By the time I stumbled downstairs, the Halfway Hearth was already humming.
Not loudly—just the low morning murmur of spoons in bowls, fire popping in the hearth, and plates clinking softly together as the breakfast crowd drifted in one bleary step at a time.
Everyone else had beaten me there.
I spotted them at our usual corner table, tucked beneath the crooked beam that looked like it was a stiff breeze away from bringing the whole place down. Calla had a book in one hand and a cup of something steaming in the other. Thorne was halfway through a plate stacked with eggs and charred potatoes, eating like someone would take it away if she stopped. Garrick…
Well. Garrick looked like he hadn’t touched his breakfast at all.
Which, under normal circumstances, would be concerning. But what really caught my eye was Glint. My fox-cat-shadow-pest was perched contentedly beside him on the bench, just going to town on Garrick’s plate. Eggs, sausage, a whole buttered roll. No shame. No resistance. Garrick didn’t even flinch.
He just stared at the air in front of him, totally absorbed in something only he could see. A system menu, probably. His brow was furrowed, his mouth slightly open like he was reading something long and important and maybe a little terrifying.
I dragged myself over and dropped into the seat across from him with a grunt.
“Good morning,” I muttered, rubbing at my eyes.
Thorne raised an eyebrow. “You look like you lost a duel with your pillow.”
“Didn’t sleep,” I said, reaching for a cup and discovering it was empty. “At all.”
“Nightmares?” Calla asked without looking up.
“More like a greatest hits reel,” I muttered. “Cassian’s smirk, Edda floating like a broken marionette, and everything that went on at Merden’s tower.”
Thorne grunted. “Sounds restful.”
Glint paused just long enough to blink at me with sausage grease on his whiskers, then went back to chewing on a strip of bacon that had absolutely not belonged to him.
“So,” I said, gesturing at Garrick, “what’s with him? He die and no one told me?”
Thorne leaned back, arms crossed. “He hit twenty-five.”
That made me sit up a little straighter.
“No way.”
Calla nodded. “Got the system prompt about fifteen minutes ago. Been locked in since.”
I blinked at Garrick, who still hadn’t moved, eyes flicking back and forth like he was reading the terms and conditions of his own soul.
“Well damn,” I said. “Guess we’re about to find out what kind of man he really is.”
Thorne smirked. “I’m betting on the shield-shaped option.”
Funny thing about level twenty-five.
For most Chosen, it’s not just a milestone—it’s the milestone. The first real threshold. The point where the system stops holding your hand and starts asking questions like: Who are you really? What kind of Chosen do you want to be?
And more importantly: How do you want to fight?
Because once you hit that mark, your class evolves.
It doesn’t happen automatically. You don’t just ding twenty-five and wake up with a new outfit and a list of fancy powers. No—what you get is a choice. A prompt. The system offers you two possible evolution paths, each one tied to how you’ve fought, trained, survived.
Every base class—Shadowborn, Initiate, Acolyte, Warden—has two distinct evolution lines at this point.
Shadowborns, like me, might walk the path of the Revenant—silent, lethal, built for kills in the dark. Or the Trickster—masters of illusion, misdirection, and control.
Wardens go from raw defense to something more refined: Guardians or Oracles, tanks or tacticians.
Initiates split between speed and flexibility—Blade Dancers, who focus on fluid, rapid strikes and precision dodging… or Beastmasters, who summon creatures forged from solidified Vigor to fight alongside them.
Acolytes branch into mind or magic—Ritualists or Channelers, scholars or sorcerers.
But that’s only step one.
Because at level sixty, it happens again.
Each evolution splits again, two more branches based on everything you’ve done since. Your choices, your skills, your actions in and out of combat—they all shape what comes next. By the end of it, every Chosen class has eight final specializations. Eight different ways your path can unfold. Thirty-two total specializations.
And no one ever gets to walk more than one.
Most Chosen who actually choose to live the Chosen life—who dive into dungeons, take risks, and don’t run from what the system throws at them—they hit their first evolution pretty quickly. It’s almost a rite of passage. Some of the high-level Chosen even say you’re not really a Chosen until you evolve. Until the system looks at everything you’ve done and asks the big question:
Who are you going to become?
Hitting level twenty-five isn’t rare if you’re serious about it. It’s the second evolution that separates stories from legends.
Because getting to sixty? That’s where things start thinning out. A lot of Chosen retire before then—old injuries, burnout, or just not wanting to push their luck any further. And the ones who don’t?
Most of them die trying.
But the ones who do make it… the ones who climb all the way to their final evolution?
They’re the names people remember. The ones that get carved into history books. The faces on Thorne’s trading cards. Every legendary Chosen you’ve ever heard of—didn’t matter their class, their nation, their story—they all reached that final tier.
They didn’t just survive the system.
They became something more.
But Garrick?
He was there now.
Right at the edge.
And whatever choice he made today—it wasn’t just going to shape his skills.
It was going to shape us.
Our team. Our future. How we’d survive whatever nightmare the system decided to throw next.
No pressure or anything.
“Done,” Garrick said suddenly, his voice cutting through the haze of breakfast smells and groggy silence.
We all jumped a little. Even Glint flinched, dropping a stolen sausage link with a betrayed squeak.
Garrick blinked like he was surfacing from deep water, then leaned back with a long sigh and finally reached for what was left of his breakfast.
“Selected. Chosen,” he added with a wink in my direction. “And I just realized how hungry I am.”
Thorne jabbed a thumb toward her own plate. “Better eat fast. The rodent’s been treating your breakfast like an all-you-can-steal buffet.”
Glint narrowed his eyes and slowly slid a paw over the roll he hadn’t finished. Garrick just chuckled and dragged the plate back toward him, anyway.
“So?” I asked, trying to sound casual, even though I was more than a little curious. “What’d you pick?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just started eating, slow and steady, like he had to chew through a few thoughts before he got to the words.
Then he swallowed and said, “Guardian.”
Calla didn’t react. Just turned a page in her book like that had been the obvious conclusion all along.
Thorne nodded. “Figured. It suits you.”
“I did consider Oracle,” Garrick admitted, wiping his mouth. “Kind of hard not to when the system flashes all that potential at you. Battlefield awareness, predictive tactics, support buffs—it’s not a bad path. I can see why some Wardens go for it.”
“But you didn’t,” I said.
He shook his head. “Nah. Not really me. I read the descriptions, weighed the perks, even peeked at the passive talents. Oracles are smart. Strategic. But it’s more about seeing threats before they happen. Planning around them.”
“And you prefer punching them in the face,” Thorne said.
“I prefer being the face that gets punched, so no one else has to,” Garrick corrected, a bit more serious now. “Guardian just… made sense. Reinforced shielding, threat control, better team-wide mitigation. My job’s not to see the fight coming. It’s standing there when it hits.”
Calla finally looked up with a warm smile. “You’ve always been the one holding the line.”
He shrugged like it was no big deal. “Yeah, well. Someone’s got to be the wall. Might as well be the guy already shaped like one.”
“Still,” I said, leaning back and tapping my mug, “it’s kind of wild, right? That’s it. You get one shot. One fork in the path, and then it’s locked. No going back. No second chances.”
Garrick nodded. “That’s what made me hesitate. Not the class itself—just the importance of the decision. You only get this choice once. And it shapes your entire life after.”
Glint licked his paw and, without breaking eye contact, pushed a piece of toast onto Garrick’s lap like it was a peace offering. Garrick just patted his head.
“Well,” Thorne said, cracking her knuckles, “we’ve got our shield.”
Calla raised her mug. “Now we just need to not die behind it.”
“Working on that part,” I muttered.
Still, I couldn’t help smiling. Just a little. Because it wasn’t just Garrick evolving today.
It was all of us.
And something told me we were going to need that Guardian sooner than any of us wanted to admit.
It hit me halfway through my second cup of tea. Well, “tea” was generous. It tasted like someone had thrown some tea leaves in the vague direction of the teapot and felt that was enough. Somewhere between Garrick explaining how his new Guardian shield talent let him absorb magic blasts and Thorne arguing with Glint over who had rights to the last slice of bacon, a quiet little voice in the back of my head tapped on the glass.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Hey. You’ve been busy. Maybe take a look at yourself for once.
And yeah… it was right.
I’d been running on fumes and panic for days. Between glitch dungeons, hidden quests, Cassian’s lovely murder-face, Edda’s undead yoga routine, and now a vengeance quest from beyond the grave, I hadn’t so much as opened my system menu in what felt like forever.
Which meant I still had talent points unspent.
Not just regular ones, either. The weird ones. The ones from that tree.
Plus, I still hadn’t picked a profession. I’d flirted with alchemy. Been briefly seduced by tinkering. Even enjoyed the terrifying chaos of both. But I’d never made it official.
And when was the last time I actually did a proper inventory check? Organized my gear, checked what junk I’d forgotten about, maybe finally identified that ring I found in the drowned temple?
Gods. I was a mess.
I leaned back in my chair, let out a slow breath, and finally pulled up my interface—letting the familiar flicker of floating text settle into view like the world pressing pause for a second.
“Alright,” I muttered. “Let’s see where I’m really at.”
[Name: Felix Ravensburg]
Class: Shadowborn
Level: 23
Health Points: 230
Armor: 26% Physical damage reduction. 14% Magic damage reduction.
Profession: None
Titles: None
Stats:

Agility: 52
Intelligence: 24
Strength: 26
Endurance: 30
Perception: 42

Available Talent Points: 8
Skills:

Quick Hands
Opportunist
Ghost Hands
Shadow Step
Umbral Stalker
Backstabber’s Gift
Shadow Surge
Dark Pact
Twist the Blade
Daggerstorm
Resistant
Echoing Blades
Specter’s Rend

Inventory:

Venomfang Twins - A Rank
Cloak of Midnight – B Rank
Boots of the Whispering Wind – B Rank
Belt of the Hearth – A Rank
Lock-picking Tools – B Rank
Deft Gloves – B Rank
Bag of the Endless Void
????? - Level 23
Ring of Bottomless Lungs (B Rank)
Crystalline Amulet of Reinforcement
Ring of Regeneration - A Rank
1450 Gold

Quest Log Highlights:

[The Broken Thread] – Investigate and avenge Auren Virelan’s death

I was sitting at the table, staring at the flickering edge of my interface, when it hit me—I was level 23.
Two more levels and I’d hit the mark. Evolution. Just like Garrick.
I had a bunch of talent points banked. More than I realized, actually. Guess that’s what happens when you’re too busy nearly dying in dungeons, dodging Enforcers, and being guilt-tripped by ghosts—you forget to check in with yourself.
Most people would be itching to spend them, but… not me. I wanted to wait. Hold on to them until I knew what was coming next. If I had points ready when my evolved abilities unlocked, maybe I could get a head start. Hit the ground running instead of scrambling to catch up.
That said, not all points were created equal.
The regular Shadowborn points? Yeah, those I’d save. But the weird ones—the ones tied to the ????? tree? That was different. That tree was linear. No branching paths. No complicated forks or irreversible choices. Just one ability leading to the next like a ladder I hadn’t finished climbing.
So those? I’d spend. No reason not to.
I hovered over the first talent and unlocked it.
Lightfoot
You make slightly less noise while moving. Reduces chance of alerting enemies when walking or running. Affects both stealth and general movement.
I tilted my head.
Alright, that was subtle. Not exactly “win a boss fight” useful, but for someone who spent half his time tiptoeing past things that wanted to eat him?
I’d take it. My boots of the whispering winds might make it a bit useless, but I’d rather have a backup option in case I upgraded my boots in the future.
Keen Nose
You are better at detecting harmful substances in food, potions, or the air. Gain mild resistance to airborne toxins and spoiled food.
“Wait, was that a thing I needed to worry about?”
Apparently yes.
I made a mental note to stop eating mysterious cave mushrooms and maybe sniff my potions before chugging them. Probably should’ve been doing that, anyway.
Quickdraw
You may draw and ready your weapons or tools instantly, regardless of current activity. This ability triggers automatically in combat scenarios.
My eyes widened.
That was actually kind of amazing. No more fumbling for daggers mid-ambush. No more awkward “hang on, give me a second” during fights.
Just snap—and I’m armed.
Finally, something flashy.
Packrat
Increases the storage capacity of your Bag of the Endless Void by 50%. Items you collect weigh slightly less while stored.
I let out a low whistle.
Okay, that was huge.
More room. Less weight. No more playing inventory Tetris with twenty kinds of dungeon loot and half-rotten apples I was too sentimental to throw away.
Best part? It meant I could store more food.
Anchorpoint
You may designate a personal Anchorpoint. Once every 12 hours, you may fast travel instantly to that location. Anchorpoints must be set in safe territory.
I froze.
There it was.
Not my first anchor—not the same wild, game-breaking revelation it had been when I realized I could teleport back to my room from anywhere in the world—but still… big. A second fast travel point. A second door.
One I could place here. In Maldon. In the heart of the city, right near my team, the Archives, the quest hub of a lifetime.
I could mark the Halfway Hearth. Use the first for home, the second for the city.
Retreat, regroup, resupply. Instantly.
I sat there for a moment, staring at the prompt.
Because this wasn’t just useful—it was flexible. Strategic.
And I had to wonder…
Did they share a cooldown? Or did they each work on their own timer?
I was really hoping for the second one.
Either way?
The system had just handed me a second door—and this one swung both ways.
Momentum
You gain a small movement speed bonus for 5 seconds after landing a critical hit. Stacks up to 2 times.
I blinked at the description.
So… hit hard, move faster. Hit harder, move faster-er?
In a fight, when positioning could mean the difference between dodging a sword or collecting it in the ribs?
That was worth its weight in gold.
Vigilant Rest
When resting or sleeping, you recover slightly more health. Passive awareness improves, reducing the chances of being surprised.
“Wait—am I now better at sleeping?”
The system had officially rewarded me for being bad at rest.
I wasn’t mad about it. Just surprised it took this long.
Quiet Spark
Minor skill XP gain from using non-combat actions (e.g., crafting, gathering, navigating, identifying).
My eyebrows climbed a little.
So even my fidgeting counted now?
This was the kind of background buff that snuck up on you. Bit by bit. Craft by craft. Dungeon by dungeon.
Slow burn, sure—but I’d take it.
With those talent points spent, I turned my attention to something a little less world-altering and a little more overdue.
I pulled the slightly singed pamphlet from my bag and set it on the table next to my half-eaten toast, brushing away a smear of jam before it could soak through the corner. The title still gleamed in absurdly cheerful orange ink: Alchemy: Legal Uses Only.
My eyes had drifted down to the bottom of the page. A single line in small, neat font:
Interested? Sign here.
That was it. No fanfare. No ceremony. Just a space and a dare.
I hesitated only a second before reaching for the pen Calla always kept clipped to her spellbook.
And just like that, I wrote my name.
Congratulations, Felix Ravensburg. You have officially begun your journey as a [Novice Alchemist]
Alchemy is a profession of chaos and precision, of danger and brilliance. You now have access to basic alchemical recipes, experimental brews, and profession-related talents.
Brew potions, bombs, salves, and enhancers. Collect rare reagents. Experiment. Fail gloriously.
Success is explosive. Failure… often more so.
As a registered Alchemist, your creations will gain quality scaling with your mastery.
Your crafted consumables are twice as effective when consumed by you.
Use with caution. Or don’t. We’re not your mother.
I stared at the floating text for a few seconds, chewing absently on my toast as it slowly sank in.
Twice as effective? That wasn’t a perk I’d have expected. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Alchemy was easy to sell—potions, cures, stat boosters, even those weird tinctures that supposedly helped with “aura farming” in certain back-alley shops. But actually drinking your own concoctions? That needed an incentive.
The system wasn’t just encouraging the profession—it was sweetening the deal for people like me. Giving me a reason to brew for myself.
The second the system menu closed, another one popped open like it had been waiting in the wings.
[Alchemy Menu Unlocked]
A new tab flickered into view at the edge of my interface, nestled just below my talent trees and inventory. I tapped it.
The screen unfolded with a satisfying ripple of parchment and glass—structured like a recipe book, only written by someone who really loved warning labels. The top of the list held a handful of starter entries, each marked with glowing icons and short, slightly ominous descriptions:

Minor Healing Tonic
Restores a small amount of health. Tastes vaguely like regret.
Lesser Essence Elixir
Restores class-specific resource slowly over 15 seconds. May cause slight tingling.
Smoke Pellet (x3)
Creates a dense cloud of smoke when thrown. Visibility: terrible. Escape potential: excellent.
Flashburst Bomb (x1)
Detonates in a burst of blinding light. Causes temporary disorientation. Do not stare directly into the flash.
Stability Brew
Reduces potion side effects by 50% for 1 hour. Not responsible for side effects during that hour.

Honestly? It was a better starter set than I’d expected. I hadn’t even realized smoke pellets and flashbangs were part of the alchemy line. Healing was the obvious draw, sure, but this? This had tactical chaos written all over it.
I couldn’t help the little grin that crept across my face.
Calla noticed first.
“You look suspiciously pleased with yourself,” she said, glancing up from her book. “Did Glint fall into a teapot again?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Just picked a profession.”
Her eyes lit up. “Alchemy?”
I nodded, still scanning the menu. “Yup. Figured if I’m gonna keep nearly dying, I might as well be able to brew my own get-out-of-death juice.”
“That’s great,” she said, genuinely smiling. “Alchemy’s a good choice. Versatile. Profitable. Occasionally explosive.”
“Sounds like my whole life lately,” I chuckled, then tapped on the healing tonic just to inspect the ingredients. “So… how do I actually level it up? Just brew stuff?”
She nodded. “Pretty much. Crafting’s the only way to raise the skill. The more you make—and the more complex the recipe—the faster you’ll see gains. Failures still count, too, so don’t stress if you botch a few.”
“I was absolutely planning to botch a few,” I said. “Feels like tradition at this point.”
She smiled. “You’ll get there. Keep brewing. Try out all the recipes you’ve got and keep an eye out for new ones. Some dungeons drop rare formula scrolls. A few shops sell them, too. Though most of the good ones get bought up fast.”
“Oh,” she added, “and check the CEAH. Sometimes people list rare recipes there.”
I blinked. “The what?”
“CEAH,” she repeated. “Chosen Exclusive Auction House.”
I tilted my head. “You’re just making up letters now.”
Calla smirked. “It’s a real thing. It’s how Chosen trade with each other without everything getting snatched up by merchants or lost in shady backroom deals. Say you find something rare—like a high-tier alchemy recipe, or gear that doesn’t suit your build. Rather than selling it to a shopkeeper for half a copper and a patronizing smile, you list it on the CEAH. The city holds onto it for you, keeps it secure, and lists it for auction.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What’s the catch?”
“Ten percent of the final sale price,” she said. “City takes a cut for the service. Fair, honestly—they provide security, storage, and the interface support. You don’t have to worry about theft, fraud, or some rando trying to stab you during negotiations.”
I nodded slowly, making a mental note to check it out later. I had more than a few bits of gear I wasn’t using—and if rare recipes showed up there, too?
Might be worth getting familiar with the system.
Even if I did still think the name sounded like someone sneezed mid-acronym.
“Honestly,” I said, flipping through the recipe tabs, “this feels like the first smart thing I’ve done all week.”
“Then lean into it,” Calla said. “Alchemy’s a skill that pays off. In gold and survival.”
I leaned back, eyes still fixed on the flickering menu.
The recipes hovered there like promises. Like potential. Each one felt like a step toward something I hadn’t let myself hope for in a while—control. Not over the system, or the secrets buried in forgotten crypts, or whatever nightmare Cassian would throw at me next. But over myself. My path. My survival.
Progress.
Across the table, Calla had gone back to her book, Thorne was already refilling her plate, and Garrick was finally eating like a man who’d made a life-altering decision and lived to tell the tale.
Everything was still a mess.
We were still knee-deep in cursed books, ghost quests, crypt whispers, and enforcers with shiny coats and murder in their eyes.
But for just a moment, things felt… good.
I still had a ghost to avenge and a dungeon with a name that sounded like a disease to dive into—but at least now, I’d have a few bombs on my side.