Elric woke before dawn. A pale light seeped through the cracked window, illuminating the dust motes floating in the cool air. His head throbbed slightly—late-night strategy sessions and Harvin's ceaseless paperwork had taken a toll. But he'd slept better than he had in years. He swung his legs out of bed and padded across the wooden floor toward the washbasin, splashing cold water on his face. The familiar moment of waking to this body came with a pang—the realization that he would never again be Kazuki Ren. But there was no time to dwell on that.
The day was already starting. This morning, the Golden Fang would embark on its first official mission: clearing a goblin nest that had taken root in a disused farm on the outskirts of Silverwall. Nothing glamorous. No grand dragons or cursed artifacts. But vital. Strategic. The kind of job that built a reputation.
He dressed quickly in the guild uniform—a dark tunic and leather jerkin bearing the golden fang emblem—and stepped out into the hallway. Morning sunlight streamed through open shutters, painting the walls in warmth. Voices carried up from below: the clatter of breakfast utensils, the murmur of recruits awaiting orders.
He descended to the main hall, where Lyra was already overviewing maps. Vella, Bree, and Lenn sat nearby, gear packed and swords sheathed. Torren had just stumbled in, gingerly picking at a solid breakfast.
"Morning," Elric said.
They looked up.
"Morning," Lyra replied crisply. She handed him a rolled parchment. "Route plan. Distance, estimated goblin numbers, fallback points. Nothing crazy—but solid."
He studied the route: five miles through farmland and woodland, ending at the old Bramwell farmstead. The terrain looked peaceful enough: knee-high grass, scattered trees, a ramshackle barn. Perfect for ambushes.
"How many recruits are going?" he asked.
Lyra ticked them off: Vella, Bree, Lenn, and two of the fresh recruits, Markus and Hilda. All Bronze-rank, all hungry to prove themselves. "Torren wants to stay behind for now. His leg's still bad."
Elric nodded. Even weak, the mage offered magical support from afar. They had him on communicator stones—small crystals tuned to each other. He checked his own stone in his pocket and felt the familiar buzz of the connection.
"I'll stay here too," he said. "I'll coordinate from the guildhall, but I'll be ready in case they need evacuation or backup."
Lyra gave him a sharp look.
"You sure?"
Elric nodded. "I want to monitor the outcome, not risk everyone's lives on a whim."
Lyra stared for another moment.
"You're not making this up as you go, are you?"
He smiled softly. "I've done worse with less."
She tilted her head, then nodded.
"Alright. Stay safe. And Elric?"
He looked up.
"Don't start crying if I die without you there."
He chuckled. "Noted."
She turned and left with the rest of the team, stepping into the amber sunlight that warmed the courtyard. Elric watched until they disappeared down the road, and then he turned toward the guild's war room.
The war room was simple but efficient: a long table, maps plastered on the walls, a few pewter mugs and ink pots. Harvin was already there, grim-faced and still in his pajamas.
"Elric," Harvin greeted, pouring tea for them both. "You look serious."
"I want daily reports from the scouts. I want updates every hour once the fight starts. And I want one of your banshee-knock spells ready in case things go south."
Harvin set down two steaming mugs. "Got it. I'll be ready. But I'll say now: this is goblins. Bronze-rank stuff. You don't need a banshee-knock unless a troll shows up."
Elric took a sip of tea. "True. But I want redundancy. No mistakes."
Harvin chuckled. "You're turning into a micromanager."
He reached across the table and clapped Elric's shoulder. "And that's exactly what a good boss does."
Elric smiled. "Let's make sure the Golden Fang begins its story right."
Outside, the group moved swiftly. Vella took point, eyes scanning the edge of the woods; Bree flanked her, hand on dagger. Lenn and the two recruits followed behind, cautious but determined. Lyra brought up the rear, shield ready.
They entered the farmland easily—their approach was quiet and disciplined. Twelve minutes into their walk, Bree motioned to Vella, speaking in a low voice.
"Tracks—goblin foot prints. Maybe a dozen or so, heading toward the barn."
Vella signaled pause. They crept through tall grass until the barn came into view—its timbers half-collapsed, wide doorway yawning like a maw. Soft snarls and rustling straw came from within.
Vella signaled the group to halt. She crouched, whispered directions. They formed a semicircle at a reasonable distance: archers, melee, magic in reserve. No reckless charge.
Elric watched quietly from the distance, hand on the communicator stone. Every heartbeat was a countdown.
"Everyone ready?" Vella whispered.
Bree nodded.
Lenn raised his palms toward the sky.
Torren's voice crackled through the stone: "Magic barrier up in three, two, one…"
A faint shimmer glimmered around the group—like ripples on a pond.
Elric exhaled. Things were about to begin.
He pressed the communicator again.
"Initiate in three… two… one—go."
Vella burst forward, sword angled at the barn entrance. Goblins rushed out—green-skinned, feral faces, crude blades, two of them carrying sacks. It was chaos concentrated. Vella swung cleanly, cutting a goblin's shoulder, then parried another blow.
Bree circled around, dagger flashing, slitting a goblin's throat before it realized she was there. Lenn called up a burst of lightning: blue-white energy arcing through the goblin mob, sending them thrashing into their fellows before falling unconscious. Markus and Hilda moved in, testing their mettle; one knocked down, the other stabbed through the chest.
Lyra held the rear, shield raised, intercepting a goblin that tried to flank them. She smashed its head with her shield's rim—teeth and helmet fragments spraying.
Torren's banshee-knock rippled through the air, sending disoriented shrieks as the last goblins lost their footing and fell.
It was over in no time. Ten goblins were dead or unconscious. The sacks they carried contained stolen grain and a locket—a youth's keepsake—from a nearby farm.
The team regrouped, weapons still drawn until Vella signaled stand down. She took a deep breath, chest heaving with adrenaline.
"Clean job," she said. "No more."
They gathered the unconscious goblins and packed up the stolen goods. Lenn used mage control to levitate the sacks, light enough for Bree to handle.
Vella scanned her team. Markus was pale, hands shaking. Hilda knelt, checking the dead carefully, and she looked sick.
Lyra leaned over Markus.
"How are you?"
"Fine." His voice trembled.
Lyra sighed. "Talk to me afterward."
He nodded.
The group headed back toward the city, organized, victorious—but not celebrating. The seriousness of real danger had set in: this world wasn't about points or fame. It was about survival.
Elric listened to updates: positions, condition, spoils. They were safe. They had done well. He allowed himself a small smile.
They returned to the guildhall in mid-afternoon. The front courtyard filled with townsfolk craning to see the newcomers; even a few city guards lingered, curious.
Elric stood on the steps, Vella, Lyra, and the team behind him. He held the locket and spoke quietly.
"Today was simple. But it mattered."
He handed the locket to an old woman crying at the gate. She clasped it to her heart and bowed.
"The Golden Fang returns what's lost, shields the helpless, and strikes for those who cannot," he continued. "This is our promise, our creed."
Murmurs of approval rippled through the crowd. The guards nodded.
He looked at his team.
"You did well."
Vella said softly, "You did well."
Lyra stepped forward, meeting his eyes. A moment passed—silent, unspoken acknowledgement.
Later, the recruits cleaned weapons, Torren tended to wounded, while Elric in his office sketched the aftermath. He outlined earnings: moderate payment from the farm owner, guild coffers replenished. He filed the mission report for the Adventurer's Guild.
He paused on his writings and thought of the path ahead—silver-tier missions, local politics, contracts with merchant guilds, magical research. He thought of his vault and his coin. So much potential.
There was something else, too. The bond forming between him, Lyra, Vella, and the rest. He realized his next goal: not just empire—but a family. A team welded by loyalty, not fear.
He took up his quill and began the next report:
Objective: Expand recruitment. Build supply chain. Plan second mission—protect a merchant caravan.
Then he paused.
Yes.
It was time.
The sun dipped below the horizon as he closed the ledger. He leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment—the distant creak of armor, low laughter, sounds of the night settling in. A breeze rattled the shutters.
He opened his eyes and stared at the guild's emblem on the wall—a golden fang biting down on a shield.
He whispered, "Let's keep building."
Silence answered him, but in the silence was promise.
The Golden Fang had dipped its blade into its first battle—and it had tasted blood.
And now, it hungers.