Seth woke up to a symphony of birds chirping outside and the sun, already high in the sky, gleaming through the window. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he swung his legs over the edge of his straw-stuffed mattress. The previous night had been so emotionally draining that he had apparently overslept. At least the bit of frustration in his stomach had faded away.

  His class couldn't be changed even with all the money in the world, so he could only make the best out of it. He was still a damn Wielder.

  After finishing a meager breakfast, Seth reached for his hunting gear and slowly pulled on his tunic, his breath hitching as the rough fabric grazed the blood-caked wounds on his forearms.

  He paused, looking down at the gashes. There was no way he would wait for them to heal naturally—he needed to see how hard increasing his attributes as a Primalist really was.

  he decided, grabbing his bow.

  As Seth strode toward the Alchemist's shop, he noticed a few kids staring at him as usual. Even though his gear wasn't flashy, it still made him stand out in a town of farmers. The shoulder pads of the hooded brown leather jacket were considerably damaged, with small fragments flaking away, while the dark pants bore dirt stains still clinging on the knees despite numerous washes. The arrow-filled quiver and the bow on his back swayed with each step, unlike the ten-inch hunting knife strapped firmly to his thigh.

  Years ago, the stares had been because of his golden eyes, but over time, they had stopped. His mother had always insisted he avoid large cities, for reasons she never fully explained, so he'd never seen it for himself, but from what he'd heard, strange eye colors were quite common there—red, purple, orange, and many more. No one ever mentioned gold, though it probably wasn't as special as he'd once thought.

  In no time, Seth reached Marcus' potion shop. From the outside, the building looked gloomy, dark, and unwelcoming with the discolored timber planks that made up most of its outer structure and the small, stained windows. As he entered, Seth was welcomed by the usual dust falling from the doorframe and a strong scent of iron.

  The smell was new, but the gruesome interior was the same as the previous month. Wooden beams supported the upper floor with small, molten candles hanging from them. Different potions filled the shelves, their bottles varying in color and form, the majority of them covered in a layer of grime and dust.

  The only clean ones were the bestsellers: the Growth Accelerators, Basic Medicines, and Strong Alcohols—everything the citizens of a farming village like Sunatown needed.

  "What are you doing here?" the old Alchemist growled from behind the counter, not bothering to look up from the red liquid he was carefully pouring into a vial.

  The man's long, white, clumpy hair was almost as poorly groomed as the moth-eaten black robe draping his slender frame. His hooked nose dotted with a dark mole and heavy brows gave his face the look of a carrion bird—sharp, watchful, and displeased.

  "I know our next appointment should be in, um—"

  "Three days," Marcus interrupted.

  "Yes, exactly," Seth answered before moving closer. "But I need a favor. Do you have any of that healing ointment left? The strong stuff."

  The old man's eyes narrowed as he turned around to arrange potions filled with red liquid on a shelf behind him. Two crimson words were painted on the labeling wooden sign: Baiting Potions.

  , Seth thought.

  "You? Injured? That's rare—" Marcus began before stopping suddenly. The Alchemist's eyes then widened slightly. "You awakened."

  "Yeah," Seth admitted with a bit of pride in his voice. "Yesterday evening."

  The next instant, he walked to the counter and carefully rolled up his sleeves with a wince as the fabric peeled away some of the crust of dried blood. "But before I did, I got attacked by an arcane beast."

  "An arcane beast?" Marcus scoffed, though his eyes remained fixed on the shredded forearms. "Don't tell me you were dumb enough to wander into the Wicked Forest."

  Seth raised his hands defensively. "No, it wasn't in there. It was lured out by a flower. One filled with aether."

  Marcus grunted before turning to rummage through a cabinet behind him. "And what did you do with it?" He grabbed a jar of greenish paste and put it down on the counter. "Did you eat it like an idiot?"

  "No. I traded it to a Wandering Merchant," Seth replied as he grabbed the jar and unscrewed the lid, causing a pungent smell of herbs to instantly fill the space. "For an awakening stone and an Identify spell-scroll."

  Marcus stopped moving. "Sericar?"

  "No, he wasn't there. Some guy I had seen before a few times."

  "And you didn't think it would have been a good idea to show it to me first?" Marcus asked. "I could have cast Identify and appraised it. Tell you its value so you wouldn't get ripped off."

  "Yeah, maybe," Seth muttered. "But I couldn't bring myself to wait. The stone was right there."

  Marcus rolled his eyes and turned back to his potions. "Always so impatient."

  Seth began slathering the cold paste onto his injured forearms with as little pressure as possible before glancing back at the old Alchemist. "Aren't you surprised I awakened with a single stone? Everyone says the odds are impossible."

  "Knuckleheads are known to be good at enduring pain," Marcus retorted with a shrug. The old man then popped the cap off a bottle of Strong Alcohol and poured a generous amount into his teacup. "Stubbornness counts for a lot when your body is trying to reject the aether."

  Seth thought with a grimace. "And not a word about my class?"

  The Alchemist took a loud sip. "You've hunted every day for nine years. You smell like the forest, you think like a beast. It was obvious you'd awaken as a Primalist."

  Seth stopped rubbing his arm. "And why didn't you stop me? Or warn me?"

  "Why would that have been good for you?"

  "I don't know," Seth answered, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "Maybe because I wouldn't have gotten a class known for trying to get killed for a living? I wanted to be a Warrior. I wanted to fight properly, not run around in the mud hoping I don't die."

  "It suits you," Marcus replied with indifference. "And it will keep you away from the big cities. That is a good thing."

  "I always avoid unnecessary risks during my hunts. I don't see how that suits me." Seth shook his head, forcing himself to calm down. "And why is avoiding cities a good thing? Because of the nobles? They're easier to read than beasts. You just avoid them. And if you can't, you bow and make sure not to offend them. "

  "Easier to read than beasts?" Marcus repeated dryly, pointing a bony finger at Seth's arms. "You seemed to have had plenty of trouble with the one that made those."

  "It was an arcane beast," Seth retorted. "That's different."

  Marcus blew gently over his tea to cool it. "It makes me wonder… what kind was it?"

  "A hare," Seth answered as his mouth twitched before taking out a set of bandages he had brought from his house and began to roll them over his arm coated with healing ointment. "One that summoned tornadoes and wind blades that could cleave trees and rocks."

  Marcus's eyes widened for a brief instant. "Silver fur, with a green tint?"

  "Yes," Seth answered, tilting his head. "Why?"

  "You're lucky to be alive," the Alchemist answered as his expression turned even more serious. "That was a Tempest Hare. A high Arcane Power beast. The worst possible encounter for an unawakened with no spells."

  Suddenly, something flashed in Seth's mind. .

  Moving forward, Seth grabbed the quill on the counter and a piece of parchment next to it. "How high is the Arcane Power of the weakest Tempest Hare? What's their strongest spell? What Tier can they reach?"

  "No," Marcus answered flatly. "I'm not your personal encyclopedia."

  Seth threw his hand in the air. "Oh, come on! You want me to avoid big cities? How am I supposed to progress with a suicidal class without any knowledge? I can't just guess which beasts will kill me and which won't."

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Marcus stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a heavy sigh, he turned and walked toward the back of the store.

  "Wait here."

  Seth wondered. The thought barely had time to settle before the old man returned, a small wooden box cradled in his hands. He set it gently on the counter.

  "Your father asked me to give this to you once you awakened."

  Seth blinked, taken aback as his gaze fell on the object.

  The box's cover was magnificently carved with a young woman's face: long curly hair, a delicate jawline, deep eyes, and a shy smile. It took Seth less than a second to recognize her—the only woman he had seen nearly every day of his life. His mother. She looked twenty years younger and far healthier, her disease having not yet robbed her of her beauty.

  Seth's hand brushed the cold oak as tears welled up in his eyes. Memories of her flooded his mind—her love, her warmth, and the broad smile she wore even in her worst moments. It had been seven months, and yet that tightness, the feeling of having failed her, was still there in his chest.

  Taking a deep breath, Seth pushed those thoughts aside. His father had prepared a gift for him before dying nearly a decade ago. He should focus on that.

  Carefully, he lifted the lid and opened the box.

  Inside, nestled in velvet, was a thick, leather-bound book with a crimson-written title: 'The Encyclopedia of Beasts.'

  Seth ran his hand over the cover, feeling the embossed letters. Knowledge. The one thing he was desperate for.

  "Go read that," Marcus said. "Study the beasts. Train your aether control a bit. And come see me in a week or two."

  "Why in a week or two?" Seth asked, looking up. "What will happen by then?"

  "Just do it, okay?" Marcus groaned in exasperation. "Now get out. You're ruining my tea time."

  Seth tucked the book back into the wooden box, then smiled. "Is it really tea if you put alcohol in it?"

  "That's your fault. I cannot endure you without an ounce or two."

  "Or three," Seth retorted.

  Marcus dismissed him with a flick of his hand. "You'd better get out of here before I kick your ass."

  "Fine, I'm leaving," Seth answered with a laugh, throwing the gift box under his armpit before walking out of the shop.

  As Seth exited Marcus' store, clutching the wooden box tightly, a young man with a blond ponytail reaching the middle of his back and striking blue eyes walked down the street.

  Mael.

  "Hey, Seth!"

  Seth instinctively shifted the box behind his hip. he thought.

  "Hey," Seth replied, forcing a casual tone. "What brings you here?"

  Mael stopped a few feet away, flashing the kind of effortless, roguish grin that made half the girls in Sunatown trip over their own skirts whenever he walked by. He had that infuriatingly perfect symmetry—high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and a lean, athletic build that didn't look like it came from hard labor, even though it did. While Seth looked like he wrestled bears for a living, Mael looked like the hero of a romance story.

  "I was heading to the market to buy something for Renwal," Mael said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "You know how he loves to make me do his errands."

  "Can't you just tell him to do those himself?"

  "Asshole, you know it's part of my job," Mael answered with a laugh.

  Seth smiled, stepping forward to grab his friend's shoulder. Although Mael wasn't particularly short, he barely reached Seth's chin. "You should hunt with me instead."

  "Nah, the smith is paying good," Mael said, shaking his head. "And you know how bad it ended up last time I came with you."

  Seth remembered well. A damn bear had chased his friend across the forest for a solid mile while Seth had sprinted parallel to them, trying to drop the beast with a dozen arrows before it turned Mael into its next meal.

  "Yeah," Seth admitted. He then paused for a moment to weigh his next words. "Will you have enough for a stone by next year?"

  Ever since Seth had known him, Mael, who was one year younger, had always harbored a single goal: becoming a Wielder and getting into Trogan Academy. In contrast, Seth had only begun pursuing that path after his mother's death a couple of months ago, and for a very different purpose.

  While Mael aimed for glory and an officer position in Kastal's army, which would be granted to him upon graduation, Seth viewed the academy solely as a way to acquire the knowledge a Wielder need since the nation's paranoid king restricted most of it from commoners.

  That would allow him to get as strong as he could and give back to the people of Sunatown.

  "Yes," Mael answered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry to break it to you, brother, but I'm making far more at the forge than you do hunting. I'll have enough in a month or two. I don't sell anything, so I only pay the land tax."

  Seth thought, a bitter taste rising in his throat.

  His friend had no idea how expensive Seth's mother's pain-relief treatments had been. If Mael knew, he would have quit his job at the forge and tried hunting again. Without those medical expenses, Seth could have bought at least two awakening stones by now. And he would have had even more if they hadn't been living in the territory of the Faertis House.

  Suddenly, Seth's heart skipped a beat. "Shit! The land tax!"

  Mael's lips awkwardly pressed together. "Don't tell me you forgot again?"

  "Yeah, damn it!" Seth muttered before giving Mael's shoulder a hard pat. "I've got to go! See you later!"

  Without waiting for a response, Seth spun around and burst into a sprint.

  His jacket's hood flapped violently behind him, arrows rattling in his quiver like dry bones. He clamped his arm down on Marcus' gift box, ignoring the sting of his fresh wounds against the fabric. He had to get there before the collector.

  The noble's lackey wasn't particularly forgiving, to say the least. Especially not since the Faertis House had lost its place among the Twenty Great Houses. Even if Seth knew deep down the man was pressured by his superiors to act that way, it didn't stop him from hating him. The last time Seth had forgotten to pay the land tax at the central market, the man had punched him so hard in the gut that he had vomited for nearly ten minutes.

  Seth skidded to a halt in front of his cabin, barely taking the time to catch his breath before dashing inside.

  The door creaked open, and he kicked the mud from his boots against the frame before striding to the kitchen area in the back. He grabbed a large, empty leather bag and shoved Marcus' gift box deep inside. Then, dropping to his knees, he pried up a loose floorboard in the corner of the room and snatched the small pouch hidden underneath.

  Less than a minute later, just as Seth replaced the plank and stood up to count the meager coins in his hand, a sharp knock echoed through the room.

  Seth froze. His heart instantly leapt into his throat, and his stomach clenched.

  Seth's fingers tightened around the pouch as he approached the door, hesitating for a brief moment before turning the handle. Pulling it open, he came face-to-face with a large man dressed in the purple and black of the Faertis House, the house's emblem—a black lion on a white shield—proudly displayed on his chest.

  But the man didn't look haughty like the nobles who wore those colors. He looked tired. His face was stern, etched with the deep lines of someone who spent too much time ruminating.

  "The land tax," he said, extending a hand.

  Seth thought, bracing himself. He remembered all the times he'd lied to this man about how much he'd sold at the market, just to dodge part of the sales tax. Meat from several hunts, a bundle of fox pelts, deer antlers, whatever he could scrape together. Desperate, foolish efforts to save a few measly common coins for his mother's treatment.

  On the few occasions the tax collector had caught him, the beatings had been…not very pleasant.

  Suddenly, the expression of the man from the Faertis House changed. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a sharp inhale.

  Then, a cold sensation bloomed in Seth's chest—more precisely from his Well—and then spread throughout his body, leaving goosebumps in its wake. This wasn't fear. It was something else. Something was scrutinizing his Well and his body.

  "So, you've awakened," the man said, his voice lowering to a grumble. Instead of sounding impressed, he sounded resigned. "I hope you did not forget about the awakening tax?"

  "No, sir, I didn't," Seth mumbled, reaching into his pouch. He pulled out fifty-three common coins, leaving a mere dozen inside. "Three coins for the month's land tax and fifty for the awakening tax."

  The tax collector didn't take the money. He stared at the small pile of coins in Seth's palm, then looked up, his brow furrowing. "Fifty coins? Are you playing me for a fool, boy? It's fifty coins per awakening stone, not fifty for the whole process."

  "I awakened with only one stone, sir."

  The man let out a harsh, weary sigh. "I get why you lied back then. Any son would have done the same. But do you really expect me to believe that a commoner like you is some kind of prodigy? That you beat odds that even nobles can't?"

  "I swear, it's true—"

  Before Seth could finish, the tax collector grabbed him by the collar, lifting him from the ground with surprising force—a strength no man should have. "Stop. That's enough."

  A heartbeat later, Seth was hurled out of the house. He slammed face-first into the dirt, skidding several feet as rock bit into the skin of his belly under his clothes. But at least, his fall had not broken his bow, or Marcus' gift box.

  Behind him, the noble's lackey stooped to gather Seth's coins, now scattered across the cabin's porch.

  "I can't do much for you, kid," the tax collector said before standing up. "You know the Faertis House doesn't accept partial payment."

  He gestured to the cabin. "I have to seize the place. We'll auction it."

  "What?" Seth's eyes widened. "It doesn't have much value! It's just logs and stone!"

  "No, but it's better than nothing," the man replied, avoiding Seth's gaze. "And it will serve as an example to the rest of the town."

  A lump rose in Seth's throat. "Let me grab a few things inside, then. Things without value. Like... my parents' painting. It's the only thing I have left of them."

  The tax collector hesitated. He looked at Seth, then back at the empty street. For a second, the cold mask of the enforcer slipped, revealing a man who took no pleasure in this.

  "Fine," he muttered. "Stay here."

  The man stepped inside the cabin. A moment later, he reappeared in the doorway, the framed painting of Seth's parents in his hands.

  "Here," the collector began, stepping down from the porch.

  But then, he froze.

  His gaze darted over Seth's shoulder, focusing on something—or someone—in the distance behind the houses. Seth turned to look, but saw only shadows. Yet, when he looked back, the tax collector's face had gone pale.

  Something had shifted in the man's eyes. Fear? Panic? It was hard to say, but the humanity that had been there a second ago vanished, replaced by a desperate need to prove something.

  "Actually," the man said, his voice louder now. "Those could be contraband."

  "What?"

  For a split second, the air around the tax collector's hands seemed to shimmer with heat, then flames erupted.

  "No!" Seth shouted, the word tearing from his throat.

  He reached out, lunging forward despite the distance separating them, but it was too late. The magical fire engulfed the canvas in an instant, curling the paint and blackening the faces of his mother and father. The man tossed the burning pieces aside into the dry grass, where they crackled and slowly turned into ashes.

  "Under the King's laws," the collector declared, chin raised as if performing for an audience, "I revoke your right to own a house or any property."

  He stared down at Seth, sweat beading on his forehead. "You have three months to pay the fifteen coppers, representing the average ten stones to awaken and their usage tax. Fail to do so, and you will be arrested and sentenced to forced labor. And if anyone in this town tries to shelter you, they will be liable to pay the fine in your place."

  Seth gritted his teeth, his hands balling into fists until his knuckles turned white. He glared at the man. He was not a monster, but a coward. One who had just destroyed the only memory of Seth's parents to save his own skin. To avoid rubbing some nobles the wrong way.

  The tax collector turned on his heel and marched away without looking back as Seth stood alone in the dirt.

  His golden eyes remained locked on the pile of ash smoldering in the grass. His nail dug into his palms. This was what living in Faertis territory was. A reign of terror where everyone, from the lowest peasant to the enforcers, lived in fear.

  One more reason to grow stronger. To make them pay and be sure that things would change.