Later That Morning — Emberhold
Lucian strolled through the city streets, letting the sunlight warm his face. A short cloak fluttered behind him, dull against the morning's growing brilliance.
The capital was alive in every corner—
Minstrels strumming spells into chords.
Stalls sizzling with breakfast stew, spice-roasted corn, and fried mana-dumplings.
Children chased enchanted paper kites that flared with embers.
A street magician turned a ribbon of water into a blooming rose.
Lucian stopped at a corner stall and bought something aggressively red and spicy for a silver coin. It stung—perfectly.
Reminded him of someone.
For a while, he just walked.
Let the sky stretch.
Let his thoughts breathe.
He liked this.
Moving forward.
Moving freely.
By 9 AM, under a sky too blue to feel real, he followed Silverweave Street to a large stone building framed by iron braziers and two crossed blades etched above the doors.
The Adventurer's Guild.
The Adventurer's Guild — Main Hall
The doors creaked open, and the scent hit him like a war drum.
Steel.
Sweat.
Cheap bread.
Glory.
The hall was massive.
Vaulted ceilings, swaying lamps.
Walls lined with mounted heads of beasts and beasts-that-might've-been.
A far board covered in maps and quest slips. The other half?
Absolutely riddled with knife dents.
Adventurers filled the room like a riot waiting to happen:
Rough leathers. Reinforced robes. Shirtless brutes with glowing tattoos.
Some wore heavy armor. Others wore none.
Weapons of every kind—from hammers the size of carriages to staves that hummed with mana. But of course, some were powerful.
Lucian stepped in, clearly a student.
But didn't hide it.
Young face. Calm eyes.
Scrap-bin staff strapped to his back.
Heads turned.
Just a beat.
Then they went back to gambling, drinking, and yelling about fireball arcs.
Lucian made his way to the front desk. A woman in her thirties looked up—a scar across her brow and golden eyes that had seen things. She scanned him once, like she'd already written his obituary.
"Apprentice mage," she said. "From the Academy?"
Lucian nodded.
Her accent had a familiar roll to it—thick, like someone he knew.
She smirked faintly. "Got guts."
A form slid his way, and she scrawled his name into a black ledger. With charcoal.
Broker wasn't kidding.
PENDING LICENSE – Lucian Valemire
Status: Unverified — Field Trial Required
She leaned in, voice lowering somewhere between kindness and warning. "I'll let you in on a little something, boy. Big party run posted this morning. Thirty-man dungeon raid. You'll need a squad—four minimum. Rules are strict."
Lucian blinked. "That big?"
She nodded toward a crude map etched on treated beast hide nailed to the board.
"Three-day earth-type dungeon. You survive, you're official."
She gave him a faint smile.
Pretty boy.
Probably going to get gutted by a rock boar.
Lucian nodded his thanks and stepped away, claiming an empty table to gather his thoughts.
He didn't get long.
Then Trouble Entered
The main doors creaked.
A girl swept in like she owned the place.
An aristocrat by her looks.
Her battle robe shimmered unnecessarily, neckline a little too adventurous and short for dungeon work. Long yellow hair in curls, shoes spotless, parasol perfectly color-matched to her outfit. Her staff looked like a prop from a high-budget theatre play.
Behind her stood a walking mountain.
Steel greaves. Half-cloak.
Greatsword taller than most men.
Eyes like a predator, posture like a butler.
And he called her "Young Mistress" every five seconds.
Lucian watched casually as they moved to the counter. Judging by the form she filled, they were in the same boat as him.
He caught her name on the form — Cordelia Everhart.
She scanned the room like royalty on tour in a pigsty.
Her eyes skipped over every scarred mercenary, every loud drinker, every sweaty weapon-swinger—
Then landed on him.
Unmarked outfit.
Plain cloak.
Junk staff.
...His face.
Her nose wrinkled like someone had offered her moldy cheese.
"Ugh," she said, loud enough to carry. "The burden of being rich."
She pointed straight at him.
"You. Mage over there. Yes, you. You're joining my party."
Lucian stared. "...Excuse me?"
"You look semi-competent and tragically unfashionable. That means you're probably useful. You'll do."
Lucian blinked.
She wasn't even asking.
"I don't carry parasols," he replied.
She smiled sweetly and dumped her bag and kit on him. "You do now, pack mule."
Her guard flinched. "Young Mistress—perhaps we should at least ask his name—"
"No need, Durn" Cordelia replied. "He looks obedient. Don't worry, I'm a high apprentice. You're just here to fill the number."
Lucian tilted his head, amused despite himself.
Well that was intriguing.
Lucian wasn't sure who this brat was—but she had confidence. Weaponized confidence.
He wasn't having it. But maybe because he was tense, or maybe just in a strangely good mood, he didn't overreact.
As they checked their gear, Cordelia handed him her parasol without a word—like it was the most natural thing in the world. He handed it back. She handed it again. He sighed. Across from them, the burly man—Durn, she called him—kept sneaking glances at Lucian, quietly assessing.
This girl…
Then—
A subtle shift.
The main doors creaked open.
And someone stepped inside.
A man.
Mid-twenties, maybe. Tall. Broad-shouldered. He wore a sleeveless, weathered leather coat, the edges singed and threadbare. A tight, black armor vest clung to his frame, plates light enough to move in but strong enough to survive something savage. Intricate tattoos coiled down both arms—not decorative, but ritualistic. Each ink line looked old. Earned.
His face was hidden behind a smooth white mask, featureless except for a single red vertical line running down the center, like a blade's edge.
Lucian's attention sharpened.
No clinking metal. No soft breaths. No ripple in mana-sense. Just stillness. Not emptiness—discipline. Control so tight it almost scared him.
He didn't dare use Sensory Drift.
But even without it—
Lucian felt it.
Peak Warrior.
Just shy of stepping into Adept rank.
Not unlike the bandit leader he once killed—
…except this man didn't feel like a corneredbeast.
He felt like a blade already drawn.
Someone near the wall whispered, breathless:
"No way… That's Eri."
The man walked toward the counter.
Even the guild clerk—snarky and unbothered minutes ago—visibly straightened, like she was afraid to blink.
"O-oh! Sir, it's the thirty-man Earth-type raid. Four minimum for entry. Y-you don't need to waste your time with that. I-I can prepare a custom squad—!"
Adventurers clustered around him like moths to fire, all desperate to recruit him.
He didn't spare them a glance.
Instead, he scanned the room.
And stopped—at them.
The awkward group with a noble girl, a quiet mage, a parasol argument in progress.
Eri approached.
Paused.
Head tilted.
Like a predator curious about a new scent.
"I'll join this one."
Cordelia narrowed her eyes. "And… you are?"
The man raised a hand and tapped the mask once.
"Call me Eri."
His voice was soft. Steady.
Not proud. Not dismissive.
Just calm.
Like he'd seen death, dined with it, and left the table early.
"Consider it… help. A professional lending a hand to a beginner."
Cordelia practically sparkled. "A masked veteran?! This'll look incredible on my report!"
Lucian exhaled, adjusted his satchel.
This situation went from mildly absurd to ridiculous in ten minutes flat.
But hey…
Interesting company made for interesting days.