"Not all threats roar. Some hide in half-dried meat and the silence between footsteps."
They stepped through the guild's door, swallowed instantly by the heavy air — a mix of old wood, sweat, and cheap alcohol. Muffled chatter sliced through the tense silence, voices rising and falling like waves crashing against a worn shore. In the dim light, a cluster of rowdy adventurers — loud, filthy, and reeking — laughed with that kind of dirty cackle only those who've seen hell and come back worse could muster.
Some averted their gaze. Others stared. Between whispers laced with disdain and awe, rumors spread across the tavern like fire through dry straw.
"That's Kael, right? From the Sunray group." "He landed the final blow on the Screaming Toad…" "That legendary monster? How'd someone like him pull that off?"
Kael felt their eyes pierce him — invisible daggers digging into his skin. A shiver ran up his spine, hot iron pressed against bone.
He kept walking, steady, his boots echoing against the wooden floor as he approached the counter — the center of attention, the altar of tales both glorious and tragic.
The scent of burnt candle wax mingled with damp air and the sharp stench of cheap booze. Flickering yellow light made shadows dance across walls lined with ancient maps and rusted weapons.
Kael reached the counter. The attendant didn't even glance up from the dusty book in front of her.
"What do you want?" she asked, voice thin and dry, glasses slipping down her nose as she adjusted them without hurry.
"I want a new quest. No nonsense," Kael said firmly, nearly throwing the words onto the counter.
She paused, as if weighing each syllable.
"New quest… or old one?" she asked, eyes still glued to the page.
Kael took a deep breath, patience already wearing thin.
"New. Something worth my time. No stalling."
"Stalling… is that bad? Or just a clever way to buy time?" she replied, lips curling into a barely-there smile — like she was playing a game only she knew the rules to.
Tharon chimed in, voice slicing through the air:
"Time's something you waste with impressive skill."
She finally looked up, eyes locking onto Kael.
"You? Who are you, really?" she asked, glasses slipping further.
"Kael. Warrior… with a sword," he replied curtly, already tired.
"A warrior? Or just someone who happens to carry one?" she countered, tilting her head.
Tharon scoffed, irritation bubbling:
"Is this an interrogation? We came for a quest, not a drama session."
She ignored him, pulled out a few yellowed scrolls, and spread them across the counter.
"Quests… or mere challenges? Do you think you're ready for what we have?" she asked, eyes fixed on Kael.
"Just tell me what I need to do," Kael said, trying to stay composed.
"And what if what we have isn't for you? Or you're not for it?" she pressed, voice sharp.
Tharon narrowed his eyes.
"Seriously, can we skip the riddles and get to the point?"
She sighed, adjusted her glasses again, and lowered her voice — almost conspiratorial:
"A special quest… do you understand what that means? Or should I define it for you?" she asked, testing Kael's resolve.
Kael swallowed hard.
"Special quest? For me?"
"For you… or not for you? Do you wish to accept it? Or would you rather run?" she continued, relentless.
"I accept!" Kael snapped, exhausted.
"You accept, then… but do you know who'll present the quest? Or would you prefer to find out on your own?" she asked, that enigmatic smile still lingering.
"Just tell me," Kael nearly demanded.
"The guildmaster… do you know who he is? Or would you like me to describe him?" she finished, adjusting her glasses and glancing at Tharon.
Tharon muttered dryly:
"Finally, something that sounds useful…"
"So I'm meeting him?" Kael confirmed, hoping this would end soon.
"Meeting… or ambush? Quest… or test? Are you prepared?" she asked, eyes still probing.
Kael nodded and stood up.
"I'm ready. Where do I find this guildmaster?"
She smiled, picked up a small scroll, and pointed toward a side door.
"Perhaps there. Or perhaps not?"
Tharon, nearly exploding:
"This is torture!"
She turned slowly, neither confirming nor denying. With a restrained gesture, she opened the side door — behind it, only shadows and a staircase.
"Is this the path to the guildmaster…? Or just another floor devoid of meaning…?" she murmured.
Kael exchanged a quick glance with Tharon. The attendant was already climbing, each creaking step sounding like a question.
They followed. Not knowing if they were chasing a guildmaster… or just their own doubts. They stopped in front of a plain door, scarred deep — as if claws or blades had once tried to rewrite its surface in some forgotten past. The attendant pushed it slowly, without urgency.
"Perhaps this is the guildmaster's office… or the mouth of a well no one returns from?" she whispered, in that tone that offered no answers — only more questions. And stepped inside.
Kael took a deep breath, clenched his fist, and followed.
The smell in the room was different. Old wood. Rusted iron. And sulfur.
Behind the desk sat Kurot. Skin dark as volcanic stone. Horns curved backward. Eyes like half-lidded embers. His large hands were clasped in front of his face, elbows planted on the raw oak desk. His smile wasn't a smile — it was a threat. Or maybe just habit.
His gaze was heavy. And when he spoke, it didn't feel like a voice. It felt like the room itself was speaking.
"I am Kurot. Guildmaster. What is here, must be here. Because what mustn't be… doesn't enter. And if it does, it doesn't leave."
Kael took a hesitant step forward, shoulders weighed down. Tharon hummed softly:
"I like him…" he whispered, venom in his tone.
The attendant adjusted her glasses, folded her hands behind her back, and tilted her head.
"Or perhaps… he's not the guildmaster. Maybe just a nameless demon pretending to be?"
Kurot didn't flinch. He only tightened his fingers, eyes burning silently.
"I am Kurot. I do not pretend. I am. And if I am, it's because I never stopped being."
"Or maybe you never were?" the attendant replied, chewing on reality like it was stale bread.
"I am. Always have been. Since before what came before," he said, dry and certain.
Kael looked from one to the other, then to Tharon, then back to the demon, then again to the attendant — like someone trying to find logic in a tapestry stitched by lunatics.
Tharon was barely holding in his laughter:
"Is this a play? Or a glitch in the matrix of existence?"
Kurot didn't even glance at the sword. His gaze simply pierced through bone.
"And you… you're the one from the Screaming Toad mission. The finisher. The unhesitant. The deliverer. You are. And that's why you're here."
Kael blinked.
"…I… am?"
The attendant turned slightly, a pale smile blooming at the corner of her lips.
"Or was it just luck… a cosmic mistake… or perhaps a well-told fraud?"
Kurot clenched his fingers tighter. His horns seemed to glow faintly in the shadows.
"There is no luck. There is action. There are those who do. And those who don't… do not exist."
The attendant adjusted her glasses again, tilting her head further.
"Or maybe those who do… also don't exist. They just think they do?"
"They exist." Kurot snapped, blunt and final.
Tharon was twisting in place, laughing silently.
"I'm gonna die. It's official. This is peak insanity. Reality's blade has gone dull and it's banging against stone."
The attendant took a deep breath, shuffled the papers in her hand, and with a slow, unreadable look, said:
"I think… or maybe not… that now I can leave you alone. Or isn't that… the protocol?"
Kurot made a small gesture with his hand, expression unchanged.
"You're dismissed. You know. Because I know. And if I know, then it is."
She adjusted her glasses, turned, and before leaving, tossed one last line:
"Or… maybe it isn't?" And closed the door slowly, letting the heavy silence collapse back into the room.
Tharon, vibrating like a broken harp string, groaned:
"Great. Now we're hostages of a demon's philosophical monologue… delightful."
Kael took a deep breath, nearly sinking into it.
"I… think I'm getting dizzy."
Kurot tightened his hands again, eyes glowing like lit coals.
"Then. You're ready to listen. Because I will speak. And if I speak, it is truth."
The silence cut deeper than Tharon's sarcasm.
Kael inhaled again, as if trying to expand lungs already full of doubt.
"I'm ready… I think," he said, hesitant. "What's the special mission?"
Kurot leaned forward. His clasped hands slowly separated, fingers tapping the wood with a dull, firm sound — like a verdict.
"A letter."
"…A letter?" Kael repeated, frowning.
"A letter. A delivery. A destination. A trial."
Tharon burst into a metallic laugh that echoed like a nail dragged across stone.
"HAH! So the special mission is being a pigeon now? Gonna make me carry a seal too? Maybe wear a little cap? Is this serious?"
"It is," Kurot replied, not moving a single muscle more than necessary. "It's a delivery no adventurer has dared complete. And those who tried… failed. Out of fear. Out of weakness. Out of lack of purpose."
Kael's eye twitched, trying to digest the absurd contrast between the dramatic tone and the mundane content.
"But… it's just a letter?"
"It's a letter that must be delivered. Past the eastern gate. Up the trails of the Seven Screams Mountains. Through the Forest of Echoes. To the Lonely Castle on a hill beyond the visible world. That's all."
Tharon muttered:
"'That's all,' he says… sounds like the title of a doomed tragedy. A castle beyond the visible world? Do you write poetry on weekends too, Hornhead?"
"I speak only truths. The letter must be carried by someone who faced the Screaming Toad and won." Kurot's voice was iron grinding against iron. "And that person is you."
"Uh-huh. Sure. Because slicing a fat screaming duck makes me qualified to climb to the end of the world. Great. Perfect." Kael scratched his forehead like he was coming down with a fever.
Kurot stood. His height seemed to multiply as the room's light caught the demonic markings on his arms.
He extended his hand, and a letter wrapped in a golden seal floated toward Kael, hovering for a moment before settling gently on the desk.
"Take it."
"Just… deliver?"
"Deliver. Fulfill. Be worthy."
Tharon buzzed with mock grandeur:
"The most thrilling heroic quest of the year! Coming soon to theaters: Kael and the Cursed Letter of Slightly Crumpled Paper!"
"Shut up, Tharon."
Kurot folded his arms.
"Go. You have something the others don't."
"And what would that be?" Kael asked, rising with the letter in hand.
"A sword that talks too much."
Tharon laughed so hard the wooden floor nearly trembled beneath him.
"This bastard… I kinda like him now."
Kurot turned his back, as if the matter was settled.
"You'll succeed. I've already decided."
Kael opened the door, the letter in hand and a bitter taste of uncertainty in his throat. Tharon swung at his side, chuckling with every step.
They descended the stairs in silence. Each creaking step echoed the absurdity of the mission now resting in their hands.
And as they stepped out of the guild, morning had begun — uneasy and pale.
Kael finally sighed.
"Let's… get this over with."
"Wonderful. I've always dreamed of dying in a cursed castle."
Kael stopped at the edge of the main street, sunlight filtering through old awnings and tattered banners. He declared, as if swearing a solemn crusade:
"I can't take another day-old loaf. I need dried meat."
Tharon let out a sharp chime of sarcasm, like venom being sharpened:
"Ah, of course. His Majesty now demands real protein. Maybe another day-old loaf will come with a charming ninja thief as a bonus?"
Kael rolled his eyes, deep and exhausted — even his patience was tired.
"Let's just go. And don't bring that up again."
"I'll sing to him if he finds us again," Tharon muttered, laughing to himself inside the sheath.
They cut through narrow streets, a back alley that smelled of sour leather, and when they passed a crooked lane with laundry strung overhead, they felt it again — that presence. Dense. Cold.
Kael stopped. Breath caught. Eyes scanning the shadows.
"…Did you feel that?"
"Feel? Felt like someone hung me out the window again," Tharon grumbled. "Your shadow's acting weird or someone's trying to exfoliate our soul."
"I don't see anyone."
"Neither do the dead. Move it, before I become altar decor."
They picked up the pace. Soon, the market rose before them like a wall of voices — canvas stalls, wobbly tents, shouting, bells, barking. Familiar chaos.
In the middle of it all, a voice sliced through the noise with questionable authority:
"Dried meat!" "Still kinda wet… but drying in the sun! Leave it on the roof till noon, it turns into a snack!"
Kael walked up to the stall, expression caught somewhere between resignation and shame.
"I'll take a few pieces."
"How many? Some wetter or more… almost dry?"
Tharon buzzed, mocking:
"You buying meat or the instruction manual?"
Kael ignored him.
"Just give me whatever looks dry."
"Ah, these here are nearly dry, yeah. Just two more hours of sun and they might stop dripping," said the vendor, handing over pieces that looked more like aged socks than food.
Kael tossed a few coins onto the counter and walked away, the meat wrapped in cloth.
Behind him, the voice rang out cheerfully:
"Thanks, adventurer! Don't forget to hang it in the sun, HAHAHA!"
Kael raised a hand without looking back. Shame wouldn't allow it.
"There it is," Tharon murmured, sharp as ever. "The hero of the magic letter, now proudly sponsored by sun meat that still cries water. Should've gone for day-old bread — at least it's honest."
"Just… shut up."
They left the market, passing stalls that reeked of fermented fruit, people selling fake necklaces, coins with holes in the middle, and charms that promised luck, virility, and slow death to enemies — all in one.
They cut through an alley. The shadow returned. But now, the city's noise drowned out any warning.