The world of Eryndor bled magic. It was in the crimson dawn that scorched the jagged peaks of the Ironfang Mountains, in the whispers of the Verdant Sea's waves crashing against obsidian cliffs, and in the flickering torches of Valewood, a speck of a town nestled in the shadow of the Great Wilds. Magic was life, power, destiny. It was everything.
And for Dante, a scrawny boy of fourteen with dirt-streaked cheeks and calloused hands, it was a dream just out of reach.
Eryndor was vast, cruel, and alive with legends. Humans, elves, beastfolk with their feral grace, and demons who walked in shadowed guise roamed its lands. Ancient ruins whispered of gods long dead, their bones woven into the earth. Monsters prowled—undead horrors, wyrmkin, and worse—while the Adventurer's Guild stood as a beacon of glory. The Guild was where heroes were forged, where men and women with awakened combat classes carved their names into eternity.
Warriors, mages, rogues, paladins—each bore a class, a divine spark that let them grow stronger, faster, wiser through battle and quests. Ranks from F to S measured their worth, their fame, their power. To join, you needed a class. Any class.
Without one, you were nothing.
Valewood was a nowhere place, its wooden palisades barely holding back the encroaching forest. Its people were farmers, smiths, and traders, their lives small and safe—except for the Guild's local branch, a squat stone building with a faded griffon banner. For Dante, that building was a temple. He'd spent years sneaking past its doors, peering at adventurers with gleaming swords and spell-scarred armor, dreaming of the day he'd stand among them.
Today was that day.
The Class Awakening Ceremony, held once every five years, was his chance. At fourteen, he and his friends would face the Guild's Aether Crystal, a relic that peered into your soul and named your class—combat or non-combat, common or rare. Dante didn't care what he got, so long as it let him swing a sword and chase glory.
The town square buzzed with anticipation. Villagers crowded around a wooden platform where the Aether Crystal glowed faintly, its surface swirling with colors no one could name. Dante stood at the edge of the crowd, his patched tunic too tight, his dark hair matted with sweat. His wooden practice sword, chipped and worn, hung at his belt—a childish thing, but it was all he had.
Beside him were his friends, the only ones who'd shared his dreams of adventure since they were old enough to throw stones at crows.
Mira, his childhood friend, leaned against a post, her auburn hair catching the morning light. She was sharp-tongued and quick, her green eyes always glinting with mischief. Dante's heart stuttered when she smiled, though he'd never admit it. She'd always been better than him at everything—running, climbing, even whittling sticks into crude daggers. If anyone was destined for a combat class, it was her.
Mira: "Stop fidgeting, Dante. You look like you're about to piss yourself."
Dante: "I'm not nervous. Just… ready. This is it, Mira. We're gonna be adventurers."
She laughed, a sound that warmed him and stung at once. Mira: "You and that stick of yours? Hope the Guild's got a class for 'stubborn idiot.'"
Next to her stood Kael, a lanky boy with a smirk that never faded. His father was a hunter, and Kael had inherited his knack for tracking and shooting. He twirled a feather between his fingers, his bow slung across his back.
Kael: "Bet I get Ranger. Maybe even Sniper. What's your bet, Dante? Farmer? Oh, wait—Woodcutter?"
The crowd chuckled. Dante's face burned. He shoved his hands into his pockets, ignoring the jab. Kael always poked at him, but it was worse today, with everyone watching.
Last was Lysa, the quiet one. Her beastfolk blood showed in her slitted pupils and the faint scales along her forearms. She was a head taller than the rest, her clawed fingers fidgeting with her cloak. Lysa rarely spoke, but when she did, people listened. She'd always been kind to Dante, slipping him bread when his father drank away their coin.
Lysa: "It doesn't matter what we get. We'll train. We'll rise."
Dante nodded, grateful for her steadiness. He wanted to believe her, but the knot in his gut tightened as the Guildmaster stepped onto the platform.
Bald, scarred, and built like a boulder, Guildmaster Torren was a retired B-rank warrior who'd once slain a wyrmkin single-handedly. His voice boomed over the square.
Torren: "Line up, brats. Crystal's ready. No shoving, no whining. Aether don't care for your tears."
The crowd parted. Dante's heart hammered as he watched the first few step forward. A boy named Joren, son of the baker, touched the crystal. It flared blue, and Torren grunted.
Torren: "Healer. Non-combat. Next."
Joren sagged. A girl got Archer. Another, Smith. Then it was Kael's turn. He slapped the crystal with cocky confidence. It blazed green.
Torren: "Ranger. Combat class. Good potential. Step aside."
Kael whooped, punching the air. The crowd cheered. Dante forced a grin.
Lysa stepped up, claws grazing the crystal. A deep amber glow pulsed.
Torren: "Berserker. Combat class. Rare. Guild will want you."
Mira walked up next. She pressed her hand to the crystal without hesitation. It exploded in silver light, so bright Dante flinched.
Torren: "Bladedancer. Combat class. Very rare. You're a lucky one, girl."
Mira turned back, smiling wide. The crowd roared.
And then—Dante.
His feet felt like stone. He climbed the steps, heart thudding against his ribs. Whispers rippled through the crowd. Pity. Doubt. Amusement.
He blocked them out. Stepped up to the crystal. Pressed his palm to its cool surface.
And waited.
Nothing.
He blinked. Pushed harder. Still nothing. No hum, no glow, not even a flicker. His throat dried. He could feel them watching—Kael's grin, Mira's smirk twitching uncertain.
Torren: "Step back, boy. Try again."
Dante obeyed, trembling. Tried again.
Nothing.
Torren: "…No class. Not combat, not non-combat. Nothing. You're done."
The words were knives. He staggered. No class. Not even a farmer or scribe.
He turned to his friends. Kael looked away. Lysa dropped her gaze. Mira laughed.
But not her usual laugh. This one was cold.
Mira: "Nothing? Really, Dante? All that talk, and you're… nothing?"
Dante couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream. He turned and ran. Shoved through the crowd. Didn't stop until the forest swallowed him whole.
Four years later…
Dante was eighteen. Leaner. Stronger. Alone. And still classless.
His father died in a tavern brawl. Mira, Kael, and Lysa were gone—off chasing dreams in the capital. Mira's letters had stopped after the first year. Kael never wrote. Lysa had vanished.
Dante trained anyway.
His sword was no longer wood, but a rusted iron blade scavenged from a ruined camp. No stats rose. No skills unlocked. But he bled, sweat, and fought. The pain made it real. He took odd jobs—hunting rabbits, gathering herbs—and called them "solo quests."
The villagers whispered: "That boy. The one with no class." He ignored them.
One dusk, deep in the Great Wilds, he tracked a deer. His steps were silent. Blade ready.
Then the stench hit—rot, blood, decay. The deer bolted. A growl rumbled through the trees.
And then it came.
An undead bear, nearly twice his height. Flesh sloughed off bone. Eyes burning red.
Dante froze.
Then charged.
He struck its flank. The bear didn't flinch. Its claw slammed into his chest, tearing flesh.
He screamed. Blood sprayed.
Run.
Branches lashed him as he fled. His boot caught a root. He tumbled—off a cliff, down into darkness.
He woke to pain. Bruised. Bleeding. Somewhere new.
A cave. Hidden by vines. Ancient. Breathing.
Something pulsed within. He crawled forward. His hand found a hilt.
The sword was black as night, etched with flickering flame. It pulsed—alive.
He grasped it.
Fire tore through him.
A voice thundered in his mind.
"Wielder of Shadow and Flame, rise. Your class awakens."
The cave trembled. Dante screamed. His soul cracked, then reshaped. When he emerged, the blade in his hand shimmered like living darkness.
He was no longer nothing.
He was Dante, Blade of Darkness and Flame.Bearer of a legendary class lost to time.And Eryndor would never doubt him again.