Three weeks had passed since Ren's first contract, and the rhythm of F-rank adventuring had become almost comfortable. Almost.
"Rat extermination in the warehouse district," Ren read from the contract board, suppressing a sigh. "Five silver pieces for clearing out a 'minor infestation.'"
Vermillion, who had been quietly observing the other adventurers, moved closer. "The warehouse owner specifically requested multiple attempts," she noted. "Three different F-rank teams have tried and failed."
"Rats," Ren muttered. "How hard can it be?"
The answer, as it turned out, was considerably harder than expected.
The warehouse in question belonged to a spice merchant who imported goods from across the kingdom. When Ren and Vermillion arrived, the owner—a nervous man named Marcus—met them at the entrance with obvious relief.
"Thank the gods," Marcus said. "Another team willing to try. I was starting to think I'd have to abandon the entire building."
"Just rats, right?" Ren asked.
Marcus's expression grew troubled. "Well... they're unusually large. And organized. The last team said they seemed to be working together in ways that normal rats don't."
Inside the warehouse, Ren understood immediately why the other teams had failed. These weren't ordinary rats—they were Dire Rats, each one the size of a house cat, with intelligence gleaming in their red eyes. Worse, they moved in coordinated packs, using the warehouse's maze of crates and containers like a military fortification.
"Dire Rats are E-rank monsters," Vermillion observed quietly. "Someone misclassified this contract."
A normal F-rank adventurer would have been overwhelmed in minutes. The creatures were fast, vicious, and smart enough to use pack tactics. But Ren had advantages that no classification system could account for.
His enhanced reflexes let him track their movements perfectly. His draconic strength meant that even his "weak" sword strikes were devastatingly effective. And when a pack of six Dire Rats tried to surround him, a carefully controlled burst of flame—just enough to seem like desperate overreach rather than controlled power—cleared them out entirely.
The fight was over in ten minutes, but Ren made sure to look appropriately exhausted when Marcus returned to inspect the results.
"Incredible," the merchant breathed, staring at the dozen dead Dire Rats scattered throughout his warehouse. "The other teams barely managed to kill one or two before retreating."
"Got lucky with the fire magic," Ren said, wiping fake sweat from his brow. "Managed to catch them grouped together."
Marcus paid him the contracted five silver, then added another three as a bonus. "For going above and beyond. And for actually solving the problem."
Back at the guild, news of Ren's success spread quickly through the F-rank community. Dire Rats were a known hazard—the kind of monster that required teamwork or exceptional skill to handle safely.
"Not bad for a flame mage," admitted Sarah, an F-rank Wind Scout who'd attempted the warehouse contract the week before. "I barely escaped with my life."
Derek, the C-rank Earth Warrior, overheard the conversation and snorted. "Probably stumbled into some stored alchemical supplies. Chemical fire explains the easy victory."
But not everyone was dismissive. Ren noticed a few of the more experienced F-rank adventurers giving him speculative looks. Word was spreading that the quiet flame mage was more capable than his rank suggested.
"You're building a reputation," Vermillion observed as they left the guild that evening.
"Good or bad?"
"Both. The F-ranks respect you. The higher ranks think you're getting lucky or exaggerating your accomplishments." She paused. "And a few are starting to ask the right questions."
That night at the inn, Ren studied the guild's contract listings by lamplight. The pattern was becoming clear—"F-rank" contracts that were obviously misclassified, dangerous enough to defeat multiple teams, but not quite hazardous enough to warrant official re-evaluation.
"Someone's testing the new adventurers," he realized. "Using contracts to weed out the weak from the potentially strong."
"Or to identify individuals whose capabilities exceed their official classification," Vermillion added meaningfully.
The implications were troubling. Either the guild was incompetent at evaluating threats, or someone was deliberately using F-rank adventurers as unknowing test subjects.
"Tomorrow I'm taking something different," Ren decided. "Something genuinely F-rank, just to see if the pattern holds."
The next morning, he selected the most mundane contract available: delivering a message to a farmer in a nearby village. No monsters, no danger, no opportunity for heroics. Just a simple courier job that any Classless civilian could handle.
The trip should have taken half a day of easy walking through well-traveled roads.
Instead, they encountered bandits.
Not the desperate, poorly-equipped highwaymen that occasionally troubled travelers, but professional criminals with good gear and obvious combat experience. Six of them, led by a man whose magical aura marked him as at least D-rank.
"Well, well," the leader said as his men surrounded Ren and Vermillion on the forest road. "What do we have here? A couple of adventurers, by the look of you."
"Just delivering a message," Ren said carefully. "We don't want any trouble."
"Trouble's already found you, boy." The bandit leader's smile was cold. "See, we've been watching the guild. Keeping track of who takes which contracts, who goes where, when they travel." His eyes glittered with avarice. "Amazing what you can learn if you pay attention."
The implication hit Ren like a physical blow. These bandits weren't random criminals—they were targeting specific adventurers based on inside information.
"Someone's feeding you guild intelligence," he said.
"Smart boy. Yes, we know exactly who you are, Ren Duskbane. The F-rank flame mage who's been having such unusual luck lately." The leader drew his sword. "Our employer is very curious about you."
"Your employer?"
"Someone who believes you're not quite what you seem." The bandit gestured, and his men began closing in. "Don't worry—we're not going to kill you. Just rough you up a bit, see how you handle yourself when the odds aren't in your favor."
As steel rang against steel and the fight began, Ren realized that his careful charade had attracted exactly the wrong kind of attention.
Someone was watching him.
Someone with resources, connections, and suspicions that were far too close to the truth for comfort.
The real game was just beginning.