Class Consultant - Book 1 Chapter 4 (Patreon)

Chapter 4

Bathral

Dran felt something stir inside his core. He understood his core was a place where all his power was kept. From his mana to his classes, they all rested in his chest. Brim looked up at the sky with tears in his eyes, forming some kind of pact with the sun itself. The Spellscribe knew his [Scholar] class was edging towards an evolution. The moment a new paladin of the sun emerged, he would become a [Class Scholar].

Dran withdrew his tablet from his robes, something he didn’t want to do. It was important to check his status screen occasionally, but that meant he had to look at the curse. If he turned his eyes away from the condition, perhaps it would go away. That was a naïve thought, though. He couldn’t. The Spellscribe tapped the side of the crystal screen and navigated to his attributes page.

Dran Frey

Race:

Meldarkin

Classes:

Spellscribe

Scholar

Attributes:

Strength:

Base: 10

Modifiers: 0

Total: 10

Dexterity:

Base: 15

Modifiers: 0

Total: 15

Vigor:

Base: 12

Modifiers: 0

Total: 12

Intelligence:

Base: 30

Modifiers: 20

Total: 50

Wisdom:

Base: 42

Modifiers: 20

Total: 62

Curses:

[Blackhand’s Mark]

Legendary Curse

Duration:

Infinite

Description:

You’ve been cursed with necromantic magic. The scar that lingers on your body cannot be dispelled through normal means, and will progress to further levels of degradation over time.

Stage:

2/10

Thankfully, the curse was still on the second stage of progression. The healing salve was keeping it at bay, but that wouldn’t last forever. His mind lingered on his attributes for a while, considering how much they affected his thought process. Intelligence was a misnomer, although that’s what the system called it. Intelligence affected a person’s ability to cast complex spells. In Dran’s case, it helped quite a lot with understanding the right arrangement of Spellwords. Wisdom was more nebulous. It helped with magical defense, offense, insight, core structure, and so on. Even the scholars debated how this attribute changed a person.

The base of an attribute was a race’s natural score combined with a person’s inclination for that domain. Dran’s race, the Meldarkin which no one seemed to know a thing about, were natural casters. Most unclassed people had a score of 5 in all attributes, but that varied wildly. If someone without a class increased their muscle mass, they could achieve upward to 20 in the Strength attribute. This meant Dran was strong and quick for his size, but nowhere near as powerful as Grog. Where the Spellscribe shined was in raw, magical potential, although it often felt at odds with his class.

Performing certain feats of strength, intelligence, or cunning might grant a person a free point in one attribute. Gaining experience with a class could also do that, and leveling a class always gave a certain amount of points. The modifier section of the attribute screen was an amalgam of those things, rolling them all up in an easy to read format, although they could be expanded.

Brim was smart enough, whether or not he knew it, to keep his Warrior class stronger than his Priest class. Warrior was straightforward. Hit something with something else, and you’re a Warrior. Priest was more complicated, requiring adhering to the will of a God, something Dran couldn’t abide. He saw them as little more than children playing a grand game, something he refused to become entangled with. Likewise, Brim showed surprising intelligence. When he evolved nothing into the Priest class, he aligned with the most innocuous God of them all. Holt. The God of Goodwill.

“The lamest God of them all,” Grog grunted, tossing another useful item into a pile.

“But the smartest choice,” Dran said, continuing on with his conversation.

Holt wouldn’t mind if Brim broke his invisible contract, evolving the class to worship a celestial body.

“Classes are funny like that,” Dran said.

Dran and Brim were sitting near a dying fire, going over all the information they had.

“You can evolve a class from nothing. Two classes can evolve into something, and one class can evolve into two. The same goes for skills,” Dran said. “Which is why a [Class Scholar] could spend their entire life studying the topic, and get no further than surface level.”

“There are infinite classes, right?” Brim asked.

“Indeed,” Dran said. “In the academy, we learned about that. They find a few hundred new classes every year.”

“Then, how do you know this class is the best for me?” Brim asked.

“This is the easiest nut to crack,” Dran said. “You could pledge yourself to Holt, becoming a Paladin of Holt easily. But that comes with baggage, and he’s not a powerful God. I imagine the sun doesn’t care if you stop worshiping it, or not.”

Brim nodded.

“But you’re holding back,” Dran said, letting out a sigh. “There’s an intent that happens when you evolve a class. Sometimes you find it by accident, but you’ll never evolve your class if you don’t want to.”

“And we want to get paid,” Grog said, throwing another charred body on another pile.

“The way you killed Svoh,” Brim said, shuddering. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Then languish and die,” Dran said, shrugging. “Rot here in this unnatural storm. Freeze to death and never trouble me again, I don’t care either way.”

Brim rose to the bait, clenching his fists. Grog moved closer, but the man didn’t act. He calmed after a moment, understanding that Dran was trying to get a reaction.

“See? You’re too smart for that,” Dran said. “Do it for your mother, father, grandfather, or yourself. Just do it.”

Brim settled down, slumping on the ground. The snow fell overhead, covering them in a light powder as the power of the bubble faded. Something stirred within Brim’s chest, motes of light emerging. The single provocation was enough to bring out that fighting spirit the Spellscribe had been searching for. The power of the Tropeshian deserts and the resilient people there poured from Brim’s heart, invoking the evolution.

Dran felt something stir in himself, the evolution he’d been waiting for. His chest swelled, a feeling of power flooding through his body. His core burst with power, releasing a visible wave of light to join Brim’s display. After a moment, he collapsed back and gasped for air. His tablet buzzed in his robe.

“Alright there?” Grog said, coming to prop Dran up.

Brim didn’t seem as affected by the evolution. He looked up to the sky, where the sun was no longer visible and frowned.

Dran didn’t respond to Grog. He reached in his robe and pulled his tablet out, swiping to the notification.

[Scholar] has evolved to [Class Scholar]!

You evolved a Scarce rarity class, earning +2 in each of the class’s main attributes.
[Class Scholar] has generated a skill: [Evolution Path].

He inspected the new skill and class.

[Evolution Path]

Epic [Class Scholar] Skill

Rank:

Initiate (1)

Description:

Reveals details, depending on the rank of this skill, about the evolution paths of both classes and skills.

[Class Scholar]

Rarity:

Scarce (1% of class type (Scholar) population)

Rank:

Initiate (1)

Evolved From:

[Scholar] (Accomplished (5))

Evolution Trigger:

Realization of the many paths of classes and skills.

Help one person evolve into a class with higher than common rarity

Description:

[Class Scholars] are dedicated to understanding the infinite web of class and skill evolutions. They are specialists who help steer the paths of others.

The class was nothing unexpected, but [Evolution Path] was incredibly useful. It would be easier the next time he helped someone evolve a class, giving more information to start off with. The skill also scaled with the rank, which was always a great way to gain power. He didn’t mind the +2 to Intelligence and Wisdom, either.

“So, it’s done,” Brim said, shaking his head in disbelief. “That easy.”

“Once you have all the pieces, it’s quite easy,” Dran said. “Now, do you mind sharing the details of the new class?”

Brim withdrew a small tablet from under his armor, handing it over to Dran.

[Tomb Guard of Tarak]

Rarity:

Scarce (<1% of class type (Paladin) population, 10% of racial class type (Paladin) population (Tropeshian Human))

Rank:

Training (1)

Evolved From:

[Warrior] (Adept (3))

[Priest] (Apprentice (2))

Evolution Trigger:

Realization of Duty.

Heritage is linked back to the Tarak warband.

[Priest] is lower than [Warrior]

Description:

The Tomb Guards of Tarak were originally meant to stand as sentinels against tomb robbers. As the world changed, so did their place in the world. When the Tarak warband swept across southern Tropesh, they found themselves as camp guards. Their worship of the sun, instead of a deity, grants them the ability to draw on fire-based healing magic and attacks.

This was the first time Dran helped someone evolve a class, and it was scarce. The Tomb Guards sounded like stout defenders, something that Brim would need to see his town safe. WIth the line of succession for the Keeper of the Gale cut, a new era would dawn on Frostelm. The Spellscribe had already riddled out where their power came from, but he didn’t want to interject himself with these people’s problems. Prak held some magical item tied to his class. It likely needed daily mana, fed from a specific class. Once the old man died, so would the storm.

“Is this a happy ending?” Brim asked, laughing. “I don’t feel like it is.”

“Things change,” Dran said. “The weak fall to those changes while the strong move on. It’s time for Frostelm to see the sun again.”

“Right,” Brim said, taking a steadying breath. He withdrew a small, lacquered case from under his armor. “Your payment.”

Brim handed over a Mark holder, a magical device meant for holding the magical currency. Marks were made of a strange metal, worked to be impossibly thin. They were the basis of most crafting classes, used as fuel for the reactions. Each rectangular piece of metal was the size of Dran’s palm, and could be broken into tenths. He opened the spatial container, fanning them out and counted 200 Marks, doubling what they expected to make from this job.

The group lingered for a while. Grog loaded his pack with everything he could carry, finding 50 Marks to add to their pot. Brim wasn’t interested in looting anyone, especially not his dead uncle. Dran was happy to pull the magical items off the man, intent on getting them appraised when they found a town large enough to do so.

The Spellscribe wasn’t interested in lingering in the glade any longer than he needed to. They gathered their things and left the Tomb Guard to his fate, whatever that might be.

Nalan was considered the seat of the empire. Only the northernmost section of the continent was wild, but dots of civilization were scattered along the imperial road. That same road made travel easy for Dran and Grog. Soldiers could march on the road throughout the day, moving far faster than a normal man and experiencing almost no fatigue. The same right was afforded to all citizens of the empire.

By imperial standards, the nearest town to Frostelm was Bathral, although there were many smaller towns that lacked outposts. The Adventurer’s Guild and the Scholar’s Academy had an office in Bathral, making it an easy destination. Even with the help of the road, their journey was arduous. The only positive aspect of their nearly month-long trip was how cheap it was. Dran and Grog either slept under the stars, or bedded down in some cheap inn, often for free. The line between patriotism and fear was thin in the empire.

Dran made notes as they went, trying to keep his mind off the seeping pain of his wound. Monster activity seemed to wax and wane as they went. They were ambushed several times by more intelligent monsters, and several more by deserters of the legion and bandits all the same. But the closer they drew to Bathral, the fewer encounters they had. This was standard for traveling imperial roads. The legion couldn’t keep up with the sudden springing of dungeons, and the Adventurer’s Guild paid little heed to northern Nalan. The Spellscribe remembered his commander calling this problem “growing pains”.

Bathral was a metropolis compared to Frostelm. Dran surmounted a hill, cursing as his pegleg dropped into a shallow crevice. Grog was there, as always, to hoist him out of the snare. The view of the city below was worth it. Midday had just passed, bathing the sprawl of buildings in bright light. It was too large to see the entire town, segmented by a large hill as it was, but the activity below gave Dran some hope. There were brightly colored roofs, wisps of smoke rising into the sky, and the call of guards on the wall. It was civilization.

Where Dran wanted to split up to accomplish their tasks, Grog refused. The Ogre minded him like a lost kitten, and he couldn’t blame him. The Spellscribe’s condition was fragile, but his spell-casting took time. If a cutthroat found him unawares in the muck-strew streets, it would be the end of his story.

The pair passed through the gates easily. Any of the three badges on their chests would have seen them enter, but three at once meant the guards didn’t bother using their magical probing device. The guards saluted, and left it at that. Dran was assaulted by the sights and sounds of the city. First, there were the damp cisterns on the edge of town, then a baker’s bread and the cry of children playing. Cesspits and street vendors lingered in the same area, a funny thing that the Spellscribe always noted. A quick sweep of his senses brought another sense of comfort. Although it might have been rude to probe, Dran was always gentle with this. He could Classed people in almost every building. The feel of crafters, adventurers, and more washed over him.

With instructions from a jovial urchin, Dran and Grog found their way to the Scholar’s Academy. It occupied the peak of the hill in the center of the city, sharing it with the Adventurer’s Guild. It was a small building, compared to the academy back in Dromor, but it was serviceable. The importing thing was they could update records here, sending the information to every branch instantly. That kind of magic wasn’t cheap, but the Scholars were willing to pay. A short, bald, unkempt functionary met them in the building's lobby. It was decorated like most things owned by the scholars. Sparse. The only things they cared to put on their walls were books and trophies.

Dran removed the pin from his robes and set it down, waiting for the unclassed functionaries' judgment.

“Updating your class?” he asked.

“I am,” Dran said.

“How about you?” he asked of Grog.

“Not me, just him.”

“Ah, a [Class Scholar]. I’ll update the record,” the man said, swiping through menus on his tablet. He dropped Dran’s badge on the floor and withdrew a new one. It was the same color, same image, but had a 2 at the bottom. “You’ll get a rank increase for that.”

Dran leaned in. “Why?”

“Well, as a [Class Scholar], you’re now a specialist,” he said. “Frankly, we have quite a few contracts on Nalan regarding evolutions. From beggars to kings—not literal kings—we need more people working on the evolution problem.”

“Pay?” Grog asked.

Dran often forgot about their plan to make Grog look like an idiot. When he broke the illusion, showing his mastery of the strange Ogre Mage class, it disarmed most people. The less they knew, the better.

“Yes, the contracts pay. Very well, actually,” the man said. He gestured to the other pins on Dran’s chest. “Far better than those.”

“Unexpected,” Dran said, taking his new badge and pinning it to his chest. “Where can we view the contracts?”

The man pointed into an adjoining room. There was a board with sections of parchment pinned to it. Dran couldn’t count how many postings there were.

“Thank you,” Dran said, bowing. He and Grog went off to check the board.

Most of the contracts seemed simple enough, and if the people posting them took time to browse the library, they’d find their answers. There was a [Farmer] who wanted to find out how to do combat instead, a [Spellblade] that wanted to be a [Farmer], and one that refused to disclose his class but insisted on getting help. Dran browsed the listings for a while without deciding. He was worn from the road, and wanted to do as little walking around the city as possible.

They bid farewell to the helpful man at the counter and went to the adventurer’s guild. They were happy to take Svoh’s shattered core, and handed out the 200 Mark reward without hesitation. It wasn’t enough to rank either man’s status within the Guild up, but the money was nice. They browsed the listed contracts in the guildhall and decided on checking a few out. They were very standard monster-slaying contracts, which would be a nice change of pace.

The one thing that lingered on Dran’s mind was a nice, hot bath. Something to soothe away the pain in his stump. Grog bribed an urchin child two tenths of a Mark to point them in the best direction for safe accommodations. The southern section of the city was their best bet, and they found a clean-looking inn before the sun fell. The old woman who operated the place mistook them for a couple, but they didn’t bother correcting her. They were blood-brothers, happily sharing a room at a discounted rate. The room included a bath and a meal for 20 Marks, which seemed too cheap for the area. While the old woman insisted she was just happy to cater to those that served, Dran still established his goo-circle when they slept that night.