The guild hall had not calmed down.
If anything, it had grown louder.
A jagged hole yawned in the far wall, moonlight spilling through splintered wood and cracked stone. Broken beams hung at crooked angles, dust still drifting down in lazy spirals.
Two guild guards stood near the damage, voices raised.
"I told you we should've reinforced the inner frame," one snapped, kicking a loose stone.
"Don't put that on me," the other shot back. "That wall's rated for Iron-ranked impacts."
"Well, clearly it didn't care."
Outside, a small crowd had gathered in the street. Someone leaned halfway through the hole, craning their neck.
"Did Garron really get thrown?"
"Not pushed—thrown."
"You're lying."
"I saw it! One second he was standing, next second he was flying!"
A man near the entrance swallowed audibly.
"That was Garron Ironjaw… wasn't it?"
"The same one."
"The Iron-ranked brawler?"
"…Yeah."
Murmurs rippled through the hall.
"No mana surge."
"No casting."
"Did anyone see him move?"
Altair Vane stood near the reception counter, hands loosely at his sides, watching none of it.
Shouting guards.
Whispering adventurers.
Speculation piling atop speculation.
None of it reached him.
His gaze rested on the open ledger before the receptionist, eyes following the neat columns of names and dates with mild interest—as if the chaos behind him belonged to another room entirely.
The world could argue.
Altair was busy being registered.
The receptionist swallowed, dipped her pen into ink, and forced her breathing to steady. Whatever shock she'd felt earlier, she buried it under training and routine.
"Name?" she asked.
"Altair Vane."
The pen scratched.
"Age?"
Altair paused for half a breath.
"Twenty-five."
She wrote it down without comment.
"Background?"
He thought for a moment, then shrugged lightly.
"Lone wanderer. No family."
The pen slowed. Then continued.
"Primary weapon?"
"Sword."
She nodded, flipped the page, and stamped the parchment once. The sound echoed strangely loud in the hall.
Then she slid something across the counter.
A small, hexagonal token.
Copper-colored. Simple. Bare.
Altair stared at it.
He picked it up, turned it between his fingers, then looked back at her.
"…That's it?"
She blinked. "Yes, sir?"
Altair frowned slightly.
"No combat test?" he asked. "No mana examination?"
Her expression shifted—not alarm, not suspicion.
Confusion.
"…Mana test?" she repeated.
Altair tilted his head. "Combat trial. Measurement crystal. Affinity screening."
The receptionist stared at him for a moment longer.
Then realization dawned.
"Oh," she said slowly. "You mean the old system."
Altair's eyes sharpened. "Old?"
She nodded. "That was… two centuries ago. A little more."
Two centuries.
She continued, voice professional, practiced.
"Too many people died during evaluations. Too many false readings. Too much interference from sponsors and nobles." She paused. "Now everyone starts the same."
She tapped the ledger.
"Rank isn't assumed anymore," she said. "It's earned."
Altair didn't respond immediately.
His gaze drifted to the copper token in his palm.
Two Centuries.
Even this had changed.
He hadn't expected the world to stay the same. He hadn't expected comfort. But this—
He exhaled softly.
"…I see."
He closed his fingers around the token.
Then smiled.
"Lowest rank, huh."
He slipped it into his pocket.
"That's fine," he said. "Sounds relaxing."
The receptionist hesitated, then slid another sheet forward.
"Quest board is to your left," she said. "Copper assignments only."
Altair nodded once and stepped away.
The quest board stretched across the wall, layered with parchment pinned in clean rows. Rank markers were carved directly into the wood—simple, functional.
Copper at the bottom.
Iron above it.
Steel higher still, sealed behind a thin iron lattice, watched by a bored-looking clerk who didn't bother pretending it was accessible.
Altair stepped closer.
He didn't rush.
His eyes moved steadily from left to right, reading titles more than details at first.
Escort a merchant caravan to Eastway Crossing.
Delivery request — medicinal supplies.
Herb gathering near the river plains.
Routine work.
He let his gaze drop further.
Minor monster sightings — goblins.
Farmstead disturbance — goblin activity confirmed.
Road patrol request — Ashfall Reach.
Altair stopped.
His fingers brushed the parchment, not yet touching it.
Ashfall Reach.
He leaned in slightly and read the details this time.
A stretch of road cutting through low forest and open land. Trade traffic thinning. Travelers reporting small groups of goblins near the old markers—nothing organized, nothing dangerous. Just enough to make people uneasy.
Low risk.
Low pay.
Low rank.
Altair exhaled softly.
"…So that's the direction things flow now."
It wasn't the goblins that interested him.
It was the road.
That region sat along one of the older paths—routes that used to matter, before cities shifted and borders redrew themselves. If anything strange had changed quietly over time, it would show there first.
Altair tapped the parchment once.
Then pulled it free.
He folded it neatly and slipped it into his coat.
"Walking while earning," he murmured.
He turned toward the exit.
Took two steps.
Stopped.
Altair glanced back at the guild hall—the arguing guards, the whispering adventurers, the way answers were passed around without ever being complete.
Half-truths. Secondhand knowledge. Assumptions stacked on assumptions.
Information like that never stayed still.
It drifted.
Settled where people talked long enough to forget they were talking at all.
A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"…Right."
He turned toward the door again.
"I know exactly where to go."
Altair stepped out of the guild and into the night air.
Grayhaven was alive at this hour. Lanterns burned along the streets, casting warm light over stone roads worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Voices drifted from open windows. Music hummed somewhere distant.
He walked without hurry.
Eyes drifting.
Observing.
Merchants closing stalls. Adventurers laughing too loudly. Locals pretending not to stare at the strange newcomer who carried himself like the world owed him nothing.
Then his steps slowed.
His gaze stopped on a familiar kind of building.
A smile tugged at his lips.
He turned toward it and came to a stop.
The sign above the doorway swayed gently in the evening breeze.
The Bent Compass
Light spilled from the windows—golden and inviting. Laughter leaked out in waves, mixed with the clink of glasses and the low murmur of conversation.
Altair pushed the door open.
Old wooden beams darkened by age crossed the ceiling. Tables were carved with names, dates, half-erased promises. Bottles lined the shelves like trophies—some dusty, some polished, all waiting.
The sound inside dipped.
Not stopped.
Just… softened.
Heads turned.
Not all at once. Not obviously. But enough.
A few barmaids froze mid-step.
One nearly missed the glass she was wiping, fingers tightening at the last second as it slipped in her grip. Another leaned a little too far over the counter before catching herself, cheeks warming as she straightened.
Eyes lingered.
Not openly.
Not boldly.
But long enough to be noticed.
Altair felt it immediately—not pressure, not danger.
Attention.
He ignored it and walked deeper inside, choosing a table near the center of the room.
While, whispers bloomed softly near the bar.
"…Who is that?"
"I've never seen him before."
"Is he an adventurer?"
"No—look at him."
A barmaid followed their gazes.
The moment she did, her breath caught.
For half a heartbeat, she forgot to blink.
Oh gods…
Tall. Clean-cut. Sharp features that didn't belong to a drunk or a laborer. He wasn't dressed like a noble either—but there was something effortless about the way he carried himself, like the room had adjusted around him the moment he stepped in.
Who is this handsome guy…?
Her lips parted slightly.
"We've never seen him here," another barmaid whispered behind her.
"And he doesn't look cheap," someone else added.
She straightened.
Slowly.
She smoothed her hair, adjusted the line of her dress, and lifted her chin just a little. Her eyes flicked toward the table where he sat—calm, unhurried, already scanning the room like he belonged there.
A faint smile curved her lips.
"Let me try," she said softly.
The others glanced at her.
"He looks like some rich kid passing through," Lyria continued, rolling her shoulders once as she picked up a tray. "Probably hasn't learned how to say no yet."
She took a step forward.
Then another.
Confidence settling in with each stride.
Altair sat straight-backed, one arm resting casually on the table, gaze roaming the bar with open curiosity.
"…Alright," Altair murmured softly to himself.
"Who looks useful."
Footsteps approached.
Slow. Confident.
That barmaid stopped beside him, one hand resting lightly on the table. She had practiced this walk a thousand times. Her smile was bright, deliberate. Her posture leaned just enough to be noticed.
"Well hello there," she said smoothly. "First time here?"
Altair turned his head.
Looked at her.
Several nearby barmaids watched from a distance, pretending not to.
She straightened slightly, clearly encouraged.
"I'm Lyria," she continued, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Most people say I'm the best—and the sexiest—maid in this bar."
She tilted her head, eyes glinting.
"So," she said softly, voice dropping,
"what'll it be?"
She gestured to the bottles.
"Wine?"
Then smiled wider.
"…Or me?"
Altair stared at her for half a second.
His expression shifted.
Not cold.
Not cruel.
Just… irritated.
"Please leave me alone."
The words were calm. Polite. Final.
The smile vanished.
Her jaw dropped.
The tray in her hand slipped.
Glass hit the floor.
Shattered.
Silence followed—then laughter erupted from behind the bar.
Another barmaid doubled over, trying and failing to hide it.
"Stars above," someone muttered. "She got rejected."
Another bartender stepped forward, still wiping her hands, eyes amused.
"Sorry about that," she said, glancing at the broken glass. "What can I get you, sir?"
Altair didn't look at her.
"Water."
She blinked.
"…Water?"
He nodded once.
"A simple cup of water."
The bartenders exchanged looks.
Then she shrugged.
"Coming right up."
She turned away.
Lyria clenched her fists, face burning.
"…I won't forget this," she hissed under her breath before storming off.
Altair smiled faintly.
His attention had already moved on.
Two old men sat at the corner table near the bar's far wall.
Their cups were full. Too full. Ale sloshed over the rims each time they laughed, which was often and loud. One had a beard gone completely gray; the other's hair had thinned enough that the shine of his scalp caught the lantern light.
Altair watched them for a moment.
Then stood.
He walked over, pulled out a chair, and sat without waiting for permission.
"Mind if I join you?"
The two men squinted up at him, eyes unfocused.
One snorted and took a long drink. "Kid," he said, voice rough, "aren't you a little young to be drinking with us?"
Altair glanced between them.
Then, under his breath, he muttered,
"You two look old enough to be my great-grandparents. Funny thing is—I'm older than yours."
They didn't hear it.
Altair chuckled to himself, leaned back in the chair, and raised his hands slightly in surrender.
"Relax," he said easily. "I'm not here to drink you under the table."
That got their attention.
The bald one narrowed his eyes. "Then what're you here for?"
Altair smiled.
"I want information," he said. "From two intelligent seniors."
There was a pause.
They looked at each other.
Then both burst out laughing.
"Hah!" the bearded one slapped the table. "Intelligent, he says!"
"I like this kid," the bald one added. "Got some sense of humor."
Altair raised a hand.
"Drinks are on me."
That sealed it.
Fresh mugs arrived. Coins changed hands. The men relaxed further into their chairs, voices loosening as the alcohol did its work.
Altair listened.
At first, it was nothing important.
Complaints about taxes. About younger adventurers being reckless. About roads that used to be straight and now weren't.
But slowly—
Names surfaced.
"Used to be a kingdom out east," the bearded man said, waving his mug. "Gone now. Folded into something else."
"Don't even say its old name," the other muttered. "People don't like that."
Altair tilted his head slightly.
"Why not?"
The bald man shrugged. "Just how things are now."
They talked about borders that shifted without wars. About regions quietly labeled restricted. About Divine Orders appearing where none had existed before—watching, recording, enforcing.
"Feels like the world's being watched," one of them muttered.
"More than before," the other agreed. "Like someone's keeping things… tidy."
Altair said nothing.
He just listened.
Eventually, the words slurred. Laughter faded. One head drooped forward.
Then the other.
Both men slumped over the table, mugs spilling, breathing deep and slow.
Altair stood.
He stepped outside into the cool night air.
Stretched his arms overhead.
Rolled his shoulders once.
"For today," he muttered quietly,
"this is enough."
The world hadn't fallen apart.
It hadn't shattered.
It had been… adjusted.
Altair Vane smiled faintly and started walking.
To Be Continued…