A simple breakfast, but a warm one.

  When Soren rose to leave, Vivian stood without a word. She smoothed his sleeves with her small hands, then climbed onto the stool and stretched on tiptoe to straighten his collar. Neither of them needed to say much--they'd long since learned to read each other. Soren touched the top of her head gently, then turned and ducked through the low doorway.

  "B-Brother..."

  After he disappeared from sight, Vivian shrank back inside and bolted the door tight.

  Before, when her brother went out on business, she'd never been afraid. Hiss had always been there--a growling, watchful presence between her and anyone who might try to break in. Robberies were common enough in the slums, and none of them had frightened her as long as the old dog stood guard. But Hiss was gone now. The room held only silence and the memory of him, and she couldn't quite keep the fear from creeping in.

  She was, after all, only eight years old.

  She'd never truly felt safe--not in the way other children did. The dark frightened her. Loneliness frightened her. Being alone frightened her most of all.

  But she couldn't tell Soren that.

  He had important things to do. He needed to bring back money. There was almost no food left in the house.

  She refused to be a burden.

  There was little enough she could do, but the least she could manage was not making him worry.

  "Vivian," she whispered to herself, gripping the broom handle with both hands. "You have to be stronger."

  "You have to learn to take care of yourself."

  "Brother's awake now. Nobody dares bother us anymore."

  "They're all scared of him."

  The Docks were the beating heart of Amber City, its entire economy sustained by the ceaseless flow of the Agate River.

  Most men from the slums hauled cargo here. Ships arrived in an endless procession, laden with goods from every corner of the land, and unloading them demanded raw manpower in staggering quantities. It was also where gang rivalries burned hottest. A dozen outfits of varying size made their living along these piers--through theft, skimming cargo, running protection rackets--and the docks never failed to offer fresh ways to turn a profit.

  "Is that Soren?"

  A tall, lanky man spotted him approaching from a distance. He leaned over and muttered something to the man beside him, then strode out to intercept. "Soren."

  "The boss wants to see you."

  Soren looked up at the man and placed him instantly--Garris.

  A fighter with decent skills and an aborted career as an adventurer. He'd joined a party not long after leaving Amber City, only to run straight into a pack of gnolls and jackalweres. Jackalweres were vicious creatures that hunted in numbers and favored midnight ambushes on sleeping camps. His entire party had been torn apart. Garris escaped with his life, but one arm never healed right. After that, he'd drifted into the local gang scene and abandoned whatever dreams he'd once had of winning fortune and glory beyond the walls.

  By class template, he was probably a level 10 Commoner and level 3 Warrior.

  A touch weaker than Amber City's guards.

  "The boss?" Soren stared at him and shook his head. "The boss is dead. Killed by that wizard."

  A job that never should have been taken. It hadn't just gotten Soren killed--it had wiped out most of the gang's core fighters.

  Did they really think a wizard was someone you could provoke? Any wizard operating independently in this world was Tier One or above--at minimum a level 10 Scholar and level 5 Wizard by class template. Forget a street gang; even a regular military unit might not be enough to take one down.

  Soren knew exactly how terrifying high-tier wizards could be. If not for their inherent fragility, they'd be the single most powerful class in existence.

  And the world's age of chaos was about to begin. When that storm broke, even legendary-tier professionals would be slaughtered like livestock. He had no interest in wasting time on a local gang that amounted to nothing.

  "Soren." Garris studied him for a long moment, then spoke slowly. "Kol is the new boss."

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  "Whether you go see him is your decision."

  "But Kol isn't the kind of man who takes no for an answer."

  No gang would willingly let a skilled rogue slip through its fingers. While Soren had lain unconscious, no one had bothered with a man on death's door. But now that he was awake, they'd naturally try to bring him back into the fold.

  Soren heard the veiled threat in those words. His eyes narrowed, and something cold flickered behind them.

  He was a rogue.

  Rogues were assassins who moved through shadow, and they were more dangerous than anyone who fought in the open.

  "I'll decide for myself."

  He brushed past Garris without another glance and headed deeper into the docks.

  He had real business to attend to.

  The old Soren had been timid around the gang, constantly worried about what might happen to Vivian. The lion's share of everything he stole had been skimmed off the top, leaving barely enough to keep the two of them alive. The main reason was simple: the original Soren had never received formal combat training. Despite an Agility stat above 18, his fighting ability fell far short of a properly trained warrior. But this Soren was different. The man standing behind him wouldn't last three moves.

  An unremarkable warehouse, packed floor to ceiling with cargo--a common enough sight along the docks.

  A shadow slipped toward it in silence.

  Soren skirted the guards outside--just strong ordinary men, nothing more--and once inside, quickly located a crate. It was padlocked, the kind used for higher-value goods.

  He fished a hooked wire from his pocket. It was the only lockpick he had, crude as they came.

  He slid it into the keyhole and began working the tumblers with practiced fingers.

  Ding.

  Click.

  A moment's effort, and the lock sprang open.

  A line of data materialized before his eyes:

  Lockpicking successful.

  Rogue skill improved. Gained 15 class experience.

  Soren let out a quiet breath of relief.

  So the system for gaining class experience still worked.

  The rogue wasn't a powerhouse in the early stages. It lacked the raw toughness of a warrior and couldn't wield the special abilities of a paladin. Wilderness adventuring was suicidal for a low-level rogue--kobolds and goblins always appeared in packs, and many had keen enough senses to sniff out a poorly hidden rogue in seconds. At this stage, the only safe way for a rogue to gain power was through lockpicking and disarming traps.

  It was the steadiest path forward.

  Below level 5, lockpicking still yielded class experience. Below level 10, disarming traps remained profitable. After that, only magical locks and advanced traps would do anything for him. Ordinary mechanisms would have nothing left to teach.

  He eased the lid open. Tea bricks, neatly stacked. He left them untouched and moved on to the next crate.

  Picking the same lock twice wouldn't grant experience--the system demanded genuine improvement in technique. But the docks were full of locked containers, more than enough to push his rogue level up a notch.

  He cracked two or three more crates in quick succession.

  Then his footsteps halted at a doorway.

  Soren studied the ground carefully and drew a slow breath.

  He sprang lightly upward, landing atop an oak barrel. His fingers found an almost invisible thread stretched taut across the passage. He pinched it, lifted it, wound it around a nearby nail to hold the tension, then drew his dagger and cut the far end. In a few swift motions, he'd dismantled a crude alarm mechanism. Trip the wire, and a bell would have started ringing on the other side.

  Back in the game, plenty of rogues had learned that lesson the hard way. Get caught by an alarm like this, and the guards would beat you until your bones shattered. The world of Battle of the Gods was merciless. Those crippled rogues had no one to heal them and couldn't afford the astronomical cost of restoration. They ended up permanently broken, with no choice but to die and start over from nothing.

  The climb from low-tier professional to the legendary realm was brutally difficult.

  People fell, again and again. And it wasn't only about skill--luck played an enormous role.

  Soren waited, scanning the floor with patient eyes, searching for whatever came next.

  A warehouse like this one, if it had an alarm trap, wouldn't have just one. There'd be a second mechanism. Possibly protecting something valuable.

  Sure enough.

  He spotted the irregularity beneath the floorboards. Carefully, he worked his dagger under the edge and pried upward, fingers rock-steady, not allowing himself the slightest tremor.

  Underneath was something far more lethal.

  If triggered, spring-loaded blades would fire from both sides--more than capable of killing a man where he stood.

  Click.

  Soren jammed the trigger mechanism with his dagger and twisted sideways. Two blades hissed past his head and buried themselves in the wall behind him.

  Data scrolled across his vision:

  Trap disarmed successfully.

  Rogue skill improved. Gained 50 class experience.

  Trap disarmed successfully.

  Rogue skill improved. Gained 120 class experience.

  Soren exhaled and let his shoulders loosen. "Traps really do give better experience," he murmured.

  "But they'll kill you just as fast."

  Between the two traps and the lockpicking experience he'd already banked, he'd accumulated 200 points--enough to level up. He chose without hesitation.

  Rogue class advanced to level 2.

  Gained 23 skill points (Agility 19 + (Intelligence 18 - 10) x 0.5).

  Health increased by 9 (base class HP 6 + (Constitution 15 - 10) x 0.5).

  Gained 1 free attribute point.

  Compared to skill points, which came with every class level, free attribute points were painfully rare. It took two full levels to earn a single one. His next wouldn't come until Rogue level 4.

  That made this point extraordinarily precious.

  Soren checked his attribute panel and allocated the point to Agility without a moment's hesitation. Twenty was the threshold--below it, you were still within the bounds of ordinary human ability. Above it, you entered superhuman territory.

  Footsteps echoed from outside the warehouse.

  Soren vaulted upward, caught a roof beam, and slipped out through the rafters in silence.

  Just a single point of Agility.

  Yet it was enough to unlock movements that had been beyond him before. His reflexes, his coordination, his raw nimbleness--all of it had crossed the line separating the ordinary from the extraordinary.

  A man entered the warehouse moments later. He took one look around, and the blood drained from his face. He shouted, and within seconds a squad of armed guards came rushing in.

  This warehouse was burned. Now that they knew a thief had gotten inside, they'd triple the security.

  Soren watched from the shadows of a neighboring rooftop and moved on.