The moment I step into the Adventurer’s Guild, I’m greeted with an overcrowded main hall that barely has any space to move in. Voices clash in an overlapping cacophony—adventurers arguing over quest detail, clerks calling out for people to maintain lines. The scent of sweat, steel, paper and ink lingers like an ever-present haze.

  I sigh, checking that the pouch with monster cores on my hip is there. The result of the last dungeon dive still needs exchanging. I'm curious how things will go because we were not checked during the hasty evacuation and there is no paper-trail that I had not paid the 'tax' for the cores.

  Would they even say anything? Let's see...

  Hm.

  Judging by the sluggish movement of the queue, I’m going to be here for a while.

  Not that I mind.

  A rare lightness lingers in my chest, something I haven't felt in far too long.

  It has been ages since I last felt this alive.

  And I regret not doing it sooner.

  Tower Village only had standard mail—slow and unreliable. My parents even tried sending a package from Capital a few times, but it never arrived. So nothing could really be done about

  Rockwall, on the other hand, is different. I’ve been here for about two and half months now. My financial hardship had limited my actions before, but what about after that? I had time. I had money.

  And yet, it took a brush with death to finally push me to act.

  The line shuffles forward, inch by inch. My thoughts churn as I go over yesterday’s conversation once more.

  A sigh escapes me again.

  At least I was able to assure them.

  I told them I was fine—that I was learning shield-making from a local smith, that I was working as an adventurer on the side, earning good money.

  Dad wasn’t thrilled about it. Despite taking a safer path, I still ended up in the same line of work as him. He said he didn’t like it, but he wouldn’t stop me—not as long as I took great caution and didn’t put my life at risk.

  What really irked them, though, was that my Rank evaluation had not occurred yet.

  It took some effort, but I managed to dissuade them from making inquiries. The last thing I needed was someone from the capital poking around. If the fat creature in the dwarf's skin caught wind of that, it would only bring trouble.

  The news from their side was more uplifting.

  Kae and Lena had both mastered peak Tier 3 spells and were diving deep into their magical specializations. Mom mentioned their awakenings were scheduled within half a year—a timeframe that feels paradoxically both too short and unbearably long.

  Enough to drown in anxiousness, but not enough to do anything about it.

  Statistically speaking, the odds of multiple siblings in a single family ending up Colorless are incredibly slim.

  So surely, surely, there’s nothing to worry about.

  Right?

  But that assumption is based on lies.

  My lies.

  The prevailing belief is that a person’s Class is set in stone before birth—that nothing, no amount of effort or training, can alter it. The world has never seen proof otherwise.

  And yet, despite that overwhelming certainty... I still doubt it.

  Life can’t be that rigid.

  We must have some agency, some ability to shape our own fates.

  Right?

  The situation with Mom and Dad, on the other hand, remains unchanged, and the more I think about it, the less it makes sense.

  While I can understand how valuable Dad’s private lessons in swordsmanship are, given his expertise and experience, I can't help but wonder about the sustainability of his client base. How is it possible that he continues to attract students after so many years in the capital?

  And Mom...

  She still teaches Magic within the Clan.

  This is something I'm still trying to wrap my head around. It's clear that even after all these years since my excommunication, she still holds significant resentment toward the clan, and yet despite this, she continues interacting with them.

  Why?

  Mom was never a direct heir to the Navarus Clan. Half a dozen siblings outranked her in succession. But marrying outside the family sealed her fate—and ours. She and her children were relegated to the branch family, a lower status that never changed, no matter my father’s accomplishments.

  That was one of the reasons they left.

  My grandfather, the head of the Navarus clan, explained this to me. He shared this information to motivate me, as becoming a Hero would grant me entry into the main branch.

  A great honor, he said.

  Was something similar offered to the mischievous duo of brats?

  No.

  Wrong.

  They’re no longer brats.

  Mom has been telling me about it in letters for years, describing all the changes that occurred to them, but it’s one thing to read about it and entirely another to see it.

  The naughty duo I often carried in my arms and which pestered me to show them new magic spells I had learned has grown up. Now, they stand as true masters of magic, a feat I could never achieve—I never managed to cast even a single Tier 3 spell.

  Everyone kept asking me the same thing.

  "What’s your plan after the Rank evaluation?"

  I didn’t have an answer then.

  And I don't now.

  Nothing ties me to Rockwall. I could leave tomorrow and not look back.

  Going back to the capital would mean we could all be together again. But I don’t want to go back.

  The capital has the best master smiths on the continent.

  But it also holds too many memories I’d rather leave buried.

  Still, I need a plan.

  My army contract states that terms must be renegotiated after I attain my Smith Rank. But it doesn’t specify where or when.

  This is a decision, a major one.

  What do I want to do with my life?

  Move to some remote mountain and live like a hermit?

  Or maybe open a smithy in a tropical town with a lot of sand and a nice beach.

  It’s a choice which will affect my whole life.

  And I have no idea what to do with it.

  A firm hand claps my shoulder.

  "Harv! I barely recognized you, man. Looking sharp!"

  I turn to see Olev grinning at me.

  "How are you?" he asks.

  "Uh. Hi. Not bad. Alive, at least."

  He nods. "Good, good. Sorry for ditching you after we got out of the dungeon. We couldn’t find you yesterday."

  Not like I was looking for them either.

  "No problem. I was busy with personal stuff."

  He hesitates for a moment before speaking again.

  "Listen, I know I might be jumping the arrow here, but... would you be interested in joining our team?"

  It takes a second to register.

  "...Why?" I ask before I can stop myself.

  Olev blinks. "Why do we want you to join, or why would you want to join?"

  "Yes."

  A pause occurs as we stare at each other in awkward silence.

  What the hell?

  Fuck you brain that wasn’t a yes or no question.

  Olev chuckles. "Well, uh... We’re a strong and skilled team consisting of a mage, archer, and two warriors. But another frontliner would really complete our team. And in the dungeon, you were good! Fast, precise and with skills. That’s exactly what we’re looking for! We’d register officially, everything would be split evenly by the Guild—no worries about getting screwed over."

  I hesitate.

  There’s no way I’m going back to that insect-infested hellhole.

  "You do know the dungeon is closed, right?" I say, repeating the gossip I overheard in line. "And it’ll stay closed for at least a week."

  Olev waves it off. "Not a problem. We were planning to take the troll-hunting quest in the western forest."

  His gaze meets mine. He’s serious.

  Shit. He’s not letting this go.

  But why am I hesitating?

  Not long ago, I was furious that no one wanted me on their team.

  And now, someone does.

  It’s not a dungeon.

  It’s trolls.

  "...Okay?" I say, uncertainly.

  I can already feel the regret sinking in.

  ...

  "We do not lie!" the pocket-sized merchant snapped, puffing up indignantly.

  I blinked, utterly baffled. "How is that not a lie?"

  "You lose a client by lying."

  "That doesn’t answer the question."

  "A merchant must create a context." He gestured emphatically, as if explaining something self-evident. "No one thinks they need a new cooking pan until you frame it as a necessity. That’s called advertising."

  I frowned. "But in that advertisement, you’re not telling the whole truth. Their old pan is perfectly fine."

  "This is a transaction! No one is forcing them to buy anything! I’m not stealing from them. Their decision is final, not mine." His voice hardened, irritation creeping in. "And at the end of the day, I need to eat too."

  I crossed my arms. "I’m not denying your right to make a living, but omission of truth is still lying."

  "I’m trying to earn money for my work."

  "And that’s fine," I allowed. "But when you strip it down, a merchant’s work is just moving goods from point A to point B."

  Joe scoffed, looking genuinely offended. "No, it’s not! Finding a buyer is the real challenge. A wagon full of luxury goods with no one to sell to is worth as much as a wagon full of rocks. Absolutely nothing."

  I arched an eyebrow. "Is that how you justify reselling the same item for three times the price just by moving it to another village?"

  His lips pressed into a thin line. "And what happens if it doesn’t sell? If I have to take it to the next town? And then the next?"

  "Simple. You don’t. You perform an analysis beforehand and—"

  Joe snorted. "That kind of ‘analysis’ only works for the rich merchants who have time and large capital. The rest of us do not have that luxury. Every transaction is inherently a risk!"

  "Which makes squeezing blood out of people acceptable?"

  He exhaled sharply, his patience clearly fraying. "Again, I’m not forcing anyone to buy anything! It’s a question of supply and demand. I, as a merchant and seller, try to provide service and maximize my profit. The other party as a client and a buyer tries to receive service and minimize their spending. That’s how it works. And the intersection of those interests is the transaction. Am I not entitled to charge for my time, my effort, and my burden of risk?"

  "I’m starting to regret this..." muttered Olev from ahead of us.

  "It’s fine. Their bickering will attract the trolls—less work for us," his fiancée whispered with amusement.

  "I heard the rumors, but I thought he was the silent type," Olev muttered. "Who knew he’s just like Joe?"

  His brother nodded, shooting a few curious glances back at the two of us.

  But the silence of the forest didn’t last long.

  "How much?" I asked abruptly.

  Joe shot me a wary look. "How much what?"

  "How much is your work worth? Ten percent of the item’s price? A hundred? A thousand?"

  "There’s no single margin for everything," he growled.

  He took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts before continuing.

  "Some things are easy to sell. A few crucial goods are always in demand, and usually, you just need to transport them. Since many merchants do that, supply is high, so the margin is small."

  "But not everything is like that," I said, already seeing where he was going.

  "Exactly." He pointed at me, as if pleased I finally understood. "Some items sit in my cart for weeks while I search for a buyer. Some require special care just to maintain their value. They take up space. They cost me time, effort, and money. And sometimes, after all that, I still take a loss because the revenue generated by selling the item didn’t cover the cost of maintenance and transportation. Such things happen. It’s normal."

  "That’s why I have to factor in risk margins. And they’re never static." His voice turned firm. "The only constants in trade are competition, unexpected problems, rising taxes, and death."

  I sighed. "So you can’t give me an exact price on the steel I need."

  He shook his head. "Its cost depends on how much you buy. And even if I find a local supplier, they’ll probably demand a bulk order."

  "I’m not committing to a transaction without knowing the final price."

  Joe exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temples.

  I let the pause stretch just long enough before adding, "But I’m willing to pay a research fee. Within reason, of course."

  That caught his attention.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  His sharp merchant eyes flicked over me, calculations practically visible behind them.

  After a long moment, he smirked. "Five silver coins. That includes a discount on your first purchase."

  I extended a hand. "And in return, I get a price range for a kilogram of high-quality steel with 0.6% carbon content, including a breakdown of all additional fees and estimated delivery time."

  Joe considered it for a beat before grinning and shaking my hand.

  Five silver coins later, I’d successfully outsourced the research to someone with more experience. My own efforts had been fruitless—those damn smithies and their sneering merchants had been impossible to deal with.

  Though, maybe their reaction had something to do with how unkempt I looked before...

  As the verbal battle between Joe and me wound down, I replayed the entire exchange in my head.

  And one thing became very clear.

  I may have been just a bit too antagonistic.

  "Joe..." I hesitated as he turned to face me. "I’m sorry if I... uh... offended you. I was just—"

  Joe snorted, cutting me off with a smirk.

  "Relax, man. Everything’s fine. Believe me, I get it. No one hates merchants more than I do."

  I blinked.

  What?

  I stared at him in confusion.

  He chuckled. "It’s a long story. Not a particularly interesting one, though."

  Then he raised an eyebrow. "Wanna hear it?"

  I simply nodded.

  "It all starts with the biggest mistake of my life—being born as the fourth son of a poor farmer in a poor village in the middle of fucking nowhere." He gave a dry laugh. "The third son at least had a slim chance of inheriting something, but not the fourth. And in our village, the only visitors we ever got were tax collectors and the occasional sleazy merchant trying to squeeze every last drop of blood from us."

  He turned to me and shrugged.

  "We hated both, but what could we do? Everyone pays taxes, and everyone needs goods from the city."

  A few moments of silence passed before he continued, this time more serious.

  "From early on, I knew I’d have to fend for myself someday. But when I failed the army’s mana test at ten, that reality hit even harder. So I found an old bow, made some arrows, and started teaching myself how to hunt."

  A fond smile crossed his face as he patted the bow resting on his shoulder.

  "I was so bad at first, the villagers called me ‘the best hunter wildlife could dream of.’ All shoot, no hit. Took me weeks to land my first rabbit. But I got better."

  Then the smile vanished. His eyes darkened, filled with something old—cold and hurt.

  His voice lowered as he turned to me.

  "I always kind of knew I wasn’t planned. Maybe they wanted a girl to help Mom with the house. Maybe I was just... a mistake. But they could’ve at least—"

  He stopped, swallowing hard. His gaze fixed ahead, staring into the trees, but he wasn’t seeing them.

  A long silence stretched between us.

  Then, without looking back, he continued, voice steady once more.

  "Anyway, I left. Didn’t look back. Did city work. Manual labor. But there are always more hungry kids willing to work for food. I don’t even know when it happened, but somehow, I ended up selling things. And... I was good at it. People said I had a knack for it." A small, almost amused smile played at his lips as if watching his past self from a distance.

  "I became the very thing I hated. And no one hates me more than myself."

  His gaze locked onto mine, sharp and unyielding.

  "But I want to live. To survive. To thrive."

  His hands clenched into fists as he raised them between us, as if grasping something invisible.

  "Some are born into rich families. Some are gifted with massive mana pools. Some have unique skills, genius minds, or raw strength. I have none of that. No god blessed me. So I’ll bless myself—with my own two hands. I’ll do whatever it takes to succeed. And I will."

  For a moment, his intensity filled the forest.

  Then, as if catching himself, he coughed and waved a hand. "Sorry. Got sidetracked." His smirk returned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Point is, I get where you’re coming from. I was on that side too. So don’t let it bother you."

  With that, he turned and started walking ahead.

  "I’m gonna go look for some valuable herbs. Those are always worth something."

  A minute or so later, Olev slowed his pace until we were walking side by side. His voice dropped to a whisper.

  "It took him months to open up to me and tell that story. And I have no fucking idea how, but somehow, you got him to spill it on your second day."

  He turned his head slightly, giving me a serious look.

  "Don’t buy into that outer layer. He acts tough, but he’s easily hurt. And he does take things personally. But he opened up to you." He paused. "Please... don’t break his trust."

  As we continued walking in silence, my thoughts grew heavy.

  What would I have done in his place?

  If I’d been born into his life—his struggles, his lack of opportunity—would I have even come close to achieving what he had?

  I’d spent so much time moaning about my own situation, complaining about the strange turns my life had taken. But at the end of the day... I was lucky.

  A loving family. Education. Good mana pool. Skills. And, as some had pointed out, a talent.

  I felt as if I’d won something—something incredibly valuable.

  But I hadn’t done anything to earn it.

  Anyone could’ve been in my place. And maybe they would’ve done more with it.

  Maybe the problem was never the lie.

  Maybe the problem was me.

  ...

  "CONTACT!" Olev shouts, narrowly dodging the swipe of a massive troll.

  A moment later, Light cuts deep into the back of the beast’s knee, severing tendons and sending the towering monster crashing to the ground. It lets out a guttural snarl, but I know better than to celebrate. A troll's stupidity is rivaled only by its healing speed—and true to that, I already see the flesh knitting itself together right before my eyes.

  Not happening.

  Before the wound can fully close, I drive Light into the same area, mana-infused mithril biting even deeper this time. The troll’s enraged roar tells me all I need to know—this method is working. Minor wounds don’t even register to these creatures, but real damage? That, they feel.

  I’m already moving before the troll swings at me, dodging the massive hand as it tears through the air, stirring up a powerful gust. Even from a meter away, I feel the drag trying to pull me in.

  A freezing spell slams into the troll’s wounded leg, ice creeping over the torn flesh. That should slow the regeneration.

  That was a very well aimed spell.

  Wait.

  What was the mage's name?

  Shit.

  Before I could continue the self-flagellation for forgetting someone's name once again, the troll lets out another agonized bellow. An arrow juts from its eye socket, but before I can hope for a real advantage, the monster yanks it out. Blood spurts—then stops almost instantly.

  Damn the monstrous healing.

  Then, the troll sniffs the air—and its massive head whips toward Olev’s younger brother. And started running despite the injuries.

  Shit.

  The kid stands frozen, staring up at the five-meter-tall beast barreled at it. Goosebumps crawl up my spine.

  No time to think. Instinct takes over.

  I move to intercept it.

  A [Fireball] erupts from my palm, exploding in the troll’s face. The beast roars and whips its head toward me, locking on to its new target.

  The air shifts.

  I see it tense.

  Compress.

  Every fiber in its enormous body coils.

  And then—

  The troll leaps with its hand extended forward.

  There aren’t enough words to describe what it feels like when several tons of rage-fueled flesh launches itself at you with terrifying speed.

  Too big.

  Too fast.

  I can’t dodge it.

  It’ll crush me.

  No.

  [Force Aegis] blazes to life before me as I pour torrent of mana into both it and Light in my hands, slashing horizontally with all my strength.

  For a single heartbeat, the world slows.

  My sword connects, cutting deep into the extended limb that was about to grab me.

  But the troll doesn't stop moving.

  It body slams into me.

  Even after throwing so much mana into [Force Aegis], it still shatters, another force came out victorious.

  Trolls' momentum wins.

  The world moves.

  Trees blur past.

  My back hits something hard.

  Wood shatters.

  Another impact.

  I don’t know how far I’m thrown, but when I stop, I can’t move.

  The forest spins around me as pain howls through every nerve in my body. The ringing in my ears grows deafening.

  And then I realize—

  I’m not breathing.

  The last traces of oxygen vanish from my lungs, my chest locked in place.

  Breathe.

  Air.

  I need to breathe.

  With the last bit of control I have left, I force my mana to move.

  A sharp crack echoes inside me—then suddenly, air floods my lungs.

  And with it, a fresh explosion of pain.

  I lay there, chest rising and falling raggedly, as the agony wracks my body in waves.

  But...

  I’m still alive.

  And if I stay down—

  I won’t be for long.

  I don’t know how, but my body rises from the ground, like a marionette dragged by unseen strings.

  My head turns—slowly, sluggishly—until my gaze locks onto the troll.

  Its mouth gapes wide, one massive hand clutching at the stump where the other should be.

  It takes me a moment to process.

  I cut it off?

  The troll is screaming—I can see the rage twisting its face—but the ringing in my ears is still too loud to hear it.

  Then its eyes find me.

  Recognition.

  Rage.

  Shit.

  The troll lurches forward—

  A shadow flickers behind it.

  A blade gleams.

  In a single clean motion, the troll’s head detaches from its body.

  A shower of blood.

  A moment later, the massive corpse collapses, sending debris flying.

  I stand there, swaying slightly as I watch the blood pool around its remains.

  Slowly, the ringing in my ears fades.

  The world comes back into focus.

  And my body reminds me of just how broken it is.

  In the distance my teammates started talking, their mouths moving, but the words didn't reach me. The ringing in my ears still drowns out everything else.

  I’m alive.

  So is everyone else.

  That’s what matters.

  But we didn’t walk away unscathed. And judging by the pain laced through my body, I took some real damage.

  Still better than last time I fought a Troll.

  Hm.

  Oldie, Num, James... It’s been a while since I’ve seen them. We all got torn to shreds back then. I wonder how they’re doing now.

  I’m returned to reality when Olev appears in front of me-he’s saying something, but it’s barely a whisper against the buzzing in my head.

  I catch the word ‘okay’ and just nod.

  There’s still some mana left in my body, and I force it to flow through me, cataloging the damage. It takes a few seconds before I piece it all together.

  Good news: I’m not dying.

  Bad news: I know why my back has been completely numb for a while.

  "Need a healer..." I manage through clenched teeth. "Broken ribs... fractures all over my spine... but I’ll live."

  Speaking hurts. Every word sends waves of pain rippling through me.

  Nobody argues. They just start moving, cutting the troll’s ears as proof of the kill before heading back toward the city.

  As we pass the wreckage of trees, a grimace tugs at my face. One of them is completely shattered—only a jagged stump of splinters remains. Another is still bent at an unnatural angle.

  I hit those.

  Yet, somehow, I’m still breathing.

  Olev offers me a hand and a shoulder, but I shake my head.

  "I can walk."

  The ringing has faded enough for me to finally hear his response.

  "Thank you, Harv."

  For what? I don’t have the energy to ask. I just nod.

  "No, really," Olev insists. "If you hadn’t distracted the troll... Edd is alive because of you. I’m in your debt."

  Edd? Oh. His brother.

  "No problem."

  But Olev isn’t done. "No, it is. This is important to me. If there’s anything I can do for you, please tell me."

  I nod again—too sharp this time. Pain flares, tearing through my body.

  Olev keeps walking beside me, waiting for an answer.

  Really, man? You want an answer now? When I can barely walk and my ribs feel like shattered glass inside me?

  What would I even need from him?

  Joe is already helping with the important things.

  Then—suddenly—my eyes narrow.

  "How... did you cut it?" I manage, voice strained.

  Olev blinks. "What?"

  "The head... mana... looked strange. A lot of blood."

  "Oh! You mean the ‘Oscillation Blade’?"

  "Oscillation?"

  "Yeah. It’s a basic skill, but damn powerful if used right. I just cranked up the frequency and layered it around my sword. Big mana drain, but... well, you saw what happened." He grins.

  But I just frown.

  "You make... the blade oscillate?" I wheezed.

  "What? No. Only the mana around the edge. Weren’t you taught that in the Academy? That was third semester stuff."

  "I didn’t... go to the Academy."

  Olev stops mid-step.

  "Huh? But you’re a Tier 3. How can that be?"

  "...What?" I paused, looking at him "How’d you know that I’m Tier 3?"

  He gives me a look, then points to my army bracelet.

  "There are three lines on it," he says.

  I stare at him.

  "Lines? That’s... design. Everyone has three lines."

  "No, they don’t." Olev shakes his head. "That’s a Tier denotation. Look at mine." He lifts his wrist, showing the same three lines. "Most have one or two. Academy grads usually have three or more. How do you not know this?"

  I don’t answer.

  I just resume walking, the revelation bouncing around in my head.

  Tim and Hank had three too. I always assumed that was standard. Never asked. Never thought to.

  So they were stronger than me, not just because of their class. They were of the same Combat Tier.

  But they never mentioned the Academy. And I never asked about the past—didn’t want them asking about mine.

  Still... does it even matter?

  Not like the Tier denotation matters that much. Even if the army believes that Olev and I have the same combat capabilities, same Tier, that’s not true.

  Replaying his final attack in my head—the way his blade sliced through the troll’s neck like butter—a shudder runs through me.

  Would my shield have even held against that?

  So much for the clan’s combat education...

  "You didn’t go to the Academy and you don’t know the basics..." Olev mutters.

  "Special... circumstances," I reply quietly.

  "That’s strange... but not unheard of." He shrugs. "Everyone deserves their own secrets."

  I glance at the others. They’ve been listening quietly this whole time.

  I don’t care anymore.

  I just want to get to a healer.

  My back is killing me.

  ...

  "Was it that bad?" Olev’s fiancée, Vana, asked, her sharp blue eyes fixed on me with concern.

  I groan. "Not really. The idiot was just a dilettante."

  Her eyes widened in horror.

  "I hope you didn’t say that to their face! Healers are vindictive. Next time you go to them with an injury, they’ll make the healing ten times more painful just out of spite."

  Olev chuckles beside her, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "You should’ve seen the guy’s face, Vana." He grins. "I’ve never seen anyone turn that red before. But, in Harv’s defense, I heard getting a fractured back healed is pretty damn painful."

  Vana... Right. That’s the mage’s name.

  "He was just sloppy and slow." I scowl.

  The healers I’ve encountered before were better. Because this one was so incompetent, I’ll be dealing with phantom pains for the next few hours at least.

  I sigh and glance across the table.

  Joe sits there, utterly ignoring our conversation, shoveling food into his mouth with the intensity of a starving man. The tavern is loud, filled with laughter and clinking mugs, the celebratory energy in the air almost infectious.

  We should be celebrating—we completed a quest.

  But something’s bothering me.

  The bounty for killing a troll is 10 gold. Split five ways, that’s 2 gold per person—not terrible, but then I had to pay 2 gold for healing.

  I earned nothing.

  For a whole day of fighting for my life, I made as much as a dilettante healer does in five minutes.

  In theory, it’s not a wasted day. Ignoring the cost of healing, 2 gold a day is still a good wage. Most people would kill for that kind of income.

  But I risked my life.

  ...Did I get spoiled somewhere along the way? The reward for Orc Quest may have altered my expectations.

  I shake my head. No point in overthinking it. At least I learned something new from Olev and made a deal with Joe.

  Not a total waste.

  "Harv."

  I blink, snapping back to reality. Joe’s bowl is empty.

  What? It was full a minute ago.

  "What?" I ask.

  "I asked around about the things you wanted and found something. A large book collection is going up for sale soon. Some local collector died, and his son is selling the inheritance."

  I sit up straighter.

  He continues, shrugging. "I’ll get you more details by the end of the week. You’re looking for books on armor and shield-making, right?"

  My eyes widened.

  "I asked about it in passing this morning, and you already found something?"

  Joe just grins and gives me a thumbs-up.

  "Life is a river of chaos, always shifting. Opportunities are everywhere." He leans back, smug. "I’m just good at swimming in it."

  A very promising partnership, indeed. If he can find something like this in a single day, what could he do with more time?

  A hand slams onto the table beside me.

  I glance up at the intruder.

  A tall, muscular, and very drunk female warrior glares down at me. She’s decked out in plate armor, a massive two-handed sword strapped to her back, and she’s barely standing upright.

  She wobbles, her unfocused eyes fixed on me with boiling anger.

  "What’s wrong with us?" she slurs. "Or are you too good to team up with a mere woman?"

  ...What?

  "What?" I say, genuinely confused.

  She scowls. "What’s your problem, Splatter?!"

  I just stare.

  What the fuck is she talking about?

  Is this what they call a violent drunk? I’ve never had to deal with one before. Not my problem—I already have a drunk smith to worry about.

  "I don’t know who you are," I say, voice steady. "But you’ve got the wrong person."

  Her rage intensifies.

  My mana started moving as I prepared for self-defense. If she attacks, it’s justified.

  Before she can do anything, a short, curvy woman appears out of nowhere, grabs the drunk by the arm, and starts dragging her away. She whispers something in the warrior’s ear, and they’re soon joined by a tall, willowy woman as they make their way to the exit.

  I watch them go.

  ...Wait.

  I’ve seen them before.

  Oh. Right.

  They were one of the teams I considered joining but ultimately didn’t.

  Looks like I dodged an arrow.

  I replay the drunk’s words in my head, just to make sure I didn’t miss anything.

  "Splatter?"

  I whisper the name, a grimace forming.

  What kind of name is that? Sounds like a deviant or a wall painter.

  I turn back to the team and immediately notice their strange expressions.

  Huh?

  Just as I’m about to ask what the hell is going on, a large group walks into the tavern.

  Olev notices them immediately and stands up, his posture straightening.

  The group heads straight for our table.

  Olev salutes the handsome leader of the group—a tall, older gentleman with broad shoulders and a well-kept goatee.

  "At ease, officer."

  Then, without hesitation, he pulls Olev into a big hug.

  After a moment, he turns to Olev’s younger brother and does the same.

  "How are my little bandits?" The gentleman grins.

  "Never been better, Uncle." Olev smiles, genuinely.

  The newcomers waste no time—tables are grabbed, shifted, and connected, turning our quiet little dinner into a massive banquet.

  Orders are shouted at a flustered waitress, and in minutes, the table is overflowing with food and drink.

  I sit in silence, observing the chaos unfold while Olev’s uncle continues asking about his recent adventures.

  Then, out of nowhere—

  "Oh, you teamed up with Splatter."

  One of the newcomers looks directly at me.

  I blink.

  "You’re talking to me? My name’s Harv."

  The man just smiles, nods, and continues his conversation with someone else.

  ...What the hell?

  No. Not my problem.

  I should finish my food and leave.

  But before I get the chance, another group enters the tavern.

  They greet the older gentleman and then—more tables.

  More tables.

  And suddenly, I’m no longer sitting in a corner.

  I’m at the center of a very long table.

  What is happening?

  This was supposed to be a small, quiet meal with my new team...

  "Oh, it’s Splatter!"

  Someone from the newest group exclaims before turning away, ignoring me.

  I freeze.

  Then I snap.

  "WHAT THE FUCK?!"

  A few people around turn to me.

  "What does ‘Splatter’ even mean?" I demand. "Is that some kind of local greeting? Where the hell did that come from?"

  Joe responded with a smile.

  "That’s you. Or at least that’s what some people call you. You didn’t know?"

  I turn my full attention to him.

  "People call me that?!" I say, shocked. "I have a name. And-Wait... why do people even know me in the first place?"

  Joe grins wider.

  "You splattered goblin blood all over the main counter. A lot of people saw that. Talked about it for a week. They thought it was hilarious."

  I blink.

  Once.

  Twice.

  My mind processes the information.

  One thought rises to the surface.

  "...Is that why no one wanted to team up with me?" I whisper.

  Joe shifts uncomfortably. "Oh... uh... maybe? People knew you were a bit weird. But you’re a decent weirdo, not like those weird weirdos."

  I blink several times while it takes a few more seconds to process everything.

  What?

  Weird weirdo?

  Joe shrugs. "A normal person doesn’t collect several dozen goblin ears and then pick a fight with the Deputy Guildmaster."

  I freeze.

  "Deputy?" I gulp.

  Joe nods. "Yeah. The woman with the bun. She’s strict and no-nonsense. People are terrified of her."

  I feel a cold sweat forming.

  "Rumor is," Joe lowers his voice, "she’s gotten adventurers excommunicated just for looking at her the wrong way."

  The laughter and boisterous conversation around us fades into the background as my brain short-circuits.

  I was this close to getting kicked out of the Guild before I even finished my first quest.

  That would’ve been bad.

  "Harv."

  I snap back to reality.

  Olev’s uncle is looking straight at me.

  "Olev tells me you saved Edd’s life today." His voice is strong, cutting through the noise of the tavern.

  "You have my eternal gratitude. We, the Murdoch family, do NOT forget our debts and friends."

  He raises his mug.

  "For new friends!"

  A roar erupts across the long table as dozens of people raise their mugs in unison.

  A huge guy in chainmail laughs beside me and slams a mug of beer in front of me.

  "What’s with the sour look?" he booms. "Greenhorns like you should just have fun! Being alive is the best!"

  He waits.

  Others turn to me.

  Their eyes expectant.

  The pressure of their gazes weighs down.

  I sigh, pick up the mug, and gulp.

  The bitter taste makes me grimace.

  How do people even enjoy this?

  The group laughs, their conversation resuming.

  The big guy grins.

  "Whatever problems you have, don’t let them bother you," he says. "Life’s too short. And for us adventurers?" He leans in. "Even shorter."

  I take another gulp.

  "Every day might be the last. So relax. Enjoy it."

  More people arrive.

  More tables are added.

  The room fills with laughter, stories, and toasts.

  I listen.

  I laugh a few times.

  I take another gulp.

  At some point, the big guy in chainmail vanishes, and someone else takes his seat.

  We start talking.

  The details are hazy.

  I take another gulp.

  Maybe...

  I just need to relax.

  I take another gulp.

  ...

  I open a single eye to a world of blazing light and pain.

  The world is floating.

  My internals are burning as if I drank liquid metal.

  My throat is as dry as the desert sand.

  The boiling stomach acid is crawling up and I can do nothing to stop it.

  I’ve been poisoned?

  Mana circulates throughout my body. And long seconds pass as the agony recedes and slowly the light dims and colors return to my vision.

  It feels like someone squashed me, then threw me into a paint waste bucket, as many different colors are flowing all around me.

  A groan escapes me as I try to keep the pain coursing through my body under control.

  A very long minute passes until the colors stop moving. After another minute clarity returns to my eyes.

  I continue blinking, only to suddenly realize that I don’t recognize the ceiling.

  This isn’t my room.

  Fighting through the muscle pain I slowly sit up and find myself naked covered by a very warm and fluffy blanket.

  That’s not mine.

  A soft groan resounds to the left of me and I turn.

  A head of brown curls lies on a white pillow next to me.

  She opens her deep green eyes slightly and a small smile grows on her beautiful face.

  WHAT THE FUCK?!