Wraithguard - a LitRPG Adventure [Spectral Skills, constant progression]

[IronLung]

They said he'd never earn a Class. Now they call him the greatest threat in the realm.

Ryn Calder grew up despised for lacking the System's blessing—until the day a rare [Wraithguard] Class finally awakened within him. Armed with cutting-edge Skills and a ruthless will to advance, he's charging headlong through the most harrowing dungeons and challenges. But unknown watchers deem him a "Deviant," bent on striking him down before he grows too powerful.

In a land where each battle feeds an unquenchable hunger to level up, Ryn forges forward—conquering monsters, confronting shadows of the past, and refusing to kneel before any foe. Others call him a menace.

He calls it progression.

Read Wraithguard for

+Detailed fights, fast-paced progression, and deep worldbuilding
+Weak-to-OP protagonist
+Spectral mounts (Book 2)
+Battle maniac MC who isn't a murderhobo
+Numbers go up
+Third person POV, focus on MC throughout
+No harem or romance

Inspired by classic LitRPGs like Ultimate Level 1, Azarinth Healer, and Primal Hunter.

 

[IronLung]

Ryn Calder knew nothing about his parents—only that he was found as an infant, swaddled in tattered cloth, on the outskirts of a lonely hamlet in the Ioryn Plains. The farmers there had neither the resources nor the will to raise a stranger. They offered him a home until he turned ten, then politely shoved him on a passing caravan. Even after all these years, Ryn found no permanent home on the roads. He learned to survive as he wandered, never lingering in any village long enough to belong.

But at age sixteen—what people throughout Elyndra called the "Threshold Age"—everything was supposed to change. That was when the System granted an official [Class]. Sometimes, it happened in the presence of elders or city officials; other times, during a private moment in the wilderness.

But there were always some who simply never received a Class. These Classless were shunned by society at large – being looked on as less than human. That was Ryn's fate. His sixteenth birthday had been and gone without even a hint of System magic. Now he was officially a Classless, and his already tough life was about to get a whole lot more miserable.

At least, that's what he thought.

Until one night, just two months after his birthday,changed his life forever.

He had been following a dusty trade route through the Ioryn Plains, hoping to reach the city of Solencia before his meager stash of travel bread and dried meat ran out. The early evening sky glowed with a hazy purple. Crickets chirped in the nearby grass, and a breeze carried the scent of wildflowers from a distant glade.

He would have found the scene almost peaceful if not for the low growl that came from the scrub brush just off the trail. Ryn froze, gripping the short wooden club that served as his only means of defense. In the shifting twilight, a pair of feral eyes stared back at him. A second pair blinked to the left, a third to the right. At first, he caught glimpses of lean forms slinking in the brush—feral wolves, scraggly from hunger, drawn to the smell of food in his travel pouch.

Instinct told him to back away slowly. But three feral wolves suddenly flanked him in the half-light. He heard at least two more follow after. They circled, baring yellowed teeth. Ryn's heart hammered. He was no trained fighter. He'd never even held a proper sword. Though he was fit from constant travel, he doubted his chances against a pack. He swallowed hard, searching for an escape route. Tall grass and twisted roots lay on every side. Running seemed impossible—he'd be chased down within seconds.

Guess I've got no choice, he thought, eyes narrowed and body stiff as he met the eyes of the wolf at the front of the pack.

"Alright then," he told it. "Come and get me."

The first wolf leaped. Ryn barely jerked aside, bringing up his club to parry. The force jarred his arms, splintering the club's edge. Another wolf lunged, snapping at his leg. He kicked out, connecting with the creature's ribcage. Snarls and barks whipped the night air into a frenzy as the pack regrouped, circling their prey.

Ryn stumbled backward, feeling panic grip his gut. I can't take all of them, he thought. There's too many. He glanced around, searching for a large rock or a tree trunk he could climb. He found nothing useful.

The wolves closed in, saliva dripping from their hungry mouths.

And Ryn, though his legs trembled, held his ground.

If I'm gonna die here, I'm going out fighting, he declared to himself. Even if I am just a Classless, that doesn't mean I'm gonna give you the satisfaction of-

A sudden flash tore through his body—like a pulse of energy rising from deep inside his chest. A faint glow flickered at the edge of his vision and lines of text materialized in front of his eyes:

System Notification
[Class Assigning…]
[Class Determined: Wraithguard – Level 1]

Ryn blinked, half-convinced it was a hallucination. Every person in Elyndra knew that at sixteen, they would be granted a Class. It was a universal rite of passage. Yet Ryn had no mentor, no ritual ceremony. He was almost seventeen at this point. And only now, as he faced these snarling beasts, the System had chosen this terrifying moment to appear?

His heart thudded. Wraithguard…

That was definitely not a class he'd ever heard of. Not in any of the stories he'd overheard during his travels.

The name pulsed faintly in front of his mind, accompanied by a swirl of new text:

User{Ryn Caldwell}.

You have been bound to the path of the [WRAITHGUARD]
Your initial Skills are [Spectral Slash I] and [Ghost Step I].

He had no time to process it. The second wolf pounced, aiming for his throat. Acting on instinct—or something deeper—Ryn stepped sideways. To his shock, his feet felt lighter. His body had flitted through the air instantaneously, almost like he had teleported.Is this Ghost Step? he wondered, his vision flooding with an uncanny clarity as if the world slowed for a split second.

The wolf's jaws clamped onto empty air. Ryn spun, club in hand, and smacked the animal's back. The blow was clumsy, but it landed, sending the creature yelping away.

A fierce snarl announced the next attacker. Another wolf leaped from behind, jaws parted. Ryn willed his body to move faster. Warmth spread from his chest to his limbs. He glimpsed a faint aura around his battered club. The System's text glimmered again:

[Spectral Slash I] Available.

Without understanding precisely how, he channeled that surge of energy into the club. A rippling blade of pale violet light extended from the wood, turning it into an ethereal cutting edge which he slashed with. The wild wolf yelped as the spectral energy tore across its hide, leaving a sizzling line of burned fur. It thudded to the ground, rolling once before scrambling away, wounded.

Ryn's heart pounded with fear and excitement. He'd never felt such power.

This is the System. This is my Class.

The thought seemed too good to be true. The System had made him some warrior class variant – and one that could do some real damage, judging by the scar he'd just carved into the wolf's flesh.

But he had no illusions that he was suddenly unstoppable. He was still alone in the twilight with a hungry pack. But the surge of ability filled him with confidence. He could fight now. He would fight.

And he would win.

A third wolf lunged, going straight for his throat. Ryn activated [Ghost Step] again. This time, a faint swirl of shadow danced around his ankles, propelling him aside faster than normal reflexes allowed. He swung the club-turned-wraithblade, catching the beast across its muzzle. The creature shrieked and collapsed onto the dirt. Blood splattered across the ground, illuminated by the last purple remnants of spectral energy before it fizzled away from Ryn's weapon.

The other two wolves whined, uncertain. One slinked backward, tail between its legs, while the injured one half-limped, half-snarled. For a moment, Ryn considered letting them go. But his adrenaline still surged, and the System urged him forward—he could feel that promise of growth System Users got if he finished this.

He inhaled sharply, stepping toward the last pair. They bristled, but he pressed on, club raised. He swept [Spectral Slash] in a wide arc, forcing them to scatter. Fangs snapped, but Ryn parried with the wooden shaft. Another slash and one wolf crumpled. The final wolf hesitated, locked eyes with Ryn, then turned to flee into the tall grass.

Ryn felt sweat across his temples and finally let himself kneel from exhaustion. Four feral wolves lay around him—two dead, two grievously wounded. The survivor had fled. And he…he was alive. He had beaten them when it looked like this would have been his last moment on this earth.

Suddenly, the system flared up again:

System Notification
You have defeated [Feral Wolves x4].
You gain 80 Experience Points.
Level Up! [Wraithguard] – Level 1 → 2

A rush of warmth washed over him, like stepping into a comforting fire. His tired limbs felt a little stronger, lungs clearer. He stared at the screen that flickered in front of him.

I leveled up…already?

He was surprised. Usually, System Users reported that their new Skills and Attributes required an adjustment window of at least a day before they could be activated or improved in the wake of combat. It was apparently a contingency mechanism that prevented psychopaths from killing people in towns as soon as they gained their Classes. The 24 hour period gave the town guards enough time to round up these Deviant Users and deal with them before they caused too much trouble.

Ryn turned back to his new Status Screen, where the text of his upgrades was updating:

New Stats Unlocked
Name:Ryn
Class: [Wraithguard – Level 2]
HP: 30/30
MP: 20/20
Strength: 9
Agility: 11
Stamina: 9
Intelligence: 8
Wisdom: 8
Skills: [Spectral Slash I], [Ghost Step I]

He could barely grasp the magnitude of what had just happened. In mere moments, the System had awakened his Class, granted him Skills, and awarded his victories. Just like the stories said. He stared at the battered club in his hand. The ghostly blade of purple light had vanished once the fight ended, leaving the wood chipped and stained. But that power was real.

And it was his.

Excitement welling up inside him, Ryn looked over his shoulder. The wolf carcasses lay on the roadside, attracting flies even in the twilight. A bitter pang of guilt flickered through him—he hadn't wanted to kill them, but it had been life or death. No deeper introspection surfaced; survival demanded readiness. He turned away, stepping further up the trail.

It had finally happened. He had a Class now. He just needed to learn how to use it to become stronger, and to make a name for himself in this world. If the System had given him a warrior class with somewhat spectral powers, it meant that he must be destined for something special after all.

As nightfall descended, the adrenaline kept him awake. He found an abandoned barn near a cluster of low hills and lit a small fire, using the last of his kindling. Overhead, stars sprinkled the sky. Ryn rummaged in his pouch for bread, tore off a piece, and ate mechanically. He stared into the embers, mind racing. Wraithguard. He had never heard of such a Class. Knights, Warriors, Rangers, even Berserkers—those were common enough. But "Wraithguard" was new. Maybe it was one of those special or rare Classes rumored to pop up in remote corners of Elyndra.

The thought caused a smile to form on his face. Me? Special? Why me?

It was the great mystery of the System. Nobody knew exactly how it worked. It was a cosmic force in the world of Elyndra – seemingly assigning people their Classes on a whim. Of course, there were some organizations throughout the world who believed they understood the System. Some religious cults even said it had a will of its own, and that it was the only thing in this world worthy of worship.

Ryn pushed such speculations from his mind and opened his System interface again. His new stats glowed softly:

[Wraithguard – Level 2]
HP: 30/30
MP: 20/20
Strength: 9
Agility: 11
Stamina: 9
Intelligence: 8
Wisdom: 8
Skills:
– [Spectral Slash I]: Manifest a short-lived blade of wraith energy, dealing moderate damage.
– [Ghost Step I]: Briefly enhance agility for a sudden burst of speed and evasion.

He couldn't help a grin at the memory of that spectral blade and the boost to his reflexes. Even at level 2, he already felt the difference in how his body responded.

And that's just the beginning…he thought.

He had no illusions that he'd become unstoppable overnight. The wolves had almost overpowered him before the System manifested. If a real highwayman or seasoned soldier came at him, he'd need cunning—and more levels – to survive. That single-minded resolve formed in his mind: I must push forward. There's no going back. Only by gaining power could he seize control of his fate, no longer living at the mercy of strangers' pity or threats on the road.

He banked the fire, leaning back against the disheveled haystacks in his abandoned barn sanctuary, club close at hand in case any other beasts came upon him during the night. His eyelids began to close of their own accord, but inwardly he still couldn't contain his excitement.

Elyndra was vast, and tomorrow, he would start forging his path through it as a real System User. As a Wraithguard.

Wraithguard…

The word tugged at his mind and conjured up nothing but restless dreams as he slept.

Just what the hell was this class? And why had he been chosen to wield its power?

Ryn didn't have the answers to either of these questions. But one thing was certain:

He was going to have a lot of fun finding them.

 

[IronLung]

Dawn rose with a crisp, orange glow. Ryn slung his worn satchel over his shoulder, stomping out the last embers of his campfire. He had only a handful of scraps left to eat. Solencia, the major city in the Plains, was at least three days away on foot if he followed the main trade roads.

"Better start moving", he said to himself.

The morning air was surprisingly cool, a light breeze rippling across the plains. He trudged east, eyes scanning for any sign of bandits or beasts. The events of the previous night had rattled him, but they also emboldened him. He replayed the fight in his mind, analyzing how [Ghost Step] felt, how [Spectral Slash] manifested. The more he understood about these new skills, the better he could apply them.

Within an hour, he spotted a small farmstead on the horizon. A crooked wooden fence bordered a few meager fields. Smoke rose from a stone chimney in a humble cottage. Ryn didn't intend to linger—he rarely had good experiences with farmers. They often took him for a vagrant looking to pilfer their potatoes or wrangle their cattle. Yet the pang in his stomach urged him to check for a morsel to buy. He jingled the meager coin in his pouch, the last leftover from odd jobs and begs. If the farmer had anything cheap, it might tide him over.

As he approached, a gaunt man in threadbare clothes stepped out from the cottage. The farmer carried a rake, eyeing Ryn suspiciously. "You alone?" the man asked.

The old man didn't look like a threat. Ryn decided it was safe to be honest with him.

"Yes," he answered. "I'm not here for trouble. Just wondering if you have any bread or dried goods for sale."

The farmer shrugged. "Not sure we can spare much. Raids took nearly all our harvest last season. Bandits hound these parts—some new group's gotten bold on the roads." He shook his head. "But if you got a coin or two, we could part with a loaf."

Ryn nodded. He fished out a couple of copper pieces. The farmer accepted them, then ambled to a small pantry near the cottage, returning with a half-loaf of hardened bread. Not exactly a feast, but it was something. Ryn thanked him and turned to go.

"A warning," the farmer called after him. "If you're heading east, watch out for the bandits. Word is they gather near the old windmill near the Goldenfrost road. They've robbed or hurt plenty of travelers."

Ryn gripped the bread, considering. With a normal traveler's mindset, he would've been set on heeding the warning and turning back. But now, he had a reason to seek out fights: leveling up.

His chest tightened at the memory of how quickly the System recognized kills. Bandits would yield more Experience than wild dogs… The risk was obvious, but the payoff?

He merely nodded. "Thanks for the advice."

Without waiting for more conversation, he strode off, quickly chewing on hischunk of bread. If bandits lurked near the old windmill, maybe he'd just have a look.

After all, he had some new toys to test out.

By midday, the sun was high in the sky. Ryn trudged along, the farmland giving way to untended fields and patches of wildflowers. Eventually, he came to a ruined windmill in the distance, its tattered blades leaning precariously over the Goldenfrost road that led to the capitol. Around the structure, a cluster of ramshackle tents and crates formed what looked like a temporary camp. Even from afar, Ryn saw movement—figures milling about, some armed with spears or swords and wearing leather armor.

Bandits, he thought. No doubt about it. This looks like the perfect little spot to ambush traveling merchants on the roads.

He pressed his back against a low ridge, peering over a scattering of rocks. At least six or seven, he counted. Possibly more inside the windmill itself. Not a trivial fight.

He felt his pulse quicken.

On the other hand, these bandits probably weren't highly trained soldiers. If he could isolate a few at a time, it might be manageable.

He checked his stats:

[Wraithguard – Level 2]
HP: 30/30
MP: 20/20

He had full health and mana. With any luck, he could handle this. The idea of waiting around for them to leave seemed pointless—he wanted the Experience, and the next upgrades that came with it. He recalled how just the night before, he'd been terrified of a handful of wild wolves. But that was then. Now, he had the System in his corner.

This is my chance to get stronger. I'm tired of being powerless.

With this thought as his guide, he circled around the ridge, approaching from the windmill's north side. The bandits had left old crates stacked there, presumably stolen goods. Two leather-clad sentries leaned against them, talking quietly, counting small bags of ill-gotten money they held in their pudgy hands. Ryn gripped his wooden club.

As he inched closer, he overheard fragments of conversation:

"…the boss said we move out tomorrow… big score in Solencia…"

"Sure hope so. Sick of these dusty fields."

"Bored, eh? How's about we wake up Kairos and have some fun? Big guy's hungry."

"I ain't suicidal, mate. Besides –"

The bandit never finished his thought. Ryn sprang from behind the crates, club raised. Before they could even shout, he activated [Ghost Step]. A swirl of energy wrapped around his legs, giving him a burst of speed that brought him right behind the first sentry. He slammed the club into his side. The man doubled over, wind knocked out of him.

The second bandit fumbled for a short sword, but Ryn twisted around, letting his club's tip flare with faint purple – the effects of [Spectral Slash]. In a split second, his weapon sliced through the bandit's wrist. The man yelped, stumbling back with a bleeding arm.

"W-what the—?!" he gasped, eyes wide at the shimmering blade extension. Ryn pressed forward, delivering a quick strike to the man's chest. He dropped to his knees, unconscious. The first bandit tried to stand, but Ryn struck him in the temple, a clean blow that instantly ended the fight. Both men slumped behind the crates and then a faint System prompt blinked into Ryn's field of vision:

System Notification
You have defeated [Bandit x2].
Experience gained: 40.

No level-up yet, but that was expected. Ryn exhaled, glancing around. No immediate alarm had sounded, but they'd surely notice their missing sentries soon. He crouched, taking a battered dagger from one unconscious bandit's belt in case he needed a backup weapon. Then he slipped around the windmill's curve.

A fresh voice then shouted from the front: "Oi, where's Tem and Guff?"

Tension spiked in Ryn's chest. The rest of the bandits were on alert now. He risked a quick peek. Four men stood near a smoky campfire, scanning the area. A battered fence circled the windmill's front yard, leaving them in plain sight. One, presumably the group leader, was a lean figure with a spiked club slung over his shoulder.

"There's some rat skulking around!" he yelled, drawing a rusted sword. The others fanned out. Ryn swallowed. The bandit leader must have had a Skill that increased his perception, and that meant that Ryn was now up against four armed men at once, possibly more inside. He quickly moved behind a collapsed wagon for partial cover. He would try to isolate them. Draw them out. But they advanced in a group, though not in any disciplined formation.

And with a sick clenching of his gut, Run realized that they knew he was here.

"You got some nerve," the leader spat, stepping closer. "We've got you outnumbered, hero. Throw down that stick and maybe we'll let you crawl away."

Ryn didn't respond. He clenched his club, focusing on that new spark inside him.

You don't need to be afraid, anymore, he told himself. Now, you've got a System. Now, you've got the power to deal with pigs like these.

"Last chance!" The gluttonous leader growled. "Or we'll take yer head!"

And Ryn, surprising himself, actually smiled.

"Just try it!" He shouted back.

He activated [Ghost Step] in the next second, darting from behind the wagon. The bandits cursed at his sudden acceleration. Ryn targeted the nearest one, a stocky man with a hand axe. He swung horizontally, club flaring with [Spectral Slash]. Purple light sheared into the bandit's leather jerkin, making him stagger. Before he could recover, Ryn struck again, a downward blow to the man's shoulder. The bandit collapsed with a groan.

Another two bandits lunged. Blades whistled. Ryn ducked a slash and twisted his club to parry the second. Sparks spat where iron met wood. The jarring impact stung Ryn's arms, reminding him that he was still physically weaker than these men. But he pressed the advantage, stepping sideways to gain distance. He spied an opening and lashed out with his ghostly blade once more, feeling the weapon cut deep into an unprotected thigh. A scream tore from the bandit's throat.

A whir of motion from behind—Ryn barely managed to spin around as the leader came in, spiked club raised overhead. Ryn raised his club in a desperate block. Wood clashed with iron spikes, sending jolts of pain through Ryn's wrists. He bit down a cry, hooking one foot behind the leader's ankle to disrupt his balance. The leader stumbled, and Ryn rammed a knee into his gut. The man coughed, eyes bulging.

A fourth bandit tried to catch Ryn off-guard from the side. This time, Ryn jerked away, letting the man's short sword clang off the wagon's broken wheel. Then Ryn retaliated with a savage thrust that slammed into the bandit's solar plexus. The man doubled over, wheezing.

"Y-you…!" the leader managed, regaining his breath. Rage flared in his face. He swung that spiked club in a brutal arc. Ryn ducked, feeling the wind from the spikes ruffle his hair. If that connected, it would crush bone. Summoning every ounce of nerve, Ryn activated [Ghost Step] yet again. A surge of speed propelled him forward, club raised.

He's wide open.

All mine.

He struck the man's ribcage, once, twice, forcing him back. The club clattered to the ground. Ryn hammered a final blow to the leader's jaw, toppling him onto the dust.

Panting, Ryn surveyed the aftermath: four bandits unconscious or writhing on the ground. Another two lay behind the windmill. He had taken them all down—alone. He felt no triumph on his face, just the raw burn of adrenaline. Then came the metallic taste in his mouth, the sting of a shallow cut on his left forearm. But he was alive, unbroken.

A new System message chimed:

System Notification
You have defeated [Bandit x4].
Experience gained: 80.
[Level Up]! [Wraithguard] – Level 2 → 3

He inhaled, letting the level-up's warmth flow through his limbs, dulling the ache in his wrists, slowing his rapid heartbeat. He was getting stronger. Next, the interface displayed updated stats:

[Wraithguard – Level 3]
HP: 35/35
MP: 25/25
Strength: 10
Agility: 12
Stamina: 10
Intelligence: 8
Wisdom: 8

He clenched his fists, feeling the new vitality. Each level made him faster, tougher. He could feel his muscles growing. His speed and reflexes heightening.

I had no idea having a System felt this…good.

A faint rustle from inside the windmill jerked him back into caution. Ryn peered through the broken door. The interior was dim, strewn with crates and broken millstones. A single torch guttered on the wall. He inched inside, club held at the ready. If more bandits were hiding, he'd face them. But what he saw was a scrawny man, unarmed, rummaging through scattered sacks of grain. The man turned with a terrified yelp.

"Don't kill me!" he babbled, eyes wide. "I'm just a scribe they forced to keep ledgers. I'm no bandit—honest! I – I'm a Classless!"

Ryn narrowed his gaze. He couldn't know if that was true. But the man's trembling form, clad in a torn tunic, suggested he wasn't a fighter. "If you're lying, you won't get far," Ryn said curtly, club still raised and poised to strike. "What's in these crates?"

The scribe gulped. "Stolen goods, mostly. Collected from merchants and travelers on the Goldenfrost. They— they planned to cart them to some fence in Solencia." His eyes darted nervously to the door. "They also talked about capturing travelers for ransom. I… I just record what they do."

Ryn studied him. He felt no sympathy, nor any interest in punishing the man. Right now, he was only after growth. "Then leave," he finally said. "Or stay here until the local guard comes. Your choice."

The scribe blinked, uncertain, but Ryn turned away, heading back outside. He glanced at the bandits littering the yard. Some groaned, injured. Others lay unconscious. A part of him considered whether finishing them off might grant more EXP—but he wasn't about to commit cold-blooded murder. They posed no immediate threat. Besides, if they recovered, that might mean another fight later—potentially more EXP. But for now, it was time to move on. He'd gained a level. That was enough.

He walked out beyond the crumbling fence, stepping onto the open plains again. The windmill stood behind him like a gutted husk, its tattered blades creaking faintly. Overhead, the sun blazed. Ryn paused to catch his breath. Two fights in one day had left him bruised but exhilarated. He was on a new trajectory now, no longer a drifting nobody. The System recognized his progress, and every victory—no matter how small—made him more formidable.

Digging in a pouch, he found a few stolen coins from the bandit pockets. Enough to keep him fed for a while. Satisfied, he set his gaze eastward, toward Solencia. He'd heard stories that the city housed grand academies dedicated to studying Classes and Skills. Not that he craved formal training—he worked best on his own. Still, the city brimmed with quests, bounties, and dangers that might help him climb the levels faster.

But the moment Ryn took his first step, an unexpected thunderous sound erupted from the windmill. He whipped around. A portion of the windmill's base collapsed inward with a rumble, sending dust and debris pluming upward. From that swirling cloud, a monstrous shape emerged—some twisted, reptilian creature, all fangs and claws.

A leftover guard dog of the bandits? A caged monster they kept hidden?

Whatever it was, it roared, shaking the battered timbers. Its eyes glowed with feral fury. Even the unconscious bandits stirred awake in terror. The scribe inside shrieked, stumbling out the door and finally taking Ryn's advance to get the hell out of there. The beast lunged, smashing a broken millstone aside with one swipe of a scaled foreleg.

Ryn gripped his club, unsure if he was ready for a monster of that size—far bigger than the wild wolves or humans he'd just fought. Yet the surge in his chest told him that this conflict, too, could be his stepping stone.

I won't run, he vowed silently. I'll never run again.

He planted his feet on the dusty ground, raising the club. The twisted creature hissed, locking its gaze on him. Tension thickened in the sweltering noon air. Ryn inhaled, preparing to launch into his next fight. The System's interface flickered at the edge of his vision:

New Foe Detected: [Mutated Drakeling – ???]
High Threat Level.

Mutated.Drakeling. Like…a dragon?

A chill ran down Ryn's spine. The question mark wasn't a good sign. He had no idea if this thing was out of his league or not. Common knowledge dictated that a level disparity of more than 5 meant a System User should stay the hell away from such an opponent. But Ryn also knew that retreating would forfeit the chance at precious Experience.

A feral grin touched his lips—equal parts fear and excitement. This is how I grow stronger. I'm not about to back down now.

He tightened his hold on the club. The beast snarled, stalking closer. Stone and dust tumbled behind it. Ryn steeled himself. The next instant, the Drakeling roared and sprang forward, jaws wide and ready to tear apart its prey.

Ryn lunged to meet it head-on.

 

[IronLung]

Ryn crouched on the dusty ground, club clenched tight in his right hand. The battered windmill loomed behind him, its wooden beams swaying precariously after part of its base collapsed. Up ahead, the newly emerged monster—a scaled Drakeling nearly twice Ryn's height—snarled, thick saliva dripping from its fangs. Its luminous yellow eyes locked onto him, its spined tail lashing the ground and kicking up plumes of grit.

Only moments before, Ryn had dispatched a band of cutthroat highwaymen. Now he faced a far deadlier foe. A normal traveler would have fled without hesitation, but Ryn stood his ground. He had the System—and he wanted every shred of experience that came with defeating formidable enemies. Gritting his teeth, he set his stance.

The Drakeling hissed, muscles tensing under mottled green scales. Its throat bulged as if it might spew acid or flame. Ryn's heart thumped. He glimpsed the spectral interface just on the edge of his vision:

[Mutated Drakeling (Lesser) – ???]
High Threat Level

He had no idea what the Drakeling's exact level might be, or how its mutated status affected its strength. But he'd already tasted the rush of a level-up from battling the bandits—and he refused to run.

The Drakeling lunged. Its jaws snapped shut barely a hand's width from Ryn's chest. He threw himself backward, feeling the hot rush of air as its teeth gnashed. Dust swirled around them. A single blow from those claws could tear him open, but Ryn had an advantage: he wasn't fighting blind. He had [Spectral Slash] and [Ghost Step] at his disposal, along with the minor stat boosts from reaching Level 3.

They would be enough.

He invoked [Ghost Step] first. A faint swirl of energy, visible only to him, encased his ankles. Everything seemed to slow just enough for him to pivot away from the Drakeling's second lunge. Its claws gouged the earth, sending shards of rock flying. Ryn's heart pounded, but he surged in, club raised, letting the purple aura of [Spectral Slash] flare along the weapon's length.

With a quick slash, he brought the wraithlike blade down on the Drakeling's shoulder scales. Sparks danced where spectral energy met dense plating. The Drakeling hissed, recoiling from the blow. Jagged lines of damage scorched across its hide—an encouraging sign that he could hurt it. But the cut wasn't deep.

The beast whirled, tail lashing in a wide arc. Ryn ducked, feeling the wind from the powerful swing ruffle his hair. The Drakeling's tail smashed into a half-broken crate, splintering it. Shards of wood skittered across the ground. Ryn realized that if he took a direct hit like that, he'd be in serious trouble, despite his new level.

The Drakeling reared up, letting out a hollow, rasping roar. That bulge in its throat swelled again. On instinct, Ryn dove behind a toppled wagon. Just in time—a gush of foul-smelling fluid spewed from the Drakeling's maw, hissing against the ground in a cloud of acrid steam. Where it landed, the dirt sizzled and blackened. Some kind of corrosive spit.

Keeping low, Ryn darted around the wagon, club at the ready. The Drakeling slithered forward, scanning for him with savage intent. He tapped into[Ghost Step] once more, feeling a burst of speed surge through his legs and used it to dash in from the Drakeling's flank.

Its head snapped around, fangs bared. Ryn leaped, club raised high, channeling [Spectral Slash] in a downward stroke. The purple blade bit into the Drakeling's side, carving a shallow wound between two plates of its scales. A muted roar of pain echoed across the windmill yard.

The Drakeling turned sharply, and before Ryn could retreat, it slammed its forearm against his chest. Pain jolted through his ribs, sending him flying back. He tumbled over broken crates, skidding in the dirt. His ears rang, and his breath came in ragged gasps. If not for the System's stat boosts, that blow might've shattered bones.

He forced himself upright. Blood trickled from a shallow cut on his temple. The Drakeling loomed above him, jaws parted to strike. Ryn clutched the club, ignoring the ache in his chest. He refused to lose. He could almost feel the System's presence urging him onward: Fight and grow.

The Drakeling lunged. Ryn rolled aside, staff braced. He focused on its underbelly, where the scales seemed thinner. If he could land a solid hit there… He inhaled, then sprang forward. The Drakeling, quick despite its size, slashed with a taloned hand. Ryn twisted, letting the claws pass mere inches from his shoulder. He drove the club up. His ghostly blade flared again, a bright violet arc that cut across the Drakeling's belly scales.

This time, the Drakeling reeled back, letting out a gurgling shriek. A deeper gash marred its torso. Thick, dark fluid seeped out, steaming where it hit the ground. Ryn pressed the advantage, ignoring the pain in his ribs. He had to end this now, or the creature's next acid barrage could doom him.

He slammed the club against the Drakeling's exposed belly a second time, releasing another [Spectral Slash]. The synergy of speed and raw aggression caught the monster off-guard. The ephemeral blade gouged a jagged wound, and the Drakeling wobbled, tail thrashing.

Sensing weakness, Ryn channeled everything into a final strike. He lunged, staff angled to pierce. The Drakeling snapped its jaws in a last attempt to bite him, but Ryn dropped low, sliding under its belly. With a savage thrust, he stabbed upward. [Spectral Slash] pulsed, tearing through more scales. The Drakeling's roar dissolved into a hiss. Its huge frame went rigid, then collapsed, throwing dust in all directions.

Ryn rolled free, scrambling to a safe distance in case the monster lashed out again. But the Drakeling lay still, its chest heaving. Then its eyes dulled.

Silence settled on the battlefield, broken only by Ryn's ragged breathing.

System Notification
You have defeated [Mutated Drakeling (Lesser)].
Experience gained: 180.
[Level Up]! [Wraithguard Adept] – Level 3 → 4

Relief and triumph flooded through him as warmth coursed along his limbs. The bruises on his ribs throbbed, but the System's rush of new vitality blunted the pain. Another message hovered:

Stat Increase
[Wraithguard – Level 4]
HP: 45/45
MP: 30/30
Strength: 11
Agility: 13
Stamina: 11
Intelligence: 8
Wisdom: 8

A faint smile found its way onto his face. He was stronger now. No matter the risk, it's worth it. A battered traveler earlier that morning, he'd defeated bandits and a Drakeling in the space of hours. If he kept pushing at this pace, no foe in all ofElyndra would be out of reach.

He stood there, breathing deeply. The Drakeling's body twitched once, then lay silent. From the corner of his eye, he saw that terrified scribe in a tattered tunic peeking around a splintered doorframe. The man's eyes darted in disbelief between Ryn and the dead monster. He said nothing, too shaken to form words.

Ryn did not bother addressing him. The scribe was irrelevant—he was neither a threat nor a source of valuable information beyond this bandit camp. Ryn turned to go. His bruised rib ached with each step, but the sense of accomplishment was enough to keep him moving. There was no reason to linger. He'd gained what he'd come for: experience and power.

But he wasn't done yet. Not by a long shot.

***

Half an hour later, Ryn was back on the main road. The midday sun beamed overhead, casting short shadows across the plains. He tore a rag from one of the bandits' spare clothes to bind the shallow cut on his temple. Each step jarred his sore torso, but he kept walking. Soon enough, the adrenaline in his veins began to ebb, replaced by a low, constant ache.

He passed the farmland where he'd bought bread that morning. The farmer was out in the fields, paying him no notice. Ryn had nothing to say anyway. He strode onward, mind already drifting toward the city of Solencia. There, he could find lodging and perhaps restock supplies. More importantly, the city was rumored to have extensive postings for adventurers: bounties, quests, and leads on stronger monsters. A perfect environment to keep leveling.

The wind carried the mild scent of wildflowers again. He pressed a hand against his bruised ribs, exhaling slowly. A fight like that took its toll. Even so, he craved another. Battles were no longer just about survival; they were stepping stones.

By dusk, he encountered a low wooden sign marking the boundary of a small outpost known as Waybridge Cross. Unlike the bandit-occupied windmill, this place looked somewhat maintained. A dirt courtyard sprawled before a squat, L-shaped building with a stable in the back. A handful of travelers milled outside, some leading pack animals to troughs. The sign on the building read "Waybridge Inn" in faded ink.

Ryn's low Stamina count told him he needed a place to rest. Taking what coin he had looted from the bandits, he headed inside.

The inn's common room was dim, lit by a trio of lanterns. A heavyset innkeeper stood behind a battered counter, polishing a clay mug. A few men sat at tables, speaking in hushed tones. They glanced up at Ryn's arrival, noting his dirt-streaked face and battered clothing, then returned to their own conversations.

Ryn approached the counter. "A cheap room and a meal," he said, voice low. "How much?"

The innkeeper studied him. "Private room's five copper a night. Bunk's two. Meals extra."

Ryn fished out the small handful of coins. "I'll take the bunk in the dorm. And something to eat." He dropped four copper—two for the bunk, two for whatever they had in the kitchen.

The innkeeper scooped up the coins. "Up those stairs, far right is the bunkroom," he said, jabbing a thumb at a creaky staircase. "Meal'll be out soon."

Ryn gave a single nod, then moved to a vacant table. Every muscle in his body complained as he sat down. A quick glance around revealed only men wearing simple traveler's cloaks or padded jerkins—no one who looked like a serious threat or a potential ally. That suited him fine. He had no intention of forging ties or answering questions.

In short order, a wooden plate arrived with coarse bread, a ladle of some kind of stew, and a small wedge of cheese. Ryn ate quickly, not paying attention to taste. Food was fuel, nothing more.

As soon as he finished, he trudged upstairs, finding the bunkroom door at the end of the corridor. It opened onto a narrow space lined with straw mattresses. A single candle flickered in a wall sconce. Three cots were empty; one was occupied by a snoring man in travel-worn boots. Ryn picked the farthest corner mattress, dropped onto it, and exhaled. The day's exhaustion crashed over him.

He opened his System window, scanning his new stats one more time:

[Wraithguard – Level 4]
HP: 45/45
MP: 30/30
Strength: 11
Agility: 13
Stamina: 11
Intelligence: 8
Wisdom: 8

He felt the faint hum of potential running through his sore limbs. In time, he'd unlock more Skills or upgrade the ones he had. For now, he would rest. As his eyelids drifted shut, he felt a small spark of anticipation for the next challenge. His entire life, he had been adrift. But this new power—the System's promise—offered a new purpose.

Sleep finallyclaimed him, filled with thoughts of how much stronger he could yet become.

He dreamed of mountains of monster corpses laying beneath his feet, all of them slain by his hand. All the horrors that threatened the people of this world lay under him, crumpled and slain, while he stood above them, feeling the power of his Skills rush through his veins.

This is who you can be, a voice told him – a voice that was not his own.

He turned in the dream-realm and saw a cloaked figure watching him – a black space covering where its eyes should be. The figure had no hands or feet that Ryn could make out. It looked like he was floating on the dark air of the dream world itself.

You will become strong, the voice said again. You will grow. You will protect this world from those who watch behind the scenes, those who move unseen and feed on the living. You will fight them, and they shall fear you.

Ryn balked, somehow realizing that this voice – this man –was real.

This was no ordinary dream.

Just then another form flickered into life in the dream world. At the foot of the monster pile, an old-looking man with a scraggly beard appeared, armored in chainmail, looking up at Ryn.

If you wish for more strength, the voice said. Seek out this man. He shall be thy guide.

The dream began to crumble away, leaving Ryn more confused than ever. He tried reaching out to reach the hooded figure who now turned away, leaving him to wake up in a cold flush of sweat.

They will fear you, Ryn, he said again.You will grow, and they will find you. When that time comes, you must be ready.

Ryn tried to hold this dream – this vision – in his mind. He couldn't wake up now.

"Who?!" he called out to the departing figure. "Who must I be ready to fight?!"

But the hooded figure was already gone, and it left Ryn with nothing more than the words it kept repeating over and over again:

They will fear you.