Skillweaver: Jack of all Trades (A Skill-Merging LitRPG Adventure)

[IronLung]

He didn't pick a Class. He broke the System.

In Elyndra, everyone chooses a Class. It's the only way to survive the tower of Ark — a place where monsters evolve, floors constantly change, and only the strong climb.

But once every century, the System tags one person with a glitch: [Skillweaver]. A mythical class that can combine abilities from any path, rewriting the rules of combat, magic, and growth.

Most think it's a legend.

Until Jack Calder shows up with no class, no party, and skills that no one can explain.

He's not here to follow the System.

He's here to tear it apart.

 

[IronLung]

Through the burning trees of his home, Jack ran.

Behind him he could hear the padding footsteps of those who pursued him, their hands and bodies still awash with the blood of his slain people.

Everything had become a blur the second he'd made the choice to flee the massacre. What had once been his home – the only place he'd ever truly known on this earth – had vanished in merely a few seconds at the hands of those who'd invaded it. His flight from the invaders had cost him his left eye, but he ignored the pain emanating from its still bleeding socket.

Pain is an illusion of the senses, he told himself. Pain is just physical. That's all.

His mind didn't have time to do much else. With his rusted spear he thrust with all his strength at the tree branches that whipped at him as he ran, scattering them behind in an attempt to trip up his pursuers.

He knew they'd be upon him before long. He knew time was running out – fast.

And the worst part was that he wasn't even sure where he was running. In the world of Elyndra – wracked by war, famine, and twisted Cult worship – perhaps nowhere was safe.

Something pierced the air behind him and he turned just in time to see an arrow fly from the wall of hellfire he'd left behind. He rolled out of the way of the projectile, barely just managing to avoid the arrow's tip, and then found that the ground gave out beneath him. His reaching foot failed to make purchase on the edge of the forest cliff, and he realized that he'd run much further than he'd thought.

With a curse he tumbled into a boggy ditch that he hadn't seen coming, leaving him covered with mud, dirt and grime. He sputtered, coughed up spume, and then slowly rose to begin his sprint for life again.

Only this time, he was met by a forest of amber eyes.

He regained his balance carefully, gulping as he met the eyes that were staring out at him from the darkness of the brush and brambles. He counted at least a dozen of them blinking at him, and he was under no illusions about what their intention was.

Slowly, the creatures to whom those eyes belonged stalked forth from their hiding places – each one baring salivating teeth that practically dripped with the desire to rend his flesh from his bones.

A pack of hungry wolves had found him, each one of them appraising him as little more than a piece of meat.

From behind, he no longer heard the hurried footsteps of his assailants. It seemed that they were content to watch him simply be eaten alive by the very creatures he and his fellow woodsmen used to hunt in these parts of the Grenbelm forest.

Jack kept his one good eye locked on the wolves, feeling his every muscle tense as he tried to keep them in range. In his right hand, he held his spear. In his left – nothing at all. If he allowed any one of them to get behind him…

There shall be no escape, Jack Calder.

Sweat beaded on his hairy brow. That voice was one he'd heard before – the one that had spoken in the minds of every villager when…when the massacre had begun.

The sacrifice shall be accepted.

His chest began to pound directly at the spot where they'd branded him. His every limb felt suddenly stiff, and unresponsive.

You know that there is nowhere for you to run.

He knew what the intention of that voice was – to keep him down. To make him lay down his arms and accept the ragged, fanged death that was slowly coming for him.

But instead, he gripped his worn weapon with even more intensity.

In response, the wolves hurled a collective snarl of rage in his face. The pack was closing the distance between him and them. They were closing it fast.

Still, you resist? The voice murmured in his brain. No human can stand against us.

Jack gripped his spear, licked the blood that was running down his face, and snarled right back.

"I'm not a regular human, anymore."

From his right flank, a wolf leaped, baring its claws and fangs as it trailed through the bushes towards him.

In response, he brought his spear to bear and, knowing that the rest of the pack would take this chance to flank him, activated something special.

Concentrate, he thought. Just like it said in the legends…

He felt something he'd never felt before bulge through his muscles. From the tips of his fingers, a trickle of embers began to jump onto the shaft of his spear, climbing up towards its rusted tip. It happened in the space of a second – the wolf didn't even notice it was happening.

But Jack did. He felt the fire burning within him. It was like another soul was getting ready to burst through his body, cracking open every vein to spill itself out into the world. But it was restrained, held back by the sheer will to survive that existed within Jack's mind.

And with this will, he struck.


Skillweave Activated!

[Infernal Spear]

[Pyromancy Spell Effect (Firebolt)] + [Spear]

Effect: 10 pts FIRE DMG + 5 pts spear DMG

10% chance to cause a [BURN] effect.


The wolf's eyes went wild as it was impaled on the tip of his spear and then felt a gout of fire burst forth from the weapon's tip. Its chest was torn apart – a great flaming hole punched clean through its hide, exposing its charred insides to the rest of the pack before Jack let it fall to the ground with a wet thud.

He turned towards the others as two more launched themselves at him, both spurred on by the death of their comrade.

This time, he let the basic [Firebolt] spell fly from his left hand, singing one wolf and causing it to double over in pain as the [Burn] effect took hold. The other one, meanwhile, closed the distance faster and managed to get on top of Jack before he could bring his spear to bear against it.

Jack thrashed on the ground with the creature, noting that it kept its left paw on his spear-arm to prevent him from lifting his weapon.

Only then did he notice the third eye burned into the middle of the creature's forehead – the slitted eye sigil framed by a ring of tears.

The mark of the cult.

That told him these were no ordinary wolves. And it made no sense to hold back against them.

The pack howled in delight as they saw their prey pinned down. They made to move towards him for a killing blow, and would have succeeded if the light of a dazzling sun hadn't appeared in the left hand of the man who was currently grappling with their brother in the dirt.

The wolf trying to snap its jaws down on Jack suddenly gave a yelp as his fist, coated in a gauntlet of pure, living flame, smashed right through the side of its jaw.


Skillweave Activated!

[Flaming Fist]

[Unarmed Strike] + [Pyromancy Spell Effect (Firebolt)]

Effect: 2 pts unarmed DMG + 10 pts FIRE DMG

10% Chance to cause a [STAGGER] effect


The wolf recoiled, its claws scratching at its crisping, burning jaw. Jack didn't give it a chance to recover. With a single step forward, he took his spear in both hands and thrust it down in a mercy stroke that ended the frenzied creature's life.

Then, he turned his attention back to the pack.

He felt more blood trickle down his cheeks, felt his heart beat wildly in his branded chest, heard his mind tell him that he needed to shut down. It was over. He couldn't beat them all.

But his instincts were telling him something different. He looked into the eyes of the wolf pack and saw fear, now. Apprehension. He needed to break through them. To run. To live. To survive. He couldn't go back to the decimated village.

And so, with a cry of rage, he surged forward.

One wolf lunged at him while another attempted to circle behind. He pierced the heart of the first one with a single strike and twisted the blade, then met the attack of the other with another [Flaming Fist] that punctured its throat and sent the beast flying right into the already burning trees behind. Another managed to latch its teeth on to his bare foot and sink its jaws down into his soft, bruised flesh. With a shriek of pain, he ended that creature's life with a single spear strike right through the middle of its forehead.

For the next hour, he cleaved through every single wolf that tried to take him on. His Skillweaves gave him the edge he needed, even though he knew that he had to keep them on the backburner in case he ran out of Essence too quickly. Those wolves he didn't kill outright he let escpae – he let the hounds run, tails between their legs, right back to their masters. [Firebolts] singed their fur and burnt their flesh. Their teeth found his flesh more than once – tearing through his basic leather armor and puncturing the bulging muscles beneath. But for every bite he received, he bit right back. His spear ripped through the hides of his Lycan enemies and pierced their hearts. After a while, pure instinct began to take over. The process of his bloody drive through the forest became mechanical. He became an engine of crimson destruction that carved through the forest until, finally, he appeared at its edge.


HP: 3/30

EP: 0/30


Ding! Spear Proficiency Increased from 1 -> 10

Spear DMG Increased! (x2)

Ding! Pyromancy Proficiency Increased from 1 -> 5

Pyromancy DMG Increased

Ding! Unarmed Combat Proficiency Increased from 1 -> 8

Unarmed Combat DMG Increased!


He watched the System notifications go up without uttering a single word. His face, caked in mud, blood, and claw marks, beheld the increases in his aptitude with a kind of blaze detachment.

The irony wasn't lost on him. That he was the one who was now among the Classes of Elyndra…that he was the Skillweaver, of all things…

Perhaps the Gods had a sense of humor, after all.

His whole body was like a pinnacle weighing him down. He dropped to his knees, using the shaft of his now busted spear to steady himself. He couldn't let sleep take hold of him. Not now.

He hadn't wanted any of this. He hadn't wanted a lot of things…

…But this was the hand that fate had dealt him. The only question was, what could he now do with it?

He thought bitterly about the death of the village. About how it had come about. About who was to blame…and he felt his teeth begin to grind themselves apart at the mere thought. He knew that thinking about what had happened wouldn't change it. That only action could do that, now.

And that was when he saw it.

He looked up into the darkness of Elyndra's starless skies and saw the one thing that sparkled out there on the horizon. The jewel that sat in the middle of all this violence and pain that blanketed the world.

The tower. Ark.

And that's when his mind began working overtime.

He couldn't take his chances in any of the neighboring villages. Nor could he risk going for help in the Kingdoms of Arland or the Aurochs. They were both at war. Had been for at least the last century. And anywhere he went, the people would shun him because of what he now was. They'd band together and hunt him down just as the cult had.

No – he couldn't make a life for himself out there in the hopeless world of Elyndra. But there was somewhere he could go, somewhere that couldn't turn him away. Somewhere he could learn exactly how to harness his newfound powers and grow stronger.

His eyes ran up the white-gold marble of the tower in the distance. All he had to do was grow strong enough to make it to its peak. All he had to do was get up there…

…and then all of this will have never even happened.

This sudden thought caused him to rise abruptly. No longer was he listening to the aches and pains that coursed through him. No longer was he even aware of the wounds that, if not treated soon, would claim his life.

Instead, his eyes were fixated on that tower in the darkness. That shining star that could fix every mistake he'd ever made. He held on to that sight as he put one foot in front of the other, slowly making his way down the hill towards the city that lay at the tower's foundation.

He vowed, then and there, that he'd do what no class ever had: he'd challenge Ark. He'd apply everything he knew about the Classes of Elyndra to beat every floor. He'd take every single skill he could from the uncaring Gods that ruled this world and he'd spit in their faces as he destroyed every monster they set against him.

He was the Skillweaver now. And that meant no more mistakes. No more guilt. He'd never allow himself a single misstep or regret ever again. He wouldn't let anyone stand between him and restoring everything he'd lost tonight. It didn't matter who set themselves against him.

He'd fight them. And he'd win.

…

From above the burning trees of the Grenbelm forest, a set of watchful eyes belonging to a pair of hooded figures tracked Jack as he lumbered away from the forest's edge.

"It's him, alright," one of them said – a young woman with a voice that was like a steel quill being scraped across oak. "You called it right, Master Jung. The Skillweaver was here all along. And it looks like he's heading towards Ark."

The speaker made a move as if to cast a spell at the fleeing man. But she was blocked by the raised hand of the one she called Master.

Master Jung did not meet the questioning gaze of his apprentice. Instead, he telepathed the musing he was currently having:

The first beat of a wing must be allowed to happen.

His newest apprentice did not pretend to understand what this truly meant. But before she could interject, the face of her Master turned towards her. And what she saw within his hood silenced her completely.

Five eyes set along the left-hand side of his face blinked back at her. And one of them – the newest – belonged to Jack Calder.

"Patience, Sister Vesper," he said aloud. "The Skillweaver believes he has escaped our reach. But in truth, he shall soon deliver himself right to our doorstep."

 

[IronLung]

---Three Days Later---

--Arkona, Central Elyndra Plains--


He arrived in darkness, and in rain.

He walked alone, a dark cloak covering his broad shoulders, his heavy boots knocking against the cobblestone path that led into the city of Arkona.

The guards at the stone watch towers that flanked the city gate saw him approach. They hailed him, asking what business he had to attend to here.

They asked him half-jokingly, for they knew why he'd come. They knew why any traveler came to these parts.

But when he looked up and fixed them with his one good eye, all laughter stopped in their throats.

"The tower," was all he said.

They let him through without another word, and he walked through the city streets, paying little heed to the rowdy adventurers hanging around outside the tavern, nor most of the merchants setting up their stalls nearby.

He walked right up to only one of them – a stout, elderly man by the name of Gallus – and stopped before his meager weapon's stall.

"Eh, anything I can get you, mate?" Gallus asked warily.

The stranger nodded at the array of weapons behind the vendor's back. "A spear."

From the look on Gallus's face, it was like he'd seen a ghost. He nodded once, producing a few different polearms, halberds, and spears for his newest, dark-toned customer.

The stranger pointed to one of them – a shorter Iklwa of [Uncommon] quality. It was the best the old blacksmith had.

"Ever since the party of Sir Gaius went upstairs," he explained sheepishly. "I ain't got much in the way of fresh blades. Maybe I can –"

"How much?"

The words caught old Gallus by surprise.

"Eh, fifty Gald."

The stranger grunted.

"How about 40, and I give your store a personal endorsement to my fellow Climbers?"

Old Gallus scoffed. "Listen, son, if you think I haven't heard that line before, you're in for a surprise. Last lad that came here and thought he had a 'special' Class turned out to be just a [Vagrant] with a silver tongue, nothing more! Tried to tell me the Gods had given him some special secret class. My ass! I'll accept 47 Gald and not a penny le-"

Suddenly, the stranger reached out and palmed the arm of the merchant – a gesture that all the townsfolk who were watching nearby knew almost intrinsically. It was the way one Climber identified their [Class] to another.

And from the way Gallus was practically shaking, what he'd just seen must have been something impossible.

"B-but that's-" he mumbled.

"Forty Gald," the Stranger repeated. "And I'll give your shop my personal recommendation."

Nobody saw if the stranger smiled when he said this, but Gallus began nodding his head like some puppet on loose strings.

"Alright," he said. "I think I can accept that…"

The stranger deposited his Gald in Gallus's hands and then walked away briskly, hefting his new weapon over his shoulder and leaving the Blacksmith in disbelief.

"Hey, old Gallus?" one young [Baker] barked as he left. "Who was that guy?"

Gallus looked at the coins in his hands in disbelief. He couldn't hide the smile that had crept onto his face.

"Someone we're all gonna know sooner or later," he said.

Rain continued splashing on the cobblestones of the city as the morning drew on, and those adventurers who hadn't drank their wounds and woes away in The Tipsy Troll or the Fluttering Fishmaiden taverns made ready to commence their daily grind.

Before them all, in the very center of the city, rose the great Ark – the white-gold tower that pierced the heavens and, some said, actually ended within the realm of the Gods themselves. Built to test the faithful, and the worthy – for the legend known to all people of Arkona was that he who challenged the tower and reached the peak of its tenth floor would be granted a single wish: anything their heart desired.

Adventurers had come from all over to this place – the birthplace of their glory – and tried their luck with the threats within. Some had gone away with great treasures – strange, alien artifacts that could bend the laws of reality themselves. Others had found weapons of all stripes, and armor that they sold on the Black Market across Arkona. Most, however, had found nothing but despair. Ark giveth, and Ark taketh. Most of the time, entering the great tower meant one thing for certain: death.

So, when the new spear-wielding adventurer entered the Guild of Ascension and asked for official System Verification to register as a Tower-Climber, the spectacled Elven clerk who greeted him treated him like any other newbie.

"Welcome!" she chirped, brushing a thread of crimson hair out of her eyes. "I'm Stephanie, and I'll be your Guild Receptionist today."

In response, the stranger simply nodded.

A quiet one, Stephanie thought, her Elvish eyes quickly running up and down the man. He's a little older than most. Maybe around 25. Gruff and…not entirely unattractive for a human guy. Makes a change from all those hyped-up youngsters we get nowadays, I guess…

"Just fill in this form," she said cheerfully, handing him a thin sheet of paper. "Sign here, here, and…here. Oh, and please remember to read over subsection B5, the part regarding your safety and possessions once inside Ark itself. We cannot be held legally responsible for any loss of weapons, armor, limb, or your mental stability when you traverse the inner floors. Subsection C4 also stipulates that –"

Before she finished her usual spiel, the new adventurer had already handed her back the form fully filled out.

"Done," he said simply.

She twitched her ears and blinked twice. In the air, she could sense the essence of faint magical energy.

A spell of Deft Hands? she thought. She looked at the strange, cloaked adventurer with new eyes now, desperate to [Appraise] him just to satisfy her curiosity.

No, she thought. That would be against Guild regulations. But…still. How did he cast that spell without me even seeing him do it?

She nodded once, politely.

"This looks all above-board," she said with a smile, checking over the papers and seeing nothing out of the ordinary at first glance. "Now, we'll just mark you as a [Bronze] adventurer. In case you aren't familiar with our Ranking system, your rank will remain [Bronze] until you clear level 1. Then you'll progress to [Silver] until level 3, [Gold] till level 5, and [Celestial]", she added with a scoff of disbelief, "if you manage to reach level 8. That's the highest anyone's ever gone."

The stranger nodded, accepting her hand and the bronze rune she etched into his palm.

"You'll have access to all our [Bronze] level services here at the Guild for now. If you're ever in need of Recall potions, Brunhilde, our resident alchemist, can help you stock up. Now, if you'd like to buy some preliminary equipment, I'd recommend –"

She froze. Her eyes had just glided over the [Class] of the stranger.

A solid lump formed in her throat. Her mind fumbled, trying to find new words…

"I'll head in with what I've got," the stranger said. "Heard there's plenty of basic loot on the first floor. Thanks for the tips."

He hefted his spear over his shoulder and turned to walk back outside without any fanfare.

"Wait! I - ah - sir?"

He halted at the doorway.

"I - I must make you aware of your Class's Foil," she said, clearing her throat and trying to maintain a professional air. "As you may know, all Classes have a drawback. [Elementalist] Magi cannot utilize melee weapons. [Berserkers] cannot ever specialize in any defensive proficiency beyond basic leather armor. But your - well - your class carries with it a certain...unusual Foil."

He merely stood at the door, saying nothing, staring back at her like what she'd just said meant nothing at all to him. So in response, she summoned his system screen:


Class [Skillweaver]

FOIL: ISOLATIONIST

Description: The Skillweaver may not join another adventuring party or form his own.


She looked at the words in silence while he, too, perused them. Even considering who - what - he was, such a Foil just seemed far too cruel. Like a mean joke by the Gods.

But to her surprise, he simply gave a hoarse chuckle and continued on his way, leaving her staring blankly after him again.

"It…can't be…" she whispered.

"Hey!" the next adventurer in line shouted. "Hey, hey, Miss Steph? I got some loot to bank here!"

She barely paid him any heed. The word she was quietly mouthing was a word she never thought she'd ever see written down on a Guild form. Let alone one that she'd just drafted up.

"…Skillweaver."

Back outside, the great tower of Ark watched impassively as the first Climbers of the day readied themselves for their ascent.

Before any ascension began, it was common to offer a prayer at the local chapel to one's Patron deity. Every adventurer owed their [Class] to a different God, and as the Gods were often fickle beings, it seemed proper to offer them proper prayers before battle. It was thought by most that the Gods looked kindly on those Climbers who brought home excellent loot in their name, and decorated their temples with treasures from the Ark that dared to defy their heavenly home.

But one man – the newest adventurer among in the city – did not participate. Instead, he walked right by every chapel on the final street that led towards Ark, ignoring those worshippers who watched him with disdain from inside their Gods' domain.

However, another man watching him from within a darkened alley was of a very different breed.

"Boys, lookie what we got here – a heathen."

The 'boys' chuckled as their leader nodded at the wanderer. Each of them wore a set of leather armor, and kept some blunt cudgels at their sides. Bloodied cudgels.

"You know me, boys," their leader continued. "I like to think that, as a God-fearin' man of the world, I should be my Brother's keeper."

His three comrades-in-arms laughed again.

"Seems like this guy don't need the Gods, don't it, Kharek?"

The leader smiled thinly, stroking his grizzled chin-beard as the thought occurred to him.

"Perhaps we should take a little donation from this lone wanderer," he said. "Up and attem, lads. We got our mark for the day."

The three leather-clad men nodded, each one ascending a different roof and taking up their positions. Kharek, meanwhile, sauntered out into the open sun, right behind the stranger.

He gave a little whistle before he addressed the dark-cloaked fellow. He and his boys had practiced this little script many times. New adventurers were easy marks, and as [Vagrants] it was practically in their blood to take them down on their way to Ark. This city was where the real treasure was, safe from monsters, and with plenty of hiding spots for a shrewd bandit. Why climb the great tower of death when you could ambush stupid adventurers here? The tower would take their lives eventually. All Kharek wanted was their loot, and he was low-level enough that the city guards mostly didn't care about his little operation. The Merchant's Guild who practically owned Arkona weren't bothered who spent money in their city or where that money came from. Just so long as all the [Merchants] could stay in business.

"Ahem," he coughed. "Good day to you, sir. I'm afraid I have to stop you right there."

The stranger kept on walking, eyes set on the looming tower above.

Kharek bristled. This fucking berk needs to learn some manners.

He took a throwing knife from his belt and tossed it with precision at the stranger's back, aiming for the neck. His [Artery-Shot] Weapon-Art never failed to incapacitate a newbie. It always found its mark. And even if it didn't outright kill his prey the skill gave him a 35% chance to paralyze his target for ten seconds straight. More than enough time to loot the body.

So, when the stranger turned swiftly and the knife merely grazed his shoulder, Kharek double blinked, making sure he was seeing things right.

"Apologies, my good sir," he said, regaining his composure and taking a bow. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Kharek Gaveston, [Vagrant] by the Path of Lokir, and I – hey!"

The stranger had simply continued walking.

"You – boys!"

Without missing a beat, his comrades loosed a volley of crossbow bolts at the stranger's feet, stopping him in his tracks.

"Now now," Kharek tutted. "We don't want any accidents, do we? We're all good citizens of Arkona here, traveler. And the problem is, you haven't paid your God-tax today."

The stranger sighed, dropping his satchel and craning his neck. He turned to look at Kharek with eyes that displayed nothing but total boredom.

"The Gods aren't here," he said.

Kharek scoffed. Impudent little shit. The look on his face pisses me off enough that I oughta just kill him and stuff his body in the Tower base. Let the Guild guards find his corpse there…

"Good fellow, I'm a reasonable man," he laughed. "Just 80 Gald and we'll allow you passage to the great Ark, where all your dreams come true. Refuse, and, well, we of the Ark anti-Heathen association can't let a subverter of the faith through…"

He signaled for his boys to ready another volley.

Meanwhile, the stranger stared him down, unblinking.

"Call your men off," he said. "Or I'll have the tip of this spear lodged in your throat before they can take their next shot."

Kharek wanted to burst into hysterics. This grubby looking foreigner really did have a death-wish.

"Sir, we don't wish to be forced to take your coin. If you'll just comply-"

"I don't have anything to give you but your life, bandit. Put down your weapon and I'll let you keep it."

Fucking hubris, Kharek thought, spitting and gripping the daggers at his side.

"We warned you," he said. "Boys, time for-"

It happened in a flash. A brilliant, dazzling light shone in the street, like a lightning bolt, and the stranger was suddenly gone.

"Wha-"

Kharek's word never left his mouth. Instead, a long stream of blood gushed from his throat – at the place where the stranger's spear had pierced it clean through from behind.

"H-ho-"

The stranger withdrew the weapon, kicking Kharek away like he was a ragdoll.

"Boss!" his comrades yelped. "Motherfucker!"

Rain danced along the bloodied edge of the stranger's spear, and with another flash of light, he was up on the first roof, right beside the first crossbowman.

"Ah!"

The lad fired his bolt, clipped the stranger in the shoulder, and then watched in horror as the spear tip flew towards him with unnatural speed.

He brought up his weapon to block it and felt it splinter apart in his hands. The stranger's thrust went straight through his heart and he watched his HP trickle down to 0 before his eyes.

"B…boss…"

"Vesyr!' came the call of his two fellows from the other roofs. With cries of vengeance on their lips, they brought their crossbows to bear, and both fired a poison-tipped bolt infused by [Venom Coating] – one of the special Mystic Arts afforded to their Class.

But the stranger merely brought his spear to bear, still with their friend impaled on it, and used him as a shield to block the hits. They watched in horror as Vesyr was pierced by their poison bolts, his body twitching in death-spasm.

Then, in a flash of dazzling white light, the stranger was right in front of them.

One of them dropped his weapon and drew his dagger, while the other one produced a shortsword that he brought to bear with the speed that all [Vagrants] were known for.

Both of them knew that their slash attacks would land at this short distance. There was no way any spear-wielder could deflect both blows at once. From the way this stranger had moved, it looked like he walked the Path of the [Sentinel] and used some narcotic to increase his movement speed.

But when the shortsword-wielding bandit felt intense heat building up below his abdomen, he realized how wrong he was.

He looked down, saw the stranger's fist there, and managed to [Appraise] the spell before it fired off:

Skillweave Activated!

[Flaming Fist]

Next thing he knew, there was nothing but a flaming hole where his guts once were. He flopped like a fish and then fell from the roof, while his friend grappled against the stranger's spear-arm.

"How!?" he exclaimed. "W-what the fuck are y-!"

With a masterful pirouette that sent raindrops flying from his bloodied cloak, the stranger brought his [Flaming Fist] to bear against the wailing boy, striking him in the jaw and tearing through the entire lower half of his skull.

The boy fell then away from the stranger, who finally let the last bandit slide off his spear and fall in a bloody heap from the roof.

As he did so, he nodded approvingly at his System Notifications:


Ding! Spear Proficiency increased from 10 -> 13

Ding! Pyromancy Proficiency increased from 5 -> 8

Ding! Unarmed Combat Proficiency increased from 8 -> 12

Unarmed DMG Increased!


The bandits weren't of the Tower, so they wouldn't give him any EXP towards a level up.

It wasn't how he'd wanted to start this journey. But he despised those who preyed upon lower-level adventurers. It betrayed nothing but their sheer incompetence as Climbers. Plus, he wasn't about to fall to petty robbers before he'd even properly started his ascent.

His mission was far too important to fail before it began.

By this point, a crowd of worshippers had gathered – men and women who had heard the commotion and found Kharek and his goons up to no good again. They emerged from the chapels and nearby shops to try and catch the scoundrels before they slunk away into the shadows but instead found the gang dead, and Kharek coughing up blood on the ground.

The stranger jumped back down, dusted off his cloak, and nodded to the first guardsman patrol on the scene.

"Vagrants," he said. "Took care of most of them. Might want to question this one. He's probably got more boys hiding to ambush first-time Climbers round these parts."

The guardsmen nodded, staring blankly at the stuttering mess that Kharek had become. Slowly, they moved to pick up the bandit leader by the scruff of his bloody hair. The stranger simply hefted his spear, wiped it clean of crimson stains, and continued his trek towards Ark's base.

Meanwhile, whispers ran up and down the crowd of Climbers.

"Did you see how fast he was?"

"Never mind that – did you watch what he did on the roof?"

"He cast a firebolt with a punch – all while wielding a spear in his other hand."

"What? But – but that's impossible. He shouldn't be able to-"

"Unless he's..."

One voice, shrill and panicked, suddenly cut through the murmurs of the crowd:

"W-who are you?!" Kharek wailed as he was taken away.

The stranger turned before he stepped into the tower, answering the question as simply as he could:

"Jack Calder," he said. "I'm the Skillweaver, and I'm here to claim my wish."