"One hundred and one merits?"
Aster slammed both hands onto the table, the crack echoing through the hall. The inkstand jumped as he clenched the rough burlap bag, breath sharp and furious.
"One hundred and one," he repeated slowly
.
"Wow. Did the other sixty nine fall into a tragic pit on the way here, or is this some kind of guild sponsored magic trick?"
His eyes locked onto the man behind the counter, unblinking.
The receptionist's mouth curled into a sneer. He leaned forward, elbows pressing into the wood.
"Outrageous," he said. "That's a bold reaction for someone who is not even registered with this guild."
Aster tilted his head slightly. "And that's a bold chair you are sitting on for someone being paid to count."
The man's eyes narrowed.
"You are not in our records," the receptionist continued, voice sharpening. "Which means you are officially nothing."
Aster hummed. "Funny. The bandits I killed had the opposite opinion."
The receptionist tapped the counter once. "So tell me. Where is your license?"
Aster glanced around theatrically, then looked back. "Ah yes. Let me just pull it out of thin air. Right next to the gratitude."
Silence snapped tight.
He bit his lip then, the truth clawing its way up. He knew the rules. Twenty years old, or bound by a spell oath signed in blood and authority.
His parents' spell oath.
Locked away. Untouchable.
His fingers tightened around the bag, the fabric biting into his skin. Anger flickered, then sharpened into calculation.
"I do not have one," Aster admitted, gaze dropping to the counter. "Unless disappointment counts as legal documentation."
The receptionist let out a short laugh. "It does not."
"But," Aster continued, lifting his head, eyes burning bright, "I cleared the mission alone. No party. No backup. Just me and a group of idiots who thought numbers would save them."
He lifted the bag slightly. "So forgive me if one hundred and one feels less like payment and more like an insult with extra steps."
"Rules are rules, kid," the receptionist said flatly. "You do not get to bend them just because you survived."
Aster smiled then. It was thin and sharp. "And you do not get to call this fair just because you sit behind a desk."
The man gathered his papers without looking at him. "Move along. I do not have time for street rats."
Aster paused.
The heat surged up his chest, wild and choking. His hands trembled, anger begging to be unleashed.
I cannot be angry.
He exhaled slowly. A scene would cost him even this. And this was all he had left.
He loosened his grip on the bag. One hundred and one merits. The number burned in his mind.
Street rat.
Aster turned back just enough to speak, voice calm and deadly polite.
"Keep the extra sixty nine," he said. "You clearly need it more than I do. Must be expensive counting other people's victories."
Then he walked away.
His steps were unsteady, heart pounding,
pride bruised but breathing.
He was still standing.
For now, that had to be enough.