The embers of the campfire cast flickering, inadequate light against the encroaching darkness as Luke walked away. Each step felt heavier than the last, not just from the physical toll of the day, but from the psychic weight of his new reality. A nervous energy, sharp and discordant, thrummed beneath the bone-deep weariness. Death Merchant (Provisional). The Class designation, whispered into his awareness by that unsettling, disembodied entity speaking through Orsul, felt less like an opportunity and more like a brand. What path had Fate set him upon? Was it a road to power, or a shortcut to oblivion?

  The sheer absurdity of it gnawed at him. Hours ago, he was just Luke Rennoka, factory drone 47B on a dying Earth, his greatest ambition the impossible dream of affording the Fare. Now? Now he was a Forerunner in Rahu, a nascent… something, marked by cosmic forces he couldn’t comprehend, tasked with surviving a trial that promised permanent annihilation upon failure. The transition, the battlefield, the deaths – it was all a brutal, disorienting kaleidoscope. Yet, amidst the horror, a grim purpose had taken root. Jason. Irara. Their faces were his anchor in this storm.

  This Death Merchant Class, whatever it truly entailed, felt disturbingly resonant. The power wasn’t clean, wasn’t heroic like the fireballs he’d imagined. It stemmed from the echoes of the fallen, from the very essence of death that permeated this war-torn land. He remembered the startling purple flash when he’d first looted a corpse, the almost effortless disintegration of the body, the faint warmth that had pulsed within him. It felt… potent. Intrusive. Necessary. If this was the power offered, the tool given, he would learn to wield it, no matter how unsettling the source.

  But raw potential meant nothing without the means to survive. The flimsy skills imprinted upon him by the System, basic knack for dodging, a slightly less clumsy way of holding his daggers, he felt laughably inadequate. The Cliffs of Drono sounded ancient, dangerous. He pictured jagged precipices shrouded in mist, haunted by things far worse than the green-clad soldiers he’d barely survived. He needed gear. Real gear.

  With a sigh that feathered the cold night air, Luke turned, determination hardening his gaze, and pushed back into the chaotic thrum of the camp market. Night hadn’t quelled the activity, merely shifted its character. Torches sputtered, casting long, dancing shadows that writhed like living things. The noise was a layered beast, drunken shouts, sharp haggling, the low murmur of conspiracy, the clang of a distant hammer still shaping metal. The smells intensified in the cool air: woodsmoke, stale ale, roasting meat fighting a losing battle against the miasma of unwashed bodies and the faint, persistent iron tang of old blood.

  He moved through the throng with a newfound focus, ignoring the calls of merchants hawking chipped blades or vials of murky liquids promising strength or luck. His eyes scanned the makeshift stalls, searching for function over flash. He saw soldiers gambling with dice carved from bone, camp followers mending torn cloaks by flickering lamplight, and everywhere, the grim commerce built upon the detritus of war. Dented shields leaned against wagon wheels, piles of mismatched boots sat waiting for new owners, and strands of unfamiliar coins. Copper, silver, gold all glinted briefly as they changed hands.

  Near the edge of the main bustle, tucked between a stall selling suspiciously cheap jerky and another offering repairs for punctured waterskins, he found it: a cluster of stalls dedicated to armor. He approached one run by a man whose silence seemed as solid as the dented breastplates hanging from his rack. The man’s face was a mask of weary indifference, his eyes barely registering Luke’s approach. Luke scanned the offerings, his gaze drawn to a cuirass of dark brown leather. It looked robust, cared for, unlike much of the battered scrap metal surrounding it. He reached out, the leather cool and smooth beneath his calloused fingers.

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*~ Item Scanned: The Wanderer’s Cuirass ~*

  Armor Type: Light Chest

  Description: This cuirass was fashioned by a nomad who traveled countless miles. The spirit of the journey lingers.

  Stats: +5 Physical Armor, +1 Vitality, +2 Endurance.

  Note: Endurance is directly affected by Vitality and depicts sustained physical exertion.

  Flavor Text: “Endurance is the ultimate caffeinator.” ~ Oob, the Nomad

  Oob. Another echo from a world not his own. Where did these whispers come from? The Endurance bonus, however, was immediately relevant. The journey to the Cliffs, the trial itself – stamina could mean the difference between success and becoming another lingering echo for the next poor sod Marked by Fate. He recalled the crushing weight of his scavenged loot, the burning protest of his muscles. Yes, Endurance was vital.

  His mind flickered to the character screen, the repository of his nascent identity in Rahu. Level 8. Ten attribute points. The decision felt clearer now, less abstract. Survival demanded resilience. Five points flowed into Vitality, bolstering his life force, feeding that crucial Endurance stat. The other five went to Dexterity – speed, agility, the ability to not get hit, felt paramount for someone relying on daggers and evasion. Five skill points remained. Basic Evasion (Passive), Basic Knife Proficiency (Passive), Pack Mule (Active). He channeled his focus: two points strengthening his knife work, hoping for cleaner strikes; two enhancing his evasion, praying for fewer fatal mistakes; the last into Pack Mule, envisioning lighter loads on the long road ahead. The faint hum of the System acknowledged the allocation, a subtle shift within him, a potential unlocked.

  Feeling marginally more prepared, he turned back to the silent armorer. “The cuirass,” Luke said, pointing. “How much?”

  The man grunted a number, 15 gold. It felt fairish? What did he know about the value of money here, it was less than he’d feared. Besides, he didn’t have time for this. He had less than 48 hours before he died, for good. He paid, the coins disappearing into the man’s large, scarred hand without ceremony. Equipping the cuirass felt like shedding a layer of vulnerability. The fit was snug, the weight reassuring.

  He looked over his character sheet one more time after spending his attribute points and purchasing the Wanderers Cuirass.

  

~ Character Status: Luke Renoka ~

  ~ Level: 8 ~

  ~ Class: Death Merchant (Provisional) ~

  Note:

  ~Spells

  can be learned from outside your class via Tomes, Skillbooks, grimoires and through other special circumstances.

  ~All spells learned outside the Death Mercant class have a reduced 75% effectiveness.~

  ~ Provisional Status: Must complete quest “The Reaper of Souls”. Permanent Death Penalty Active. ~

  ~ Attributes: ~

  ~ Vitality: 2 -> 7 + 1(From Equipment) ~

  ~Endurance 2 ->2 +2(From Equipment ~

  ~ Strength: 2 -> 2 ~

  ~ Dexterity: 2 -> 7 ~

  ~ Intelligence: 4 -> 4 ~

  ~ Wit: 3 -> 3 ~

  ~ Charisma: 3 -> 3 ~

  ~ Attribute Points Available: 0 ~

  His flimsy helmet and worn boots, however, now seemed utterly pathetic. He needed head protection, sturdy footwear. Nodding a silent thanks to the armorer, Luke continued his search, the quest timer in the corner of his vision a constant, nagging reminder. 47:49:03. Every second mattered. He scanned the remaining stalls, hope dwindling as he passed vendors selling everything but what he needed. Until he saw it. The jarringly bright sign: “Taylor’s Tailors.”