Chương 33: Class Selection Part 1

[Class Selection Available.] [Evaluating...] [Your actions have shaped your path.] [Available classes for selection:] Jack of all Trades — Rare. A class meant for individuals who couldn't find a path of their own. They possess the foundation of many disciplines, allowing for rapid growth and adaptation to unfamiliar tasks. They have a solid foundation in many skills, but never master any. Adolin read the description and chuckled. It fit the previous owner of the body almost too well.

It reminded him of his life before his master found him, before he became what he was now. Not as long as the kid, but he had wandered too, searching for something to define him. Something worth living for. There was nothing describing what the class would grant him, so he focused on it. The world shifted. It felt like he had been pulled into a dream. He watched from above. Saw himself—his body—but it wasn't him. It was Dareth, the previous owner of the body.

The scene took place in Grest, the town where the boy had been born and raised. He was in the market square, pushing a cart, delivering bread from the local bakery. Then it changed. Now the boy was helping the carpenter build a stall, hammering a plank in place with iron nails. The scene kept shifting, showing the moments that had shaped him for this class. From helping the carpenter to selling bread at the baker's stall.

Dozens of different experiences, across countless trades, the boy had worked throughout his life. Then he was pulled out of the dream state. The window was still in front of him, and had additional information on it. [Class Additional Attribute Points:] Strength: +1 Agility: +1 Endurance: +1 Intelligence: +1 Constitution: +1 Attribute Points: +1 The skill seemed bad at first, but it wasn't. It was far from it. Anyone with this class could become a capable fighter, proficient with a wide range of weapons.

He might never master any of them, but the sheer variety he could wield would make him dangerous. It also granted an additional attribute point, along with a bonus to every attribute. The class was broken. Even without knowing much about classes or the blessing, he could tell it was far more than it seemed on the surface. From what he knew, the Farmer Class offered only a few points, limited to Strength and Endurance. This one gave six per level. With the six, the blessing usually granted, that made twelve points.

It was a rare class. He shook his head. The boy would have received a rare class. A broken one at that. The class seemed useful, but he didn't feel any connection with it. It was not something he would choose; he was already a master of many fields. It wasn't for him. He ignored it and looked at the next class offered. Wanderer — Uncommon. A class granted to those who couldn't find a destination on their journey. They moved from place to place, searching for a life that would be fulfilling, yet never finding it.

The road taught them to endure, adapt, and keep moving. He spent some time looking over the class, but there was nothing special about it. It was better than the Farmer Class, but beyond that, it was lacking. It granted two points in Endurance and two in Constitution, along with an additional attribute point. He moved to the next one. Failed Hero — Rare. He stared at the name of the class for a long moment. His emotions twisted. He wanted to laugh… but he didn't.

It was— If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. He didn't know what it was. The class had been offered specifically for him. For Adolin. Of that, he was certain. It fit him a little too well. He wasn't sure he wanted to relive the experiences the blessing was about to show him. At least it confirmed it. The goddess—or whatever governed the blessing—was aware of him. He didn't want to sour his mood, so he ignored it.

It took him a few more seconds before he focused on the class. He found himself overlooking his village. It was late summer. The village was preparing for the Harvest Festival. People moved through the streets, carrying barrels, crates, and all kinds of supplies toward the square. Others hauled large bundles of dried yeln, decorating the village with them. Yeln was the crop the village grew—the plant it was named after. Yeln Village. The Yeln Festival was his favorite time of the year.

Beyond all the food, travelers came from across the region, bringing stories of heroes and news from the kingdom. It was the only time of year he could experience the world beyond his village. It was the year he would meet the heroes he had heard about his whole life. The same ones who had slain the wyvern that had plagued their village for months and taken the life of his best friend. The one he had grown up with. But first, he had to escape his mother. On normal days, that was impossible.

But with the festival, she was occupied. She sat by the fireplace, carefully weaving yeln flowers. They would be judged at the end of the festival. The finest would win. Three yeln flowers were already woven into her blonde hair. Adolin cut the wet stems to the proper length, passing them to her as she worked. It was mindless work. He wanted to be out there, meeting the heroes, listening to their stories. But his mother wouldn't let him leave until he finished all the stems.

He never understood why she tried so hard. Winning brought nothing. Just a title. Yeln Flower. There weren't many stems left. He would be free within the hour. But what if the heroes didn't stay that long? What if they left before he finished? He couldn't miss them. The problem was right in front of him. His mother. He'd already tried a few times, but nothing worked. She always knew when he was trying to slip away from her grasp. Now, he had to be more clever.

"I need to use the privy," he said, shifting on his feet.

"Go," she said. He had succeeded. He was free to meet the heroes. He didn't waste a moment and hurried toward the door.

"Come back after you meet them," his mother said. He froze, hand on the door. He'd failed. Again.

"I will!" He was gone before she could say anything else. It didn't matter. He had what he wanted. He would meet the heroes. The ones that had killed the wyvern. The ones who had taken revenge for him. He ran toward the square. The tavern was there, and every visitor from outside the village stayed in it. The smells from the stalls were irresistible. He slowed, stopping at a few along the way. First, a slice of warm bread made from yeln and conney seeds. Then a pie filled with forest fruits.

He finished with whatever sweets caught his eye. The tavern stood before him, its courtyard filled with people and children. He ran faster than he ever had. In the courtyard, the heroes were telling a story. He slipped past the crowd and pushed his way to the front. He focused on them, straining to hear and see better. There were four of them. At the front sat a young man, smiling as he spoke to the children gathered around him. Leather armor, a bright cloak, a sword at his hip.

Beside him stood a taller man in steel armor, a heavy shield resting at his side. A girl in mage robes stood near the young man, a bright smile on her face, just like his. Behind them, a man in black robes sat quietly, a staff bearing the pantheon's emblem propped against the table.

"Will you?" the young man asked. She nodded and picked up a staff leaning against the shield, one he hadn't noticed before.

"Do you want to see real magic?" she asked. A chorus of agreement rose from the children. Adolin nodded and edged closer, slipping between them. She looked thoughtful.

"What should I show?" she muttered. The young man beside her smiled.

"Show them the battle with the wyvern." She didn't say anything and pulled her staff higher and closed her eyes. Flames flickered into existence in the air before her, twisting and shaping into four figures. His eyes widened. Magic. For the first time in his life, he was witnessing magic. Real magic. He stepped closer, drawn in, trying to see the figures more clearly. They looked like the party. The flames had taken their forms, each one distinct enough for him to tell them apart.

The flame figures began to move, walking through the air. The young man's voice followed.

"We found it in the fields north of the village," he said.

"It was already feasting on the cattle." In front of the figures, flames twisted and rose, shaping into a wyvern. It tore into what looked like a calf. The man kept speaking, but Adolin wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on the flames. The heroes moved to meet the wyvern. It rose into the air, circling above them before plunging down. It went straight for the mage. The shield bearer stepped in front of her, bracing as the wyvern crashed against his shield.

He took the full force of the wyvern's dive, sliding back a few feet. Flames scattered around his legs, like dust kicked up by the impact. Flaming spears formed around the creature and shot toward it, striking its legs and wings. The wyvern tried to take flight, but the priest stepped forward. His staff moved, and chains of flame wrapped around the creature, holding it in place. Then the hero stepped forward. One clean strike. The wyvern's head fell. It was over. The creature that had plagued his village… was gone.

The one who had killed his best friend. That was the day it changed. The day he decided to become a hero. The day he fell in love with magic.