A few hours passed before Arin realized how far he had wandered.
The market near the guild was far larger than he had first assumed. What looked like a simple stretch of shops from the outside unfolded into layers—weapon stalls, armor stands, traveling merchants, rune trinket sellers, and craftsmen shouting over one another to attract attention. Steel clashed against steel in demonstrations, leather was stretched and inspected, coins exchanged hands constantly.
He had moved through all of it.
Slowly. Carefully. Observing more than buying.
By the time he stepped away from the busier lanes, one thing had already changed—he was no longer empty-handed.
Folded neatly and tied to his side was a compact cloth bag, stitched with thick woolen thread that spoke of durability over decoration. Inside it rested the cloak he had chosen after careful consideration.
It was crafted from treated wolf hide—dense, resilient, and far more flexible than it first appeared. The surface carried a faint natural grain, giving it a rugged texture without feeling crude. It wasn't enchanted, but it didn't need to be. The craftsmanship alone made that clear.
What truly set it apart, however, was its design.
The cloak was reversible.
One side carried a deep, muted crimson—dark enough to blend into the evening streets, yet rich enough to hold presence under light. The other side was near-black, swallowing detail, dulling shape, turning the wearer into little more than a silhouette.
A simple turn of the fabric… and it became something else entirely.
As Arin, it was just a cloak—practical, grounded, unremarkable.
But worn the other way—
It felt like something meant to disappear into shadow.
Three silver.
Not cheap.
But worth it.
"…Good enough for now," he muttered to himself.
It would hide his outline. Break his silhouette. That was all he needed—for now.
The rest… he would build over time.
His steps slowed as he moved further away from the main crowd. The noise dulled, replaced by quieter streets and less polished storefronts. The kind of places most people ignored unless they had a reason.
That was when he saw it.
A small hut, sitting slightly off the main path.
Old wood. Faded structure. A hanging board creaked gently near the entrance, painted with a simple symbol—
a sword crossing a shield.
No name.
No display.
No customers.
"…Looks like the kind of place no one trusts," Arin murmured.
Which made it exactly the kind of place he wanted to check.
He stepped forward and pushed the door open.
The hinges groaned softly.
Inside, the air was still.
The space was larger than expected, though dimly lit. Weapons lined the walls—shields of different shapes, spears, swords, daggers, pieces of armor. Nothing overly polished, nothing flashy—but everything looked… maintained.
Used, perhaps.
Not abandoned.
Behind the counter stood an old man.
Thin. Slightly bent. Long white beard flowing down his chest. Sparse strands of hair clung to his scalp, and his eyebrows were thick and overgrown, nearly shadowing his eyes behind round, steel-framed glasses.
He leaned lightly on a wooden stick.
And yet—
his gaze was steady.
Sharp.
"What do you want?" the old man asked, his voice dry but clear.
Arin stepped in fully, letting the door close behind him.
"A dagger," he said. Then, after a brief pause, "And… a mask."
The old man didn't react much. Neither did he question nor probe.
"Help yourself." That was all he said.
Arin gave a small nod and began walking deeper into the shop.
Up close, the weapons told a clearer story. They weren't decorative. They weren't made to impress.
They were made to last.
He stopped near a rack of daggers, picking one up. Balanced it in his hand. Swung it lightly. Too heavy.
Put it back.
Picked another.
Better grip. Cleaner edge.
He tested the motion again, imagining the practical use—not dueling, not showmanship, but cutting through flesh, opening a monster's hide, retrieving what mattered.
This one lingered in his hand a little longer.
"…Not bad," he murmured.
"Balance is decent."
The voice came from behind him.
Too close.
Arin turned instantly—
—and froze for a fraction of a second.
The old man stood right there.
No sound. No warning. Just… there.
Arin's grip tightened slightly around the dagger before relaxing again.
"…You move quietly," he said.
The old man smiled faintly.
"Old habits."
His eyes dropped briefly to the dagger in Arin's hand.
"You like it?"
"…It'll do," Arin replied.
The old man studied him for a moment longer, then turned.
"If that's all you want, you can take it," he said.
Then paused.
"But if you're not satisfied…"
He tilted his head slightly toward the back of the shop.
"…follow me."
Arin hesitated for only a second before following.
The air shifted as they moved past the main display and into a darker section behind it. A narrow doorway led into a storeroom, the light dimmer, the space quieter.
The old man reached out and tapped a small magic stone lamp.
It flickered, then it glowed and the room came into view.
And it was different.
Cleaner weapons. Sharper edges. Polished blades that reflected the faint light. Armor pieces that looked far more refined than anything outside.
Arin's eyes moved slowly across them.
"…These aren't the same," he said.
"No," the old man replied calmly. "These are the collections I take pride in."
Arin stepped further in.
Swords of elegant design. A curved blade that resembled something from the East. Daggers with intricate handles. Even the air felt… heavier here.
As he moved past one of the racks, his steps slowed—then halted entirely.
Something felt… wrong.
It took him a moment to place it.
On a lower wooden shelf, half-hidden between pieces that were far better maintained, rested a helmet.
Rust had claimed most of its surface. The metal looked aged, worn down by time and neglect. It lacked the polish of the surrounding weapons, lacked their presence.
It didn't belong there.
Not among blades that gleamed with care and armor that still held pride in their craft.
And yet—
his gaze lingered.
Fixed.
Unmoving.
As if something about it refused to let him look away.
"…What is that?" Arin asked, his voice quieter than he intended.
The old man did not answer.
For a brief moment, the silence stretched—heavy, deliberate, almost expectant.
Arin took a step forward.
Then another.
His attention narrowed, the rest of the room fading into the background as his gaze settled fully on the helmet.
And in that instant—
something shifted.
A sharp pressure struck the back of his mind, sudden and invasive, as if unseen fingers had dug in and tightened without warning. His breath hitched. The world around him blurred at the edges, colors dulling, shapes losing form.
It lasted no more than a heartbeat.
But it was enough.
A whisper followed.
Faint. Distant.
Not spoken—
but heard.
"…Finally…"
The word slipped into him rather than reaching his ears.
Arin's breath caught as a subtle dizziness washed over him, the ground beneath his feet feeling just slightly… unstable.
"…a Valcrest…"
The voice was quiet.
Almost gentle.
And yet, it carried a weight that pressed far deeper than sound ever could.
Because it wasn't coming from the room.
It wasn't coming from the old man.
It was coming from within him.
Arin staggered half a step, his hand rising instinctively—not with intention, not with thought—but drawn forward all the same.
Not to take.
Not to claim.
But simply…
to reach.
Toward the helmet.
As if something buried far beyond his understanding had already made the decision for him.
As if—
it had been waiting.
For him.