----Page 6----
Creeaak…
The doors of the Thalorein Adventurers' Guild groaned open, their hinges crying out like old bones in the morning chill.
Light spilled through the cracks, painting long, fractured beams across the dusty hall. The air was thick with stale parchment, cold iron, and the faintest trace of spilled ale long dried into the floorboards.
It felt… alive and dead at the same time. Like stepping into a tomb built for dreams.
How many footsteps had passed here before ours? How many hopes drifted away into this dust?
My heart thudded in my chest, both from awe and unease.
This is a place of legends… and ghosts.
I took a slow step forward. Each footfall stirred tiny storms of dust, little whirlwinds spinning like impatient ghosts in the amber light. Torn notices clung desperately to the quest board, edges curled and brown, ink faded into unreadable memories.
I bent slightly, squinting at the notices, trying to imagine the hands that had pinned them here, trembling with ambition, fear, or hope.
So this was once the heart of Thalorein, the place where adventurers carved legends into reality. Now it was silent, like a heartbeat that had given up. My throat tightened.
Did all of them give up? Or just the world?
"Feels like stepping into a graveyard," Arin whispered beside me, tail drooping slightly, ears flattening. He gave a tiny shiver.
"I… don't like graveyards."
Lysera's voice echoed softly through the room, smooth and clear as a silver bell.
"A graveyard… of purpose."
Her words hung in the air, carrying calm certainty, almost daring the silence to answer.
Before I could respond, a voice rumbled from deeper within the hall, rough, steady, and seasoned by both ale and war.
"So..." it said, low and deliberate.
"You've come knocking on a ghost's door."
From the dim corridor behind the counter, a man stepped into the light. His boots struck the wood with the weight of someone who had carried burdens heavier than armor for decades.
His coat hung loose, its once-proud guild insignia faded nearly to nothing. Scars carved patterns across his face like a map of battles long ended but never forgotten, catching the light in jagged silver lines. His gray eyes, sharp and calculating, swept over us as if reading our very bones.
"Ruscious," Libert whispered beside me, posture straightening on instinct.
The man's eyes flicked to him.
"You're still alive, then."
"Trying to be," Libert said, with a crooked grin that seemed both brave and weary.
Ruscious gave a dry huff, half-laugh, half-sigh.
"A rare luxury these days."
His gaze swept across the rest of us, lingering on Lysera's calm poise, Arin's restless energy, and my own uncertain stance.
"New faces," he said at last.
"Don't tell me you're here to sign up."
"That's our intention," Lysera replied politely but firmly, her fingers brushing against the hilt of her rapier in a silent warning.
Ruscious's lip twitched, halfway to a smirk.
"Then you're either brave or stupid... Maybe both."
He turned toward the counter, where a single bottle of amber liquid caught the morning light. The floorboards groaned under his boots, each step a complaint.
I noticed the way the dust swirled around his feet, forming little whirlpools like obedient ghosts.
"This guild," he said, uncorking the bottle with one fluid motion.
"Well… you see, this place once stood as a fortress of dreams. But the Tyrant's Hand brought its ruin. Taxes, threats, and fear, a slow poison that kills without leaving a wound."
He drank in silence. The cork resealing itself sounded final, echoing off the walls.
Arin shuffled nervously.
"So… there are no adventurers left?"
He fidgeted nervously, stepping on the edge of a loose floorboard. It creaked loudly, and he yelped, hopping back with wide eyes.
"Scattered," Ruscious replied.
"Some dead, some running. The rest just stopped believing there's anything worth saving."
I felt Lysera's eyes on me, steady, evaluating.
They're testing me, aren't they? Not with words, but with the way they measure a person silently.
My stomach knotted, the weight of expectation pressing down.
Before I could respond, Libert cut in, grin wide.
"Well, maybe that changes today. These folks aren't exactly ordinary."
He puffed his chest slightly, though I knew he had seen enough of the world to remain cautious.
Ruscious's gaze met mine, sharp like a hawk circling prey.
"You led the defense at Thalorein, didn't you?"
I hesitated, swallowing hard.
"We did what we could." My hands itched to touch something solid, anything to ground the whirlwind of tension.
He studied me for a long beat, then faintly, almost reluctantly, he smiled.
"You've got the eyes of someone who's lost something worth fighting for. That's the only kind of fool that survives long in this line of work."
He called toward a side door.
"Follie! We've got applicants!"
A muffled grumble answered from behind piles of paper.
"It's not even noon, Ruscious! I told you no new paperwork until I finish sorting last month's debts!"
The voice approached, and a small figure emerged, barely reaching my chest. Bright red hair braided and catching the light, her apron ink-stained and dotted with burn marks from countless tiny explosions.
Her glasses slipped down her nose, reflecting the sun in tiny sparks that seemed almost magical. She squinted, adjusting the braid that had loosened during her approach.
"Don't glare at me, Follie," Ruscious muttered.
"They insisted."
"Uh-huh. And I suppose you also insisted on drinking before breakfast again?" she shot back, hands on her hips, eyes narrowing as if daring him to lie.
Ruscious coughed awkwardly.
"Maintenance purposes."
"Sure," she said flatly, voice softening slightly as she turned to us.
"Welcome to what's left of the Thalorein Adventurers' Guild. I'm Follie clerk, accountant, and part-time therapist for that one."
She jerked a thumb at Ruscious, who raised his mug in mock salute, spilling a tiny drop that sizzled on the wood.
Her humor was dry, warm, like aged whiskey. Somehow, the steadiness of her presence made the guild's decay seem less absolute. I noticed the little sparks of her eyes, the way her hands twitched with nervous energy, and I felt a small comfort.
"Alright," she said briskly, slapping a parchment stack and a small, glowing crystal onto the counter.
"Standard procedure. State your name, touch the crystal. It reads your potential and temperament. Try to lie, and it bites."
Arin puffed his chest. "Arin, noble familiar of"
"Just touch it," Follie interrupted, rolling her eyes.
The crystal flared briefly green.
"★ One star. Rookie," she announced.
"Rookie… like I might die unnoticed?" Arin asked, tail curling nervously.
"Exactly. Next."
Lysera stepped forward, calm and measured. Her fingers brushed the crystal, which exploded in radiant color, light cascading across the room like the birth of a second dawn.
Papers fluttered, dust swirled like smoke dancing in a ritual. Her boots whispered against the floor, her stance perfect, the very image of a skilled blade.
Follie shielded her face. "By the forge! What rank is that!?"
Ruscious gawked. "Double-S, maybe higher. Saints above."
Lysera exhaled softly. "Acceptable."
Then all eyes turned to me. I hesitated, hand hovering before pressing the crystal.
Well… here goes nothing.
At once, it flickered blue. Violet. Red. The hum deepened, thrumming in my bones. Cracks spider-webbed across the surface. A metallic ping split the silence as a fragment chipped off.
"Hands off before it explodes!" Follie barked.
I withdrew. Smoke curled from the fractured crystal. My heart hammered as I realized the sheer, unpredictable weight of potential lying dormant within me.
No one spoke for a heartbeat.
Ruscious whistled low.
"Never seen that before. The damn thing couldn't decide what you are."
Lysera's voice was calm.
"It means his potential cannot be measured."
"Or he's unstable," Follie muttered, softer now.
"Guess we'll find out soon enough."
She scribbled furiously across parchment.
"Now, before you run off getting yourselves killed, you should at least understand how the guild works."
She pointed to a faded chart on the wall.
"The Guild System operates under a unified ranking structure recognized across the Five Territories. Quests are divided from ★ to ★★★★★, same as adventurer ranks.
One to three stars are domestic errands, escorts, monster nests, recovery jobs. Four stars and above fall under combat-class categories. Five-star or higher are region-class threats wyverns, liches, military incursions."
She tapped the chart.
"If you want to rank up, you must accumulate enough stars by completing quests. Once the required number is met, you qualify for a rank-up test. Fail or refuse it, and your rank stays the same. The system ensures adventurers grow through experience, not just talent."
"We also use the Codex of Binding. That crystal you touched? Part of it. Records names, deeds, magic flow. Grants access to commissions across guilds in other towns. Fail too many quests, and the Codex locks you out. You become… untethered."
"Untethered?" I asked, voice tight, feeling the weight of the words sink into my bones.
"Means you can't legally take any job or use guild facilities. To the world, you don't exist,"
Follie said firmly, her tone leaving no room for debate. I swallowed, imagining a life cut off from every support, every network we'd counted on. A world where I might as well be a ghost…
Silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the faint creak of the old building settling around us.
Suddenly, the door burst open. Cold air, metallic and sharp, rolled in like a living thing, making papers dance and Follie's hair whip around her face.
"Captain Libert!" A panting guard, helmet slightly askew, called out.
"Arrivals at the eastern gate. Merchants and a caravan claiming sanctuary. Inspection team needs you to verify the registry."
Libert groaned, rubbing at his temples. "Now? I just sat down."
Ruscious smirked, the corner of his lips twitching with amusement. "Duty calls, Captain."
"Yeah, yeah," Libert muttered, waving one hand dismissively.
"Guess the gods don't like me resting. Stay out of trouble."
His boots echoed down the hall as he left, the door shutting with a faint creak that lingered like a reminder of impermanence.
Follie sighed, shaking her head as she turned back to me.
"You picked an interesting time to join,
Kinon. The world's falling apart, and here you are, signing up for it."
I managed a faint smile.
"If it's falling apart, someone has to start holding it together."
Her lips curved, genuine approval this time, soft but unwavering.
"Then maybe this old hall will see light again."
Ruscious leaned forward, voice low and grave.
"There's one quest left. Dangerous. Maybe fatal."
Follie rummaged through her desk, her hands moving with mechanical precision, almost as if she were part of the furniture itself. She pulled free a parchment sealed with cracked wax. The sigil was half-burned, faded, curling at the edges like it had survived centuries of neglect.
"The Behemoth Tauranus," Ruscious said, tone grim, eyes narrowing.
"Magic-eater. Big as a fortress. Meaner than sin."
Follie added softly, almost as if speaking to herself,
"It devours mana and life alike. Every mage who's faced it turned to husk and ash. The place it lairs… they call it the Scar of Varnash."
Even saying the name made the air chill. Scar of Varnash… My stomach twisted. The tension in the room thickened, curling into my chest like molten metal. I felt my pulse quicken, a mix of fear, anticipation, and… something else. A spark of excitement that maybe, just maybe, we could rise to meet it.
Ruscious nodded grimly, his jaw tight.
"A crater carved by the gods' wrath. Steam vents that never cool. Rocks that bleed molten fire. Nothing grows there. Nothing lives there except that thing."
I met his gaze, feeling the weight pressing down but refusing to break me. Well… if we don't do it, who will? I straightened my shoulders. "We'll take it."
"Kinon…" Libert murmured in memory, caution threading his voice like an old echo.
Ruscious allowed a faint smile, the first real one I'd seen on his face, like sunlight through broken clouds. "Then maybe this guild's got a future yet."
Lysera's rapier gleamed faintly as she drew it just an inch from its sheath. Light danced across the crystalline blade, pure and white.
"We accept," she said, calm and unwavering. Her stance was flawless, a silent promise of skill and loyalty.
Follie stamped the parchment with a heavy thud, the sound reverberating through the room like a heartbeat.
"Then may the gods have mercy on you," she said softly, almost reverently, the weight of responsibility clear in her eyes.
----
Meanwhile....
Far beyond Thalorein, past blackened plains and shattered ridges, the earth opened like a wound.
The Scar of Varnash, a vast crater of molten stone and whispering flame. Rivers of fire pulsed through its veins, painting the rocks in crimson and gold. Steam hissed from fissures like the breath of buried titans, twisting skyward in scalding ribbons.
At its heart bubbled something impossible: a spring of pure water, shimmering like liquid glass, spilling up through molten rock. Each drop scattered light across the infernal ground, fragile and defiant against the surrounding chaos.
The earth trembled.
A low, resonant growl rolled through the crater, deep enough to rattle the bones of the world itself.
From beneath the fractured crust, something stirred: a mountain of flesh and ash. Massive shoulders rose, black as iron and veined with molten magma.
Cracks split open along its body, releasing gouts of steam and molten light that hissed and sizzled with deadly heat.
Two golden horns caught the lava's glow, gleaming like twin suns. In one hand, it clutched a weapon: an immense, twisted club formed from fused stone and bone.
The Behemoth Tauranus lifted its head. Its nostrils flared, each exhale scorching the air to cinders, carrying with it the oppressive scent of brimstone and molten rock.
And when it roared, the world itself seemed to flinch.
The Scar waited. And so did the Behemoth.