The voices are so loud that they cut through the hubbub of the tavern.

“?” Your cousin looks surprised. When you follow her gaze, you see why. Two adventurers who look to be of poor quality—right down to the state of disrepair of their equipment—have cornered the girl. Warriors, you suppose. Or perhaps scouts. They seem to lie vaguely somewhere in between.

The young woman flinches, then turns her head as if seeking the source of the voices. Finally, she replies stiffly, “Yes, sir. The items from yesterday are right here.” From a bag beside her, she places several pieces of gear on the table, no less battered than the equipment the men are wearing themselves.

“Pig-Iron Sword? Rusty Chain Mail? Rotten Leather Armor?!” one of the men demands, his eyes getting wider with each item. “Hey, identifier, are you makin’ fun of us?”

“I assure you, sir, I’m not! I would never…!” The woman denies it with pitiful vehemence, clutching her chest. In another time and another place, to question a bishop of the Supreme God in this manner could result in punishment for sheer impertinence.

“Sure hope you ain’t. You know what’ll happen to you if we find out you’ve been playing us, right?”

“Yeah, so make sure you identify our stuff right. Got it?”

“Yes, sir… Of course…” Then the girl silently turns and begins to work on the fresh pile of loot the men toss on the tabletop. She has a beautiful, almost dignified aspect, but her every movement seems hesitant, unsure. That by itself appears to annoy the men, for they audibly click their tongues several times. With each sound, the woman tenses, but she reaches assiduously for the gear, brushing her fingers over it.

“…They’re a nasty bunch, huh?” your cousin whispers from behind her hand.

The tavern had gone quiet but only for an instant. The buzz soon returns, and the young woman’s voice is lost in the chatter.

All this is perfectly normal, you figure. After a moment’s thought, you call out to a waitress with long, rabbitlike ears who’s passing by, pressing a small coin into her hand.

“Hoh,” Half-Elf Scout says, raising an eyebrow in your direction. You ask the waitress about the young woman.

“Oh, her…,” the harefolk waitress says. She tucks the coin into her ample bosom, takes a look around, and then continues in a conspiratorial tone. “She’s an especially sad story. On her very first adventure, well, she got things a little bit wrong. That led her to come to the fortress city, but rumors of her failure spread.”

“Common enough,” Half-Elf Scout murmurs.

Your cousin’s lips are pursed as if she can’t quite accept the whole thing. “If at first you don’t succeed, just try again, right?” she says.

“Adventurers are a superstitious lot. Luck’s the coin of the realm, see,” Half-Elf Scout replies.

“And so her companions left her behind,” the harefolk waitress continues. “Now she makes her living identifying items…”

“Can’t go adventuring all by herself. Bet she’s lucky to make enough to eat, in fact. Rough times.” It’s hard out here.

You nod, then look once more in the girl’s direction. Her voice still just barely carries over the chatter in the tavern.

“I’m sorry… I don’t know what they are.”

“Well, keep workin’ on it till you do know. Damn worthless…”

“Yes, sir… I’m sorry, sir…”

“Betcha this is why she screwed up so badly, eh?”

“Yeah, you’re right. It was a goblin hunt, wasn’t it? Talk about worthless…”

“Yeah, in more ways than one!”

The men’s lecherous cackling mocks the young woman. She curls into herself like a mouse.

You murmur something about their truly vile attitudes, but the waitress cocks her head and remarks that this is rather strange. “Those two are always a little rough, but they’re not usually so aggressive.”

“Hey,” says your cousin, who’s been listening silently, tugging on your sleeve. “The girl… How about we bring her on board?”

This is something about your cousin that you have unalloyed respect for.

“Hoh, Captain. Gonna make a move?”

You nod at Half-Elf Scout, then slowly stand up from your seat. You ask him to keep an eye on your cousin for a few minutes, to which he smiles and offers you these words of encouragement: “Put on a good show, Cap.”

As you walk across the tavern, the eyes of the other adventurers settle upon you. You brush past waitresses and dodge legs stuck out to trip you up as a prank, never letting your smooth stride go interrupted.

The first one to notice your approach is the young woman, the one otherwise concentrating on her identifications. “E-excuse me, sir, but I’m currently busy with other customers. Perhaps you could wait a few minutes…?” Those words spill from lips that hardly form anything but a perfectly straight line: If her voice wasn’t so faint, it would definitely sound like the ringing of a bell. Now that you’re closer, you can see how petite the young woman is, her hands clasped uneasily in front of her modest chest.

Then your eyes open in surprise. Her eyes, set in that slim, lovely face—something must have happened to them, for they are clouded by a white mist and ringed by terrible scars. Maybe this explains her uncertain movements: She can’t rely on her vision.

You shake your head with deliberate slowness, indicating that this is not a request for identification, before you turn to the two adventurers.

“’Ey, who the hell are you?!”

“Get lost! You wanna end up at the temple with your face smashed in?!”

When you point out that the way they’re acting is no way to treat a woman, you receive only shouts of anger in return. Perhaps these people hail from some other land and don’t understand what you’re saying. You smile faintly.

“What a couple of brutes! Get ’em, Cuz!!”

Ah, dear cousin, always ready to pour oil on a fire. All the same, you sink down, angling your weight forward slightly, grasping the scabbard of your katana and striking backward with the ornamental hilt.

“Grgh?!” cries the adventurer you’ve just jabbed in the solar plexus. He must have gotten behind you in the couple of seconds you were distracted by your cousin. Nice move. You’re impressed.

“Why, you…!” The other adventurer reacts quickly. In a single fluid motion, you rise up again, grip the scabbard with your left hand, and thrust it forward. “Hrgh?!” Another jab, another solar plexus. But your opponent is a big guy. That’s not enough to bring him down.

And now he knows you’re an enemy.

The two men jump back, looking at you with bloodshot eyes, and you return your hand to the sword at your hip, reassuming a ready posture. You keep the young woman, who looks as surprised as anyone, at your back, your feet sliding in half circles along the floor as you get ready for whatever’s next.

“This bastard’s a warrior…!”

“Nah, look! Not a scratch on that armor. He’s more baby than warrior! Let’s show him the ropes…!”

Can you do it?

A bead of sweat runs along your cheek. You drop deeper into your stance, making sure you have a firm grasp on the hilt of your sword. To draw your blade is to kill; this is the way of things. If you fail to kill, or to die, once your blade is set free, you will never escape dishonor.

For your cousin, you have no concern. If things go south, Half-Elf Scout will help her somehow. But you might die. And the trouble you cause might become trouble for the young woman before you. Those are the only two things that weigh on you. Only now do you begin to realize what a profound responsibility you’ve taken on without even thinking. You’re facing warriors who have been down in the dungeon. Two of them, at that. You don’t know what they’re capable of.

Your opponents are wearing body armor. You don’t think you’ll be able to stop them just by lopping off an arm or a leg.

You do have some confidence in your technique. Your objective will be to score a critical hit with your opening stroke, decapitating the first adventurer, then killing the second on the return. If you don’t manage it, they’ll drag you down and gut you like a freshly caught fish.

You take a deep breath in and let a shallow one out. You feel around with your feet, clad in animal-skin socks and split-toed sandals, searching for footing. You grasp the scabbard firmly with your left hand, your right gripping the hilt. You can’t let sweat cause your hands to slip.

Draw? Don’t draw? You will draw. You will. Draw. Draw. Cut. Now—!

“Will you keep it down over here, you louts?!”

With that one shout, the hum of the tavern crowd comes back like a ringing in your ears. The explosive atmosphere dissipates, replaced by the collective murmurs of the patrons. You look over to discover that someone belonging to a party camped out at the backmost table in the building has gotten to his feet.

“Hmph.” He looks like a young lion to you with sharp, handsome features. His movements are elegant, aristocratic. The cast of his face is composed but slim; at first glance, he doesn’t look like someone who belongs in a tavern full of people looking to delve the Dungeon of the Dead. But behold: The man is wearing shining armor. It glints in the unsteady tavern light, clearly made of diamond.

More surprising still, it appears well used. Though it shines, it shows signs of wear, unlike your own chest guard; it completely changes your first impression of the man. You see now that he must be a knight of some renown.

“I-it ain’t like that, Lord,” stutters one of the men who had been menacing the young woman. “We was just teachin’ a newbie what’s what when he tried to butt in on our conversation…”

“Y-yeah, that’s right. We weren’t tryin’ to bother you or anything…”

The diamond knight doesn’t respond immediately, though. He looks at you, then at the pile of gear on the tabletop, then at the young woman, her face drawn in fear. Finally, his gaze returns to the adventurers, and he says softly, “I see all your items have been identified.” It’s not a question. The men nod. “Then you have no more business with this young woman. Sit quietly and have a drink or get out of here.”