In the heart of Korazu stood an old oak tree, wider than any house and older than any memory. Its bark was furrowed like ancient scrollwork, and its branches reached so far they cast shade even at midday. Every week, when the sun was highest and the chores lightest, the children of the village would gather beneath it for a lesson—not from a textbook, but from the mouth of the oldest man in the village.
His name was Eldin, and no one truly knew how old he was. His beard was as white as snow but so long that it brushed the ground when he sat. Some said he'd once walked with the first Paladin chosen by the Will of the World. Others claimed he had entered a dungeon and lived to speak of it—without ever receiving a class.
Whatever the truth is, his words carried weight. And the children listened.
Reivo, Mira, and a dozen others sat cross-legged in the grass, wide-eyed and restless as Eldin leaned back against the bark and closed his eyes.
"Do you know," he began, "why some are chosen, and some are not?"
Silence.
Eldin opened one eye, pale blue like cracked glass. "Not because they are good. Or because they are strong. No... the Will of the World does not care for such things. It listens for something deeper."
He tapped his chest.
"A resonance. Like a bell ringing in the dark. When you reach eighteen, if the bell within you sounds clearly enough, the Will hears it. And it gives you... a path."
"A class," said one of the older boys.
"Yes," Eldin nodded. "A class. A title. A direction. Some become warriors, born to wield steel and rage. Some become rangers, vanishing like mist between trees. Some become healers, binding flesh with light. And a rare few," he paused, "are given something... more."
Reivo leaned forward. He'd heard this before, but each time, it made his skin prickle.
"The Titled," Eldin whispered. "Those who bear the touch of something older than blood. Holy titles, born of selflessness and light. Cursed titles, forged in the crucible of pain and despair."
"Like the Crimson Martyr," Mira said, clutching her knees.
Eldin smiled, but his eyes grew distant. "Yes. He bore the Holy title 'Sanctified Flame.' Wherever he walked, no evil could pass. His presence alone burned away curses. He died protecting a village much like ours, from a five-star dungeon that had swallowed an entire forest."
"And the cursed ones?" Reivo asked, unable to help himself.
Eldin's face darkened. "There are many. But the most feared was the one called The Drowned Prophet. They say he watched his entire city drown in silence, unable to save a soul. When the Will finally responded to him, it granted him a cursed title—Whispers Beneath. He could hear the future, but every word he spoke doomed those who heard it."
Some of the younger kids shivered.
"But that's just a story, right?" someone muttered.
"Everything is a story," Eldin said. "Until it happens again."
The wind stirred the leaves, and the sun cast dappled light through the branches. Reivo felt a chill, though the air was warm.
"What about dungeons?" he asked after a while. "Why do they appear?"
Eldin chuckled, the sound like old paper being folded. "Now that... that is a question even the scholars don't pretend to understand."
He picked up a stick and began drawing in the dirt.
"Some say they are wounds in the world. Tears in the fabric of reality where monsters and madness leak through. Others believe they are tests—gates left by the Will itself to measure the worth of humanity."
He drew a circle, then another within it.
"Each dungeon has a heart. A core. Until that core—the boss—is destroyed, the dungeon remains open. Time weakens the barrier. If it opens fully... the monsters pour out."
He smeared the inner circle into a chaotic sprawl. "That is called a Breach. Most villages cannot survive one. That is why guilds exist. To close dungeons. To keep the world from unraveling."
Mira raised her hand. "How do people know the rank of a dungeon?"
"Ah!" Eldin grinned. "The Will marks them, if you know where to look. But the signs aren't always obvious. Sometimes, the only way to know the danger... is to go inside."
Reivo's breath caught. "And how does someone level up?"
"The system keeps track," Eldin replied. "Each kill, each spell, each action in battle. It marks your growth. But true leveling is rare. It takes time. Skill. And often... blood."
He let that settle in before continuing.
A bell rang in the distance—two quick chimes from the village square. Eldin slowly stood, groaning as he leaned on his gnarled walking stick.
"That's enough for today. Go on. Get your lunch. And remember—just because the world gives you something, doesn't mean it owes you anything."
The children began to scatter, laughing and shouting. Mira tugged on Reivo's sleeve. "Come on! Let's get stew before Senn eats it all again!"
But Reivo lingered.
"Eldin?" he asked softly.
The old man looked down at him.
"Do you think... I'll be chosen?"
Eldin studied him for a long time. Then, he leaned in and said, "You already have the eyes of someone the world notices. That's not always a gift, Reivo."
And then he turned and hobbled away.
Reivo stood there, the shadows of the old oak dancing across his face, and wondered what kind of path the Will might carve for someone like him.