Rydan stepped forward, trying to embody the image of a knight in shining armor—shoulders back, chin raised—but the tremble in his hands betrayed him. His breath came a little too fast, and his heart hammered against his ribs like a frantic drum. ‘Just hold it together’, he thought, ‘just don’t mess this up.’

“Can we not do this here?” His voice wavered more than he wanted. The sudden quiet in the room made every syllable feel heavier, echoing off the walls.

Anji’s eyes glittered with amusement as she gave a low whistle. The air seemed to thicken and dim, shadows pooling at her feet like ink spilled across parchment. Her skin began to shimmer faintly, as if she was feeding on the very light around her, sucking it dry until only a dull glow remained.

“Oh? Then you’ll fight us outside?” Her voice slithered through the darkness, teasing, taunting.

Sandra, having heard Anji’s words, wore a calm but curious expression. Her brow furrowed just slightly as she quietly assessed the situation.

“You’ll fight us alone?” she asked softly, facing Rydan. Her head tilted just a fraction—an almost maternal gesture.

“No! We’re on the same side!” The words burst from him before he could stop them. His voice cracked, loud and urgent, breaking the tension like a dropped glass. His cheeks flushed, heat rushing up his neck as regret followed instantly.

For a moment, silence hung in the air, thick and taut. Then Anji threw back her head and laughed, the sound light and musical, like a sudden breeze after a storm. The darkness retreated as if someone had flipped a switch, and the room brightened again. “Ha ha ha, I like you, girl. What’s your name?”

“Sandra,” came the steady reply.

“Okay, Sandra. As a sign of our new friendship, I’ll back down today.” Anji’s smile was wide and mischievous as she turned and strode out of the room, the sound of her footsteps like soft thunder rolling away.

Rydan exhaled a long, shaky breath, the relief washing over him like a cool wave. For a brief moment, he let his guard down—only to stiffen again when he noticed Ludvig’s cold stare fixed on him.

The sharp-eyed man’s gaze was sharp, unblinking, sizing him up with the detached judgment of a predator assessing weak prey. ‘He thinks I’m a coward’, Rydan realized, the weight of the disdain pressing down on his chest. He tried to straighten, to appear braver than he felt.

But then Ludvig’s eyes flicked away, drifting toward the counter as the sharp edge of his hostility dulled into disinterest. ‘That one…’ His gaze lingered briefly on Sandra, who was resting a rough but oddly tender hand on Rydan’s trembling head. He couldn’t make sense of her—no clue what she was about.

In the quiet, Ludvig’s unspoken thoughts echoed: ‘This one’s definitely dangerous.’

Without another word, he stepped forward to begin his transaction with Eluviel—
when suddenly, a hand caught the back of his coat. Not pulling—just enough to make him stop.

He turned, brow narrowing. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“I was just outnumbered earlier. And most importantly... I don’t hit girls.”
Rydan’s voice still trembled, but his eyes were steady now—full of determination.

Ludvig studied him in silence. He could tell it was just an excuse. But even so, something had shifted.

Rydan had changed his assessment.

The stone mask of Ludvig’s face finally cracked. The corner of his mouth curled upward.
“Magnificent.”

The tension shifted. The air between them, once thick with judgment, now carried something else—respect, maybe. The two squared off again, but this time, it was almost lighthearted. A different kind of challenge.

Then a guttural roar tore through the air from outside, followed by a loud crack.

Ludvig’s head snapped toward the entrance. “Angi! You better not be messing with my wyvern!” he barked, already sprinting out the door.

As his towering shadow disappeared through the threshold, the scene inside quieted again—and a figure who had been there the whole time came into view.

Left behind near the counter, a white-haired girl with a clean bob cut huffed quietly, her arms crossed and foot tapping in annoyance.

Zari.
Abandoned by her party. Again.

***

In a towering inland guild hall, far from the sea-salt air of the Ever Summer branch, tension cracked like a whip through the air.

An old man slammed his cane onto the receptionist’s marble counter, the sharp crack echoing through the vaulted chamber. Conversations halted. Even the clink of tankards stopped.

“What do you mean you don’t take assassination requests?!” the old man bellowed, his voice like gravel dragged across stone. “What’s the point of having an Assassin class if it can’t assassinate?!”

The receptionist, a seasoned woman with pinned-up auburn hair and the posture of someone who had endured worse, calmly folded her hands.

“An Assassin’s just someone skilled in stealth and quick takedowns. That doesn’t mean we let them kill whoever they want,” she replied smoothly. “The Guild does not condone murder of another person. It’s a matter of law. Only S-rank adventurers are permitted exceptions—and even then, not officially.”

The old man’s grip on his cane tightened, knuckles whitening. His sharp eyes—glassy with age yet still razor-focused—seemed to bore into her skull.

“Law,” he spat. “Convenient rules made by the weak to protect the undeserving.”

He raised his cane again—slower this time, not for drama, but with the weight of years. Whether he meant to strike the desk—or her—was unclear.

Before he could decide, a scout in a drab gray cloak darted in from the side and leaned in close, speaking low.

“Sir Arthur. A source confirmed it. They’ve found the hideout.”

Arthur’s demeanor shifted instantly. His shoulders straightened. His eyes lit with cold, precise satisfaction.

“Good,” he said, the word like the hiss of a blade being drawn.

He turned to the receptionist and pointed the cane directly at her, stopping a mere inch from her chest.

“You’re lucky,” he growled, “that I’ve got better things to do.”

Then he turned and strode away with surprising force in his gait. His subordinate followed without another word. The weight of his presence remained like a shadow no torch could burn away.

Once he vanished through the double doors, the receptionist exhaled deeply. Her hands shook only a little as she returned to her logbook.

“Still acts like he owns this place…”

She frowned, her gaze flicking to a side shelf lined with sealed letters and adventurer status reports.

“…and no word from Arwan since that party at the beach.”

She hesitated, then opened the guild’s private ledger and scribbled a new entry:

‘Arthur Vince demanding assassination jobs again. Claimed someone found a “hideout.” Arwan Vince still unaccounted for after Ever Summer branch visit.’

She sealed the log, but a tightness lingered in her chest.

Something was moving again—old names, old grudges. And Arwan, still missing, might already be tangled too deep in it.

***

Hidden in the slums, a building lay buried underground. Inside, the interior was surprisingly luxurious—white carpet lined the floor, and a grand chandelier hung from the ceiling. The only thing that set it apart from a noble's manor was the haze of smoke that filled the air.

Hanz sat in a leather chair, tossing aside the cigar he’d just finished. He reached for another and tried to light it with an old metal lighter. After several failed attempts, the flint barely sparked.

Noticing this, one of his colleagues leaned over and offered his own lighter.
“You can use this, Hanz. Just throw that one out and buy a new one.”

Hanz ignored the offer, continuing to flick the worn lighter. After a few more stubborn clicks, it finally sparked to life. He brought the flame to his cigar and took a long, slow puff.

Then, exhaling a thick plume of smoke, he said,
“Just like my old bones... it just needs a little push to start working again.”

Rick, a younger man standing nearby, laughed nervously.
“What are you talking about, Hanz? You’re still running circles around us despite your age.”

Hanz shook his head and stood up. His massive frame immediately cast a shadow over Rick as he placed a heavy hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“I’m too old for this. I’ll leave it to the young ones.”

Rick’s eyes began to well with tears. He tried to hide it, but his voice faltered with emotion.

Just then, the heavy metal door creaked open. An old man stepped inside and slammed his cane against the floor.
“Is Hanz here? I’ve got a job for him.”

“What the hell do you think—?!” Rick started to bark, but Hanz raised one arm and silently stopped him.

He took another slow drag from his cigar, savoring the moment. The smoke lingered in the air before he finally spoke.

“Hanz is no longer here,” he said flatly. “Just old bones waiting for his grave.”