The glass pane of Booth 3 blurred with the streaks of rain. Beyond it, the once-quiet Juliss Road was no longer just rain-slick stone and the occasional cart rolling by—it had become a stage for boots, banners, and raised voices.
Ashe leaned slightly forward, fingers resting against the cool window. The uniforms were unmistakable: olive and beige, Tropico Guild's own. He squinted, recognizing faces, even the gait of some of them. Western III. Party Two. Why are they here?
He turned back to Mina, ready to nudge her, only to freeze. Her plate was gone. Not "nearly empty"—gone. Scrambled eggs, vanished. Every golden cube of pork belly, annihilated. Even the garnish of sliced green peppers was gone.
"Mina."
She looked up with wide, innocent eyes. "Hmm?"
"…Did you just breathe it all in?" Ashe asked, bewildered.
Mina wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, shrugging. "Ashe, have you forgotten how fast we used to eat back at the capital? You think I'm going to sit here and savor pork belly like a noblewoman at some banquet? Ha!" She leaned forward, smirking.
"No, no, no, I'm still me. You, though…"
Her eyes narrowed playfully. "You've changed. You eat slow now. You even talk formal. What happened to all that old Ashe bravado~?"
The words struck him like a pebble against glass. Ashe felt the tips of his ears burn, and he dropped his gaze to the half-finished tart in front of him.
Once upon a time, she was right. Back in the capital, Elynthi, when the streets were cruel and meals weren't promised, Ashe used to shout louder than the rest. Pulling tricks with his illusion magic, weaving false coin, fake baubles, phantom fruit to swindle merchants. He liked the attention then, liked puffing out his chest like he owned the alleys. It wasn't always smart, but it was survival.
Now, sitting here with a fork in hand and a voice polished by guild discipline, it almost felt like a different life.
He let the memory slide away like rain down glass. "Forget it," Ashe muttered, focusing on her instead. He nodded toward the window. "Look outside. Something's happening."
Mina frowned and finally twisted around in the booth. Her smirk dropped instantly as she caught sight of the movement on Juliss Road. Tropico Guild members weren't just patrolling—they were clustering, forming a half-circle as if to contain something. Townsfolk were backing away, pressed under eaves and doorframes, muttering.
Mina tilted her head. "That's Party Two… most of them. Why are they stomping around like they own the square?"
"They do own the square, technically," Ashe said under his breath. His stomach churned faintly, the sweetness of jam suddenly heavy. "But that doesn't look like routine duty…"
Outside, a sharp shout rang out, muffled through the glass. It wasn't a command this time—it was anger.
Mina pressed closer to the window, her breath fogging the glass. "Wait… is that a fight?"
The rumble outside grew heavier, voices rising and echoing through Juliss Road like the build-up before a storm. Boots against stone. A crackling pulse of mana rolling in waves. It was enough to tug Ashe up from his seat before he'd even realized it, hand braced against the wooden table.
"Hold on—where are you going?" Mina demanded, still clutching her fork.
Ashe glanced back at her, half-sheepish, half-stubborn. "To check it out. They're our comrades after all. Party Two… if they're fighting, we should at least see what's happening."
Mina's jaw dropped as she watched him stumble out of the booth. "Comrades? Don't give me that! You didn't even finish your tart! That's a waste of ninety-seven silvers, Ashe—ninety-seven!" She jabbed at his plate with her fork for emphasis. "And your coffee's still half full too! Who leaves coffee?"
Ashe rolled his eyes but kept walking. "If it's important, we'll come back for it. The food won't vanish."
"The food will vanish! Because I'll eat it!" Mina shot back, slamming her fork down.
"Besides, what business do we have out there? We're Dungeon Cleaners, Ashe. Cleaners! Lowest of the low. Not foremans, not grunts, not even rookies. Just janitors with sharper brooms. They don't need us out there."
Before Ashe could argue, the world itself cut her off.
A shockwave slammed down Juliss Road like a sudden thunderclap, rattling the glass panes of Yoterland's. Booth 3 shuddered; their cups of water quivered. Mina froze mid-protest, eyes wide as she watched dust sprinkle from the rafters. By miracle or good craftsmanship, the glass window held—but the sound outside was unmistakable. Screams, boots pounding, metal scraping. The clash of guild against guild.
Ashe's lips thinned. "That wasn't nothing."
Mina clutched the edge of the table, then let out a long, exasperated groan.
"Ugh—fine. Okay. We'd better check it out. But if I get caught in some stupid guild brawl on my day off, I'm blaming you!"
She pointed sharply at him. "You already paid, right?"
Ashe was already halfway to the door. "Of course I paid. It's pay-first, eat-later here, remember?"
Mina huffed, draining her glass in one go. Then she swiped the last bit of egg grease from her plate with a crust of bread, shoved it into her mouth, and stood. "
Then I'm not wasting breakfast either."
She stomped after him, but not before tossing one last look at his half-eaten tart. A mischievous grin curled on her lips.
"Hey Ashe! If I come back first, I'm eating your tart!"
Ashe glanced over his shoulder with a scowl, but Mina was already racing him to the front door, laughter echoing in the rain.
Outside, the storm of Alpime's skies paled next to the storm of men and mana brewing on Juliss Road. The wet cobblestones had become a battlefield.
The rain came down in soft needles, more mist than storm, beading along the rooftops and dripping from the eaves. Ashe bent to pick up the rusty umbrella Mina had grabbed earlier, but before he could even flick it open, Mina waved him off.
"Ditch it," she said flatly.
"That thing's lousy. We'll look like beggars dragging it around. Besides, it's just a drizzle. As if we'd catch a cold from this."
Her tone was matter-of-fact, but Ashe hesitated, staring at the umbrella like it might bite him. Something about her words—as if we'd catch a cold—stirred an uneasy prickle in his chest. It felt too much like foreshadowing, and Ashe hated foreshadowing. Still, he tossed the umbrella aside with a sigh.
"Don't blame me if you start sneezing later," he muttered.
Mina only licked her lips in satisfaction as they stepped out into Juliss Road.
Alpime.
A countryside city that sat in the middle of the Wild Veins Route, where trade paths crisscrossed like scars. To a common traveler, it was quaint—a place of farms, markets, and warm bread. But to guilds, Alpime was no simple town.
For years now, scraps of regions like Wild Veins had become battlegrounds, not of steel and blood alone, but of influence. Guilds and factions carved their territories with coin, trade agreements, and sometimes, sabotage. Ever since the Tropico Guild laid down Outpost Western III here seven years ago, the friction had only grown sharper.
It wasn't just about markets. Or dungeons. Or caravans. It was the principle—why should Tropico, already the top guild near the Capital, stretch its hand so far into the countryside? Why should the world's biggest guild claim even the crumbs of lesser-known regions?
Mina understood this better than Ashe did. She could see the sparks—see how every small scuffle built into this inevitable clash.
And today, it seemed the friction was boiling over.
The shouts came first. Rough, angry voices competing in volume. Then came the stomp of boots, the clatter of steel as it was drawn but not yet swung.
Mina slowed her pace, her sharp coral-red hair darkening in the drizzle. "Tch… looks like guild business," she muttered. "We shouldn't be here."
Ashe tilted his head, blinking at the olive-and-beige uniforms of Tropico Guild members scattered across the street. They stood in formation, some with weapons drawn, others holding tight lines. Across from them stood another adventurer band, insignias Ashe didn't recognize, their cloaks wet and colors bold in defiance.
A showdown.
Ashe opened his mouth, but Mina already jabbed a thumb back over her shoulder. "Let's just head back and finish your tart. This'll be over soon enough without us."
But fate never listened when Mina tried to avoid trouble.
"—Oi! You two!"
The shout cut through the rain like a thrown spear. Both Ashe and Mina froze, and slowly, like children caught stealing bread, turned toward the voice.
A broad-shouldered man approached, stomping through the drizzle like it didn't dare fall on him. His short black hair was styled into a messy undercut, and around his neck, he wore a famous red scarf that marked him even more than his bronze chestplate, streaked in olive-black patterns.
Dejoyye Vivalo. Second-in-command of Party Two. A man Mina privately thought of as too much voice stuffed into too little patience.
"You two are Ashe and Mina, right!? From Party Five? Great timing!" His voice was rough, commanding, but almost… gleeful. "I'm hereby temporarily promoting you to Handlers!"
Both teens blinked in unison.
"Wait—what!?" Ashe blurted.
Mina groaned so loud it echoed. "Oh, come on…"
Dejoyye jabbed a finger at them. "Temporarily, you hear!? Don't go gnawin' Trevus's ear off later about being Handlers n' all! This ain't permanent!"
"Handlers" was a big step above their current lot as Dungeon Cleaners. Handlers weren't glamorous—they did grunt work, carried supplies, moved wagons, patched armor—but they were the backbone of the outpost. Compared to Dungeon Cleaners—the mop and broom rank—it was an honor.
Mina didn't look honored. Her shoulders sagged like someone had chained bricks to them. Ashe just froze in place, wide-eyed.
She turned and jabbed an accusatory finger into Ashe's chest. "This is your fault! You and your 'let's check it out!' We could've been warm and dry finishing breakfast, but noooo!"
Ashe opened his mouth to argue, but Dejoyye's booming laugh drowned him out. The man threw his arm around their shoulders like they were long-lost brothers.
"Good! Come along then! Party Two needs every warm body on deck!"
And before either could resist, they were shoved into the rear line of Tropico's formation.
From here, Mina could see it clearly: the source of today's dispute.
A transport wagon. Or what was left of one. Its cover half-torn, its wheels broken. Inside, crates of goods slumped open, and from the smell alone, it was obvious—spoiled. Fruits turned sour, vegetables rotted, meat gone grey. Someone had sabotaged the cargo, spreading word that Tropico's wagon had been filled with expired goods before it ever left.
And now both sides—the Tropico Guild and a rival group—stood ready to make that wagon the battlefield.
Behind the front, the rough-and-ready crew of Party Two stood tall. At their center was Bloom, their top rogue and blade dancer. A black-furred feline beastfolk, her tail lashed like a whip, her golden eyes gleaming. She twirled a curved dagger with casual menace, smiling like she was already dancing on someone's grave.
Ashe swallowed hard. Mina pinched the bridge of her nose.
"This," she muttered, "is way above our pay grade…"
The drizzle carried on in thin, needling threads, just enough to spot Ashe's jacket in dark patches. His hair clung damply to his forehead as he trudged along beside Mina and Dejoyye, the puddles of Juliss Road catching shards of lanternlight and fractured reflections of the guilders gathering in rows.
Mina tilted her head up at the man, unimpressed but curious enough to prod."So… what exactly happened? All this noise over one wagon? You're saying it was sabotaged?"
Dejoyye's jaw tightened beneath his red scarf as he gave a sharp nod. "Not just one wagon. The warehouse itself—ours, here in Alpime—was targeted. Western III's pride, mind you. We had a shipment ready to depart. Expirable goods, crates of them, but carefully stocked with cryo runes to keep the lot fresh. Proper runework too, not some cheap scribe's mess. Then, just before departure—one of our own notices the wagon wheels. Filed. Half gone on some, a quarter on others. Snap waiting to happen. And Bloom…" He jerked his chin toward the feline rogue up ahead, tail flicking in irritation as she scouted the line. "…she caught the stench first. Rot. Seeping out of sealed cargo like a curse. Residue of a spell still clung to the locks. Someone used magic to spread decay through every crate."
Mina's lips pressed into a thin line. "So… someone wanted the shipment to fail completely. Even if it left, it would've broken down or arrived spoiled."
"Exactly," Dejoyye grunted, voice low and heated. "And guess what? Right outside the warehouse, a handful of adventurers loitering about like they owned the place. Not even subtle. When we questioned them, they cracked. Or rather, they didn't—just whistled. Suddenly more than thirty Dototore Fakshyun thugs came spilling out of a tavern across the street. Thirty. Against Party 2's handlers and hired adventurers."
Ashe winced, scratching the back of his neck. "That… doesn't sound like a coincidence."
"Damn right it doesn't." Dejoyye spat to the side, boots splashing a puddle. "Dototore's fingerprints are all over it. Classic move. They hire small fry adventurers to stir the pot, so when the heat comes down it lands on nobodies instead of their own leaders. Meanwhile, the real goal's already achieved. Goods ruined, reputation dented, and Tropico made to look weak in front of Alpime's people."
Mina folded her arms tight, her brows drawing together in thought. "So… this isn't about the goods, is it? This is politics."
The man barked a mirthless laugh. "Course it's politics. You think Dototore cares about crates of fruit or salted fish? They care about perception. Alpime's markets, its trade routes, the Wild Veins. We're Tropico. We built Western III here seven years back, poured coin and manpower to make this outpost thrive. And every other guild's been gnashing their teeth since. Dototore just has the guts—or the stupidity—to strike openly."
Ashe glanced sidelong at Mina, his unease plain in his eyes. "Guild Wars…" he muttered, the word tasting strange and heavy on his tongue.
Dejoyye snapped his fingers and pointed at him. "Sharp lad. That's what this is—Guild War. Not the kind written down in ledgers or treaties, but the kind fought in streets like Juliss Road. Doesn't matter if the rain's drizzling or the bells ain't rung. When blades are out and uniforms are clashing, you're in it."
Mina groaned and dragged a hand down her face. "And we're supposed to be 'dungeon cleaners,' not pawns in some turf scuffle."
"Not anymore." Dejoyye's grin was wolfish beneath the shadow of his scarf as he looked back at them. "You're handlers now, at least until this storm clears. Congratulations."
"Some congratulations," Mina muttered, her tailbone prickling with regret as she tugged at her damp jacket. She shot Ashe a glare sharp enough to cut. "This is your fault, Ashe. If we'd stayed inside, I'd be halfway through your tart by now."
Ashe lifted his hands defensively, though his lips twitched into a nervous smile. "H-hey, don't pin this all on me. You came running out just as quick, remember?"
Mina clicked her tongue and turned away with a huff.
Ahead of them, Bloom had already drawn her twin blades, steel catching the drizzle. The air between the two factions was thick, sparks waiting for the tinder.
Ashe felt his stomach knot. The drizzle wasn't washing away tension tonight—it was only sharpening it.
The rain pattered in a steady rhythm now, soft but unrelenting, dripping from the eaves of Juliss Road's crooked roofs. The street lamps burned weakly in the drizzle, their glow muted against the damp air. Dejoyye led Ashe and Mina deeper into the cordoned street, his hand gesturing sharply as he laid the scene before them like a commander at a map table.
"We've got them boxed in," he growled, eyes narrowing toward the square's edge. "Dototore's thugs—thirty of 'em—plus the six adventurers they paid off. All cornered against the far end of Juliss Road. My vanguard's already closed the choke point. Freiven, Jade, and Arin—you'll know them soon enough—are locking down the mouth of the town square. Biggest muscle of Party 2, and the only reason those bastards haven't slipped free into the open."
Ashe followed his line of sight. He could see three figures, spaced apart but radiating presence. Freiven was tall and built like a siege ram, his hammer a slab of steel resting casually over his shoulder. Jade stood to his right, her stance coiled, daggers glinting even in drizzle—her lean frame brimming with lethal precision. And Arin, the youngest-looking, was already spinning his spear between his fingers with restless energy, eyes lit sharp and dangerous.
"Those three," Mina muttered, half to herself, "are keeping thirty men penned in? …Scary."
Dejoyye's grin was humorless. "Scary's why they're alive. Dototore knows better than to clash head-on with them. But intimidation? Posturing? That's the game right now."
At the heart of it, Ashe could finally make out Bloom. The black-furred feline rogue stepped forward, her movements fluid despite the rain. She slid one blade into its sheath with deliberate grace, leaving the other raised—a silver needle gleaming under the muted lanterns.
Her voice cut the wet air like a whip: "Hey, bastard…" Bloom's tail lashed behind her, ears flicking back. "…pay us back. For the wagons you wrecked, for the goods you rotted, and for every damn hour of our time you wasted."
The line of Dototore guilders stirred uneasily, their mismatched armor and snarling faces caught between defiance and dread. At their front, a man stepped out—a thickset figure with slick dark hair clinging to his temples. His cloak bore the crimson stripes of rank, his scowl barely masked under forced arrogance.
Exequiel Klenn. Lieutenant of Dototore Fakshyun.
He raised his hands in mock innocence, voice smooth but brittle at the edges. "Now, now… such accusations. How could we have had any hand in this? We've been inside the tavern since dawn, drinking and laughing, bothering no one. Why would we waste our time with spoiled fruit and wagon wheels?"
Ashe frowned. The man's tone was casual, but his eyes—sharp, restless—were measuring the crowd, as if searching for cracks in Tropico's formation.
Bloom's lips curled into a fanged smirk. She tilted her blade, its tip glinting inches from Exequiel's chest.
"Your excuse is garbage. No one drinks ale at dawn. And if you were in there all night, you'd be pissing yourselves and passed out cold, not standing here clean-faced and ready to fight."
The Dototore thugs muttered amongst themselves, some shifting uneasily. Mina snorted under her breath, whispering toward Ashe.
"She's right. Even I wouldn't try ale at dawn, and I've had… questionable breakfasts."
Exequiel clicked his tongue sharply, his composure cracking just enough to betray a flash of irritation. He hadn't thought this excuse through, and now his men were glancing sideways at him, doubt flickering across their faces.
The drizzle thickened, drops falling harder now, pattering against steel and cobblestone. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.
Ashe swallowed, his pulse quickening. This… this could turn bloody at any second.
The drizzle turned into sheets of rain, fat droplets drumming against the cobblestones of Juliss Road. The air smelled of wet stone and smoke from shattered lanterns, the scene painted in grey and chaos.
Exequiel stood with his back slightly hunched, his sharp grin tugging the corners of his lips despite the pressure closing in around him. He knew he was cornered. The Alpime Enforcers were bound to arrive any minute, and unlike Tropico, Dototore had no foothold here. This was supposed to be a quick jab, a disruption—poke the hornet's nest, slip away, and laugh about it later.
But now, with the walls closing in and Bloom's blade at his throat, there was only one option left.
"Tch…" He muttered under his breath, fingers twitching toward his sleeve. "No point dragging this out."
In one smooth motion, Exequiel pulled out a strange object: a jagged nail of wood, carved with faint sigils, its grain darkened as though it had been soaked in blood. It was three times the size of an ordinary nail, crude and sinister.
The mercenaries he'd hired—confused, shifting anxiously—didn't even have time to react before Exequiel stepped behind one of them. He clapped a friendly hand on the man's shoulder, his grin stretching unnaturally wide.
"Don't worry," Exequiel cooed mockingly, "you'll all receive your pay… except this one."
And with a sharp thrust, he jammed the wooden nail into the adventurer's back.
The man screamed—choked—his voice mangled as mana surged violently through his veins. His body convulsed, flesh tearing as dirt and stone swarmed over his skin like a living infection. His mouth opened, gasping for breath, but only a guttural gargle escaped. His eyes rolled back, white and empty, as the spell anchored deep into his chest.
Then—boom.
His body twisted, expanding monstrously as stone and mud fused with muscle and sinew. In moments, what had been a man became a hulking golem, its form scraping the rain-slick roofs of Alpime's three-story homes. Its roar ripped through the storm, a guttural tremor that rattled windows and shook loose shingles.
Ashe stumbled back, eyes wide. That's… that's A-rank. That's not something…
Dejoyye's jaw locked tight, his scarf whipping in the wind as he swore under his breath. Party 2 froze for a heartbeat, their blades raised but unsteady before the sudden escalation.
Exequiel, however, was calm. He raised his wrist, whispering something into a rune-carved bracelet. The golem's glowing eyes flickered in response. Obedient. Chained.
"Smash," Exequiel ordered with a hiss.
The golem's massive arm swung sideways, smashing into the wall of a nearby building. Stone and plaster crumbled like parchment, dust mixing with rain. But the impact wasn't random—the blow exposed a hidden alley, narrow but unguarded.
"Move!" one Dototore thug barked.
And just like that, the Dototore faction made their escape, thirty boots thundering into the passage.
"Bloom! After them!" Dejoyye roared.
Bloom was already in motion, blades flashing. She sprinted, muscles taut with the promise of blood. But as she closed the distance, the golem's massive leg swung low, forcing her into a backward flip to avoid the crushing blow.
"Damn it!" she spat, ears flat against her head.
Dejoyye's voice cut sharp through the storm. "Regroup! Forget the chase—we deal with the golem first! Civilians are at risk!"
The order was absolute. Party 2 drew closer, forming lines, their magic beginning to stir in brilliant colors against the grey rain.
Meanwhile, Ashe and Mina staggered back, soaked to the bone, their breaths shallow. The golem's roar vibrated in their chests, primal fear crawling at their spines.
Dejoyye stepped into their path, bronze chestplate gleaming beneath the stormlight, shielding them from falling debris. His eyes burned with urgency as he turned to Ashe.
"Ashe," he barked, "I've heard the rumors. Your illusions—penetrable to none. Not even by trained perception." His hand gripped Ashe's shoulder with rough weight. "If that's true, you're our only chance to tail them. Track where they scatter—silently! Find their den before they vanish again!"
Ashe froze. His illusions had always been his secret shield, his weapon against being overlooked. But this was different—this was war.
Dejoyye's gaze hardened, then flicked to Mina. "And you—you're tagging along. I heard from Captain Ferris himself, you two are inseparable. So keep him alive."
Mina clicked her tongue, brushing rainwater off her cheek. "Tch… dragging us into this mess. But fine. Someone's gotta keep this idiot from getting himself gutted."
"Ashe," Dejoyye said again, more firmly now. "Go."
The young illusionist and the leather-booted rogue shared a look. Mina gave a sharp nod, and together they dashed toward the gaping alley. Their footsteps splashed against puddles, their jackets heavy with rain.
Behind them, the street shook as the golem brought down another wall, Party 2 leaping into action. Spells flared, steel clashed, and the cries of Alpime townsfolk echoed beneath the storm.
The chase had begun.