Gray Chronicle

Chapter 2 Basic Throwing

The next morning, Lynn was awakened by hunger.

It wasn't a metaphor. It was a physical pain in his stomach, like someone had squeezed and twisted it. He struggled to his feet, walked to the water vat in the corner—it contained rainwater collected three days ago, with a layer of dust on the surface—and scooped it up with his hands, taking a few sips.

Look at the crystal slice.

A new item has been added to the proficiency tracking section: Harsh environment tolerance 0.3%.

You can even gain skill by drinking dirty water.

Lynn didn't know whether to smile bitterly or feel fortunate.

But hunger had to be addressed. He checked his belongings: a blunt knife, half a saw blade, and two copper coins that his original body had hidden under the bed—that was all he had. In Graymist City, two copper coins could buy half a loaf of black bread, or a bowl of wheat porridge mixed with sawdust.

not enough.

Lynn pushed open the door.

The mornings in the lower city of Gray Fog were more crowded, noisier, and more colorful than any slum he could remember. Not colors of color, but colors of race.

People were already moving about in the alley. A pointed-eared elven woman squatted in a corner, a tattered cloth spread out in front of her, on which lay a few withered herbs—calendula, yarrow, and dried leaves he didn't recognize. Her elven features were badly worn: her hair was dry and yellow, there were fine lines at the corners of her eyes, and there was a notch on her pointed ear, as if it had been hit with a blunt object. When she looked up at Lynn, her eyes were the pale gold characteristic of elves, but the whites of her eyes were bloodshot.

An elven refugee who had ended up in a human kingdom. In Lynn's memory, there were several other elven towns like this.

Further down the alley, an orc was carrying two sacks of flour. He was twice the width of a human, his grey-green skin covered in old scars, and one of his lower fangs was broken. He was barefoot, and calluses from iron rings rubbed against his ankles—marks of past slave shackles. No one gave him a second glance. In the lower city, orc laborers were more common than elven refugees.

A halfling boy ran past Lynn, carrying a stack of bread taller than his head; the aroma of flour made Lynn's stomach cramp again. The halfling's bare feet trod silently on the stone pavement—a natural gift of their race.

But the boy wasn't a professional; he was just a deliveryman for the bakery.

In the Lower City, racial traits have only one use: to allow you to live a few years longer than others in a particular trade.

Following the original owner's memories, Lynn walked toward the Adventurers' Guild's dispatch window.

The dispatch window was located at the border between the Lower City and the Middle City—it was more of a table and a clerk responsible for issuing commissions and gathering intelligence for the Lower City. When Lynn arrived, several people were already lined up. Humans, elves, and a demon-born being huddled at the end of the line—his skin was pale purple, his pupils pure black with no whites, and two small bumps on his forehead were mostly hidden by his hood. Demon-born were unwelcome in the Kingdom of Aldric; the doctrine of the God of Order considered their bloodline to contain elements from the lower planes. But in the Lower City, as long as they could work, that was enough.

At the front of the line, the clerk is taking notes.

The halfling male, middle-aged, wore a faded guild robe with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing short, thick, but nimble fingers. A stack of parchment lay on the table, next to a steaming glass of ale—drinking so early in the morning, typical halfling behavior.

After waiting for about half an hour, it was Lynn's turn.

"Name." The halfling clerk didn't even look up.

"Lynn Gray".

The clerk paused, his quill pen still. He looked up and scrutinized Lynn with his distinctively halfling black eyes—his gaze lingering for a second on the bandage on his left arm and the bruises on his face.

"What request?"

"What can be done?"

The clerk flipped through the parchment: "Clean up the remaining ash residue. Three abandoned buildings on the west side of the old city. Reward: five copper coins. Requirement: bring back ash corrosion samples."

Lynn nodded: "I'll take it."

The clerk pushed a form over: "Please provide your fingerprints. Complete within three days; otherwise, your pay will be halved."

Lynn pressed his handprint. Five copper coins were enough to buy food for two days.

Just as he was about to leave, the clerk took a small cloth bag from under the table and tossed it to him: "Guild perks. A piece of black bread and a roll of linen bandages. Don't die too quickly, or we'll have to re-register, which is a hassle."

Lynn caught the bag. He hesitated for a moment, then asked, "What are the requirements for the official guild trial?"

The clerk looked up. There was no mockery in his gaze, only weariness.

"A recommender, or ten commissions. Strength/Constitution at least 6, Agility/Intelligence at least 7. Survive the trial." He glanced at Lynn's thin arms. "Your Strength/Constitution is sufficient?"

Lynn recalled the numbers on the slice: Strength 4, Constitution 3.

"……not enough."

"Then forget about it." The clerk lowered his head to sort through the parchment. "Every year, dozens of people are asked questions in the lower district, but no more than five pass the attribute test, and of those who survive the trials—not a single one last year."

Lynn didn't leave. He was silent for a moment, then asked, "And after the trial? What will happen when you stand on that judgment stone?"

The clerk pulled half a loaf of rye bread from under the table, broke off a piece, and stuffed it into his mouth: "The Veridia Stone shines on you, and a name appears. Warrior, wanderer, whatever. Just one name."

"That's it?"

"That's all." The clerk chewed on his bread. "Want to know if there are any hidden skills beneath the surface of your profession? In-depth analysis costs nearly five times the price. If you can't afford it, you'll live with that name for the rest of your life, and you won't know whether God gave you anything extra until you die. As for how to change jobs, where to go, and what skills to acquire—the Judge won't tell you."

He paused, then pushed the empty glass aside.

"I've sat at this window for eleven years. Hundreds of kids from the downtown area have come to ask how to become professionals. Of those, only three actually succeeded. And of those, only one is still alive today."

He curled one finger: "The worst apprentice bow costs three horseshoes for the bow shaft, enough to collect for half a month. The arrows are shot and can't be retrieved; three arrows cost a bowl of wheat porridge. Swords are even more expensive—the iron blank, charcoal, and protective gear—everything costs money. Even if the equipment were free, your food intake would double after a day of practice. How many days would those two copper coins in your pocket last?"

The second finger curled up again: "There are plenty of kids practicing swordsmanship in the back alleys, and after three or five years they think they're pretty good. How many survived that night in Cole Alley three years ago? They only found out on the day of the real fight—and by then they were already dead."

The third finger also extended: "Once you've mastered it, stand before the Judgement Stone. The Judgement Stone gives you a job title. And then what? There's an old dockworker who's carried boxes for thirty years, mastered those few skills, and the Judgement Stone gave him the title 'Bearer.' What's the use of that? He still goes to carry boxes from time to time."

The clerk dusted the breadcrumbs off his hands, picked up his quill pen again, and stopped looking at him.

"People in the lower city, first earn today's black bread. There's still a lot between you and Pan Shi."

Lynn didn't ask any more questions.

He turned and left, clutching the cloth bag. Behind him, he overheard the clerk and another staff member chatting. They said that the youngest son of the Winster family in the Upper City had awakened his dragon bloodline last night, a third-generation ancestral return. The judgment stone directly granted him an advanced profession, and a deeper reading even revealed a hidden dragon's might. People from Valhalla had already arrived.

Twelve years old.

Lynn did not stop.

He walked into the alleyways of the old town. The clerk's words were still echoing in his mind, but what occupied his attention at this moment was not the words themselves, but something else—those words triggered a bunch of fragmented memories.

The fragmented conversations the original owner overheard while collecting bottles outside the tavern in the lower city, the mercenaries' complaints overheard at the guild window, the drunken grumbling of craftsmen in the old workshop—these scattered pieces of memory were now strung together by the clerk's words, like shards of pottery sunk to the bottom of water suddenly dredged up, piecing together a blurry but recognizable shape: three proficiencies trigger class mechanics, the judgment stone only gives names, the advancement path is held in someone else's hands, and that person demands money and an apprenticeship contract. This set of rules isn't new; it's been in place for a long time, so long that everyone talks about it like they're discussing the weather.

His crystal slice did not have a profession section.

He didn't know what would appear on the slice after the three progress bars were full, but at least he didn't have to worry about "not knowing whether he had mastered it or not".

He deliberately practiced stealth on the way. He chose to walk in the shadows at the base of walls, his footsteps landing on soft soil rather than gravel, and his breathing rhythm synchronized with the ambient noise.

Stealth movement jumped from 1.1% to 1.2%.

Let's push the first progress bar to its maximum first.

As he turned a corner, he heard a familiar voice.

"That bastard is definitely still around here. He got away yesterday, we have to dig up the copper coins today."

Rice.

Lynn immediately pressed himself against the wall. Two figures emerged from the alleyway opposite—a tall human boy named Rice, carrying a sharpened wooden stick; and a short, stocky half-orc named Kirk, whose half-orc blood made him a size larger than his peers, with old scars on his knuckles. Kirk was a half-orc hybrid, and in the lower city, half-orcs were in a more awkward position than pure-blooded orcs—orc tribes didn't recognize them, and humans didn't consider them their own kind. But Kirk's half-orc blood gave him strength far exceeding that of a human boy.

The original owner of this body was severely injured yesterday by these two people—and there's a third one who hasn't shown up yet.

“There’s nothing in his shabby workshop,” Rice said. “There are only two copper coins under the bed.”

"Two are copper coins too," Kirk said in a low voice. "Enough to buy a loaf of bread."

The two walked towards Lynn.

Lynn's mind raced.

Strength 4 against at least 6. Agility 5 against an orc hybrid with unknown agility. Left arm injury, insufficient stamina. Head-on fight: lose. Running—left arm injury affects balance; can't outrun Kirk who knows the terrain.

That leaves only one option.

He slowly reached his hand into his robe.

He grasped three rusty iron nails. The ones he had hidden on his person last night.

The mental simulation aligned with his body; he sensed his fingers subtly adjusting the arrangement of the nails, placing them between his fingers. The sharp edges of the nails pressed against his fingertips, cold. The weight of the three nails perfectly filled his palm. He didn't consciously try to remember the sensation, but his body miraculously retained it.

Rice and Kirk entered the area.

Lynn moved.

Instead of charging at Rice, Kirk shifted to the side, placing himself in a straight line between them. This change in angle lasted only two seconds, enough for Kirk's broad body to block the trajectory of Rice's swinging stick.

Then Lynn threw out the three nails.

The moment he made the move, he knew he'd made the right decision. It wasn't the slicing that told him—it was the sensation of the nails slipping from his fingertips as he released them, the lack of extra deflection after the wrist flicked out, and the sudden trajectories of the three nails in the air becoming traceable to him. He had practiced throwing simulations the night before—lying in bed with his eyes closed, repeatedly mentally rehearsing the angle and force of his throw. But there's a wall between simulation and real combat.

At that moment, the wall was breached.

His mental deductions and physical actions coincided at the same instant, and he knew he had succeeded—his body knew before the biopsy was even confirmed.

The sharp clanging of nails against stone was particularly jarring in the narrow alley. Kirk instinctively ducked—orcs have heightened hearing and react more violently to sudden noises—and his center of gravity shifted.

Lynn seized the moment.

He rushed past Kirk, his right hand flashing a blunt knife at Kirk's wrist—not an attack, but a threat, forcing Kirk to recoil in defense. Kirk took a half-step back, and Lynn seized the opportunity to break free of the encirclement, sprinting into the depths of the alley.

Rice's curses and footsteps came from behind.

Lynn didn't look back. He rushed into a side street, then a second, then a third. The alleyways of the lower town were as intricate as a spider web, and the original owner's memories were now the best map. He crossed the clothesline, climbed over the collapsed courtyard wall, crawled behind the statues in the abandoned shrine, and then squeezed out from the cracks on the side of the statue's base.

His body was memorizing these movements: the way he exerted force for each vault, the cushioning of each landing, and the choice of each route.

The crystal shards shimmered at the edge of his vision. But he didn't have time to look.

Seven minutes later, he shook off his pursuers.

Lynn leaned against a wall covered in moss, panting heavily. The wound on his left arm began to bleed again, and hunger was causing his stamina to drop much faster than usual.

He looked at the crystal slice.

Two new items have appeared in the proficiency tracking section: Complex terrain traversal 0.4%, escape 0.3%.

Then he saw the change.

The "Skills Acquired" section is no longer blank.

Basic throwing.

A new line of text quietly appeared there.

Lynn's consciousness touched the line of text, and more detailed information unfolded:

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[Basic Throwing]

Level: Common

Proficiency: Mastered (100%)

Attribute bonus: Agility +2

Description: The fundamental skill of throwing an object towards a target area. It involves instinctive judgment of the angle, force, and timing of the throw, and is a prerequisite for all throwing skills. Accuracy is influenced by both agility and perception.

Note: This skill is acquired through sudden enlightenment. The body must first achieve it, and then the results are confirmed after a slice is prepared.