Chapter 2: The Weight of Names

  Mercenary work. In this world, the term was a catch-all for a thousand different lives. Some called them bounty hunters; others, adventurers. But the essence remained unchanged: you take the coin, you kill the trouble. From finding a lost heirloom to assassinating a high-ranking noble, there was no contract too small or too bloody—provided the price was right.

  Ronen was a mercenary of the "White Tiger's Fang." To be precise, he was still just a "provisional."

  The name "White Tige's Fang" sounded formidable, but its origin was soaked in cheap ale and absurdity. Legend had it the founding captain, in a drunken stupor, had picked a fight with a stray white cat blocking his path. The captain, fueled by liquid courage, engaged in a "fierce battle" and lost, emerging with deep tooth marks on his forearm. To save face, he claimed the wounds were inflicted by a ferocious Great White Tiger—scars of high honor. Thus, the name was born. Perhaps the shame truly did serve as a catalyst, for the small band eventually clawed its way into a position of respect within the mercenary world.

  Today, the White Tiger's Fang was a veteran warband of Glory City.

  Companies like theirs were common across the continent. Typically consisting of dozens of blades, most members camped on the outskirts or billeted in villages to save coin, training daily to keep their edges sharp. Only a few elites remained stationed at the Mercenary Guild within the city walls, acting as the nervous system—gathering intel, procuring supplies, and sifting through mountains of scrolls to find the "Goldilocks" contracts that kept the gears turning.

  Ronen had been marinated in this culture. His childhood was a symphony of clashing steel; his youth, a long lesson in tracking through damp undergrowth. His path seemed forged at birth—born for the warband, destined to give his life for it.

  Tradition dictated that every provisional, upon reaching adulthood, face a trial of fate. A veteran would select a task—neither a cakewalk nor a suicide mission—to test their mettle.

  The outcome would carve Ronen's future: succeed brilliantly, and he would earn a place in the bustling metropolis, rub shoulders with legends, and pick the contracts that built reputations. Fail, and he would be sent back to the mud and the grind, waiting for another year to prove he was more than just a boy with a sword.

  The Year 570 of the Holy King's Calendar, Winter.

  As his horse trotted into the magnificent capital, Ronen's amber eyes shimmered with a feverish light. Dust kicked up by the heavy traffic stung his face, but he hardly blinked, terrified he might miss a single second of the city he had built a thousand times in his imagination.

  The reality shattered his expectations.

  The broad cobblestone avenues were polished to a mirror-sheen by centuries of transit, reflecting the bruised orange of the twilight sky. Shops lined the streets like rows of jewels; delicate glass displays filled with glowing Mana crystals sat unabashedly next to soot-stained blacksmith forges. From the open doors of taverns, the scent of toasted malt wafted out to meet the melodies of wandering bards, clashing pleasantly with the dry, papery smell of nearby bookshops. Vendors barked over the din, peddling exotic southern fruits Ronen couldn't name, intricate tapestries, and amulets that hummed with faint enchantments.

  The air was a thick stew of roasted meat, sweet bakeries, and that sharp, metallic tang of ozone—the smell of high magic. It was a sea of people: silk-clad nobles brushed shoulders with scarred veterans in brigandine; hooded mages whispered to merchants in shadowed alcoves. To a boy who grew up with trees and beasts, it was a living, breathing hallucination.

  "Eyes front, boy!" Wolf growled beside him. His voice carried the weary patience of a man who had seen it all, peppered with a mentor's sternness. "Don't let the glitter blind you. This city has its own monsters. They just wear better clothes. The cutpurses and silver-tongued liars here are twice as dangerous as a pack of wolves in the brush."

  Wolf wasn't truly scolding him. His own sharp eyes scanned the familiar skyline, seeing the city anew through the youth's wonder.

  "Uncle, you never told me it was like this," Ronen stammered, his excitement bubbling over. "I had no idea! It's incredible. I think... I think I already love it here. Can I really stay? For good?"

  "If you finish the trial. That's the only 'if' that matters."

  "I'm going to do it! I can already see the looks on Shug and Josh's faces when I tell them about this. They're going to choke on their envy!" Ronen let out a sharp, breathless laugh.

  "Calm down, brat. I told you a hundred times Glory City is the heart of the Empire. Didn't your parents or the other veterans tell you stories?"

  "We thought you were all full of it!" Ronen shot back. "Every time you lot tell a story, it's always the 'best' ale, the 'biggest' dragon, the 'most beautiful' city. We just nodded and figured you were exaggerating to make yourselves look grand."

  Wolf barked a laugh. "Hah! We're mercenaries, Ronen. We don't have the fancy vocabularies of mages or scholars. We used the best words we had."

  "You never mentioned they sold fine-tempered steel on street corners," Ronen countered, pointing to a stall. "Or armor inlaid with actual gemstones."

  "I told you there were superior weapons piled everywhere," Wolf retorted, before leaning over and rapping his knuckles against Ronen's shoulder guard—the light plate he'd personally polished for this mission. "And those? Those are toys for lords. Pretty to look at, but they’d shatter under a real mace. Stick to what works, boy."

  Suddenly, Wolf's smile vanished. He looked past the noise of the market, his gaze fixing on the center of the city. He slowly raised a hand, pointing toward the horizon. "Look there."

  Ronen followed his finger.

  The sun was sinking, silhouetting the city's spine against a deep crimson sky. In the center of that twilight stood a monolith—a colossal stone tablet shaped like a titanic sword thrust into the earth. Its surface was dark and weathered, etched with a million tiny lines that seemed to vibrate even from this distance.

  "The Cenotaph of the Fallen Legends," Wolf said, his voice dropping into a solemn register Ronen had never heard. "The Mercenary Association headquarters sits at its base. And those carvings... those are the names of the people who bent history to their will."

  A cold wind swept through the street, and Ronen found himself holding his breath. The dying light caught the edges of the stone, turning the names into veins of flowing gold.

  "At the very top is Hua Yan of the 'Eternal Bloom,'" Wolf murmured. "During the final days of the Thousand-Year War, she and her Crimson Lotus Legion held the pass for the High King. They fought until the last man fell. Below her... the pioneers of the Age of Expansion, the generals of the Imperial Wars, the heroes of the Cinder Conflict... even the Valkyries who succumbed to the Ether-blight. The Empire never forgets a sacrifice."

  Ronen's hands trembled on the reins. For a moment, the street noise died away. He could almost hear the thunder of drums and the echoes of ancient war cries. The finery of the shops and the glint of gold suddenly felt small.

  "Uncle," the boy said, his eyes burning. "I'm staying. I'm definitely staying. And then... I'm going to be a hero too."

  It wasn't a boast; it was a vow. "One day, I'll earn a spot on that stone. I'll wear blessed plate and carry a blade forged from star-metal, and I'll stand before everyone—"

  "—And then die?" Wolf interrupted. The sarcasm was gone, replaced by something heavier.

  "Eh..." Ronen frowned, genuinely pondering the logistics. "Do you have to die to be a legend?"

  "Not necessarily. There are living legends. Archmage Aria Snowlight, or Tian Luo of Dragonshield..." Wolf looked at the boy, his expression unreadable. "But Ronen, dreams are fine food for the soul, but they make for a poor shield. Before you worry about being a legend, worry about being a survivor. Mercenaries live on the edge of a blade. Coming home is the only real victory."

  Wolf looked back at the monolith, a flicker of bitterness crossing his face. "That stone has the names of the greats," Wolf whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "But for every name there, a thousand men gave their lives for nothing. They died in the mud, their names scattered by the wind before their bodies were even cold. No one remembers them."

  His hand moved instinctively to his chest, his fingers tracing the brooch that hung from a leather cord, hidden beneath his tunic. It was the same jewel, like a drop of the deep ocean, that Ronen had seen him wear before.

  "Living is worth more than glory," Wolf said, as if reminding himself. "So, forget the songs. Gold is real. Food is real. Fighting for coin means you might actually live to spend it. That's the mercenary's way."

  Wolf checked the sky. "The meeting time is close. I'd love to show you the Clocktower or the Great Exchange, but we have work. If you pass this trial, you'll have a lifetime to see it all."

  They rode on in silence for a while, the weight of the city settling over them. Finally, they pulled up before a grand establishment with a sign depicting a crescent moon, glowing a faint red.

  "The Crimson Moon Inn."

  They had arrived.