You… you gotta be kiddin’ me.
Level 99?100
Feats Achieved:
- First Peak
?? First Peak
You have reached level 100.
? +500 Physis permanently.
? +100 Magia permanently.
Tier 1 - Ascension Gate
Required Conditions:
- Any two Magika Handling Skills at Level 10 [Achieved]
- Any Weapon Handling Skill at Level 10 [Achieved]
- All Non-Handling Skills at Level 10 [Not Achieved]
- Five or more Discovered Active Skills [Achieved]
- Achieve the following Feats:
- Elite Killer [Achieved]
- Alpha Slayer [Achieved]
- Lord Reaper [Achieved]
- Tier Defier [Achieved]
Another… Progress Gate?
Wait—this wasn’t even called that. Ascension Gate?
He’d never heard of such a thing. From Selera’s lessons, Progress Gates only started showing up after Tier 2—each one appearing halfway to the next tier, the first at level 150.
At level 100, it should’ve just displayed the available classes—provided he met the requirements—and that was it.
No… fuckin’ gate.
And these conditions… wait a second.
He’d already hit most of them!
Bloody hell—hold on. What exactly did it mean by All Non-Handling Skills at Level 10?
Like… every damn skill besides Weapon and Magika Handling?
No way.
Couldn’t be… right?
…
It…
Fuck.
"Congratulations on reaching level 100, young sir," Fiedore said from behind.
Hope sighed, not quite feeling it.
Luckily, there was no rush to hit the next Tier. He had plenty of time, according to what Captain Syra had told him.
But still…
Wasn’t this a bit much?
Felt like the System was just messin’ with him. He knew standard classes didn’t even require a single skill at level 10 to ascend—and now here he was, asked to get them all, like picking rocks from the ground.
Like sure… come on, just—
Sigh.
Well, he wasn’t in the mood to argue with the System. Not now at least.
"Alright. Let’s head back."
Fiedore almost smiled at the sound of the words. Finally!
As they made their way to the winged antler and flew through the chill night over Barion’s State, Hope couldn’t enjoy the ride as much as he wanted. His mind was already racing, analysing his list of skills and what he’d need to do next.
It wasn’t as bad as he thought—but some points in particular were going to demand more than a bit of work.
“My eyes must be deceiving me! Is that my dear brother actually reading a book?”
Hope nearly exhaled his soul.
"And if it isn’t my most dear sister," he said, dragging the words with mock reverence. "Come to enlighten me with your boundless wisdom again, have you?"
Elira tilted her head, smile poised and graceful, like she’d practised it in a mirror. "Oh, I wouldn’t dare. Clearly, you’re already on a path of intellectual awakening. I’d hate to interrupt such a rare miracle."
Hope shut the book with a soft thud. "You know, for someone so polite, you sure talk a lot of smack."
"It’s not smack, dear brother," she said sweetly, hands clasped behind her back. "It’s encouragement—just dressed in finer words."
"Right," he muttered, leaning back in his chair. "Next time, dress it in silence instead."
Elira popped her head forward just enough to catch the book’s title.
“Oh, ‘Tier 1 Skill Encyclopaedia’, are you looking to become a scholar now? Or perhaps searching for a most particular skill? Surely cooking and crafting haven’t already lost their charm?”
Hope gave her a side glance. “Funny. I was just wondering when my little sister started reading titles upside down. Must be one of your many noble talents.”
She straightened her posture with mock pride. “Observation is a lady’s art, Hope. And you, clearly, are a fascinating specimen.”
He chuckled under his breath. “That’s one way to call me handsome.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.” She smiled, eyes gleaming. “I meant rarely seen in study, not pleasant to look at.”
Hope grinned, tapping the book’s cover with his thumb. “Keep talking, and I’ll start using this as a pillow instead. Might even learn by dreaming.”
Elira gave a light gasp, one hand to her chest. “Perish the thought! The Encyclopaedia deserves better than your drool.”
“Then you’d best stand back before it gets sentimental.”
She laughed again, a small, melodic sound that lingered in the air for a moment longer than usual. Then, her tone shifted—still playful, but more measured. “In truth, I didn’t come here just to admire your… scholarly rebirth.”
Hope raised an eyebrow. “That so? You mean you actually had a reason?”
“Yes,” she said, clasping her hands behind her back as she began to pace in front of him. “Our vassals are gathering tomorrow for the Game of Houses prelude—quite the spectacle, they say.”
Hope’s amusement drained almost instantly. The phrase alone made his shoulders tighten. Of course it’d be that again. Nobles and their endless games—pretending to test honour while drowning in their own pomp.
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He leaned forward slightly, keeping his tone light. “Right. And what exactly will be expected of me this time?”
Elira arched a brow, her smirk sharpening just a touch. “Oh, nothing beyond the usual—composure, grace, a touch of charm. The trials will test skill and presentation, as tradition demands.”
Hope nodded slowly, masking the dull ache building behind his temples. Composure. Grace. Charm. The same words they always used to dress up nonsense. Still, he couldn’t let any of that slip.
And wait… trials? What trials!?
He cleared his throat, leaning back with a careful sort of calm. “Naturally. Though, for clarity’s sake… which trials are we referring to?”
Elira pretended to ponder, tapping a finger thoughtfully against her chin. “Oh, you know—the usual series. Tests of wit, might, and bearing that will demand the very best of each of the chosen heroes.”
Chosen heroes. Just… wonderful.
Hope offered what he hoped passed for a noble smile, though it felt more like a grimace behind his teeth. “Of course. Wouldn’t be a prelude without a touch of theatrics.”
Elira’s lips curved into a grin. “Now you’re learning.”
He resisted the urge to sigh. “And I assume I’ll be… participating?”
“Participating?” she repeated, feigning innocence. “Why, Hope, of course! You are the main character.”
Great. Just fuckin’ great.
Hope managed a polite chuckle, though his thoughts were anything but polite.
Elira stopped at the doorway, glancing back with a sly look that said she’d enjoyed this more than she should have. “But don’t fret. There’ll be surprises this time. I’m told they’ll keep things… lively.”
“Surprises,” Hope echoed, his tone halfway between amusement and despair. “Just what I needed.”
“Good,” she said, her grin widening. “Then I’ll let you get back to your studies, great scholar. I’d hate to interrupt your preparation.”
“Elira, wait—”
But she was already halfway down the hall, laughing under her breath like she’d just won a game only she knew they were playing.
Hope let out a long breath and sank back in the chair. “Fantastic,” he muttered. “Trials, vassals, surprises—and me as the main entertainment for a bunch of pompous nobles… once again! Perfect bloody schedule.”
“You look splendid, Young Master!”
Hope stared at the mirror, lips pressed in a thin line as he turned his head from one side to the other.
Splendid, right. Maybe if the word meant “tragic”.
Selera had trimmed his hair just two weeks ago—simple, neat, and passable. But now it gleamed like it had been dipped in varnish, combed back so tight he could feel his scalp protesting. A neat wave sat frozen in place at the top, too polished, too perfect—like it belonged to someone who practised smiling at his own reflection.
The maid stood proudly behind him, hands clasped. “It suits you perfectly, Young Master. Very dignified.”
Hope managed a tight nod. “My thanks. You’ve outdone yourself.”
Outdone herself, alright. I look like a pastry at a royal banquet.
She stepped back to admire her work, then gestured to the clothes laid out for him. Deep charcoal coat, embroidered cuffs, gold-thread trim, polished boots, a layered sash too ornate to be practical. It took effort not to wince at every button.
By the time she’d finished helping him dress, Hope felt less like a person and more like an exhibit. The mirror offered no comfort—just the image of someone trying too hard to look like they belonged.
“Excellent, Young Master,” she said, beaming. “You’re every inch the gentleman.”
Hope folded his hands behind his back. “Your kindness is noted.”
So is the fact that this collar’s cutting off blood flow to my brain. No wonder nobles faint so often—they’re dressed for it.
He stepped out into the hall, each step marked by the faint squeak of over-polished boots.
Lord Gregore stood by the landing, tall and unmoving, his coat fastened with military precision. His expression, as always, was carved from stone.
“Punctual,” Gregore said, adjusting his gloves without looking up. “That’s new.”
Hope bowed, measured and respectful. “I aim to improve, Sire.”
And to survive the morning.
Gregore gave a single, approving nod. “Good. Your mother and sisters are waiting below.”
They descended the grand staircase together, their reflections gliding along marble polished to a mirror’s gleam. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, catching the dust in golden lines. The air smelled faintly of lilies and old polish—nobility’s favourite perfume.
At the base of the stairs stood Lady Julia, graceful as ever in a lavender gown. Her poise was impeccable, her smile immaculate—and directed somewhere just beside him, never quite at him.
Lyra stood a step behind her mother, her posture elegant and her eyes cool. Blonde hair braided neatly over one shoulder, her blue gown shimmered like calm water. She offered Hope a polite nod, nothing more.
Then there was Elira.
Crimson silk. Soft curls. A spark in her eyes that could melt frost and start trouble in equal measure. She didn’t just stand—she glowed, all warmth and amusement wrapped in noble grace.
“Brother,” she said lightly, her grin teasing at the edges. “You look… marvellous. Truly, I almost mistook you for someone respectable.”
Hope returned a flawless smile. “Your praise overwhelms me, dear sister. The mirror seemed equally uncertain.”
Elira’s laughter was soft but genuine, her eyes catching his for a moment too long before she lowered them with mock decorum.
Gregore’s voice broke the moment like the snap of a blade being sheathed. “That’s enough. There will be time for amusement after the gathering.”
“Of course, Sire,” Elira said smoothly, dipping into a curtsey that was perfect on the surface and defiant underneath.
Hope followed his ‘family’ toward the waiting hall, keeping his posture straight and his expression as composed as he could.
They passed beneath the archway and waited inside the grand hall, its tall doors thrown open to the morning light spilling across the mosaic floor. Beyond the threshold lay the outer courtyard, already alive with colour and motion.
Banners of every crest swayed in the wind, while pavilions ringed the marble dais at its centre. Rows of stands climbed in orderly tiers beyond, crowded with courtiers, attendants, and the expectant families of lesser lords.
Trumpets blared from the gatehouse, sharp and ceremonial, the sound slicing through the hum of voices.
The procession began.
Each vassal house entered through the main arch in turn, their carriages halting before the dais. One by one, the herald called their names, his voice clear and practiced, echoing through the courtyard.
“House Draven of the Northern Reach! Lord Varric Draven, Lady Isolde, and their sons, Cedric and Alain!”
Polished armour gleamed as the Dravens stepped forward, bowed, and took their seats upon the lower dais. The crowd murmured approval.
“House Merrow of the Silver Lake! Lady Avenna Merrow and her daughter, the Lady Seliane!”
The Merrows’ silks shimmered like rippled water under the morning light, their attendants bearing silver-dyed banners edged with white pearls.
“House Kael of the Verdant Marshes! Lord Renard Kael, Lady Maira, their daughter Lady Elayne, and their young champion — Sir Tolan the Swift!”
House after house came forward—dozens of them, their wealth and pride displayed in measured pageantry. Each name rolled out, each family bowed, each banner found its place in the ordered circle around the dais.
When at last the final vassal had been received, a hush swept across the courtyard. The herald took one step forward, unrolled a fresh parchment, and raised his voice again—deeper now, ceremonial.
“Behold, the High Line of Barion!”
Trumpets flared anew.
At the herald’s call, the doors of the great hall swung wide, and the Barion family stepped forth. Lord Gregore led, tall and unbending, his presence commanding silence. Lady Julia followed, poised and pale as carved marble. Lyra came next, serene and distant in her blue silk, and beside her walked Elira—crimson and radiant, a spark of life against all that ceremony.
Hope came last, careful and composed, every movement weighed beneath a hundred watchful eyes.
“Lord Gregore Barion, Keeper of the Oathlands, Warden of the Western Vale, and Scion of the Great Barion Blood! Lady Julia of the same line, their son, Lord Hope Barion, and their daughters, Lady Lyra and Lady Elira!”
A chorus of voices rose in salute.
The Barions took their place at the head dais, overlooking the gathered banners.
The herald raised his staff again, and silence fell once more.
“And now,” he declared, “in honour of the coming Game of Houses, to be held four weeks hence, the Great House Barion names its chosen heroes — champions who shall bear its banner in contest and trial, with honour and grace!”
Murmurs swept through the gathered nobles as the first two champions were called.
“From House Draven, Sir Cedric Draven, heir and blade of the North!”
“From House Kael, Sir Tolan the Swift, great sword of the Marshes!”
The two young men stepped forward, drawing brief applause.
Then, the herald turned to the highest dais, his voice swelling.
“And for the High Line of Barion… the heir of silver blood, bearer of the western standard, and chosen hero of the coming Game of Houses—”
He paused for effect.
“Lord Hope Barion, first son of the Warden, and champion of the House!”
A roar of approval and whispers rippled across the courtyard.
Every eye turned to him.
Hope inclined his head, the picture of noble composure.
Right, he thought. No pressure at all.
Just smile and wave… just smile and wave.
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