33. Class Selection Part 1

[Class Selection Available.]
[Evaluating…]
[Your actions have shaped your path.]

[Available classes for selection:]

Jack of all Trades — Rare.

A class meant for individuals who couldn’t find a path of their own. They possess the foundation of many disciplines, allowing for rapid growth and adaptation to unfamiliar tasks. They have a solid foundation in many skills, but never master any.

Adolin read the description and chuckled. It fit the previous owner of the body almost too well. It reminded him of his life before his master found him, before he became what he was now. Not as long as the kid, but he had wandered too, searching for something to define him. Something worth living for.

There was nothing describing what the class would grant him, so he focused on it.

The world shifted.

It felt like he had been pulled into a dream. He watched from above. Saw himself—his body—but it wasn’t him. It was Dareth, the previous owner of the body. The scene took place in Grest, the town where the boy had been born and raised. He was in the market square, pushing a cart, delivering bread from the local bakery.

Then it changed. Now the boy was helping the carpenter build a stall, hammering a plank in place with iron nails. The scene kept shifting, showing the moments that had shaped him for this class. From helping the carpenter to selling bread at the baker’s stall. Dozens of different experiences, across countless trades, the boy had worked throughout his life.

Then he was pulled out of the dream state. The window was still in front of him, and had additional information on it.

[Class Additional Attribute Points:]
Strength: +1
Agility: +1
Endurance: +1
Intelligence: +1
Constitution: +1
Attribute Points: +1

The skill seemed bad at first, but it wasn’t. It was far from it. Anyone with this class could become a capable fighter, proficient with a wide range of weapons. He might never master any of them, but the sheer variety he could wield would make him dangerous. It also granted an additional attribute point, along with a bonus to every attribute.

The class was broken. Even without knowing much about classes or the blessing, he could tell it was far more than it seemed on the surface. From what he knew, the Farmer Class offered only a few points, limited to Strength and Endurance. This one gave six per level. With the six, the blessing usually granted, that made twelve points. It was a rare class.

He shook his head.

The boy would have received a rare class. A broken one at that.

The class seemed useful, but he didn’t feel any connection with it. It was not something he would choose; he was already a master of many fields. It wasn’t for him.

He ignored it and looked at the next class offered.

Wanderer — Uncommon.

A class granted to those who couldn’t find a destination on their journey. They moved from place to place, searching for a life that would be fulfilling, yet never finding it. The road taught them to endure, adapt, and keep moving.

He spent some time looking over the class, but there was nothing special about it. It was better than the Farmer Class, but beyond that, it was lacking. It granted two points in Endurance and two in Constitution, along with an additional attribute point.

He moved to the next one.

Failed Hero — Rare.

He stared at the name of the class for a long moment. His emotions twisted. He wanted to laugh… but he didn’t.

It was—

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He didn’t know what it was. The class had been offered specifically for him. For Adolin. Of that, he was certain. It fit him a little too well. He wasn’t sure he wanted to relive the experiences the blessing was about to show him. At least it confirmed it. The goddess—or whatever governed the blessing—was aware of him. He didn’t want to sour his mood, so he ignored it.

It took him a few more seconds before he focused on the class.

He found himself overlooking his village.

It was late summer. The village was preparing for the Harvest Festival.

People moved through the streets, carrying barrels, crates, and all kinds of supplies toward the square. Others hauled large bundles of dried yeln, decorating the village with them. Yeln was the crop the village grew—the plant it was named after.

Yeln Village.

The Yeln Festival was his favorite time of the year. Beyond all the food, travelers came from across the region, bringing stories of heroes and news from the kingdom. It was the only time of year he could experience the world beyond his village.

It was the year he would meet the heroes he had heard about his whole life. The same ones who had slain the wyvern that had plagued their village for months and taken the life of his best friend. The one he had grown up with.

But first, he had to escape his mother.

On normal days, that was impossible. But with the festival, she was occupied.

She sat by the fireplace, carefully weaving yeln flowers. They would be judged at the end of the festival. The finest would win. Three yeln flowers were already woven into her blonde hair.

Adolin cut the wet stems to the proper length, passing them to her as she worked. It was mindless work. He wanted to be out there, meeting the heroes, listening to their stories. But his mother wouldn’t let him leave until he finished all the stems. He never understood why she tried so hard. Winning brought nothing. Just a title. Yeln Flower.

There weren’t many stems left. He would be free within the hour.