It began, as many disasters do, with paperwork.

  A courier arrived at sunrise—a gangly youth with the posture of a soggy broom and a clipboard that radiated bureaucratic menace. He handed Ren a thick scroll sealed with the insignia of the Heroic Ascendancy Guild, then scampered off like a man who’d once been chased by a goat and never emotionally recovered.

  Ren, the ever-trusting soul, opened the scroll with the gentle delight of someone unwrapping a birthday card from their favorite grandma. There could’ve been glitter inside. Or a curse. Or a cursed glitter.

  I, ever the seasoned war instrument of eldritch terror, immediately sensed doom. The kind with gold trim and polite footnotes.

  “It’s a formal classification request,” Ren said cheerfully, scanning the document like it might compliment him. “They want to officially list our party under the Guild’s registry.”

  I hummed, low and full of skepticism. “Define ‘our party.’”

  “You and me!” Ren replied, beaming like the sun was his wingman. “We’re a registered duo now. Isn’t that exciting?”

  Somewhere deep in my forged core, a metaphorical gear stripped itself from sheer secondhand embarrassment.

  The next day, we were summoned to the local guild outpost—a looming two-story bureaucratic beast that smelled of ambition, ink, and the last shred of someone’s will to live. The receptionist, a sharp-eyed woman whose glasses could cut glass, handed Ren a stack of forms so thick I’m convinced it altered the building’s gravitational pull.

  “Please fill out your known abilities, class designation, support skills, and signature moves,” she droned in the tone of a woman who’d seen one too many ‘healers’ spontaneously explode. “Don’t forget to list your artifact loadout. Legibly.”

  Ren looked at me. I looked at the exit.

  “I’m not sure what my class is,” Ren admitted. “I don’t really fight.”

  The receptionist didn’t even blink. “You’ve survived six bandit attacks, resolved a magical poultry dispute, and recently achieved diplomatic harmony with a cursed forest.”

  Ren smiled modestly. “I brought sandwiches.”

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  The woman stared at him like she couldn’t decide whether to promote him or sedate him.

  Shortly after, the classification mages arrived—five of them, in matching robes embroidered with golden clipboards and the haunted expressions of men who’ve spent too much time around explosive bards. They asked questions. So many questions.

  “Does your weapon emit a passive morale field?”

  “Yes,” Ren said, as I vibrated in barely contained indignation.

  “Do you defuse threats using empathy and restorative tone modulation?”

  “I guess?”

  “Have you healed emotional wounds through unexpected displays of baked goods?”

  Ren blinked. “That’s... oddly specific.”

  I was poked, prodded, scanned, and labeled. One mage fainted when I hummed near his ear. Another tried to polish my pommel and whispered, “It’s like stroking the concept of closure.”

  I nearly self-destructed out of sheer existential crisis at that!

  They left us alone in the chamber, probably to argue over what to do with us. Or whether I qualified as a threat or a therapeutic implement.

  They returned with fanfare. Actual fanfare and Someone blew a kazoo.

  “Congratulations,” the head mage announced with a flourish that screamed ‘unpaid theater major,’ “you’ve been classified as a rare-tier Compassion Knight.”

  Ren tilted his head. “Is that... new?”

  “Entirely,” she said proudly. “A subclass focused on emotional bolstering, community aura reinforcement, and nonviolent battlefield presence. You will be the first recorded wielder.”

  Ren’s eyes sparkled like someone had just handed him a puppy made of cupcakes. “That’s... really nice.”

  I, meanwhile, contemplated reversing my enchantment and becoming a rake.

  “And the weapon,” the mage continued, turning toward me with the reverence of someone unveiling a holy relic, “has been officially designated as an Artifact of Gentle Influence.”

  I have seen kingdoms burn. I have ended dynasties. I once decapitated a lich mid-monologue. And now... I am an

  They gave us badges. Ugh!!! Mine came with a andIt was

  On the walk home, Ren couldn’t stop smiling. “Isn’t it amazing? They made a whole class just for us.”

  I said nothing. Because I was trying to mentally scream loud enough to crack the sky.

  Back at the cottage, the goat had eaten the mail again. The enchanted forest leaf pulsed serenely on the windowsill, smug as a self-satisfied ficus. I hummed so aggressively the stove rattled and the tea kettle flinched.

  [System Notification: Class Registered – Compassion Knight (Ren)]

  [Weapon Designation Updated – Artifact of Gentle Influence (Mister Glimmers)]

  [Bonus Trait Unlocked: Soothing Presence – +1 Calm to Allies Within Five Meters]

  I don’t soothe. I don’t influence. I I am not a mobile comfort crystal!!

  And yet, as Ren tucked me into my embroidered pillow, offered me a honey biscuit shaped like a heart, and whispered, “Thank you for always protecting me,” and that snapped something inside me.

  Ugh!! Ok.....Not in pain...

  But inHorrifying, glitter-trailing, soul-warming pride.

  And at that I glowed.

  Softly.....