Orengeflame
patreon
JL Chapter 2 So You Want to Be an Adventurer?
🕑 Added 2025-07-06 16:47:00 +0000 UTCMitchell groaned as consciousness returned like a truck reversing over his brain.
His back was stiff, his legs numb, and the cobblestone beneath him was anything but comfortable. He shifted slightly and felt a cold stone pressing against his shoulder. Blinking the blurriness from his eyes, he realized he was slumped against the city wall tall, grey, and far too solid to be part of any hospital. His limbs were sore but intact. The gate, the one he’d barely made it through before passing out.
Standing before him were two armored guards. One looked young, barely older than Mitchell himself, with a nervous grip on his spear and a helmet slightly too big for his head. The other was older, his armor worn from use, his expression one of hardened skepticism. The kind of guy who’d seen way too much nonsense to be surprised by a panting, hoodie-wearing mess appearing at his gates.
"He's awake," The younger of the two said.
"About time," Grunted the older guard, a grizzled man with a scar along his jaw and the posture of someone who’d survived too many tavern brawls. He tapped the butt of his spear on the stone. “Alright, kid. Who are you, and what in the blazes were you doing running out of the Forest of Entry?”
Mitchell opened his mouth to respond… then paused.
Wait. He understood them. Like, perfectly. The accent, the phrasing—it was definitely not English. But somehow, his brain processed every word like a native speaker.
‘Am I auto-translating this in real-time?’ He thought, blinking rapidly. ‘Is this one of the skills that Goddess threw at me?’
"...Are you alright?" The younger guard asked, frowning.
"Y-Yeah, I think," Mitchell replied, rubbing his temples. "Sorry. Just... kind of a weird day. Where am I exactly?"
The younger one straightened a bit. “You’re in Varnhelm. Western gate entrance.”
Mitchell tilted his head. “Varnhelm…? That’s not in California, is it?”
Both guards exchanged a look. The older one seeing the strange clothing and attitude muttered under his breath, “Another damn Lost.”
Mitchell perked up hearing what the guard called him. "Wait 'Lost'? What’s that supposed to mean?"
The younger guard gave him a slow once-over, then nodded to himself. “You came out of the Forest of Entry. That pretty much confirms it. You’re what we call a Lost, they are people who don’t belong in this world and are dumped into our world by unknown magic or a god.”
“Sometimes they randomly appear in other places or kingdoms.” The older guard added. “They usually come confused, like you. Wearing strange clothes and speaking a strange language. Sometimes they’ve got strange magic, or powerful abilities. Sometimes they’re completely useless.”
Mitchell felt a fresh pit open in his stomach. So he really wasn’t unique. He wasn’t the only person summoned here. There were others. Possibly dozens. Maybe hundreds.
He remembered the parchment and the goddess’s mocking tone: “You’re just a fat loser I took pity on. So dance for me, monkey.”
That crushing realization hit harder than the truck had. "So I’m... not the chosen hero." He muttered.
The guards didn’t seem to notice his inner spiral.
“How long’s it been since the last Lost?” The younger one asked.
The older man scratched at his beard, thinking. “Hrm… three years, maybe. Came through the forest just like this one. A boy with silver hair was a real quiet type.”
“What happened to him?”
“Can’t recall. Either joined a noble's house or got himself eaten by a monster. Lost track.”
Mitchell sat silently as the two chatted like he wasn’t spiraling into a full-blown identity crisis. Still if others survived here—even thrived—then maybe… maybe he could too.
“…So, uh,” Mitchell said, trying to sound casual despite the existential dread creeping up his throat. “What happens now?”
The older guard let out a low grunt and crouched a little to be more level with Mitchell.
“Listen carefully, kid. If you want to stay breathing in this world, don’t go around telling people you’re a Lost.”
Mitchell blinked. “What? Why not? Isn't that… like, kind of important info?”
“Because saying ‘Hey, I’m an outworlder with unknown powers and no legal record’ is like walking into a back alley wearing a sign that says 'Free labor—easy to kidnap.'”
The younger guard nodded solemnly. “Slavers, cults, mages. Some of 'em love sniffing out Lost. Either to sell off or experiment on.”
Mitchell’s stomach twisted. “Wait—slave traders?!”
“Aye. Lost are rare. Exotic. Unpredictable. You’re walking gold to the wrong sort of people. Especially if it turns out your skills are flashy or dangerous. You don’t have to show identification. Lost never do. It’d be pointless. You weren’t born here, so there’s no records.”
“Then… what do I do?”
“Go to the Adventurer’s Guild.”
Mitchell squinted. “Why? Is that like… a rule?”
The guards exchanged another look. “...No.”
The older one sighed. “Look, registering as an adventurer is what most Lost end up doing. No one knows why, maybe it’s instinct, maybe the gods are nudging them there, maybe it’s just convenience. Either way, it gets you into the system. You get a license and a form of identification giving you work opportunities… and legal protection.”
“Protection sounds nice,” Mitchell muttered. “And money. And food.”
The younger guard grinned. “Well, the guild’ll at least make sure you don’t starve.”
The older man pointed down the main stone road. “Keep walking down that street until you see a big wooden building with green banners and a boar’s head over the door. Can’t miss it. That’s the guildhall.”
Mitchell stood, legs still slightly shaky, and adjusted his backpack. His clothes were dusty, and his hoodie still smelled faintly of panic sweat. But he was alive, awake, and—possibly—about to register as a real adventurer.
“…Thanks, guys. Seriously, can I know your names?” He said, his voice unusually sincere.
The older guard waved him off. “Just don’t get eaten. Or cause a riot. The names Phil”
The younger one added, “And if anyone asks, you’re from… uh, Taaren’s Outpost. It’s far enough that no one will double-check. Oh my names Erick”
Mitchell nodded, took a deep breath, and started toward the city proper.
“Alright, Varnhelm. Let’s see what kind of anime bullshit you’ve got waiting for me.”
—--------------------------------------
Mitchell followed the guards’ directions, weaving through Varnhelm’s main road as bustling townsfolk moved past him—merchants shouting prices, carts creaking with supplies, and the occasional armored knight clanking through the crowd, and Blacksmiths hammering in the distance. It was like walking through a living RPG town, except it smelled like horse dung
It didn’t take long before he spotted it.
A massive wooden building stood ahead, two stories tall with wide stone steps and sturdy oak doors. Suspended above it was a creaking sign shaped like a wild boar’s head—snarling and battle-scarred. On either side of the entrance hung large green banners with the same emblem stitched in gold thread.
“This has gotta be it,” Mitchell paused to admire it. “That’s got ‘Adventurer’s Guild’ written all over it.”
He stepped inside.
The air hit him like a punch of sweat, booze, leather, and dried blood. The main hall was huge, tall ceilings with thick beams, a wall-long request board packed with fluttering papers, and rows of mismatched tables where groups of rough-looking individuals wearing mismatched armor drank, argued, or polished weapons.
To his left, a man with a mohawk laughed loudly while a huge reptilian claw thudded onto a table. A group of twin-tailed girls in light armor were counting coins beside a pair of chained fangs. A gruff-looking dwarf cleaned a bloody axe beside a barrel of what Mitchell could only assume were monster guts. A woman in leather armor argued with a man over what looked like a dismembered insectoid claw. Another adventurer was flicking dried blood off his blade with a rag and a smile that said “I hope something tries to kill me again.”
“So this is what a real tavern looks like.” Mitchell whispered, both terrified and awed. “This place is way more intense than I imagined.”
At the far end of the room stood a long wooden counter, behind which several guild receptionists were busily handling adventurers. Each wore a green-and-white uniform and carried a clipboard. They helped various adventurers check in, cash bounties, or accept requests. Some chatted casually with regulars, others wrote in ledgers or checked glowing crystal readers. Another was exchanging coins for monster parts. One leaned over the counter and giggled at something a tall swordsman said.
Mitchell’s brain short-circuited slightly. ‘Okay, play it cool. You’re just signing up. Say your name. Smile. Don’t talk awkwardly. Keep it together.’ He inched closer, stealing glances at the attendants. ‘They’re all cute. Of course they’re cute. It’s a fantasy guild, why wouldn't they all be attractive? Is this a requirement?’
He nervously shuffled into one of the short lines, awkwardly hugging his backpack to his chest. As he waited, the nerves started building. Slowly. Steadily. Like a pressure gauge in a cartoon.
‘This is going to be my first real conversation with a girl in this world.’ He wiped his palms on his hoodie. His heart beat faster. ‘What do I say? “Hello”? “Hi, I’m new”? “Please don’t be mean?’
He instinctively looked around. Everyone else seemed so natural, so cool, so in their element. Men in armor talked to the ladies like it was nothing. One even made the receptionist laugh and gave her a flower. Mitchell felt like a child who accidentally wandered into an adult poker game.
And then… he remembered her. The goddess. Her words echoed, loud and cruel: “You're just a fat loser that I took pity on. So dance for me, monkey.”
Mitchell clenched his jaw, fists tightening. He could practically feel her smirking down on him from some divine recliner in the sky. ‘No. Not this time. I’m not backing down. I’m going to talk to this girl like a normal human being.’
The line shifted. One more person ahead of him.
Mitchell swallowed. “This is fine,” He muttered under his breath. “I talk to women all the time at the stores. Kinda.”
The adventurer ahead of him finished. One of the receptionist looked up, smiled, and gestured. A calm, professional voice rang out from behind the counter. “Next, please.”
Mitchell looked up and froze.
The receptionist was young, probably in her early twenties, with light gray hair tied neatly behind her head. Her eyes were a piercing slate-blue, and her uniform was immaculate.
Mitchell didn’t move. His feet were cemented to the floor. His brain, meanwhile, was running in circles screaming ‘A girl!’
Behind him, an adventurer let out an annoyed grunt. “Hey, asshole! You going or what?”
Mitchell jumped. “S-Sorry!” He hurried forward like a man walking to his execution.
The gray-haired receptionist offered a polite smile. “Welcome to the Varnhelm Adventurer’s Guild. You’re new here, correct?”
Mitchell opened his mouth. Closed it.Then opened it again.
The receptionist’s smile wavered slightly, and her expression cooled. “…If you're just here to waste time, sir, I have actual adventurers to assist.”
‘Come on, Mitchell.. Don’t fold now.’ He cleared his throat and tried to steady his voice. “I’m Mitchell. Mitchell Alvarez. And… I want to register as an adventurer.”
Her gaze lingered on him for a moment taking note of him possessing a last name and his strange clothes. Then she nodded and began pulling papers from behind the counter. “Alright, Mitchell. Welcome. I’m Sera. First-timers must fill out a registration form that will be placed in their guild license. If you're a Lost, I assume you’ll need assistance with the writing?”
Mitchell blinked. “Wait—you knew?”
Sera paused. “You just told me.”
“…Oh. Right.”
But her tone had shifted. The formality was still there, but now there was a spark of curiosity in her eyes.
“So you are a Lost.” She looked him over again, this time not with suspicion, but assessment. “Interesting.”
Mitchell fidgeted. “Is that bad?”
“Not at all. It means you’re… unpredictable. And unpredictability tends to attract attention.” She handed him a thin sheet of parchment and an ink pen, then paused. “Actually—never mind. This is written in standard Aulean. You probably can’t read it.”
Mitchell squinted at the elegant, looping script. “If it's not English or Spanish then no.”
Sera slid the form back toward herself. “I’ll fill it out for you. Just answer the questions.”
They went through the process—name, age, place of origin (which they both agreed to list as “Taaren’s Outpost” for convenience), and a handful of standard disclosures. Sera’s questions were swift, efficient, and businesslike, while Mitchell did his best not to choke on his own awkwardness.
When the form was finished, she reached beneath the counter and pulled out a slightly thicker piece of parchment etched with silver lines that shimmered faintly.
“This,” She said, “Will be your provisional license once bonded with you, it’ll record your skills, update your rank, and store quest history. It will serve as a form of ID. You’ll need to present it whenever you go to another town, collect rewards, or interact with guild bureaucracy.”
Mitchell took the sheet reverently. “Wait, this thing shows my skills?”
She nodded. “It does. Most Lost come with… unusual talents. The guild tracks them.”
Sera slid over a small, ornate needle. “To bind the license to you, you’ll need to prick your finger and add a drop of blood to the circle here.”
Mitchell felt a ripple of both excitement and dread. ‘Please don’t be something stupid.’
“Whenever you're ready,” She said, tone gentle now.
Mitchell gulped. “Well… here goes nothing.” He took a deep breath, pricked his finger, and pressed the blood into the paper.
The parchment pulsed.
Silver lines flared to life across its surface, forming patterns, symbols, and—most importantly—text. Mitchell blinked as his own name appeared at the top, followed by a block labeled:
[Status: Initializing...]
Sera leaned forward to look. “It may take a moment to identify your skills.”
Mitchell nodded, his eyes glued to the page.
Somewhere inside, he hoped—hoped—that this was the moment everything changed. That when the words appeared, they’d reveal hidden potential. Anything to prove he wasn’t just a cosmic gag.
‘Please let me have something cool.’ Mitchell waited with bated breath as the silver glow dimmed and the text on the parchment solidified. He squinted, reading line by line:
—-----------------------------------------
Name: Mitchell Alvarez
Race: Human (Lost)
Age: 19
Origin: Taaren’s Outpost
Registered: Varnhelm Adventurer's Guild
Title: None
Job: Adventurer
Rank: F
Skills:
Tongue – Uncommon, C
Swordsmanship – Common, F
Sprint – Common, E
Cure – Rare, D
—-------------------------
Mitchell blinked.
"That's... it?"
He looked up. Sera was silent, eyes scanning the sheet with a practiced gaze. Her expression slowly flattened, interest visibly draining from her face like someone who just realized the special guest at a party was a tax accountant.
Mitchell noticed immediately.
She went from curious to bored fast.
"...Something wrong?" He asked, his voice tighter than intended.
Sera didn’t answer at first. She tapped the paper, lips pursed in a tight, neutral line. “Your skills are… modest.”
Modest? That didn’t sound heroic. That sounded like something you’d say before letting someone go during a job interview.
She tapped her pen against the desk. “Let’s go through them.”
He braced for impact.
“Tongue, an uncommon skill, rank C. It's likely why you can understand our language. It allows you to understand and communicate in most spoken languages, even if you’ve never studied them.”
Mitchell nodded slowly. “So… fantasy Google Translate?”
She gave a faint shrug. “I have no idea what that is.”
"Right. Cool... I guess," he muttered.
“Swordsmanship, common, rank F.” She continued. “Means you have a basic grasp of how to hold and swing a sword. Most would have to train to gain this basic skill. You would still lose to most trained individuals."
“So people can gain more skills with training.”
“Sprint, common, rank E. You’re slightly faster than the average person over short distances. It might help you outrun something angry. ”
Mitchell’s face was deadpan. “So that’s how I was able to escape that weird badger. Guess none of them are interesting or special.”
Then Sera paused at the last line, raising a brow, tapping the bottom line. “Cure. Now this is interesting.”
Mitchell perked up instantly. “Really?”
“Cure, A rare skill, rank D.”
Mitchell perked up. “Rare? Like actually rare-rare?”
Her tone softened slightly. “It’s a good skill. Allows you to remove most negative statuses—poison, disease, mind-affliction, paralysis… possibly even low-grade curses. It’s the kind of ability that, if developed, could place you in high demand for noble houses, guild parties, or expedition teams. And more importantly—” She gave him a glance, “—it suggests potential for magical growth.”
Mitchell stared at the word Cure like it was a shining beacon in a storm of mediocrity. “…Wait, so I do have magic?”
“You have the potential for it,” she clarified. “With training you may unlock the ability to be able to use other magic.”
Mitchell blinked. “…So you’re saying I’m not totally useless?”
Sera allowed herself a small smirk. “More or less.”
He deflated slightly, shoulders slumping as the full weight of reality settled in. No god-slaying skills. No harem-attracting aura. Just a guy who could sprint, swing a sword like a toddler, and talk to people in multiple languages—while curing their rashes.
But as he looked at the card again, something stirred inside him.
It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t cool. But it was something. And even if the goddess brought him here as a joke, this—this was his.
He stood a little taller. “Alright. Thank you.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded and slid the paper across the counter. “Then welcome to the Guild, Mitchell Alvarez. You’re officially an F-rank adventurer.”
He grinned and took the paper with both hands. And despite everything from the trauma, the goddess’s mockery, he felt just a little proud.
Mitchell stared at his license like it was supposed to come with a starter pack. After a few seconds of internal debate, he looked back up at Sera.
“Uh… question. Does the guild, by any chance, provide, like… starter gear? Y’know. A welcome sword? Free armor? Maybe a nice stick?”
Sera blinked, deadpan. “No.”
“…None?”
“Everything comes out of your pocket.”
He slumped in place. “Alright. No problem. I’ll just go cry in the corner.”
She raised a brow. “If you’re broke, you can always start by taking beginner quests or sell something to the guild. We buy materials, herbs, monster parts… that kind of thing.”
Mitchell sighed dramatically, resting his chin in one hand. “Wish I had something worth selling...”
Then he froze. Wait. ‘The fruit!’
He yanked off his backpack and started rummaging through it. A moment later, he triumphantly held up a handful of slightly squished, purple, lumpy fruit.
“I got these! I, uh… found them in the forest. They kinda taste like crap, but they filled me up.”
Sera leaned forward slightly and inspected them. Her eyes widened a fraction.
“...These are Kateos.”
Mitchell tilted his head. “...Kay-toes?”
“They’re mildly poisonous wild fruit,” she explained. “Not lethal in small doses, but definitely not meant to be eaten raw.”
Mitchell’s face slowly drained of color. “I ate, like… three.”
Sera blinked once. Then, with the same matter-of-fact tone, said: “Then it’s likely Cure saved your life.”
Mitchell stared at the fruit. Then at Sera. Then at his stomach. “I almost died… from alien avocados.”
“Technically, yes.”
He slumped against the counter again. “This world really is trying to kill me.”
Sera offered him a sympathetic smile that barely counted as one. “At least the guild can buy them. We will resell them to buyers that will process them into antidotes and certain alchemical remedies.” She took the bundle of ten and counted quickly. “At five copper coins each, that gives you fifty coppers total.”
Mitchell accepted the small coin pouch like it was a sacred artifact. “Is this a good amount?”
“Not quite. But it’s enough to buy a cheap weapon.”
“Speaking of,” Mitchell said, “where can I get one? Preferably something that won’t break when I swing it.”
Sera tapped her pen against her clipboard in thought, then nodded.
“Go to Karl’s Blacksmith. It’s a small forge run by an old adventurer—gruff, but he sells beginner gear cheap. You’ll find it if you follow this street down two blocks and take a right at the well. His place is marked by a crooked chimney and a cracked anvil sign.”
Mitchell tied the pouch to his belt. It jingled pathetically.
“Thanks, Sera. For, uh… not laughing at me and registering me.”
She actually chuckled softly at that. “Just try not to die too quickly.”
“No promises.”
Done with the second chapter. Strangely this is coming out quite easy and fun to write. Please comment and tell me if I made any mistakes.
