[Chapter 226. Different Than the Rest]

An explosion sounded before flames erupted in front of him. The sudden blast made him flinch back as heat washed over his face, followed by a loud commotion inside the small tent he had waited the entire day to enter. The canvas walls shuddered with the impact, smoke billowing from the entrance flap before a man twice his age was thrown out, tumbling across the dusty ground with a grunt of pain.

"Rejected for life!" an older, rough voice bellowed from within the tent without warmth, the words carrying an air of finality that made the waiting crowd shift uncomfortably. The voice held the cold certainty of someone who had delivered such judgments countless times, each dismissal as meaningless as the last.

The thrown man stood from the hard ground, his armor scraping against loose stones as he pushed himself to his feet. He looked over his shoulder while dusting off his gear, his movements slow and deliberate, as if each motion required immense effort. His shoulders slumped before he walked off, his head lowered in shame, the weight of rejection heavier than any burden he had carried before. Other hopefuls scattered out of his path, their faces a mixture of pity and relief that it hadn't been them.

As Dahul entered the tent, he found the interior barren except for a small, rough table and a chair where an old man sat, his back rigid despite his apparent age. The air inside hung thick with the scent of expensive leather and polished metal—a stark contrast to the dust and sweat of the outside world. The man's armor was pristine and looked expensive enough that even if Dahul saved everything he ever earned in his life and sold everything he owned, he still couldn't afford a single piece of it. Each piece gleamed with an inner light, suggesting magical enhancements that surpassed anything in his meager possession.

"Rank and name?" the rough voice of the officer seated behind the small, makeshift registration desk barked, his attention focused on a leather-bound journal rather than the nervous youth before him. His fingers, adorned with rings that glittered under the dim tent lighting, moved across the page with practiced efficiency.

"Dahul," the young man answered hesitantly, the sound barely audible above the rustle of the tent canvas in the breeze. "Rank B. Dahul of Skalura," he corrected himself, his posture straightening slightly as he remembered the proper form of address.

"Level and classification," the officer's voice rang out again, following a skeptical glance toward Dahul that seemed to strip away any pretense of confidence. The older man's eyes narrowed as if measuring Dahul's worth with a single gaze, his lip curling slightly at what he found. As he noted something down on the pages on his desk, the scratch of the quill sounded like judgment passing.

"Sixteenth-level Ashbound Warrior, sir," Dahul answered with a soft stutter, his eyes darting around the tent as if searching for an escape. The Ashbound classification, while respectable, was considered common among applicants, offering no special advantages that might catch the officer's attention.

The older man noted something down with deliberate slowness. The scratching of his quill provided the only sound in the tense silence before he raised his head to look at Dahul fully for the first time. His glowing green eyes seemed to bore into his soul, their unnatural intensity making Dahul flinch backward despite himself.

"Any special items?" he asked, disdain clear in his voice, a mocking question that spoke of the assumption that there was nothing special a man like him could possess. The officer's gaze swept over Dahul's worn equipment with open contempt, as if examining refuse that had somehow gained the ability to speak.

Dahul straightened his back, shoulders pulling back as if bearing an unseen weight, and answered in a clear, confident tone that belied his earlier hesitation. "A simple storage ring and Undallas Wrath." As he spoke the name, he placed his hand on the hilt of his blade, the leather-wrapped grip feeling familiar against his palm. The sword remained sheathed, but the gesture alone seemed to shift the atmosphere in the tent, drawing the officer's full attention.

The older officer's eyes twitched for a moment, his emerald gaze flickering between Dahul's face and the hand resting on the weapon's hilt. A flicker of something crossed his features before being suppressed beneath a mask of indifference. He grunted, the sound rough as grinding stones, scribbling something across the page before pressing a heavy seal into the document with a decisive thud that echoed in the enclosed space. He picked up the stamped paper, the edges slightly crumpled from his grip, and handed it toward Dahul without meeting his eyes. "We move out at first light tomorrow."

Dahul took the paper with his hand, the parchment feeling coarse against his fingers, while pressing his two right arms against his chest in a gesture of deference. He bowed slightly, the motion practiced from years of navigating a world that judged him for his extra limbs. "As you say, sir." The words came out steady despite the tremor traveling through his four arms.

He turned and walked out of the tent, the papers clutched tightly in his upper hands as if they might vanish if he loosened his grip. The canvas flap fell behind him with a soft thud, separating him from the judgment within.

`I really got accepted. This will change everything. A few moons and I'll earn more than I have my entire life.`

The thought surged through him with dizzying force as he made his way toward the colossal gates of the Fortress. Each step felt lighter than the last, as if the weight of his past struggles had been lifted with that single stamped document. As he moved away from the tent, the officer's voice drifted through the canvas behind him, cutting through his euphoria like a blade: "Damn half-breeds."

His fist balled in his cloak, knuckles white with suppressed anger, but he continued walking as if nothing had happened, his face carefully neutral, betraying none of the turmoil beneath. Years of practice kept his expression unreadable, a skill as essential as any weapon in his arsenal.

At the gate, he handed the document to one of the guards, a man whose armor was scarred from countless battles. The guard inspected it briefly, scanning the seal before nodding. "Your quarters are down the road. Take the second left. Show this to the guard stationed in front to get a room." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, as if reciting lines he'd repeated a thousand times.

Before he could ask a question, the guard was taking the documents of another applicant, his attention shifted to the next person in line. With the papers back in his hand, Dahul entered the open gate, the massive structure looming above him like the maw of some ancient beast. Inside the Fortress were many others. Each wore a different kind of gear, from gleaming plate armor to rugged leather adorned with strange symbols. For a moment, he thought he had walked into one of the spires in a major city, the sheer variety of equipment and classes overwhelming his senses.

`There are so many. What kind of Gate did they acquire?`

He pondered this while walking down the busy street, but a strong grip on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts. The touch felt foreign after days of solitude. The sudden contact made him flinch, his trained warrior instincts surfacing before he recognized the familiarity of the gesture.

"Dahul, that you?"

He turned around, the motion stiff with suspicion. Behind him stood Kylith; she looked a bit older than the last time they had seen each other. Her face, once marked by the gauntness of dungeon delving, now carried the fuller look of someone who hadn't missed meals in some time. Her dark hair, previously tied back in a simple knot, now cascaded in waves over her shoulders, catching the light in a way that spoke of expensive oils.

"You look not a day older than the last time I saw you. When did I see you last... Let me think."

`Why is she here...`

His face darkened as he pretended to think, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "Right, it was when you dumped us six harvests ago. And vanished with our loot." The words came out clipped, each syllable weighted with the bitterness of abandonment.

She punched him in the shoulder with a smirk on her lips, her knuckles making a dull thud against his armor. "Don't be like that. I dragged your half-dead corpse out of the dungeon. I simply took what was mine." The casual way she admitted it made his blood boil, but years of hiding his emotions kept his face neutral.

"I take it you have also signed up for it, then?" he asked, swatting her hand away, his movement sharp with irritation.

She leaned against him and draped one arm over his wide shoulders, the scent of some exotic perfume wafting from her skin—a luxury they could never afford in their dungeon days. "You know how it is, I'm where the money is. And this one pays great." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, though the bustling street around them ensured no one could hear.

"Half-breeds like us don't belong here," he said, looking at the other people in the streets. Their pristine gear and confident postures posed a stark contrast to his own worn equipment and the four arms he kept hidden beneath his cloak.

"So that's why you hide your arms in that baggy piece of cloth, Dahul." She looked at him from the side, a small smile on her face, her eyes dancing with amusement. "You really think they wouldn't know? There are not many with four arms and red skin." Her tail swished behind her with a languid motion, a clear sign of her comfort in this environment that set his teeth on edge.

He pushed her arm off him and looked at her face for the first time since she had dragged him from his thoughts, really seeing how she'd changed. The once-familiar features now seemed alien, altered by comfort and privilege. "I have no time for you, Kylith. I have to check in to my quarters, and then I need a drink and some food." The mention of food made his stomach rumble, a reminder that he hadn't eaten since early morning.

"Jealous much? Not every half-breed can be as lucky as me." She ran her hands down her slender frame, her tail whipping behind her with joy. The gesture was a deliberate display of the easy confidence she'd acquired while he'd been struggling to survive.

He scoffed and pulled away. "Yeah, right." He pushed further down the street, his shoulders hunched as he tried to make himself smaller amidst the confident stride of full-bloods around him.

"See you on the other side, dear," she called after him, her voice carrying easily over the street noise. The endearment felt like a slap in the face given their history.

Veins popped on his forehead and neck as she called after him, hot blood rushing beneath his red skin, but he was not about to cause a commotion just after getting in.

Can't believe that I wanted to ask her out in the past. I was naive enough to think she was flirting with me; in reality, she just wanted to tag along so she could stab us in the back at the first opportunity.

The bitter memory soured in his mouth, acrid as bile. He could almost taste the dust of the dungeon again, feel the familiar weight of betrayal settling in his gut like a stone. Each step away from her voice felt like shedding layers of humiliation.

Eventually, the memories of the dungeon came back, unbidden and vivid—the desperate scramble for purchase on crumbling ledges, the gurgle of his friend as blood filled his throat, the sight of Kylith's back disappearing around a corner as she fled while they got torn to shreds. The moment he woke up in the presence of a healer flashed through his mind, the acrid scent of medicinal herbs mixing with the coppery tang of his own blood. He pushed the thoughts down violently, mental walls slamming into place as he arrived at the location, the building appearing suddenly before him as if summoned by his turmoil. He straightened his shoulders and handed his papers to the guard stationed in front of the building.

"Inside," was the only thing the man at the door said. He wore an expression of disgust, his lip curling slightly to reveal yellowed teeth. The guard's eyes swept over Dahul's four arms where they strained against the fabric of his cloak, his mouth twisting into a sneer that spoke volumes without a single word.

Dahul entered the building. The door stood slightly too small for his wide build, forcing him to turn sideways. The wood scraped against his armor. The air inside felt thick and heavy, weighted with silent judgment.

"Third floor at the end of the hallway to the right," the woman behind the counter said, slamming a key down on the desk. The metallic clatter echoed in the tense silence. Her face held a mask of professional indifference, but her fingers twitched slightly where they rested on the counter, as if itching to be washed after touching his paperwork.

It was as if every person was not just looking down at him, but couldn't stand the thought of being in the same room as him. The air itself seemed to thin when he walked past; conversations died mid-sentence, only to resume after he'd moved on. He had grown accustomed to the way his kind was treated over time, subtle slights and not-so-subtle glares becoming background noise to his existence, but he had never in his life experienced it this strongly. It felt like a physical presence here, a palpable force that made his skin crawl.

Without making eye contact, he picked up the key, his fingers brushing briefly against the woman's hand, which she snatched back as if burned. He made his way up the stairs toward his room, each step creaking under his weight like an accusation. In the halls, he could see other people socializing. Each of them looked slightly different, but all of them had something in common. They were all half-breeds like him.