"The Silent Ascension"

The small mirror in my shack was cracked and clouded, but it told me everything I needed to know. My reflection stared back at me, sharp and hollow. Dark brown hair that never laid flat no matter how I tried to tame it, a jawline that might've looked strong if it weren't bruised on the left side, and eyes that could've been bright once, if life hadn't dulled them to a tired shade of hazel.

I stood a few inches shorter than most of the people in Fort Varen—not so short as to draw laughter, but enough that Bryn and his cronies made jokes about it when they were bored. My shoulders weren't broad like theirs, either, and my frame was thin enough that every rib threatened to show. Living in the slums didn't give you much of an opportunity to bulk up, not when you were rationing what little you had to last the week.

The scars didn't help. A small one across my cheekbone from a shard of broken glass in a fight I didn't want. Another just below my hairline from when a particularly nasty shopkeeper decided throwing rocks was an acceptable answer to scavengers. Those were the kinds of marks you carried in the slums—not the proud scars of adventurers who had conquered dungeons, but the kind that said, I've survived… barely.

My clothes were worse off than me. A patched-up shirt that hung loose around my chest, held together by a mix of worn thread and sheer determination. The pants weren't much better—mud-stained and torn at the knees, rolled at the ankles so I didn't trip on the fabric that used to belong to someone taller. My boots were the only thing keeping me on my feet, and even they were cracked and mismatched, one lace replaced with a strip of cloth.

I leaned closer to the mirror, studying my reflection. There was nothing remarkable about me. I looked exactly like what I was: a nobody. A face no one would remember. Maybe that was a good thing. In Fort Varen, being invisible was often the only thing keeping you alive.

---

I stepped out into the alleys of the slums, the early morning sun casting long shadows across the uneven streets. The heat hadn't kicked in yet, and for now, the air was just cool enough to make you forget how suffocating it would feel by midday.

The city of Fort Varen sprawled in every direction, a mishmash of stone walls and wooden beams that seemed to lean into each other for support. The Great Wall loomed in the distance, its towering silhouette a constant reminder of the line that separated us from the wild lands beyond. Closer, the sharp spires of the guilds' buildings pierced the sky, casting their long shadows over everything below.

The slums, of course, lay in those shadows. Always in the shadows.

I kept my head down as I walked, avoiding eye contact with anyone who passed. The streets were already busy with people, most of them looking just as ragged as me. Women hauled buckets of water from the wells, their faces lined with exhaustion. Children darted between stalls, their hands quick and their faces blank as they pocketed bread or fruit. A man with a crooked nose yelled at a butcher, waving a knife around like it would change the price of the meat.

It was chaos, but it was familiar chaos.

My stomach growled, a sharp reminder that Bryn had taken what little food I'd managed to gather yesterday. I clenched my fists at the memory, my nails digging into my palms. I hated feeling like this—weak, helpless, angry without a way to do anything about it. But there was no use dwelling on it now. I needed to find something to eat, and I wasn't about to let Bryn win by starving to death.

---

The market was loud and crowded, the smell of fish and sweat and stale bread filling the air. Merchants shouted over each other, advertising their goods with exaggerated claims. I slipped through the throng of people, my eyes scanning the stalls for anything I could afford—or steal, if it came to that.

I hated stealing. Not because it was wrong—I'd long since stopped caring about what was right or wrong in this city—but because it was risky. If you got caught, the best you could hope for was a beating. The worst? Well, I'd seen people lose fingers, hands, even their lives for less.

Still, desperation had a way of silencing caution.

I spotted a stall selling apples, the fruit piled high in a wooden crate. The merchant was busy arguing with a customer, his attention elsewhere. I hesitated, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. My heart raced as I reached for one of the apples, my fingers brushing against the smooth skin.

"Touch that, and I'll break your hand," a voice growled.

I froze, my head snapping up to see the merchant glaring at me. He was a large man, his arms thick with muscle and his face set in a permanent scowl. I let go of the apple and took a step back, raising my hands in surrender.

"Sorry," I mumbled, my face burning with shame.

"Go beg somewhere else, Talentless," he spat, turning back to his customer.

I walked away quickly, my fists clenched and my jaw tight. The word hit me like a slap every time I heard it. Talentless. It wasn't just an insult—it was a brand, a reminder of what I was. Or rather, what I wasn't.

---

I spent the rest of the morning wandering the outskirts of the city, searching for anything I could trade or sell. The area near the Dungeon entrances was always a gamble. Sometimes you'd find broken weapons or discarded gear left behind by adventurers too busy—or too injured—to carry everything back with them. Other times, you'd find nothing but bloodstains and the lingering stench of death.

The Dungeons themselves were off-limits to me. Not officially—anyone could enter if they were brave or stupid enough—but practically. Without a Talent, stepping into a Dungeon was as good as walking into your own grave.

Still, I couldn't help but feel a pull toward them, a strange curiosity that I couldn't quite explain. Maybe it was the stories I'd heard as a child, tales of brave warriors and cunning mages who had emerged from the Dungeons with treasures beyond imagination. Or maybe it was just the faint hope that there was something out there for me, something that could change my fate.

I stood at the edge of the clearing, staring at the dark mouth of the nearest Dungeon. The air around it was heavy, almost oppressive, and I could feel the weight of it pressing against my chest.

I took a step closer, the urge to move forward tugging at me. My instincts screamed at me to turn back, but something else—something deeper—kept me rooted to the spot.

For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to be one of those adventurers. To have power, real power. To walk into a place like this and come out stronger, richer, untouchable.

But then reality crashed back down, and I turned away.

Power wasn't for people like me. At least, not yet.

As I walked back toward the city, the wind shifted, carrying with it the faint sound of something deeper within the Dungeon. A low hum, almost like a whisper, just loud enough to make me stop in my tracks.

I glanced back over my shoulder, my heart pounding.

But there was nothing there.

Not yet.