"June scorches not just the earth, but the will—
it is the month where even the strong are tested
beneath the tyranny of the sun."
—The Quiet Between Storms—
It had been three days since Dungeon 47F: Nexus Ryze was cleared.
The outpost, nestled in a mossy stretch of hills just west of the Elynthian capital, had returned to its usual quiet rhythms—clanging cutlery in the mess hall, distant yells of sparring in the sandpit, the occasional caravan arriving with fresh supplies from the south road. The chaos of the dungeon felt like a half-remembered nightmare that now echoed softly in sore muscles and faded bruises.
But for Harlen and Camylle, the world had shifted.
Their adventurer licenses had been stripped.
Their names were quietly crossed out from the outpost's Questing Registry—no bells rung, no public notice, just ink and protocol. A quiet demotion.
And now… they were just workers.
June 21st, 1188 NA The First Day of Summer
The sun hadn't even clawed its way over the eastern ridge, yet already the heat was awake.
A quiet haze hung in the air like steam from a distant forge. The trees nearby—usually cool with morning dew—seemed to radiate warmth instead, as if summer had arrived overnight and thrown a blanket of fire over the hills.
In the open yard just outside the mess hall, the smell of wet wood, old broth, and soaproot filled the space as four figures toiled in silence, boots squeaking against the stone floor slick with washwater.
"By the Gods above…" Ashe muttered, dragging a mop along the wall with the lethargic sorrow of a man twice his age. "It's not even dawn and I'm sweating in places I didn't know I had."
"Good," Harlen grunted nearby, bare-chested in a half-buttoned shirt and already dripping with sweat. "Means you're working. Keep scrubbing."
Camylle, sleeves rolled past the elbow and her hair tied into a messy bun, wrung out a soaking rag over a bucket and threw it hard enough that the splash hit Ashe's leg.
"I told you to clean the floorboards, not wax them with your complaints," she snipped, wiping her brow with a sigh. Her mop slapped against the wooden panels with violent rhythm.
Ashe hissed as the splash soaked his sock. "Oi! These boot's are tropico brand! Also why are we cleaning this early in the morning?"
Mina, quietly folding the linen napkins by the open windows, chuckled without looking up. "Like it or not, we have to clean it before dawn arises, otherwise you'll want to clean this during the hot day? Camylle will use her boots if you keep whining."
The four of them had been up since 4th bell, their sleep peeled away by the sheer humidity creeping into the dormitories. June in the Western III Outpost was known for dry winds, relentless heat, and sun that could boil you alive before noon.
Which is why they were cleaning the mess hall early—before the stifling heat turned the entire floor into a giant baking pan.
—The Summer Chores Begin—
Ashe paused to rub the sweat out of his eyes, then glanced toward Harlen. "You really think Ferris is watching us from the barracks tower again?"
"He's always watching," Harlen muttered, scraping a grimy trail of old stew from the corner of the bench leg with a short-handled scraper. "It's like he's got eyes stitched into the walls."
Camylle chimed in with a dry smirk. "He's probably sipping iced barkbrew with his feet up, watching us suffer."
"No," Mina said, softly. "Ferris is proficient in Tracking-Magic, he's not directly watching us but he knows where we all are, at all times within the outpost."
The group fell quiet for a moment—respectful, in their own way.
Despite the punishment, despite the demotion, Captain Ferris had never once treated them like outcasts. He had simply demanded better. Stripped titles, not dignity.
Harlen, gritting his teeth, scoured the last of the stubborn grease from under the table's edge. "Still. Feels weird… being stuck with mops and meal prep after years of iron and blades."
Mina set the folded napkins down. "Maybe this is iron too. Just… different."
Camylle dropped her mop into the bucket and leaned against the wall, letting her head rest against the cool stone.
"I'd kill for a breeze," she muttered.
As if summoned by irony, the kitchen door swung open, revealing the steaming face of
Old Man Jarn, the mess hall cook.
"Oi! You lot finished in here?" he barked. "Somebody's gotta prep breakfast and you're stinking up the walls with sweat!"
"We're saving the walls from your boiled cabbage, old man," Ashe called back, saluting sarcastically with his mop.
"You cheeky little—!"
The door slammed shut again as Jarn disappeared into his kitchen, muttering curses in seven dialects.
Quiet, Then Laughter
Mina, finally done with her share, looked out through the wide shuttered window. The early sunlight was beginning to breach the horizon, setting the far hills ablaze in gold. It would be a scorcher today, that much was certain. The kind of heat that made tempers short and skin blister.
Ashe leaned on his mop like it was a walking stick, his sweat-slick hair sticking to his brow.
"Guh man I'd kill for a frosting on a bun, wait. OH! Camylle you think you can conjure bread for us?."
Camylle gave him a deadpan look. "Say that again and I will burn you."
Harlen snorted. "Careful. She will actually burn you but it's true that she's good as a bakery~."
Camylle smacked the back of Harlen's head with a flaming palm, it was true that Camylle was quite a good baker in culinary arts, since her family runs quite a prominent baking business in Southern Elynthia.
The four of them stood there in that moment—dirty, tired, half-laughing.
And in the silence between jokes, something almost peaceful settled between them.
They weren't warriors this morning. They weren't adventurers or guild agents or political targets.
They were just people, scrubbing a floor before the sun climbed too high.
And for once… that was enough.
—Lessons in Iron & Blood—
It was the peak of summer, and the training yard had become something of a sandpit inferno.
The outpost's central pit—where most Adventurer Cadets trained—was normally a place of grunts, bruises, and sweat-soaked tunics. But today, it felt like stepping into a furnace made of glass and grit.
The sand scalded through boots, and even the leather dummies looked like they were about to catch fire. The only mercy came from the recently installed tent-roof, stretched from the outpost's eaves to the stone wall bordering the eastern end. Worn canvas flapped in the heat, casting wavering shadows across the dust below.
Yet still, they trained.
"Chin up, shoulders low!" barked Ferris, pacing barefoot through the hot sand like the heat didn't affect him at all. His old military sash was tied around his waist as a belt, and a training baton rested casually over his shoulder. "Anyone faints, you're running latrines for the next week!"
Sweat poured from foreheads, tunics clung like second skins, and curses drifted on the hot wind.
Due to recent incidents—some of which had nearly cost lives—Outpost Commander Ferris implemented a new standing order.
Too many times, non-combatants had been caught in crossfire or ambushed during unpredictable encounters. Too often, those assigned as porters, mages, or logistics support had found themselves utterly unprepared when the battlefield shifted unexpectedly.
So Ferris made his stance clear:
"If you're part of a party, you train like a party. No exceptions."
Whether you were a sword-swinging vanguard or a shy cartographer with a knack for magical ink, you'd find yourself in the pit at dawn, drenched in sweat and nursing sore limbs by breakfast.
That included Ashe.
Once upon a time, his mornings had been spent with his nose buried in books, sipping lukewarm tea while decoding the nuances of magical traps and illusion-based cloaking runes.
Now?
He was shoulder-deep in sand, dragging a wooden log behind him with ropes across his chest, wheezing like a cursed chimney.
Across the yard, Ashe stumbled forward, groaning as he blocked a heavy wooden strike from a fellow trainee.
"Easy!" he snapped. "You trying to kill me?!"
"Blame the heat, not me!" the trainee retorted.
Ashe spun around, panting, before catching sight of Mina sitting cross-legged near the shade, arms crossed, and squinting toward the center of the chaos. She had just finished her first round of sparring and looked like someone who'd fought a furnace and lost.
"This is illegal... there has to be a clause... somewhere in the Adventurer's Charter…"
Ashe said, dropping beside her. But Mina relented.
"You think monsters care about your specialization? There's no such thing as a non-combatant, c'mon I really feel like you'll need this too~"
"Don't try to tempt fate," Mina said, encouraging Ashe to endure the entire morning.
In the farthest corner of the pit, a crowd had formed—a flock of younger cadets, outpost aides, even a few junior-ranked adventurers, all clustered under one shared miracle.
Her name was Tafph Pantzir, and she stood tall and regal amidst them all, her long, seafoam-green hair tied in a single rope braid, her palms outstretched as waves of cool wind flowed gently from her fingers.
Tafph was one of the Outpost's elite—an Active Adventuring Party Member of Group 2 and more importantly, the only Wind Mage in residence. That day, she became something far more divine:
A Living Fan.
"Bless you, Lady Pantzir."
"Wind Goddess, please turn this way!"
"I can feel my brain cells returning—gods above…"
Tafph sighed, elegant and exhausted. "You all better buy me lunch for this..."
Mina and Ashe watched from their shady corner.
"We could use one of those," Mina said, half-joking, half-dreaming.
"You mean an elite adventurer who can summon wind on command?" Ashe quipped. "Sure. we can just order one from the guild catalog. Comes in three colors."
Mina rolled her eyes. "I meant a mana-powered fan, smartass. You know, a rune-box set to circulate air? Every outpost south of Elynthi has them now."
"You saying we're behind on technology?"
"I'm saying we're suffering and Ferris is hoarding the funding."
They both looked at Ferris—who was now yelling at two cadets to redo their stance for the fourth time in a row.
"Yeah, that tracks," Ashe muttered.
Eventually, training resumed.
The cadets were rotated out. New ones came in. Some collapsed. Others endured.
And at the center of the yard, Ferris now turned his focus to Mina and Ashe once more.
The heat didn't stop the lessons.
If anything—it sharpened them.
"Pain teaches faster when you sweat," Ferris said, handing Mina two weighted daggers. "If you can focus in this heat, you can focus anywhere. That's why we train in summer."
Ashe groaned from the side. "I'm dying…"
"You're still talking. You'll be fine."
Mina stood in stance. Ashe did too.
The next hour was full of broken blocks, faint sparks of miscast illusions, and awkward footwork.
But it was also full of growth.
As Ferris circled them, occasionally stepping in to adjust a wrist or bark a correction, a few of the other outpost staff watched from the benches with quiet nods.
"Are those the kids from the Dungeon 47F report?"
"Yep. Heard they helped kill an Armored Flesh."
"Seriously?"
"Dead serious."
Maybe it was the heat.
Maybe it was the sweat in their eyes.
But for the first time in a while…
Mina and Ashe didn't feel like Dungeon Cleaners anymore.
They felt like adventurers. Preparing to become one.
Even if its just a little.
The summer heat was nothing short of tyrannical. Even with the new tent roof stretched above the sandpit—anchored between the outpost walls and the training ground's wooden beams—it still felt like the air itself had given up on moving.
Training was brutal.
Sweat poured like rainwater down armor, and every footstep on the gritty floor kicked up dry, choking dust. The only breeze was a gift from Tafph Pantzir, the resident Wind-Mage and living treasure of the outpost, who stood near the water crates casting light wind-currents from her palms like a one-woman weather system.
A crowd of cadets and junior adventurers clustered around her like moths. "Make it blow this way, Tafph! Just for a second!" one pleaded.
"Your sweat smells like beastgut. Back off!" Tafph snapped, but she granted a cool gust anyway, grinning as she did.
Elsewhere, on the stone ledge by the edge of the pit, Ashe and Mina finally collapsed into the shade, backs against the wall. Their bodies ached, their legs wobbled. It was Mina who reached for the water flask tied to her hip. She took a long sip before passing it to Ashe, who muttered an exhausted "thanks" and drank like he'd never tasted water before.
"Ferris is gonna kill us before the next dungeon even tries," Ashe groaned, wiping his mouth.
Mina, red-faced and still catching her breath, gave a half-smile. "Nah. Just most of us."
They sat like that for a moment, eyes closed, breathing in unison. Then, from a few steps away, voices caught their attention.
Two older voices. Familiar ones.
"Oi, Lauff, tell me again how Ferris got stabbed in the gut and just kept walking," a voice drawled—Colt, tall and lean, carrying his usual smug grin.
He was bandaging his knuckles and speaking to a shorter young man in a tattered coat:
Lauff, the loud-mouthed. Both Colt & Lauff were former dungeon cleaners who used to work alongside Mina & Ashe before they both became licensed adventurers-in-training.
"No, I'm serious this time," Lauff insisted, cracking his neck. "It was a broadsword. Right in the ribs. Didn't even blink. Just kept swinging like he was in a bar brawl."
Ashe and Mina looked at each other and stood, ambling over.
"Senior Lauff. Colt," Mina greeted politely with a bow of her head.
"Hey," Ashe added, "we overheard something about Ferris getting stabbed and... not reacting?"
"Ah! You heard that?" Lauff grinned and patted a spot on the ledge beside him. "Come sit, little dungeon cleaners. You're doing great with training, by the way."
"Well I can't wait to apply for a license soon," Ashe mumbled, half-proud, half-tired.
Mina smirked. "We just haven't applied for a spot yet."
Colt chuckled. "Semantics."
They all sat together, basking in the rare moment of reprieve.
"Man... you know what I still can't get over?" Lauff muttered, voice low but animated. "Ferris. The man's a fortress. You could drive a broadsword through his stomach and he'd still walk like he forgot something on the stove."
Colt leaned back on his elbows, grinning. "During that cleanup in Dungeon 39B? The one with the undead horde."
"Oh, right! Lauff I remember all the details now!" Lauff snapped his fingers. "He got stabbed by a skeleton knight! Didn't even flinch. Just looked at it like—like it failed a math test—and crushed its skull with one hand. Pulled the sword out of his own ribs and kept punching. Who does that?"
Mina raised an eyebrow and leaned closer to Ashe. "Did you hear about that one?" she whispered.
"Nope," Ashe replied. "Definitely wasn't on our mission logs."
"Yeah, you two weren't apart of the dungeon cleaning crew that was with us" Lauff says, slapping the ground beside him.
"Welcome to the battlefield," Colt shrugged.
The topic quickly returned to Ferris—a favorite subject among the outpost youth.
"You guys ever figure out what class Ferris actually is?" Lauff asked, suddenly serious.
"I swear, it changes every time he breathes."
"He's got to be a Martial-Mage," Mina said. "He uses mana techniques. You've seen the way he moves right?—Every punch has weight. That's body reinforcement at play."
"But he never casts spells," Ashe added. "He doesn't chant. He doesn't draw circles. Just moves and hits."
"Exactly," Colt said. "He's gotta be a hybrid. Or maybe just a… weird one."
Lauff scratched his head.
"I don't buy that. You know what I did hear? Ferris's primary magic discipline is something called 'Tracking Magic.' Pretty much useless in combat, unless you think ahead. But they say… around here? Around this whole outpost?"
"He's got a Tracking Field," Colt finished for him. "Covers everyone. He always knows where you are. Where you're standing. When you're moving."
"Even when you're lying," Lauff said with a grin. "He caught me sneaking out to nap last week. Didn't even open a window. Just showed up behind me like a damn wraith."
"Additionally!" Lauff said. "There was this time someone stole three supply crates and tried to sneak out. Didn't even get past the gate before Ferris showed up and dropped him with one hit. No scouts, no alarm. He just knew."
Ashe scratched his chin. "So he's... like a walking surveillance tower?"
"Utility Mage," Colt declared. "Like one of those multipurpose knives. Nothing too fancy on its own, but has something for every situation."
"Exactly!" Mina clapped. "Utility Mage."
"Damn..." Ashe muttered. "A tracking field... constant passive awareness... instant threat response. That's terrifying."
"Still can't believe his main weapons are brass knuckles," Lauff muttered. "No sword. No bow. Just fists."
"Mana-reinforced steel," Colt corrected. "Concussion filaments in the rings. Built to stagger monsters. Probably humans, too."
There was a small moment of silence as all four imagined Ferris—the unshakable man in a tattered officer's coat, fists clenched, blood on his knuckles, still walking after a blade had pierced his side.
"He's fought in two Guild Wars," Lauff said quietly. "That's not something you just… survive. You endure it."
"How does someone like that end up running this little outpost?" Mina finally asked, genuinely puzzled.
Lauff and Colt exchanged glances.
"That," Colt said, "is a story no one really knows."
—Memories not their own—
The sun had begun to rise high into noon. Golden light streaked straight into the tented roof above the sandpit, turning sweat-slicked armor and training pads a coppery orange. Ending morning training. The wind from Tafph Pantzir had calmed, and the buzzing heat had flourished.
Mina and Ashe sat again with Lauff and Colt, the four gathered in a loose circle near the shade. Their clothes clung to their skin, breaths shallow and worn out from drills.
Ashe was the first to speak, curiosity in his voice.
"Hey… those Guild Wars you mentioned earlier."
He looked up at Lauff. "What were they like?"
Lauff leaned back slightly, frowning.
"The Guild Wars?"
He glanced over at Colt.
Colt grunted and rubbed his jaw, chewing on a dried fruit strip.
"We were kids, same as you were. Never saw 'em firsthand."
He shrugged. "But you grow up hearing the stories."
Mina tilted her head.
"From veterans?"
"Yeah," Colt nodded.
"Mostly from old-timers who were too drunk to stop talking once they started."
Lauff scratched behind his ear. "They always called it a war with too many names and no glory."
He chuckled bitterly. "That was the line I heard the most."
Ashe looked confused.
"But weren't they proxy wars? Between guilds?"
"Yeah, that's the scary part," Colt said. "They weren't even started for land or liberation. Just... Control. Contracts. Influence."
He tapped his boot against the sand. "One guild accused another of poaching their clients. A third stepped in, backed by a merchant conglomerate. Next thing you know, you've got five guilds sending trained killers into the same ruined city to 'protect their interests.'"
Mina's brow furrowed. "But the IHMA banned that sort of thing now, right?"
"Officially, yeah," Lauff said.
"Now they call it 'corporate conflict resolution' and settle things through diplomacy, politics, or magical arbitration."
He smirked. "But back then? Back then it was blood on marble floors."
Ashe glanced toward the courtyard.
"Ferris fought in both, right?"
Colt nodded slowly.
"That's what they say. No details. But he didn't just survive—he came out promoted.Twice."
"What was he like back then?" Mina asked, now leaning forward, almost whispering.
Lauff shrugged.
"Some say he was a berserker. Others say he never raised his voice once, just stared people down until they dropped their weapons."
Colt snorted.
"One guy from Outpost IV said Ferris once walked through a cursed battlefield with Tracking Magic activated the whole time—just to find one hostage. Didn't even unsheathe his weapon. Just walked. Found the right door. Broke it down. Walked out with the hostage on his back."
Ashe stared blankly.
"That sounds... fake."
"Yeah," Lauff agreed. "But the way he tells it? You start to believe it. And then you see Ferris train, and it's like—maybe it wasn't fake at all."
A quiet breeze drifted through the training grounds. A hawk cried in the far distance.
Mina hugged her knees to her chest.
"What happens if another Guild War starts?"
Colt was silent.
Lauff finally answered, voice unusually calm.
"Then all these drills won't be for show anymore."
"And the old dogs like Ferris? They won't hesitate. Not even once to participate and protect Tropico's interests."
– Noon Rest –
The bell tower rang once—a deep, sonorous chime that echoed across the sandpit and training yard.
Training session: dismissed.
Relief swept the bodies of every cadet like a blessing. Grunts turned into sighs. Stretching arms, sore legs, and heavy breaths followed as the groups began dispersing, dragging their tired limbs toward the main outpost building.
Up in the courtyard, Tafph Pantzir stood with arms raised, her fingers drawing flowing circles in the air. She begins to chant out:
Venti: Gale of mercy, hush the sun's breath,
Drift of frost from northbound crest.Veil this place in silver air,Cool the flame, ease the wear.By my name, and by the sky,Let the searing season pass us by.
"Aeris Glacium"
From her hands bloomed a translucent dome of misty coolness—a Cool Barrier, rippling with quiet mana, shielding the outpost roof from the punishing noonday sun.
Ferris stood beside her, arms crossed, his worn coat slung over one shoulder. The heat shimmered off his bare, iron-lined forearms.
"Thanks, Tafph. You saved us from cooking out here like sand-beasts."
His tone was rough, but the pat he gave her back was genuine.
Tafph gave a mock salute, her curls bouncing.
"Better owe me a chilled bottle after this, Commander. Rest assured this barrier will last till sundown."
"Can't wait for you to improve it so you can cast it in the morning and last the entire day."
She scoffed, and both chuckled before Ferris walked off, giving a stern nod to the passing cadets filing back inside.
Mina and Ashe lingered under the tree shade, their bodies cooling under the dome's soft shade. The heat of battle and training still buzzed beneath their skin, but now it mellowed into a soft ache.
Lauff let out a yawn behind them, stretching his arms high over his head.
"Alright, enough of that. Time to recharge."
Colt brushed some sand off his knees and glanced back at the younger two.
"You two eat yet?"
Ashe looked up. "No. Not yet."
Mina followed with a nod. "We were planning to head in soon."
Colt gestured with his thumb toward the barracks' mess hall.
"Then come eat with us. You've earned it."
Lauff grinned, already walking backwards toward the stairs.
"Yeah. C'mon. You two are basically halfway to seniority anyway. Might as well act like it."
Mina blinked, surprised.
"We are?"
"You survived a B-tier Dungeon that turned out to be an A-tier and didn't die. That gives you more street credit than half the fools here trying to impress Taftph with their sword swings."
Ashe snorted. "Fair enough."
The four of them made their way together through the cooling halls of Tropico Outpost Western III, the air inside thick with the scent of grilled meat, warm porridge, and medicinal herbs. Other cadets sat in their groups, scraping bowls and laughing softly, the atmosphere warm and weary.
Their boots echoed gently as they entered the mess hall—four figures sharing sunburn, sweat, and stories. Whatever weight the Guild Wars had left behind, for now, there was only a shared table and a moment of quiet peace.
And Ferris, watching from the corner of the hall, allowed himself the rarest thing of all:
A small, silent smile.