Of every institution that bloomed after the demon wars began, none thrived like the Mercenary Guild.Battlefields multiplied faster than elite soldiers could be freed from the front, so freelance blades took over everything—from gutter jobs to critical raids. Naturally, their social stock soared. Yesterday's drifters could now, with luck and talent, earn a petty title of nobility. The danger stayed high, but the pay-offs rose even higher.
People with oversized dreams knocked on the guild's doors all day.One of them was Kael.
The guild hall occupied a six-storey block in District Seven.Kael raised his gaze to the broad stone facade, then stepped inside. Silence. Most fighters were already on contracts; the idle ones had gone drinking. Only a handful roamed the ground floor.
He brushed past them until he collided with a merc walking backward.
"Watch it, scum. You're begging for a thrashing—"
The man spun, words dying as he saw who towered over him: a figure in midnight armour, the helm's slit glowing faintly. Kael's presence crushed like a vise.
"A… a Dread Sentinel? Here?" the merc croaked.
"Finish your thought," Kael said, voice cold Iron. " 'Begging for a thrashing,' was it?"
The fellow blanched, lifted his hand, and slapped his cheek.
Smack!"Idiot! How dare you bump Sir Knight? Need pain to learn, fool!"Smack, smack, smack!
Kael turned away. "Be careful."
"Y-yes, sir! Extra careful!"
Even with newfound prestige, mercs were still mercs—rough folk who respected the bigger fist. Show them the chain of command, and they obeyed.
Eyes tracked Kael as he crossed the foyer. Low whispers fluttered:
"Never seen a Sentinel this close.""Met one at the front once—best keep distance.""What's he want with our guild?"
Ignoring them, Kael headed to the reception counter where three clerks sat stiff as statues. Each silently prayed he would choose someone else. He stopped before the calmest-looking one.
"W-welcome to Irena Branch," she squeaked, trying for a smile. "How may I help you?"
"I wish to register as a mercenary."
"O-oh. I… see."A Dread Sentinel asking for basic papers—absurd. Knights, fallen or not, were proud; most would rob caravans before lowering themselves to 'hired help'. Yet procedure was procedure.
"Do you possess identification?"
"No, but I have a guarantor."
"Name, please?"
"Lira. An acolyte from the Church."
The clerk frowned—unfamiliar name, stranger sponsor; a church novice backing a servant of dusk? Hard to believe, but the armour looming over her stifled objection.
"M-may I have your name, sir?"
"Kael."
"Sir Kael, let me explain our ranking plates. Achievements advance you from Copper through Iron, Bronze, Silver, and Gold. Clear?"
Kael nodded. She relaxed a little, reciting perks: Bronze allowed entry to District Three; Gold earned a baronetcy. As she spoke, her stammer faded.
"I'll start at Copper, then," Kael said. "Issue it."
"Well… there's a hurdle."She swallowed under his hard stare. "Every applicant takes an entry test—minor chores like herb gathering or sewer cleaning. Clients might object to entrusting such tasks to someone of night-bound disposition."
"Herbs lose potency in Sentinel hands? Sewers stay dirty if I clean them?"
"It's… about customer confidence."
No patrons, no assignments. Kael exhaled—so this is why gamers avoided the class. Fine. Humanity hadn't worked; it was time to lean into menace.
"Skip the test," he growled, leaning forward. Wood cracked beneath his gauntlet. An icy aura rippled out; the clerk trembled, eyes wet.
"J-just engrave my name," he finished softly.
Shaking, she reached for a blank Copper plate—until a deep voice spoke behind him.
"Intimidation isn't a valid shortcut, friend."
Kael looked back. A burly middle-aged man with a sword scar across one cheek smiled wearily.
"Garland," Kael murmured—legendary Gold plate, guild-master of Irena, a man with secrets Kael remembered from the 'game'.
"You know me?" Garland raised a brow."Coincidence," Kael replied.
Garland waved the frazzled clerk away and took her seat. "So, you want in. The snag, as she said, is trust. Clients shy from dusk-touched warriors."
Kael's patience thinned. He could blackmail Garland—the secret about his past—but wasting ammunition on a plate felt foolish.
Garland tapped the ledger. "However, Thorne filed a report. Said you escorted refugees here alive. That buys credit in my book. I've a contract—my own."
"Details."
"Two days north, a village asked us to cull a Mawbear—big brute, normally territorial. We sent 'Miles's Crew': one Bronze, five Iron. All dead, save the captain. Something's odd. I'm forming a second party, but I worry they'll freeze. Join them, bring back the fallen plates for next-of-kin, and the Copper's yours."
Danger? Good. Kael agreed at once.
Garland's smile thinned. "One more thing: for records, we need a sketch. Helmet off, please."
Kael removed it. Garland studied the pale face, then chuckled. "Had you shown that earlier, our clerk might be smitten."
Kael said nothing, slid the helm back on, and strode out. The mission was secured, but the copper plate was pending.