My fingers hover over the screen of my phone. The Eles glance between each other, their discomfort palpable. Esquire, as the scholar so aptly designated himself, has adopted a countenance three shades paler. His cheeks, on the contrary, are enflamed a bright red. He could register as a clown with all those colours; no makeup required.

“What do you want?” He spits, gritting his teeth.

“Right now?” I counter mildly. “The truth.”

He hesitates, but blurts out an answer when my fingers encroach upon the screen of the phone. “There is something I have to find.”

“Does it have anything to do with the summoning portal?”

His raccoon eyes are sharp and murderous. “…Yes.”

“That paper won’t help you. I can.”

“Your terms?”

“To simplify; your time.”

“How long?”

“Tonight. Unless, that is, you see fit to extend our interactions?”

He scoffs.

“Are we agreed?”

We both know his answer. “Yes.”

I sit back down. “Then let’s continue.”

The hours whittle from dusk till dawn. He breaks down the current state of the economy and the coins used in majority circulation. I separate the various scraps into relevant and non-relevant piles. The Hyllian alphabet for English, politics for the most standard codes and how to deconstruct them, a bit of culture for a handful of common words.

The doors to the library swing open. I adjust a stack of his books, offering the impression of having just placed them.

“And there you have it, Mister Esquire. Will that be all?”

He glances dumbly from the door to me, then to his books.

“Uhh... yes?”

“Very well, Mister Esquire. May your efforts bear fruit.”

He nods. I slip through the opened door into the hall and change back into my clothes. Wandering into the presence of the three, I meld with the group as they’re escorted back into the Throne Room. Stepping to the side at the entranceway, I cross my arms to observe the drama.

Bryant and Yuki shut up, stiffening their posture into a comical bravado that steps them squarely into the centre of the throne room. Arty follows them because, really, what else would he do?

“Four hundred scende and your companions.” the king begins, waving a hand. An aide steps forth, brandishing a silver platter with four velvet pouches atop. Arty wrinkles his forehead. The aide returns to the bottom of the steps with the single pouch left atop the tray.

Accepting his prompt, a door at the end of the hall opens. A mass of people pour in and present themselves, then split off to mingle and introduce themselves to the three. Four of them, however, do not.

The king notices their hesitation and perks up. “Seems to be a miscount,” he mumbles to himself. “Jorge, did you deliver my message properly?”

His aide nods, then taps at the tablet. “You requested thirteen from the guild; four healers.”

“Have you been drinking again? What need do we have for a fourth healer?”

“I assume they’re for me.”

The entire hall jolts to attention.

Dropping my hand that had been raised in a casual wave, I stride forth to join the three. Bryant grits his teeth. Offering the king a bow, I present a smile and a name for the court.

“You may call me Sebastian Ryans, Your Highness. May the harvests be rich in bounty and your stomach satiated.”

“Ingenuity.”

I smile.

He recovers quickly, waving the aide with the platter to deliver the remaining pouch to me.

“Once you have acquainted yourselves, report to the front gates for your Identity Cards. They will grant you entry into and out of the capital as needed. Dismissed.”

The four adventurers offer their greetings.

“Thanks for speaking up just now. Name’s Carlile.”

Ginger hair.

The woman next to him, clutching a staff and tucking her face behind similarly coloured curls, manages a meagre wave. Carlile hooks his arm over her shoulder, suffocating her face from view.

He tousles her hair with his free hand, frizzing it to stick out at all angles. “Clairie’s a little shy. This here is Corman and Jo. As you can tell from his build, Cor can take a hit when it matters. If we need to regroup and heal up or retreat, he handles the mobs for us. Jo’s our recon.”

Corman folds his arms, a smirk on his lips. Jo grips their hood, tugging it over their face as they nod.

Documents in hand, the king pours over me with a furrowed, distrusting glare. He twists his hand in a discreet gesture, disguising the movement with the action of flipping to the next page.

I flick my attention back to Carlile. “And what role do you play?”

He grips the handle of his sword in a relaxed, confident ease, flashing a grin. “I keep the team together. Make the plans, manage the finances. Can hold my own against monsters too. Speaking of, looks like you’ll need some equipment before we head out of the capital.”

“You’re the guide.”

“I like a man who knows his place.”

Carlile leads us past two gates, over a bridge suspended above an artificial cliff face, and into the city. Sometimes the children at the orphanage would play an exercize where they summarized a picture in one word, then elaborated upon that word to explain how they came to that impression. For the Hyllian Kingdom’s Capital city, one word leaps out immediately: cluttered.

Similar to the castle, the streets are curved and rounded, but it is clear that the initial intention has endured numerous revisions, with some roads stacked over and squeezed into one another. The few streets that are spaced and girthy are scattered with carriages and sidewalks, with citizens who dedicate themselves to either shopping or selling or other idle chatter. My eyes stray to one of the numerous benches manned by a guard. A woman who had been knitting tucks away her string and stands. The guard has her review some paper and sign, then reaches into his pocket and counts out several coins that she drops into her own pouch.

The bench, whose design had been glowing faintly, fades to silence.

Carlile dips from the main street onto a side road, its buildings packed together like a row of crooked teeth in a crowded jaw. The team, accustomed to this street, fan into a single file just before the narrow entrance. Carlile keeps me within arms’ length, switching into the next attraction of his own mental tour guide.

“The food, ropes, and other essentials are already covered since you’re with us,” he explains haphazardly, stepping over a loose brick without a glance, “but a good weapon is a must. This guy’s pretty reliable; he can at least set you up with a starter for your coin.”

Though his tone is jovial, his eyes are sharp. He places his palm on his pommel, matching the gaze of a would-be pickpocket who scampers back into the shadows.

“This is it,” he says, “the best weapons smith in the city.”

The shop inflates into the sagging walls of two half-collapsed buildings, nestled atop a crumpled platform that has jutted out a board and crooked nail like the beckoning of a witches’ talon into her gnarled bakery oven. Leaping over the decimated steps and weaving his torso through the dubious frame of the door, he glances back at me in challenge.

Corman plants his feet, back to the shop, and folds his arms.

Jo hops up to the platform and offers a hand to the girl, who meekly fumbles her way after her sibling. The hand then extends to me.

I accept the offer and step directly in front of him. His brown eyes shift from mine quickly. He hops back down to alight beside Corman, patting his wand. Silver grip.

Carlile flashes an approving smirk. “You’re braver than you look.”

There is a hulk of a man glowering from the coffin of his shop counter. “Another pest?” the man grumbles to Carlile.

“Sebastian’s a Summoned.”

“A special pest then. What do you want?”

“We’ll start with a selection of your knives and daggers. Something about this length, sheath included.”

“Coin?”

I toss him the pouch. “A hostage consolation.”

He checks the coins and their authenticity, palms one, then tosses the rest back to me. I catch it easily, approaching the counter as he fumbles a box from underneath.

“These are the best in the eight to ten range.”

All of them are sheathed but loose.

I pluck an eight and quarter-inch knife into my palm, testing the weight and the balance. No visible warp, decent grip. Single-edged.

“Why would you need a knife?” The ginger complains, sauntering over to the counter. “A sword is more practical.”

I test a swing, pausing the blade a mere fraction from the throat of my wide-eyed, self-proclaimed leader. He wobbles his weight on a retreated boot, one hand strained against the sliver of counter space available while the other uselessly flails about in the air.

“How much?”

“Eight scende.”

“Three and six cretia.”

“See this blue tint? This is a special compound ground down and infused into the blade. Won’t rust. Won’t snap halfway through if you suddenly find yourself in an hour-long slog through a mob. It’s worth at least seven scende, nine.”

“Six.”

“Seven and five.”

“Six.”

“Six and eight.”

“Six.”

He growls. “Fine. Six scende.”

I hand him the coins.

“Another special pest indeed.”

I point to another of his knives, same length. “This too. Same price.”

“Sa-! Same price?”

“Thank you for agreeing.” I lay five on the table and take the knife. He eyes the coins, a hard set to his chin. Drafting myself the receipts, I offer an innocent smile to Carlile. “Where next?”

He scratches at his phantom cut, wavering on the amiable derision previously in his gaze. “You’ll want to test your blade. We can probably score a quest for some slime cores just past the gate. Nothing too far since it’s your first day.”

I strap the first knife around my thigh and the second over the opposite arm above the elbow. The shopkeeper pouts slightly at the discernment, clearly hoping I’d struggle a bit more with distinguishing between the two. I ignore him to focus on Carlile.

“After you.”

This time, he’s less eager to take the mantle.

I hold the Identity Card in my hand to the sun, twisting it at angles to reflect the light. It feels like a thin bark, but is flexible, translucent and fractures the light at each of its grooves.

“Never seen an Identity Card before?”

He’s loosened up in the trek from the shop to the front gates, slipping back into his casual cadence. It doesn’t seem like an act.

“And you say this is bound to me?”

“Try for yourself.”

I flick it into the fields. Six seconds to vanish into the tall grass. Six seconds to return to my hand. I flip the card over, then tuck it into my breast pocket.

Carlile cackles. “I didn’t expect you to actually try!”

“So, you said we’re antagonizing some slimes today?”

“Testing your mettle.”

Yuki bats a rubbery sphere from the grass into the treeline as he races by, party members struggling to catch up. It bursts as it connects with a stray branch, splattering goop and flecks of powder like a pinata.

“Testing my mettle,” I repeat.

“Ready?”

“You first. I’m curious to see how well you work together.”

“You... sure?”

“Absolutely.”

His countenance distorts with obvious displeasure. I offer him a simple smile in response. Putting on the air of catering to a child, he waves Jo off to smoke out a group of slimes. Pantomiming like a performer, he slashes and stabs the slimes one by one, with Corman cleaning up the bulk of them and Clarabelle fretting idly at the side.

“Satisfied?”

“They’re kind of like balloons, aren’t they?”

“I believe it’s your turn.”

I scoop a rock from the grass, rotating it around in my palm. “Once I see what you’re actually capable of. Bet you know a place around here that can offer a bit more excitement than a slime.”

His eyes light up with a hint of mischief. Having been tested as leader so frequently, he’s finally itching to put me in my place. “I know exactly the place.”

Forging a path through the fields for the rest of his entourage, I hold back for a moment. Rolling in the grass, a touch separated from its fallen family, roams a slime only mildly smaller than the rest.

I bounce the rock in my hand. Repeat. Then catch and release it on the third toss. The slime’s core shatters silently, ooze pooling like blood.

Jo follows the path of the rock in reverse. I smile at him, lifting a finger to my lips before rejoining the group. The two of us hang back a little. I have my fingers linked behind my back, relaxed and casual, but not tight.

He pulls a butter roll from his pack, tears it in half, and nibbles on one end. The other he passes to me.

“Thank you.”

He nods.

“Did you request to join the group?”

Another nod.

“You won’t get much out of him,” Carlile cuts in, calling over his shoulder. “He never says a word.”

“Seems you do all the talking for him,” I tease back.

His sister chuckles briefly. He shoots her a glare, then turns back to me. “A bit of friendly comraderie never hurts.”

“Mmm. There’s a monkey in front of you.”

“What’s that?”

The Rubik’s cube in my head briefly interrupted at the word monkey. Seems to be no simple translation. “A creature.”

“Ah. That’s an Apeling. They’re awful in groups but relatively simple on their own. Better take care of that.” He pulls his sword, stabs the monster, skins and butchers it, then cleans his blade. “Anyone hungry? Aside from Jo?”

His sister and Corman nod. Jo lowers his hand stealthily, then shies away from my glance.

“Jo, go find another for the fire. Corman, you’ve got the gear.”

Corman shrugs a bag from his shoulders. Jo is already halfway down the field towards the treeline.

“That guy’ll probably find three before we’ve finished the fire.”

“Let me guess; two for himself?”

Carlile chuckles. “Absolutely. Takes on more jobs than I can count, but he is dependable. The whole team is.”

“How long have you known everyone?”

Corman finishes the pit and starts working on the sticks and kindling for the fire. He thinks a bit before answering.

“Well, Clairie I’ve known since she was born, of course. Never left my side.”

That’s a lie.

“Corman met us on a job. Really saved our skin.”

He nods, switching his focus to shoving the slabs of meat over skewers and flavouring it. Carlile stretches his hand, mutters a word, and blasts some fire into the pit. It takes to the wood and kindle without issue.

“Jo has been with us a couple of years. We needed someone who could smoke a nest. He fit the build.”

“A nest?”

“For a job we took. There are two types of monsters in this world; our job as adventurers is to help maintain that balance.”

The scholar had mentioned the same, albeit briefly. Earth-bound monsters are creatures that are native to the world. Rift-bound originate from other worlds and timelines. Though both must be kept in check, the earth-bound monsters are assigned a cap on hunting to preserve their populations from reaching extinction.

Jo returns with three dead monsters and sits down to start the harvesting. Carlile gives me a look of I told you so and starts teasing his teammate. We return to the city by sunset. Carlile ensures to escort me to an inn before leaving, saying that a room has already been booked for me. He helps himself inside, runs down the rules, then leaves me with the key to rest.

Thirty seconds later, I slip into a simple outfit, help myself out of the room, and capitalize on an absentee staff to fill the numbers of servers in the bar beneath.