver blade felt intensely warm, almost hot, yet it hadn't burned his hands. Now, as Hector had used his reinforcement skill to change its color, it was black. Hefting it by the hilt, he moved toward the whetstone. Suddenly, a jolt of electricity surged through him, blue sparks erupting from his hands like miniature lightning str

Near the edge of town, a substantial building stood, its sturdy frame a blend of dark-stained wood and red brick, the whole structure freshly painted in a crisp white and deep maroon that contrasted sharply. Inside, the Hunter's Guild hummed with a controlled energy. Hunters, some weary, some eager, occupied tables scattered across the large hall; the air thrummed with the low murmur of conversation and the clinking of tankards. Behind long, polished wooden counters, Guild staff moved with practiced efficiency, attending to the various needs of the hunters. One hunter in particular commanded attention. Clad in polished black plate armor, the metal gleaming faintly under the hall's dim lighting, he sat alone at a table near the back. The armor itself was intricately detailed, with a fearsome dragon's head, jaws agape in a silent snarl, emblazoned across his chest and back. A simple, yet clearly visible, D-rank necklace hung around his neck. His dark black hair, pulled back in a tight b

The rising sun cast long shadows as a carriage, resplendent in its red and white livery, with gleaming polished wood and a small, curtained window, moved through Viridia's main road. Inside, Dean White, the nobleman who ruled their town, sat ramrod straight, his expression unreadable. Two powerful horses, their coats gleaming, pulled the carriage, flanked by guards whose impassive faces reflected years of service. The market, usually a cacophony of sounds and activity, fell strangely silent as the carriage approached. A hush descended, broken only by the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves and the hushed whispers of the onlookers. "It's Lord Dean White," someone breathed, the words spreading like wildfire. "He's back." Some faces registered surprise, a mixture of awe and apprehension. Others, however, tightened with barely concealed anger. "He's back," they thought, the resentment palpable. Though often absent at the kingdom, Lord Dean White's rule over Veridia was absolute. His infrequent v