(The character will be introduced immediately after the episode concludes.)

Scene 1: A Dream of Their Own

The tavern roars with life—a symphony of clinking mugs, boisterous laughter, and the occasional shout of victory from a rowdy arm-wrestling match. In a shadowed corner, tucked away from the raucous crowd, Xero, Claude, and Dylan sit around a timeworn wooden table. Their faces reveal a mix of excitement, resolve, and a hint of defiance as they plan something audacious. The flickering candlelight dances across their determined expressions, casting long shadows that seem to echo the weight of their dreams.

Xero leans forward, his eyes ablaze with unwavering determination as he declares,
Xero: "We're not here to join a guild; we're here to register our own."

The statement hangs in the smoky air, charged with promise. Dylan, the ever-energetic spark of the trio, laughs incredulously, nearly splitting his face with his wide grin.
Dylan: "Look, guys, I get it. You want to carve your own path, but building a guild from scratch? That’s downright insane! You need power, influence—and don’t forget, at least six members just to snag a Professional License."

Xero, undeterred, crosses his arms firmly as if sealing his fate with each measured gesture.
Xero: "We’ve already decided, Dylan. We’re doing this our way—no shortcuts, no waiting for fate to deliver us."

Claude, leaning back with a sly smirk, taps his finger on the table thoughtfully before adding,
Claude: "Besides, what's life without a challenge? We’re tired of playing by someone else’s rules."

Dylan leans back, a low whistle escaping him as his eyes dance with both skepticism and admiration.
Dylan: "Alright, alright. Just know the path of a guild founder isn’t a stroll through the meadows—it’s a battlefield of endless trials. You’re about to find out just how hard it really is."

For a moment, silence falls over the table. Xero’s hand tightens around his mug, his knuckles whitening as memories flash before his eyes—images of the Border Village in flames, desperate faces of loved ones lost, and his own vow to protect humanity no matter the cost. His jaw clenches, and he exhales slowly, grounding himself back in the present.
Xero: (in a low, resolute tone) "That's exactly why we're doing it, Dylan. It's not just a dream—it’s a duty."

Dylan raises an intrigued eyebrow, his initial exuberance softening into cautious respect. Just then, Claude leans forward, his voice steady yet reflective as he taps a finger on the scarred wood of the table.
Claude: "Ever wonder why people follow? Why they give their trust, their lives, to someone else? It’s not just about brute strength. True strength is built on trust and reliability—qualities I’ve never seen in any guild. That’s why we have to make one that we can truly believe in."

A heavy silence settles over them as Dylan stares, his usual grin faltering in the face of such raw conviction. He scratches the back of his head slowly, then lets out a soft chuckle that mixes disbelief with genuine admiration.
Dylan: "Damn… you two really mean this, huh?"

Xero and Claude exchange a look—a silent affirmation of their shared resolve—and nod in unison. Their eyes blaze with the fire of conviction, leaving no room for doubt.

Before Dylan can add another word, a booming voice suddenly cuts through the tavern's din, announcing the start of the recruitment event. The room erupts instantly; adventurers scramble, weapons clatter, and excited shouts fill the air as everyone rushes toward the training grounds. Dylan is the first to leap to his feet, his eagerness impossible to contain.
Dylan: "Let's go! You guys need to see this for yourselves!"

Xero and Claude share a determined glance before rising, their decision made in that electrifying moment. With hearts pounding and dreams ignited, they follow the surging crowd out into the cool night, stepping into the unknown—and into their destiny.

Scene 2: The Recruitment Trials

The Vanguards’ Training Ground sprawls like an ancient coliseum under a vast, Claudeless sky. Its open field is divided into multiple recruitment areas, where colorful banners from famed guilds ripple in the breeze and guild scouts perch on raised platforms, their eyes scrutinizing every hopeful recruit. The air vibrates with raw anticipation as aspirants form lines at the bustling Information Center, where the fate of their potential is decided by a glowing crystal device.

Dylan, bubbling with excitement, drags Xero and Claude to the registration booth. A solemn Soul Examiner sits behind the device, which emits a soft, otherworldly hum as it prepares to reveal hidden strengths.

Examiner:
"Name and arm out, please."

Without hesitation, Dylan extends his arm. The crystal bathes him in brilliant light, and a shimmering Soul Badge materializes along his skin—a display of two radiant silver stars. His eyes gleam with quiet pride as he glances at Xero and Claude.

Xero: (in awe)
"So that’s your Soul Badge… a symbol of your inner power."

Dylan: (grinning broadly)
"Yup, I climbed from Bronze Tier to Silver in just eleven months. I was even planning to rank up again before these trials kicked off. But what about you two? What’s your rank?"

Claude exchanges a nervous look with Xero.
Claude: (hesitantly)
"Honestly… we haven’t figured that out yet."

Dylan’s expression shifts from playful amusement to incredulity as he shakes his head.
Dylan:
"Wait a minute—you want to found a guild but don’t even know your own Soul Badge ranks? That’s like venturing into battle without a shield!"

Xero and Claude exchange sheepish glances.
Dylan: (sighing, then with renewed determination)
"Alright, new plan: once you’re done here, head over to Swiss Hamlet and seek out a Soul Master. It’s the only way to get your true rank determined—trust me, you need that foundation before starting something as massive as a guild."

Before they can dwell on Dylan’s advice, the recruitment process roars into life. One by one, aspirants step into a grand arena where friendly duels light up the field. The sounds of clashing steel, bursts of elemental magic, and thunderous impacts mix with cheers from a rapt audience. Every bout is a mini-drama—each warrior striving to etch their name into legend.

After what seems like an eternity of witnessing dazzling feats, it’s Dylan’s turn. With a deep breath and a determined glint in his eye, he strides into the arena. The crowd falls into a hushed murmur as he shakes out his limbs, his posture transforming into one of focused readiness.

Across the arena, a colossal Protohuman known as Grask the Ironfang stomps in. His metallic arms catch the sunlight as steam hisses from his mechanical joints, and he hefts a massive battle-axe that clanks ominously with every movement. The murmurs among the spectators swell into excited whispers.

Spectator 1:
"That’s Grask the Ironfang—just one win away from Gold Tier!"

Spectator 2:
"Look at that brute! He’s like a walking fortress!"

As the referee signals the start, Grask wastes no time. In a sudden, explosive motion, he swings his axe in a ferocious arc. Dylan barely dodges the near-miss; he feels the rush of air as the blade whistles past his face.

Dylan: (through gritted teeth)
"Damn, he’s fast for a walking fortress!"

In a flash, Dylan vanishes in a burst of icy energy and reappears at Grask’s side. His hybrid form—a powerful melding of human spirit and Arctic Wolf Beast—seems to ripple with frost. His claws, now glowing with frozen might, slither toward Grask’s ribs in a series of rapid, calculated strikes.

Grask reacts instantly, his massive forearm colliding with Dylan’s assault. Metal meets ice with a resounding clang as the impact sends a shockwave through the arena. Spectators gasp and lean forward, caught in the visceral intensity of the duel.

Dylan: (murmuring, frustrated yet determined)
"That should’ve cut deeper… what is this guy made of—pure iron?"

Without warning, Grask seizes Dylan’s wrist with an iron grip, hoisting him high above the arena. A collective gasp erupts from the crowd as Grask snarls and slams Dylan into the ground with bone-rattling force. Dust and small pebbles scatter from the impact, and the arena falls into a tense silence.

From the crater, Dylan’s eyes flicker with defiant resolve. He forces a low chuckle, shaking off the shock.
Dylan: (voice rough but resolute)
"Heh. Is that all you’ve got?"

Summoning every ounce of his inner frost, a chilling wind bursts forth from his mouth, coalescing into a freezing hurricane that engulfs Grask’s arms. The Protohuman roars in shock as ice forms rapidly, encasing his legs and restricting his movement. The crowd watches in rapt astonishment as the tide of battle begins to turn.

Taking advantage of Grask’s frozen moment, Dylan lunges forward with ferocious agility. His claws, now dripping with frost energy, slash in a precise, X-shaped pattern across Grask’s chest. A cascade of glittering ice shards erupts from the wounds, and the mighty Protohuman shudders violently before collapsing, his battle-axe clanging to the ground with a final, defeated thud.

The arena explodes into thunderous cheers, the air filled with the roar of victory and the awe of witnessing raw power in motion. The announcer’s booming voice echoes across the field.

Announcer:
"Winner—Dylan of Silver Tier!"

As Dylan stands victorious, catching his breath and wiping sweat mixed with ice from his brow, he locks eyes with Xero and Claude in the stands. Their expressions—equal parts amazement and determination—speak volumes. In that charged moment, as the cheers wash over him, Dylan knows that their paths are intertwined. Their journey to found a guild, to forge a dream from the embers of their struggles, has only just begun.

The vibrant energy of the trials mingles with the promise of ancient secrets and untold power, beckoning them all to step forward into a future where destiny awaits at every turn.