CHAPTER 1 - THE DECK OF SALVATION AND THE WEIGHT OF THIER WORDS
I remember those days from my childhood—days drenched in a profound, persistent unhappiness. My life unfolded in a crowded household: parents, siblings, uncle, cousins, and my grandmother. Every single day, they treated me as an afterthought, finding a dark amusement in my misery.
They never missed a chance to hurl an insult, to sow seeds of self-doubt. I believed them. Their venomous words became the inescapable ghosts of my childhood. Yet, as the saying goes, where there is darkness, a light must eventually appear. For me, the one thing that anchored me to reality, the fragile thread that kept me from fully unraveling, was a deck of cards.
My neighbor was an old adventurer—grizzled, kind, and full of unbelievable stories. He'd sit with me, playing cards and spinning tales of his quests, his battles, his wild adventures, sparing no detail, even the scandalous ones. I confided in him. I felt safer in his presence than I ever did with my own family. He even introduced me to his extended family, who'd visit every year-end for a massive celebration. My parents, of course, discovered this sanctuary and tried desperately to keep us apart, but I always found a way to sneak away. The old man believed in me. He promised I would succeed and cast out the shadow of my family's curses of failure.
The day he died was the worst of my life. My parents, sickeningly, rejoiced. Though forbidden to go, I snuck out to bid him my final farewell. The next morning, one of his granddaughters approached me. She handed me a small package: the very stack of cards the old man and I had played with. My heart flourished with a bittersweet joy, and the tears I'd held back finally broke free.
As I grew, the insults and cruelties from my family only intensified, spreading like a disease. Soon, my younger siblings joined in the torment. My parents invariably took their side, no matter who was right or wrong. I gave up fighting. They mocked me, gossiped about me, and poisoned my name in the village until I couldn't make friends. I stopped caring. I stayed alone, shuffling and playing my cards. I enjoyed the solitude they offered, even as the silence got lonely.
Then came the day my sister found them. She rifled through my meager belongings, discovered the pack, and when I tried to take them back, she tore them in half, right in front of me. I was utterly shattered. The memory is still a raw, haunting scar. She and the rest of them condemned my simple joy one final time.
The source of my damnation had become the source of my salvation.
A Quiet Night at the 'Iron Tankard'
The Iron Tankard—part adventure guild, part noisy tavern—was loud and alive. Adventurers crowded the long tables, drinking tankards dry, roaring with laughter, and devouring massive platters of food. It seemed like a normal, boisterous night to the attendant, Bridget, who sat behind the sturdy, oak counter, diligently sorting through a mess of parchment.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the guild burst inward, slamming against the stone walls. The rush of wind and rain was so aggressive it seemed to silence the room in a single whoosh.
Standing framed in the doorway was a figure cloaked in midnight black. Rain sheeted off the coarse fabric, gathering in small, dark puddles at his feet. He was a silent, imposing silhouette. After a moment, the figure stepped inside, letting the doors swing shut with a hollow thud.
The conversations resumed, though muted. Every eye tracked the mysterious newcomer as he strode across the stone floor. He paid them no mind, his boots making a soft squelch with every step.
He stopped before the guild's centerpiece: a large, scarred Job Board plastered with a mission. Without hesitation, the cloaked man raised a hand and plucked a specific, weather-beaten poster from the cluster. He turned and began walking directly toward the counter. Bridget adjusted her wire-rimmed spectacles, her eyes already wide as the dripping figure approached. His hood was pulled low, casting his face in an impenetrable shadow.
"Oh, how may I help you, kind sir?" she asked, her voice professional despite the suddenness of his arrival.
He gave no verbal response. Instead, he simply laid the damp mission poster on the counter. The cloth of his cloak was so soaked that water immediately pooled around the paper.
Bridget quickly opened a drawer, pulled out a small, white hand towel, and wiped the counter before returning to the mission.
"You want to take this mission," she stated, looking from the paper to the shadow under the hood. Finally, a reaction. The stranger nodded slowly—a single, deliberate dip of his head.
"Alone?" she pressed.
Another nod, just as slow.
Bridget sighed, leaning slightly on the counter. "I'm sorry, but that particular B-plus ranked mission has already been claimed by the party at Table Five,"
she said, gesturing toward a group of four—clearly a balanced team of a Warrior, a Mage, and two Healers—who were currently gathering their gear and strapping on armor, preparing to depart.
"You're welcome to either join their party, provided they agree, or select another mission that is more suitable for solo work." Without a word, the mysterious adventurer snatched the paper from the counter. He turned on his heel and walked away, not waiting for Bridget to finish her sentence.
As he disappeared into the crowd, Bridget's expression tightened. She immediately drew open the second, deeper drawer beneath the counter. Inside, nestled on red velvet, was a polished crystal ball. Closing her eyes, she placed her hand upon its cool surface.
She scanned the vast, magical registry of every registered adventurer and hunter in the region. She searched for any known record of a black-cloaked, solo figure capable of facing a B-plus ranked beast.
Nothing.
Since taking over the guild, she processed S-rank legends and notorious criminals. But this man? What kind of unknown madman would attempt to face a B rank monster alone and expect to survive?