An Unwavering Craftsman

Damien tapped his dry quill against the application form for the royal knight academy, wondering how best to answer the question of why he wished to attend. The box was sizeable, so they obviously expected a substantive answer. That was made difficult by the fact that he didn't want to attend. Or, more accurately, that he didn't want to attend yet.

He had, after all, turned seventeen only two months earlier. The ceremony of paths—in which everyone who had turned seventeen in the previous six months would be granted their class by the Five—wasn't until next week. Without knowing his class, how was he supposed to know where he should go for higher education, if anywhere at all? But his parents had insisted. "They'll be buried under a deluge of applications in the days after the ceremony," they'd said. "You need to get your applications in early, so make sure you've got something ready to cover every eventuality."

That was why, in a neat pile on the side of his desk, a series of sheets of paper were displaying headers running the full gamut from the University of Illuganasis—the most prestigious school of magic on the continent—to the Gretheric School of Adventuring. There was even one for the Temple of Kakkerxat, as if Damien had any chance at all of getting a priest class of any tier.

Classes were, to a large extent, hereditary, after all, and there were no priests anywhere in Damien's family. His mother was a tier seven [Alacritous Blade]. His father was, ridiculously, a tier eight [Adamant Guardian]. Eight! There were only four of them in the kingdom of Hrellflan. Less than fifty publicly known in the entire bowl. The combination meant Damien would likely be tier seven himself, probably with some sort of melee combat class. The knight's academy might be appropriate, but there was nothing certain about it. Besides, there was a big difference between a speed based offensive class like his mother's and an endurance based defensive class like his father's. It would be a struggle to construct an answer that made sense for both.

Damien sighed as he dipped his quill into the ink, scribbled something half-heartedly into the box, and added the form to the pile. In practice, it wouldn't matter what he wrote, and it was only his diligence that pushed him to try to construct well-formed answers. With a tier seven class, he could walk into any institution in the country with zero notice and be welcomed with open arms. Even if he didn't inherit his parents' full power and only got something at tier six, they still wouldn't be looking at his application too closely. And the Five forbid he turned out to be another tier eight; in that case, his own opinions would be utterly irrelevant, and he'd be bundled off wherever the king demanded, in order to make best use of his abilities. Still, at least that would be better than if he exceeded both his parents, and got a once-a-century tier nine class—the only eligible princess didn't exactly have a great reputation.

It wasn't just the application forms, either. Piled up on the floor were a veritable library worth of books describing classes and their associated feats, perks, skills, spells and prayers. His parents had wanted him to start his adult life with as much preparation as possible, and he'd had optimal methods of levelling up drilled into him since before he even knew what levelling up meant.

At least his parents had stopped short of preparing equipment for him. Knowledge about classes was somewhat transferable, but if his dad had commissioned the unfeasibly large two-hander he'd been threatening ever since he took down an adamantite golem that had walked out of the sea on the eastern coast, and Damien turned out to have a dexterity focused class like his mum, it would have been a complete waste. Without the strength of a heavy-melee class, he wouldn't even have been able to lift the thing. His dad would just have to find some other use for over a ton of pure adamantite.

Damien sighed for the millionth time that evening, peering out of his window at the quiet street below.

... Wait. Quiet was understating things. It was silent out there. Even the birds had ceased their incessant chirping. There were only two reasons in this town for the gulls to shut up, and the sky was its usual green, with no sign of any incipient mana-storms. It must be the second reason, then. With yet another sigh, Damien threw open the window and peered out to see what ridiculous monster corpse his dad had scared all the wildlife off with this time.

Yup, there he was. Casually walking down the middle of the street, one hand shielding his eyes from the western source-light while the other grasped one end of a horn. And at the other end of that horn... Cradling his face in one hand, Damien carefully closed the window and drew the curtains, pretending he hadn't seen a thing.

A dragon. A bloody dragon. His dad was dragging what was supposed to be the ultimate terror of the skies—something that could kill an unclassed human by presence alone—through the streets of Thale by one horn, leaving a rut behind him that was going to take the poor town craftsmen all day to repair. His mum had been sitting on its back, reading.

An elder dragon by the name of Brenhin-Tân had been responsible for the theft of the northern source-light over three hundred years earlier, supposedly desiring it for its hoard, and it still hadn't been recovered. While his dad's latest kill would certainly be far lower in the draconic pecking order, merely being the same species as something that could do something as insane as steal a source-light—one of the artefacts produced personally by the god Grungle the Maker, as a substitute for the sun that had been lost to the Other in the war of the rifts centuries ago—meant that Damien wanted nothing to do with it.

Sometimes, Damien hated having famous parents.

At least they didn't revel in it. The family lived in a relatively modest home in the seaside town of Thale. Yes, it was detached, had a sizeable garden and a private stretch of beach, but it wasn't more space than they could use. They had a housekeeper—a widow by the name of Grace—but not the massive array of servants any noble house would have.

And that was another reason why Damien didn't want a tier seven class... Given the hereditary nature of classes, the nobles were always trying to snap up whatever 'worthy blood' they could get their hands on. His mother had received a half dozen proposals in the days after receiving her class, some of them quite forceful, and had his father not abused the leeway that came with receiving a tier eight class—at one point literally smashing in the face of the first son of the local Earl, who had been refusing to take no as an answer—the lovebirds would never have been able to marry. As it was, there would no doubt be a host of visitors at the town's temple watching the ceremony, ready to report back to their various masters and mistresses.

Peace and quiet was what he wanted. Yes, he wanted to excel, but by his own hand, and not because of an overpowered class the Five saw fit to bestow on him. Why the world was as it was, with someone's success in life determined almost entirely by the tier of class a god or goddess saw fit to grant them, he could never understand. He'd listened to priests speak for hours on the topic, during which they would endlessly spout words that, on closer examination, seemed to contain no actual meaning. It certainly didn't seem based on the worthiness of the individual, given the behaviour of most of the nobles.

He heard a heavy side door open, but ignored it, letting his parents store the corpse safely in their storage. One downside of fighting such high tier monsters was that they couldn't simply pop in to the local adventurer's guild to sell their kills. They wouldn't have staff capable of dismantling it, nor the cash on hand to pay for it. Heck, given that it was a dragon, they probably wouldn't accept it on their property simply out of fear that something would come looking for revenge, and boy was that a terrifying thought. Damien paused for a moment, listening out for any wingbeats thumping at the edge of his perception, but no, there was no angry elder dragon descending on the town just yet.

Thankfully, the storage room was enchanted with preservation runes, so the corpse wouldn't smell. It could take weeks before anyone turned up to collect it. Most likely someone from the University of Illuganasis. If Damien ended up with a mage class, he might even be able to catch a lift.

"My boy!" exclaimed Shigeo, the [Adamant Guardian], his volume as high as his level as he slammed Damien's door open. "You've finished? Good! Excellent! Come, join us. Today has been a good day!"

This time, Damien didn't sigh. For all their eccentricities, they were good and loving parents. His dad had even specially reinforced the door and wall around it, which was the only reason Damien wasn't currently plucking splinters out of his back.

"Wherever did you find a dragon?" he asked, knowing that he was going to hear the tale regardless, probably multiple times, and might as well get it over with.

Surprisingly, his father didn't immediately dive into one of his usual epic tales, but instead looked sheepish.

"We didn't—it found us," called Fleta, the [Alacritous Blade], her voice musical and full of amusement.

Shigeo rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. "We still killed it, though," he muttered. "No-one has taken down a dragon in this kingdom for a couple of decades. It still counts."

"Yes, it still counts," promised Damien, leading his father back down the stairs and to the dining table, where Grace had already poured three glasses of a very expensive bottle of wine.

"Will you be wanting food tonight?" she asked, their return being unexpected. Normally, Damien would be the only one eating.

"Depends. Do you have any idea how to cook dragon?"

Grace, a third tier [Beast Tamer], smiled and shook her head. "Try the palace kitchens. I can cut a lump off and throw it in a pan, but don't come complaining if it tastes of leather and leaves you poisoned and leaking from both ends for the rest of the week."

Her class was most unfortunate. Lower tier classes tended to be more generalised, and hers encompassed monsters and animals alike, but that didn't help when her level was far too low to contract with monsters and the more natural wildlife in the area was unsuited for any tasks worth significant experience. She'd barely been able to level it, never earning her first feat, and had spent the few perks she'd earned on general improvements instead of anything specific to her class. Her husband, a second tier [Fisherman], had unfortunately been lost at sea, and the family had taken her in more or less as a charity case. Someone with a maid, housekeeper or even cookery class would have been far more suited to the job, but someone didn't need a class to wield a duster.

"Poisoned? There ain't any poison in a red dragon, you old biddy. You're thinking of green."

"You underestimate my skill with a frying pan," she responded with a smirk. "Or maybe overestimate. One of the two."

"I dunno. Odd things can happen when using high tier materials without an appropriate feat," opined Damien. He still hadn't admitted to his parents why he had shifted his chest of drawers a couple of feet towards the door. None of the books had said anything about pixie fingers and unicorn cap doing that when mixed, and now there was an oddly colourful patch of carpet that no amount of non-magical cleaning would fix. At least it didn't smell, which would have made it far harder to hide.

"Yes, a lesson that you've already learnt well," said Fleta, because mothers needed neither skills nor feats to know when their child had been naughty, even when they tried to cover up the evidence. Especially when they tried to cover up the evidence.

"Anyway, food!" declared Shigeo, gulping his wine. Damien winced, imagining what the skilled winemakers of Greenrim would think of such a display. Even a cheap bottle of wine shouldn't be abused like that. "What say we head to the tavern?"

Riches had certainly never changed Shigeo's behaviour, and probably never would. Then again, that was what his class was all about; standing steadfast and immovable, come what may. And that was just one of the many reasons why Fleta loved him. And why any artisan from Greenrim would doubtless punch him in the face, should they ever meet in person.

Damien joined the two on their way to the tavern, enjoying a hearty bowl of boar stew, prepared by a fourth tier [Restaurant Chef]. It tasted gorgeous, but that fact only served to rankle him. The tiered class system was bad enough to start with, but for combat classes like his parents, he could... if not forgive it, at least ignore it. But why food should taste better if prepared by one person than another, even if they did exactly the same preparation, was inexplicable. Cooking skills were stupid.

Grace may be a good sport about it, joking as she did about her (lack of) skill in the kitchen, but Damien felt a certain amount of indignation on her behalf. No matter how hard she tried, no matter the effort she expended, it was physically impossible for her to make a stew that tasted as good as what was served here. Nor, had she spent her entire life smithing, learning every nuance of fire and anvil, could she forge a sword that would stand up to a single swing from the first forging of a freshly classed [Master Smith].

He made an effort to put the matter out of mind and focus on the stew, half listening to Shigeo's raucous tale of dragon slaying. Really, it was only the fact that he'd be getting his own class next week that was causing things to bother him this much. Despite everything he knew about hereditary, there was always that niggling voice at the back of his mind. 'What if I get a useless class? What if I'm the next Grace?' What he consciously worried about were the issues of getting a tier seven or eight class—the attention and prestige, and problems that came with them—but at the back of his mind, in the pit of the night, in his nightmares, what he saw was himself being bestowed a useless class. Grace's [Beast Tamer]. Maybe something unsuited for the local climate, like [Desert Runner]. Perhaps even something like [Necromancer] which would win him a one-way ticket to the local dungeon simply for the crime of being alive.

It was a deeper, more visceral, less logical fear. The logical part of his brain knew that if he did end up with an illegal class, his parents would certainly use their power and influence to get him out. Heck, should that fail, Shigeo would probably launch a one-man assault on the local castle to bust him out. He'd probably end up conscripted into the army or similar, but his parents would never let him rot away in a prison cell. Likewise, there must be ways to level even a class like [Beast Tamer]. It would just take the effort to find them. Even with that sort of class, he wouldn't let himself languish.

"... and then my cute Fleta here leapt from the tree trunk and caught it by the tail. It tried to swing her off, but didn't succeed before she'd cut two great gashes into one wing, and sent it careening out of the sky."

"That's not quite how I remember it, dear," said the aforementioned Fleta, smiling.

"It's fine. I'm expected to dramatise," replied Shigeo, waving her off, to the jeers of their audience.

What had actually happened was that the dragon had chanced upon them while they were cooking a pair of rabbits they'd caught, attracted by the smell of roasting meat as it was passing by. It had completely ignored the pair of humans, considering them too inferior and insignificant to be concerned with, intending to snap up the tiny roasted snack in one bite, without even bothering to land.

Shigeo was in the way, but why did that matter? When struck by a dragon in flight, humans tended to move out of the way very quickly. Often in several directions at once. The [Adamant Guardian] hadn't, his [Immovable Fortress] feat meaning the dragon had effectively flown into a solid adamantite wall.

Even after that surprise, dislocating a wing in the collision, the dragon hadn't gone down without a fight. Nevertheless, it had been grounded by its self-inflicted injury, and a slight concussion left it with no hope of keeping up with Fleta's speed. A substantial amount of the landscape had been left charred or glassed in the ensuing battle, but the dragon had been unable to land a decisive blow, suffering a death by a thousand cuts as Fleta stung it time after time.

Had the dragon attacked the pair seriously, the outcome would have been very different. The pair of adventurers would, at best, have been forced to flee for their lives. At worst, they would never have returned home to Thale. Fortunately for them, arrogance was a flaw that was by no means unique to humans.

Damien knew none of those real events, but from his father's earlier embarrassment, he could guess their outline, and fully intended to extract the truth from his mother when they were back home. In the meantime, he listened to the exaggerated tale while wearing the excited grin of someone picturing themselves as the hero of the story, believing that come next week, the protagonist could be him.