The inn's common room was already awake.
Wooden tables bore the scars of years—knife nicks, burn rings, names carved and half-forgotten. The smell of broth and fresh bread clung to the air, layered with smoke from the hearth and the sharper tang of cheap ale being poured too early. Chairs scraped. Someone laughed too loudly. Another cursed at a spilled cup.
Life, unremarkable and persistent.
Shinji sat with his back to the wall out of habit, though he didn't need the vantage. A shallow bowl rested between his hands, steam curling lazily upward. He hadn't touched it yet. Across from him, Kaede tore bread in half with her fingers, already halfway through her second serving, boots propped against a table leg like she owned the place.
"You're staring again," she said without looking at him. "If the soup offends you, say so."
"It doesn't," Shinji replied.
"Then eat."
He did. Slowly. The broth was thin, salted just enough to pretend at effort. It tasted like mornings always had—before banners, before titles, before weight.
Around them, the rest of the group talked over one another. Contracts. Rumors. Someone bragging about a goblin nest cleared two days prior. Someone else correcting the story with exaggerated patience.
None of it required him.
Shinji kept himself small.
Not physically—there was only so much that could be done about height and bone—but in presence. He folded whatever might ripple outward inward instead, compressing it until even the space immediately around him felt… ordinary. The kind of man you sat beside without remembering later.
A serving girl passed their table twice without glancing at him once.
That was intentional.
Kaede noticed anyway. She always did. She chewed, swallowed, then said quietly, "You're disappearing again."
"I'm here."
"That's not what I meant."
He didn't answer. Outside, the morning bell rang somewhere deeper in town, metal striking metal with a dull, reliable note. Merchants would be opening shutters. Adventurers would be checking gear they pretended not to be nervous about.
A group at the far table—young, loud, new—kept glancing their way. Not at Shinji directly. At the empty chair beside him. At the space he occupied without claiming.
"Those ones are heading to the Guild," Kaede murmured, following his gaze. "You can tell. Too clean. Too excited."
"Mm."
"You ready for this?"
He set the spoon down. The bowl was empty now; he hadn't noticed finishing it. "It's a formality."
Kaede snorted. "Everything dangerous starts as a formality."
Shinji stood, the motion smooth, unhurried. The bench creaked louder than he did. He adjusted his coat, checked that his weapon was secured at his side, then paused—just for a breath—feeling the city beyond the walls of the inn.
The underworld was quiet.
Not absent. Quiet.
Good.
"We should go," he said.
They gathered their things. Coins clinked onto the table. As they moved toward the door, the noise of the room swallowed them again, just another group of adventurers stepping into the day.
No one watched Shinji leave.
And that was exactly how he wanted it.
The inn's common room was already awake.
Wooden tables bore the scars of years—knife nicks, burn rings, names carved and half-forgotten. The smell of broth and fresh bread clung to the air, layered with smoke from the hearth and the sharper tang of cheap ale being poured too early. Chairs scraped. Someone laughed too loudly. Another cursed at a spilled cup.
Life, unremarkable and persistent.
Shinji sat with his back to the wall out of habit, though he didn't need the vantage. A shallow bowl rested between his hands, steam curling lazily upward. He hadn't touched it yet. Across from him, Kaede tore bread in half with her fingers, already halfway through her second serving, boots propped against a table leg like she owned the place.
"You're staring again," she said without looking at him. "If the soup offends you, say so."
"It doesn't," Shinji replied.
"Then eat."
He did. Slowly. The broth was thin, salted just enough to pretend at effort. It tasted like mornings always had—before banners, before titles, before weight.
Around them, the rest of the group talked over one another. Contracts. Rumors. Someone bragging about a goblin nest cleared two days prior. Someone else correcting the story with exaggerated patience.
None of it required him.
Shinji kept himself small.
Not physically—there was only so much that could be done about height and bone—but in presence. He folded whatever might ripple outward inward instead, compressing it until even the space immediately around him felt… ordinary. The kind of man you sat beside without remembering later.
A serving girl passed their table twice without glancing at him once.
That was intentional.
Kaede noticed anyway. She always did. She chewed, swallowed, then said quietly, "You're disappearing again."
"I'm here."
"That's not what I meant."
He didn't answer. Outside, the morning bell rang somewhere deeper in town, metal striking metal with a dull, reliable note. Merchants would be opening shutters. Adventurers would be checking gear they pretended not to be nervous about.
A group at the far table—young, loud, new—kept glancing their way. Not at Shinji directly. At the empty chair beside him. At the space he occupied without claiming.
"Those ones are heading to the Guild," Kaede murmured, following his gaze. "You can tell. Too clean. Too excited."
"Mm."
"You ready for this?"
He set the spoon down. The bowl was empty now; he hadn't noticed finishing it. "It's a formality."
Kaede snorted. "Everything dangerous starts as a formality."
Shinji stood, the motion smooth, unhurried. The bench creaked louder than he did. He adjusted his coat, checked that his weapon was secured at his side, then paused—just for a breath—feeling the city beyond the walls of the inn.
The underworld was quiet.
Not absent. Quiet.
Good.
"We should go," he said.
They gathered their things. Coins clinked onto the table. As they moved toward the door, the noise of the room swallowed them again, just another group of adventurers stepping into the day.
No one watched Shinji leave.
And that was exactly how he wanted it.
Part 2: The Guildhall Swells
No one watched Shinji leave.
And that was exactly how he wanted it.
The moment passed with him through the inn's door and into the street, the sound of the common room snapping shut behind them. Morning light washed the stone road pale gold, catching on hanging signs and damp mortar. The city was fully awake now—vendors shouting, carts rattling, boots striking rhythm against cobblestone.
The Guildhall rose at the end of the avenue like a squat fortress pretending to be welcoming.
Banners hung from its upper windows, their colors faded by sun and soot. The wide doors stood open, and the sound spilling out was louder than the street—voices layered thick with ambition.
Inside, it was crowded.
New adventurers packed the floor, armor freshly polished, cloaks still stiff. Some clutched registration papers too tightly. Others stood near the ranking board, craning their necks, counting upward with open hunger. The board itself dominated one wall, names etched in neat lines, ranks marked in metal that caught the light.
Bronze.
Silver.
Gold.
And far above, spaced with deliberate scarcity—
S.
The room buzzed. Laughter burst and died. Arguments sparked and fizzled. Somewhere, someone was boasting too loudly about a kill no one else believed.
Shinji felt eyes slide toward him as he entered.
Not many. Not for long.
Just enough.
Kaede leaned in slightly. "You feel that?"
"Mm."
"Same as before," she muttered. "People don't know why they're looking. They just are."
They moved forward, weaving through the crowd. Shinji didn't hurry. Didn't slow. He adjusted himself again—presence folding inward, aura compressed until it sat like a held breath beneath his skin.
A man detached himself from the side of the hall and intercepted them.
He was middle-aged, clean-shaven, dressed in the practical uniform of a guild official—dark coat, silver clasp, ledger tucked beneath one arm. His eyes were sharp but not hostile. Measured.
"Shinji," he said, confirming rather than asking. "I'm Mr. Toma."
Shinji inclined his head. "You have me at a disadvantage."
Toma smiled faintly. "Only briefly. You're expected."
That drew a few glances from nearby adventurers.
"Before we proceed," Toma continued, tone still polite, "guild protocol requires that all weapons be left behind for private evaluations."
His eyes flicked—just once—to Shinji's side.
The Apex Devour rested there, quiet and unassuming. Too quiet. The space around it felt subtly… unwilling.
Shinji unfastened it without hesitation.
He crossed to a long table set against the wall—already crowded with sheathed blades, axes, staves—and laid the weapon down with care. The wood beneath it creaked softly, as if adjusting to the weight.
He looked at Toma. At the guards nearby. At no one in particular.
"Take care of it," he said evenly. "Don't touch it."
The words weren't loud.
They didn't need to be.
A guard halfway through reaching for another sword stopped. Toma's smile thinned by a fraction, then returned.
"Understood," he said.
Shinji turned back to him, hands empty now. Lighter.
"This way," Toma said, already leading toward a side corridor marked Authorized Personnel Only.
The noise of the Guildhall faded with each step they took away from the main floor, swallowed by stone walls and distance.
Behind them, the Apex Devour remained on the table.
Untouched.
Part 3: The Room That Tests Attitude
The corridor narrowed as they went.
Stone replaced wood. Torches replaced windows. Their footsteps echoed now, measured and unavoidable, each sound swallowed a moment later by the thick walls. The air cooled, carrying the faint scent of metal and old incense—wards, not for defense, but for measurement.
Mr. Toma stopped before an unmarked door and knocked once.
"Enter," came a voice from within.
The room beyond was circular, smaller than Shinji expected. No banners. No insignia. Just stone, polished smooth by time, and a low ceiling etched with faint geometric lines that glimmered when the torchlight shifted.
There were already people inside.
Three S-rank adventurers stood spaced apart, each occupying the room like it belonged to them in a different way. One leaned against the wall with arms crossed, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. Another stood rigid, hands behind his back, chin lifted. The third sat at a small table, fingers drumming softly, gaze openly curious.
At the far end stood the Guild Master.
Older than the others. Not frail—seasoned. His hair was silver at the temples, his posture straight without stiffness. He wore no armor, no visible weapon. Only a dark coat and a presence that didn't need embellishment.
His eyes settled on Shinji the moment he stepped inside.
Not assessing.
Listening.
"Leave us," the Guild Master said to Mr. Toma.
Toma bowed once and withdrew, the door closing with a soft finality behind him.
Silence filled the space.
"Shinji," the Guild Master said. "Thank you for coming."
Shinji inclined his head. "You asked."
A faint curve touched the man's mouth. "We did."
He gestured lightly to the center of the room. "This won't take long. We're not here to test your strength. Only your… disposition."
One of the S-ranks snorted quietly. Another smiled as if amused by the phrasing.
Shinji stepped where indicated and stopped.
The lines carved into the floor warmed beneath his boots.
He felt the wards wake.
Not reaching.
Waiting.
Shinji folded himself inward.
Not abruptly. That would be noticeable. Instead, he compressed what lay beneath his skin with patient precision, like drawing a blade back into its sheath millimeter by millimeter. Pressure vanished. Presence dulled. What remained was enough—dense, controlled, impressive.
But safe.
The room responded.
The air thickened, just slightly. One of the S-ranks straightened. Another's fingers paused mid-drum.
"Efficient," the rigid one muttered.
"Clean," said the one at the wall. "No waste."
Numbers shimmered briefly along the etched ceiling, then faded—readings taken, conclusions forming.
Satisfaction settled in the room like dust.
All except at the far end.
The Guild Master had not moved.
His gaze remained fixed, not on the pressure Shinji allowed to show, but on the shape of it. On the unnatural smoothness. On the way nothing bled through where something should have.
A man did not arrive at this age without learning the difference between restraint and absence.
He said nothing.
"Very well," the Guild Master finally said. "That will suffice."
The S-ranks relaxed, some nodding, one already losing interest.
Shinji let the suppression hold. Perfectly.
He met the Guild Master's eyes for the first time.
For a brief moment—no longer than a breath—something passed between them.
Recognition.
Not of truth.
Of intent.
"Proceed," the Guild Master said calmly.
Shinji stepped back.
The wards dimmed.
But the suspicion did not.
Part 4: The One Who Spoke Too Loudly
The silence after the evaluation did not last.
It never did.
A chair scraped against stone.
The sound was deliberate—slow, exaggerated—meant to draw attention without asking for it. One of the S-ranks pushed himself upright from where he'd been leaning, broad shoulders rolling as if loosening tension that hadn't been there moments ago.
He smiled.
It wasn't cruel. It was confident in the way only unchallenged confidence ever was.
"So that's it?" he said, voice filling the circular room with practiced ease. "We give him a badge and send him on his way?"
One of the others glanced at him. "That's procedure."
"Procedure is boring." He took a step forward, boots striking stone with unnecessary force. "Besides, numbers don't mean much without context."
Shinji remained where he stood.
The wards had dimmed, but he had not unfolded himself yet. He kept everything compressed, contained, exactly as before. His gaze drifted to the speaker—not confrontational, not dismissive. Just present.
"And who," the man continued, rolling his neck once, "is to say those numbers weren't generous?"
A faint ripple moved through the room. Interest. Anticipation. This was familiar territory for them.
Kaede wasn't here to see it.
That was intentional.
"I am," the man said, tapping his chest with a thumb. "Strongest among the S-rank in this hall."
No one corrected him.
That, too, was telling.
He looked at the Guild Master. "Let me test him."
The Guild Master studied the man for a long moment. His expression did not change, but something behind his eyes shifted—calculation, not concern.
"This isn't a dueling hall," he said.
"Then make it one," the S-rank replied lightly. "One exchange. No weapons. If he's as good as the readings suggest, it won't take long."
His gaze slid back to Shinji, grin widening. "What do you say?"
Shinji considered him.
Not his stance. Not his aura.
The space he took up.
There was weight there. Real experience. Enough victories to mistake survival for supremacy. Enough applause to forget silence.
Shinji inclined his head once. "If that's what you need."
The answer landed softly.
Too softly.
A few of the S-ranks shifted, straightening now, attention sharpening. The Guild Master raised a hand—not to stop it, but to contain it.
"One exchange," he said. "You will keep it controlled."
The man laughed. "Of course."
They stepped apart, clearing space without ceremony. No circle drawn. No signal given. Just stone floor and expectation.
The S-rank rolled his shoulders again, aura flaring instinctively—dense, aggressive, proud. The air responded, pressure climbing, the kind that made lesser men step back without knowing why.
Shinji did not move.
The man lunged.
Fast. Skilled. A strike meant to end things cleanly—bone-breaking force guided by years of refinement. To anyone watching, it would have been decisive.
It never arrived.
Shinji stepped in.
Not forward.
Through.
There was no flash. No burst of power. No sound beyond a dull, final impact—flesh meeting flesh with absolute certainty.
The man left the ground.
He hit the far wall hard enough to crack stone, slid down it without a sound, and did not get back up.
Silence swallowed the room.
One breath passed.
Then another.
Someone swallowed. Another took a half-step back before realizing they had moved.
Shinji stood where he had been, hand lowered, expression unchanged. No follow-through. No stance held. As if the motion had never cost him anything at all.
The S-rank on the floor groaned once—and went still.
The Guild Master exhaled slowly.
"That will be enough," he said.
No one argued.
Shinji turned away.
The S-rank stirred first.
A low breath escaped him as he pushed himself upright, one arm braced against the wall. He didn't look angry. If anything, his expression held something closer to clarity.
His eyes found Shinji.
"Don't let this get into your head," he said, voice rough but steady. "That was just me. A mere fight."
No accusation. No challenge left in it.
Shinji inclined his head once.
The badge was already in his hand.
He turned and walked toward the door without another word.
Behind him, the Guild Master watched in silence.
Then—slowly—an arc curved across his lips. Not amusement. Not approval.
Recognition.
He turned to the remaining S-ranks. "That will be all," he said calmly. "You may leave."
None of them argued.
Part 5: What Answers to Him
Shinji turned away.
The sound of his boots against stone was the only thing that moved in the room, steady and unhurried as he crossed the threshold. No one stopped him. No one spoke.
Behind him, the cracked wall still held the shape of a man.
The door closed.
The main hall was louder.
Voices overlapped in uneven layers—new adventurers arguing over rankings, clerks calling names, metal clinking as weapons were set down for evaluation. The smell of oil and parchment mixed with sweat and anticipation.
Kaede spotted him first.
"You're back," she said, relief slipping into her voice before she caught herself. "That was fast."
The others gathered around him instinctively, curiosity burning just beneath the surface. Shinji gave them a small nod—nothing more—and stepped aside, letting the flow of people move around him.
That was when he felt it.
Not a pull.
A disturbance.
His gaze shifted—not sharply, not urgently—but with the same inevitability as a shadow turning toward its source.
Near the evaluation tables, a young adventurer stood frozen, one hand extended.
Too close.
Fingers brushed against the hilt of Apex Devour.
The air thickened.
At first, no one noticed. Darkness seeped like ink through water, slow and deliberate, coiling up the man's arm. His breath hitched as the blackness crept higher, veins dimming beneath its touch.
Someone screamed.
The crowd recoiled, chairs scraping back, metal clattering to the floor. The darkness continued its climb, tasting, testing—curious.
Shinji moved.
The darkness hesitated.
It stalled mid-crawl, shuddering as if sensing something it hadn't before. The pressure in the room shifted, subtle but unmistakable. Even the torch flames nearest the sword leaned inward, bending toward him.
Shinji stopped a few steps away.
The darkness began to withdraw.
Slowly.
Unwillingly.
It unraveled from the adventurer's arm, peeling back strand by strand, reversing its path as if being reeled in by an unseen hand. The man collapsed to his knees, gasping, skin pale but whole.
Apex Devour drank the last thread of shadow.
Shinji's hand hovered just above the hilt.
One word left his mouth.
Soft. Unadorned. Final.
The sword went still.
The hall fell silent.
From the far end, footsteps approached—measured, deliberate. The Guild Master emerged with the S-ranks in tow, his gaze sweeping from the shaken crowd to the sword, then finally to Shinji.
His eyes narrowed—not in fear.
In recognition.
Around them, whispers began to form, uncertain and sharp-edged. Shinji stepped back, reclaiming the space the sword had demanded, and turned toward his companions.
"Let's go," he said.
He walked away as the Guild Master watched him leave, the smile that touched his lips not one of relief—but confirmation.