Chapter 1: Rising Levels
You're not allowed to officially enlist in the Adventurer's Guild Hall until you're 18.
Everyone knows that rule. It's strict, enforced by ancient contracts with the kingdom, and for good reason. The world outside the walls is brutal—infested with monsters, rogues, and things darker than night. But for me? That rule was more like a polite suggestion.
I was already tracking beasts and letting arrows fly before I was 10.
My name's Thorne Marshwalker. And before I ever held a guild license, I was already surviving where others would have died.
I remember those early mornings—before the sun kissed the treetops, before anyone in my village even stirred. I'd sneak out into the woods with a homemade bow slung over my shoulder, my fingers already itching for the draw. I was precise, almost unnaturally so. Arrows didn't miss. They whispered through the air, striking clean, always true. I'd aim for the heart, or the neck, or the eye. I didn't know it then, but that was the start of something deeper.
My father knew. He watched from the shadows once, thought I didn't notice. But I caught the glint in his eyes as he whispered to my mother, "He moves like the old legends… like Hermes."
Hermes. The forgotten name of a subclass lost to history—whispers passed between elite hunters and relic-readers. No one had seen it in generations. No one even believed it was real anymore.
I wasn't born into glory or gold. My parents were humble traders, living on the fringes of town. My father taught me to tie traps, to tell edible herbs from poisonous ones, to blend into my environment with nothing but dirt and instinct. My mother taught me silence—not just how to be quiet, but how to listen. To the wind. The leaves. The way a beast breathes right before it lunges.
By the time I turned 18, I had already survived more than most low-rank adventurers ever would. So when the day came to register with the guild, I didn't walk in with nervous hands or a shaky voice.
I walked in with a hunter's cloak on my back, a bow across my shoulder, and a gleam in my eye.
They took my name. Ran the usual skill test. But something strange happened during the evaluation. I hit every moving target without missing once. Not just bullseyes—center of center. With reflexes too fast, dodging incoming spells and responding in real time. The crystal used to analyze my class signature started to flicker. Confused, the guild clerk stared at me.
"You're definitely a Hunter Class…" she said. Then paused.
"But there's… something else."
They didn't press it. I didn't explain. And just like that, I was officially registered as a Hunter-Class Adventurer. No party, no mentor. Just me.
I figured I'd ease into the field—start small. Most new recruits spend their first six months slaughtering slimes, carrying escort missions, or gathering herbs for alchemists.
I took down my first goblin camp before the first moon cycle was over.
The thing about hunting is it's not just about power. It's about movement. Stealth. Preparation. Reading the battlefield before it reads you.
While others grouped into parties, I worked alone. Planted traps. Created diversions. Tracked monsters to their dens and picked them off one by one. Slimes, goblins, wild boars corrupted by mana. I didn't hesitate.
I set up nets and pressure mines made with alchemical dust. I wove tripwires through the forest underbrush. I'd climb trees, wait in silence for hours, and strike when the timing was perfect. My arrows rained from shadows, my daggers striking throats before a scream could rise.
The guild uses magical devices called Sky Orbs—hovering scrying drones enchanted to record adventurer exploits and confirm their quests are legit. It's supposed to be a tool for honesty.
But it also meant people saw me.
I became that guy.
The one clearing solo missions meant for whole parties.
The one leveling faster than the charts allowed.
The one other adventurers started whispering about.
One evening, just a month after my enrollment, I stopped by the quest board, ready to hunt a few nightwraiths terrorizing a trade route. Something tugged at my thoughts. A strange feeling. I pulled out my Adventurer ID.
Name: Thorne Marshwalker
Age: 18
Class: Hunter
Level: …15!?
I stared at it for a long moment. Most people were lucky to be Level 5 after their first month. I had surpassed that—tripled it. And yet I didn't feel stronger.
I felt like I was only just beginning to wake up.
I swiped through my stats, watching the list scroll down.
Skills Unlocked:
Camouflage
Field Tracking
Enhanced Senses
Tactician's Intuition
Phantom Step
Multi-Strike Arrow
Knife Barrage
Trap Mastery
???
Achievements:
Slime Slayer
Goblin Slayer
Goblin Menace
Lone Wolf
One-Man Army
"Hermes Glint" (???)
I blinked at that last one.
What the hell was Hermes Glint?
My fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, but recognition. That name. That forgotten subclass. Could it be awakening?
The next night, I tested it.
I took on a bounty: A corrupted ogre haunting an abandoned mine.
I scaled the walls of the shaft in silence. Waited above a ledge. When the monster charged beneath me, I jumped—not down, through.
My vision blurred. I felt myself split for a second. One version of me fired from above. Another struck from the ground. Another threw a knife from the shadows.
And when it ended, the ogre lay still—pinned with a dozen arrows, a blade in its chest, and a fire trap sizzling under its corpse.
I stood there, breathing hard.
I had moved like wind.
No… faster than wind.
I had moved like Hermes.
And so it began. The rise of a hunter with no party, no title, no legacy.
Only his bow, his knives, his instincts—
And a name the world had almost forgotten.
Thorne Marshwalker.
Hunter-Class.
Possibly… the last Hermes Walker.