In the western reaches of the Buchert Kingdom lay Cesecity, the realm’s largest industrial hub.

Thanks to steam engines booming in recent years, coal prices soared—and so did Cesecity’s economy. But the city’s environment grew fouler by the day.

Factories dotted the outskirts. Thick black smoke rose from chimneys, jostling shoulder-to-shoulder in the sky until merging into vast, suffocating clouds that swallowed the Sunblast whole, draping Cesecity in perpetual gloom.

No more clear skies or overcast days—only endless night. Wind couldn’t scatter the haze; rain couldn’t wash it away. The black clouds clung to the heavens like a stubborn leech. Many residents hadn’t glimpsed the Sunblast in decades.

Today, the Sunblast finally peeked through. A single shaft of light pierced the ink-black clouds, spilling into a Cesecity alleyway like a stage spotlight—illuminating a young man and woman.

Sadly, they weren’t lovers. Such romance would’ve been unforgettable in old age. Worse, in broad daylight, the man pinned the woman beneath him.

The tall youth froze, face flushed, staring at the tearful girl beneath him. Her wide, innocent eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

He braced one hand against the ground, the other resting lightly on her flat, soft stomach—keeping his weight off her.

Her waist-length golden hair fanned across the cobblestones, blazing under the sunlight. Her hands trembled faintly against her chest. Mist clouded her emerald eyes. Her pointed ears drooped in fear. Warm breath escaped her parted lips, brushing his cheek.

The soft warmth beneath his palm, the floral scent teasing his nose—he nearly forgot where he was. Her beauty left the poor virgin boy spellbound. Only when a trembling whisper reached his ears did he snap back: *"P-please... spare me."*

Witt fumbled to his feet, brushing dust off his palms. Panic flickered in his dark eyes. He offered a hand. "My deepest apologies, fair lady. This was entirely unintentional."

---

This began hours earlier—or perhaps much before.

In this world of swords and sorcery, the gifted awakened their Vocation at twelve, mastering skills and unlocking innate talents throughout life.

The untalented remained ordinary.

But exceptions existed. Alchemists crafted Vocation Scrolls—forcing commoners into warrior roles. Yet these artificial warriors could never awaken innate talents.

The Buchert Kingdom mass-produced such fighters. True masters, however, forged rarer Scrolls: Mage, Archer, Rogue. These were exorbitantly priced—and nearly impossible to find.

Witt, a Blackiron Rank mage, surpassed most commoners. Yet his heart yearned elsewhere.

Since childhood, he’d endured brutal physical training. Even after awakening as a mage at twelve, he never stopped. His dream? To be a warrior who could charge through armies—not a mage timidly lobbing fireballs behind shield walls.

At seventeen, Witt possessed strength rivaling Bronze Rank warriors. Even Scroll-made Bronze fighters struggled to best him head-on. But without combat skills, he’d never match true warriors.

He craved a Warrior Scroll. Unwilling to enlist yet, he took Adventurer Guild quests for coin.

His plan: save five gold coins to buy a Warrior Scroll in the capital.

For half a year, he’d lived by the edge of his blade, scraping together three gold coins and spare change.

Then—the Guild posted a quest: *Eradicate the goblin tribe in the western forests near Cesecity. Reward: One Warrior Scroll.*

A fool’s errand. The journey alone—from the Guild’s eastern outpost to Cesecity—took nearly a month. Most adventurers were Vocation-holders who avoided such risks.

But Witt grinned like a kid on New Year’s morning. Ignoring stares that called him an idiot, he snatched the quest slip and raced westward, heart soaring.

---

A month later, Witt finally stood before Cesecity—ready to carve his legend.

The city flaunted its wealth shamelessly. Even Witt, who’d seen much, gaped at the multi-story walls and towers piercing above them. "Damn," he muttered. "Cesecity’s folks really *are* loaded."

He strode toward the gate, seeking an inn—when a robed figure blocked his path.

Witt frowned. "Can I help you?"

The hunched figure seemed ancient. A hood shadowed his face, revealing only eerie green eyes. A pale hand emerged, pointing at a tattered notice plastered on the wall: *Entry Fee: 1 Silver Coin.*

Witt eyed the queue behind him. Suspicious, but compliant, he pulled coins from his pouch—gold and silver glinting—and handed over one silver piece.

The robed man’s gaze snagged on the gold. Greed flashed, then vanished. He pocketed the coin, stepped aside, and waved Witt through with a bony hand.

Humming, Witt passed through the gate. Behind him, the next traveler fumbled for his coin—only to find the robed man and notice gone. Several ragged figures in the queue slipped away unnoticed. The crowd dispersed, grumbling.

Minutes later, fresh guards arrived, shouting: "Queue up! Entry fee: one copper coin!"

But Witt was already gone—blissfully unaware.