Candlelight quivers on stone walls, casting fiery ghosts that flicker and stretch with every breath of stale air. The room smells of mold and memory, damp with secrets. Somewhere deep within, the rhythmic drip of water echoes—like time, ticking in the dark.
Figures stand scattered through the hall — motionless, faceless. No names are spoken. No emotions revealed. Darkness swallows them all.
On a raised platform stands a woman — sharp-featured, poised like a drawn blade. Her posture is unwavering. Her form wrapped in a dark, skin-tight garment, silver ornaments on her neck and wrists catching the dim glow. But she is not the one in power. She is only the voice.
Behind her, cloaked in the thickest shadow, he sits — the Lord.
His face remains unseen. Only a sliver of light grazes the armrest where his fingers tap, slow and steady — a rhythm tight with tension.
"Report," the half-human woman says — calm, commanding.
A breath of silence. Then, from the far end of the hall, a voice cuts through — low and gravelled:
"Cerberus has been left where agreed. The entrance is concealed, waiting for our guests."
She nods.
Another voice, precise and cold as steel:
"The human women have been delivered. We left them near the goblin dens."
The air thickens. A faint, uneasy sigh ripples through the chamber. A third voice, sharp, angry:
"That was a mistake. Goblins breed faster than plague. They've devoured entire villages along the forest edge. We can't contain them anymore."
The woman tilts her head slightly. Behind her, the tapping stops.
Tension coils in the silence.
Pause.
"Are you afraid?" she asks, her tone unchanged.
Silence answers.
She steps forward, gaze sliding across the shadows, searching for the first to break.
"And the rest of our plans?"
More silence. This one deeper. Heavier. A silence that knows the line has been crossed — and there's no going back.
From the throne, something shifts. Barely perceptible, but everyone feels it.
"We must eliminate as many adventurers as possible in the neutral cities," she states.
Several figures nod in silence. Others remain frozen.
A single finger moves on the Lord's armrest — one motion. One command.
"The gathering is concluded," she declares.
The shadows disperse. No farewells. No sound.
When the last figure fades, the woman turns to her master. She kneels slowly, head bowed low.
"Your will is law, my Lord," she whispers — a near prayer.
The guild — once a place of routine and chatter — now hums like a hornet's nest. The doors swing open every few minutes, ushering in messengers, farmers, merchants, guards — each bearing news, worse than the last.
Tables overflow with scrolls and letters, tear-stained, hastily scribbled in trembling hands. All signs point to the same truth: the world beyond the walls is cracking.
Headlines scrawled in urgency:
"Women vanish overnight! Whole villages erased!"
"Hundreds of goblins flooding the forest trails — their numbers grow!"
"For the first time in 200 years, intelligent, evolved creatures spotted among them!"
"An invasion? Are they heading for the cities?!"
The hall buzzes with rising panic. Shouts, frantic chatter. Yesterday's dreamers — aspiring heroes — now just want to disappear from the map.
And then Lenor Vilerian appears.
He descends the stairs into the central hall, white hair tied high, his face carved from stillness. His eyes — steel-cold. A general, unmoved by chaos. Panic is just noise. And he silences it without a word.
He says nothing until he stands at the center. Then, in a voice calm as a drawn bowstring:
"Anyone who can wield a weapon — form into squads. You have one day. Gear, potions, intel — be ready."
The hall freezes. Then—erupts.
Guild staff scramble to assemble lists.
Suppliers toss out armor and blades.
Veteran adventurers select raid captains.
Mages, alchemists, healers — all fall into formation.
The guild transforms into a living war machine.
Amid the frenzy stands Naira — motionless, spellbound.
Her eyes, usually gleaming with mischief and boldness, now burn with pure, unfiltered battlelust. She watches warriors receive their gear, and her heartbeat quickens.
It's been so long since she touched her axe.
Once, she fought among the best — felt steel bite into flesh, felt her arms ignite with the fire of war. But that was another life. Her role had changed.
But now... now, she's been given a chance.
A chance to fight again. Even if it's just goblins.
Her fingers graze the worn handle of her old axe, mounted behind the counter, and a slow, dangerous smile curls her lips.
And in the middle of it all stands Kano.
He doesn't know where to go. How to even join a group?
The teams are forming fast — veterans with veterans, newbies assigned to safer missions. But him?
He watches Naira, transfixed by her axe. Watches Lenor, commanding the hall with surgical precision.
And Kano? Just stands. Lost in the storm.
He sees the squads closing ranks. Everyone has a place. Even the rookies are being assigned.
But him?
Who would want the guy who almost died on his first quest and couldn't even hold a sword?
His fists clench — tight, white-knuckled.
"No," he mutters. "I won't fade into the crowd. I will be part of this."
The guild burns with tension. Tomorrow is the great raid.
Some will return.
Some will not.
And Kano must find a way to become part of this story.