Dunce watched the maiden's face twist with disgust and felt a deep pang of bitterness. Calmly, he stated, "I didn't come to *become* a mercenary. I *am* one. With Dragon's Blood as my guide, unlock the portal!" A cerulean aura emanated from Dunce's chest, and the weathered mercenary registration card he'd obtained from the Blood Skeleton Windbone tribe back east floated out, landing softly in his palm. He extended the card towards the disdainful guild clerk.
The clerk, startled by the sudden blue glow, hadn't expected such power from the bedraggled figure before her. She accepted the card and consulted the thick Mercenary Guild ledger. After a moment, she gasped. "You... you're a member of the *Exemplar* level mercenary company, Celial Vengeance?"
Dunce blinked. "We were only Tier Three. How are we Exemplar?"
"That's the record sent from the Grand Guild. It states you completed an Exemplar mission! Your company was elevated by special dispensation. Both Soldier Captain Mystic Mystic Moon and Vice-Soldier Captain Dunce have been upgraded to Exemplar rank. Gods above!" Her eyes widened further as she read. "You completed the recovery of the Masterwork Crystal Caverns from the Howling Peaks? The bounty on *that* assignment was astronomical! If the Crescent Mystic Moon Mercenaries hadn't shared credit, you might have made Pope Mystic rank! Exemplar missions... they're rarer than gryphon's teeth."
Dunce finally understood: when the Crescent Mystic Moon Mercenaries delivered the crystals to claim the bounty, they must have credited his and Mystic Mystic Moon's names to the initial contract. *Mystic Moon Edge... How are they now? Has it really been two years since we parted?*
Discovering Dunce's Exemplar status transformed the clerk's tone to careful politeness. "Would you be... accepting a contract, sir?"
Dunce snapped back to the present. "Yes. Something I can finish quickly. The pay doesn't matter, modest is fine."
She eyed him skeptically. "Swift contracts are usually Tier One, sir – fetch quests, messenger runs. Low stakes, low pay. Are you certain? With your rank, Exemplar or higher assignments would be more... appropriate."
Money was irrelevant to Dunce; he just needed coin for supplies on his trek to the Sylvan Expanse. "Positive. Any quick task will do."
The clerk nodded towards the job board. "Pick your poison, sir. The lower tiers are mostly straightforward. I'll need to upgrade your credentials." She vanished into a back room.
Dunce scanned the Mercenary Guild's board of bounties and tasks. He started at the bottom, Tier One: minor inconveniences. Finding nothing suitable, his gaze drifted upwards. A Tier Three assignment caught his eye: Deliver a sealed item to the Governor's Manor. Payment upon presentation and unsealing. *Perfect. Quick, pays well.*
The clerk returned, handing him an exquisitely crafted gold card bearing the Guild's crest, a world away from his old one. Exemplar privileges were clear.
Dunce indicated the contract. "This Tier Three courier job. The one just posted."
The clerk raised an eyebrow. "Ah, that one. Unusual. Pre-payment option. Fifty Gold Eagles." She pushed the coins and a finely crafted, brass-bound Cedarwood box across the counter. "Truly a simple task for you. We *do* have Exemplar-level contracts..."
Dunce shook his head. "This is fine. I've... trails to follow. No time." He pocketed the coins, hefted the surprisingly light box, and departed.
Outside, the phantom sting of the maiden's contempt led him to the nearest saloon. He traded three Gold Eagles for a feast large enough to shame a cattle drive, channeling all his perceived humiliation into consumption. Satisfied at last, he emerged. *Time to earn that coin,* he thought, turning the box in his hands. It revealed nothing – no sounds, no clues. Curiosity gnawed at him, but mercenary code forbade tampering with deliveries. Asking directions, he headed for the Governor's imposing manor house.
* * *
**Governor's Manor, Fort Duro**
Governor Phiget de Montclair, silver-haired but sharp-eyed at sixty, ruled Duro Province – a vast, rugged territory straddling crucial trade routes between the frontier settlements and the Empire's interior. Holding this seat meant imperial trust. Tonight, he hosted distinguished guests: Tyrion, grandson of his old ally Archduke Tyreshawes of Mica Province, and Tyrion's foster sister, the lovely Mari. They brought lavish gifts from Mica, a province equally vital and wealthy. Governor Phiget's face creased with genuine pleasure. He and Tyreshawes had been dashing young blades and ambitious administrators decades ago, inheriting titles and carving their respective domains into power bases. Age and duty had separated them geographically, not emotionally. Phiget raised his goblet in toast.
"Governor Phiget, sir," Tyrion, resplendent in white silk, raised his own goblet, his smile polished and practiced. "A toast from Archduke Tyreshawes: to your continued health and boundless good fortune!"
Phiget drained his glass of rare amber whiskey. "Tyrion, my boy! Your reputation precedes you. Youngest initiate ever accepted by the Northern Blade Saint himself! Your grandfather is blessed. Puts my own idle grandsons to shame, I'll admit!" He laughed, a rich, booming sound that echoed in the grand dining hall.
At the mention of the Blade Saint, Tyrion's eyes flashed with zeal. "Merely an apprentice, sir, still striving towards the honor of formal induction under my master's tutelage." He bowed his head modestly. "Compared to your own legendary feat – single-handedly taming the Duro Uprising and earning your governorship through pure valor? My meager achievements pale. Grandfather says if his initial title hadn't granted him a slight advantage, he'd never have matched your stature."
Mari, seated beside Tyrion, watched his smooth diplomatic performance with a quiet, approving smile. Securing her foster brother's place as Tyreshawes's heir meant navigating these political waters, and he was navigating perfectly. So far.
Phiget, warmed by the flattery and the whiskey, beamed. "Old Tyreshawes said that, did he? Bless him for remembering those days! Ah, youth... seems another lifetime." His gaze softened slightly. "The future belongs to men like you now, Tyrion."
A steward leaned close to Phiget, murmuring urgently. "Excellency, a... mercenary insists on delivering an item personally. He refused to leave it. He's laid low several guards by the gate."
Phiget's good mood soured. Mercenaries? Crude blades for hire, little better than outlaws in his refined estimation. Interrupting his leisure time? "Dispose of him. Or let him wait. Can't you handle riffraff?"
"He's persistent, Excellency. Skilled. We couldn't remove him."
Phiget's eyes narrowed. "Persistent? Send him in. To the entrance hall. Let's see what makes this sell-sword tick." His expression hardened. Intruders on his property were not tolerated.
Moments later, the steward led a tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed young man into the hall's periphery. His clothes were patched and worn, marking him as thoroughly disreputable. He carried an ornate cedarwood box. Despite his rough appearance, an unnerving stillness, a sense of contained power, emanated from him. His eyes held an unnerving clarity.
Tyrion and Mari exchanged glances. *The vagrant from the street... Now a mercenary? In the Governor's mansion?*
Phiget assessed the young man. Decades as a power broker had honed his instincts. The poverty of his attire clashed starkly with the unshakeable confidence in his bearing. *Not ordinary,* Phiget thought. He gestured to the steward. "Bring him closer. Let me see him."
Steered into the bright light of the dining hall, Dunce's gaze swept the table and locked onto Mari. Recognition struck him like lightning – the face from the street, the ghostly familiarity. Before he could dwell on it, Phiget's commanding voice demanded attention.
"Why insist on a personal delivery, boy?"
Dunce's eyes flickered to the box in his hands. "Contract terms, Your Excellency. This is for you." He extended the cedarwood container.
A servant took it. Phiget gestured. "Open it. Let's see this precious cargo."
The servant lifted the lid.
*PSSSSH!*
A cloud of sickly-sweet pink vapor billowed out. The unsuspecting servant inhaled a lungful, eyes rolling back, collapsing bonelessly to the polished floorboards.
Phiget reacted instinctively, holding his breath and slamming his palm forward. A pulse of pale green energy – his Frontier Shield Technique – blasted outward, scattering the vapor. Still, he caught a faint whiff. Instantly, a wave of dizziness washed over him. *Assassination!*
Dunce recoiled as the diverted mist swept towards him. An instinctive surge of silver-blue energy shimmered around him, the Aura of the Living Branch creating an impenetrable barrier against the encroaching pink fog.
Chaos erupted. Tyrion saw his moment to shine. "*Treachery!*" He leaped to his feet, hands swirling in a complex arc. Blood Skeleton energy, tinged with heat – the Flame Mantle of the Northern Fist – erupted around him. It engulfed the drifting vapor, containing it in a roiling, swirling sphere of fire and pink. With a sharp downward gesture, Tyrion slammed the compressed sphere into the stone floor. It flowed downward like living lava, dissipating harmlessly into bedrock.
Phiget, face pale, fighting the treacherous dizziness with sheer will, pointed a trembling finger at Dunce. "Seize him! Do *not* let him escape!"
Understanding crashed over Dunce. *A trap! The client used the Guild to deliver poison! I'm the scapegoat!* He tensed, defenses snapping up, but Tyrion was already moving again. Before Phiget's command fully registered, Tyrion had launched himself across the room, a tempest of blazing crimson fists driving towards Dunce's heart.
The pressure was immense, the heat radiating from Tyrion's aura oppressive. Dunce shifted his stance, right palm rising defensively towards the attack. A flicker of contempt crossed Tyrion's face. His body twisted with serpentine agility mid-air. The strike aimed at Dunce's chest veered unnaturally towards his shoulder instead.
The feint was lightning fast. By the time Dunce registered the change, the blazing fist was inches from his collarbone. He had no time for finesse. Instinct took over – his body pivoted violently, ninety degrees in a fraction of a second. The red-hot energy hissed past his skin, scorching his worn shirt sleeve to ash. The leather armor beneath, reinforced by Wyvern scales, absorbed the residual heat.
Tyrion, committed to his unexpected shift in target, was overextended, momentarily wide open. Dunce saw the opening, the exposed flank. He had no desire to harm; this was misdirection. His right palm simply brushed Tyrion's shoulder. Pure force pulsed – the gentle surge of Cyclic Life Rockforce Rockforce – gently shoving Tyrion backwards like an invisible, implacable tide. Tyrion felt his power uselessly deflected, a puppet tugged on a string. He landed abruptly beside Mari, unharmed but furious.
Before Tyrion could recover his wits, Phiget's elite guards – eight men, hardened by frontier skirmishes – were upon Dunce. Knives, pistols, hatchets drawn, converging from all sides. Explanation was impossible. Pressure translated into reaction. Dunce's body became a whirlwind on a single planted foot. Silver-blue energy flashed along his fingertips as he parried, deflected, and flicked aside every incoming weapon with impossible speed. The guards felt concussive impacts against their chests, as if kicked by a giant horse. Weapons clattered; bodies flew backwards in scattered arcs. They were neutralized before Tyrion could fully process being repelled.
Tyrion's face contorted with humiliation and rage. Being bested *in front of Mari and the Governor?* Unacceptable. "You *dare?!*" He screamed. Abandoning restraint, he exploded forward again. His fists became a hurricane of phantom blows – the Fire Falcon Strikes of the Northern Fist – dozens, scores of blazing fists filling the air, threatening to engulf Dunce entirely.
The barrage, though spectacularly fierce, was inefficient. Anger clouded its precision. Dunce stood his ground. Silver-blue light coalesced instantaneously in his right hand, solidifying into a shimmering, hexagonal shield of pure force – the Ironwood Shimmer. The Barrage struck it like crimson hailstones hitting steel. Fist after phantom fist exploded into harmless showers of dissipating red light. Tyrion's furious onslaught failed to even rock Dunce on his feet. With a dismissive flick of his shield-bearing hand, Dunce sent a surge of Cyclic Life Rockforce Rockforce into the assault. Tyrion flew backwards as if hit by a runaway steam carriage, smashing heavily against the thick oak paneling of the hall's far wall with a sickening *crunch*. He slid to the floor, blood trickling from his lip.
*Now... now I can speak.* Dunce inhaled sharply, his voice cutting through the ringing silence. "STOP! MISUNDERSTANDING!" He became a streak of blurred motion – the Serpent Armor Flicker technique – leaving afterimages as he darted past the stunned guards and slumped retainers, reappearing instantly beside the ashen, swaying Governor Phiget. Before anyone could react, Dunce's palm clamped onto Phiget's shoulder, channeling a potent stream of pure, vitalizing Cyclic Life Rockforce Rockforce into the older man's resisting system. Phiget had been barely holding the insidious toxin at bay. The fresh, powerful energy surged through him like a cleansing tide, bolstering his own flagging efforts. With a choking gasp, Governor Phiget doubled over and vomited a gout of foul black liquid onto the priceless rug.
The guards surged forward again but froze. The Governor was pinned by this unstoppable stranger.
Phiget lifted his head, wiped his mouth with a shaking hand. The dizziness was fading. He looked at Dunce, confusion giving way to realization. "By the Founders... you... Thank you, lad. What... what in damnation was *that*?"
Dunce stepped back, releasing him. "Apologies, Your Excellency," he said, voice tight with frustration. "I took a courier contract at the Guild. Delivered the box as instructed. I had no knowledge of its contents."
"Grandfather! Is that *you*? Oh, you're *so* clever!" A bright, musical voice pierced the stunned quiet. A young woman, garbed in sky-blue silk, skipped gleefully into the hall, grinning like a mischievous fox.
Phiget groaned, rubbing his temples. "Rosy. My little calamity. Was *this* your doing?"
Rosy stuck out her tongue playfully, adopting an expression of pure innocence. "Maybe? Just a tiny joke? Thought you looked tired with all those boring treaties. Wanted you to take a nice nap!" She produced a small vial, waving it. "See? Completely harmless! Dreamer's Draught. Just sleepy-time dust! You wouldn't tell Daddy, would you? You know he'll take my auto-cycle privileges!"
Dunce stared at the girl. "*You* posted the contract? The one demanding personal delivery?"
Rosy shot him an indignant look. "Of course! You big dummy! The plan would've been perfect if you'd just handed over the box and left! Now the fun's ruined!" She pouted dramatically.
Phiget sighed, shaking his head with weary affection. "Rosy, my dear, this is beyond dangerous! Poisoning a Governor? Even a practical joke? Archduke Tyreshawes is here!"
Rosy skipped over to her grandfather, throwing her arms around his neck and planting a smacking kiss on his cheek. "But you're *fine*! And you wouldn't *dream* of telling on your favorite granddaughter, would you? Daddy is *so* unreasonable!"
She turned her brilliant smile towards Tyrion. "Well? You still think I'm funny?"
Tyrion, wiping the blood from his mouth, scrambled to appear composed. "My lady! A jest worthy of a courtier! Governor Phiget's favor shines upon you! Tyrion of House Tyreshawes, at your service." He bowed deeply, charm warring with the fury in his eyes.
Dunce felt a wave of exasperation wash over him. The pointless whims of spoiled nobility. He gave Phiget a curt nod. "My task is complete, Your Excellency. My apologies for the disturbance." He turned to leave.
"Hold, son." Phiget's voice, stronger now, stopped him. He appraised Dunce, his gaze sharp. "That skill... remarkable. I've not seen its like. How would you fancy serving Duro Province? Frontier marshals need men of your caliber."
Dunce shook his head without hesitation. "Honored, Your Excellency. But I ride alone. My path lies elsewhere." He stepped towards the shattered main doors. As he passed Tyrion, a venomous whisper sliced through the air, sharp as a knife, delivered solely for Dunce's ears:
"This isn't over, vagrant scum. Remember the dust on my fist. There will be a reckoning."
Dunce didn't pause. *Killers? Hunters? Threats? They blur together.* Tyrion's rage was just another shadow. Unremarkable. He kept walking.
Phiget watched his retreating back disappear into the torch-lit courtyard. "Remarkable. That raw power... a frontier asset. Shame he walks his own trail." He sounded genuinely regretful.
Tyrion forced a smooth laugh, his knuckles white where they gripped his goblet. "I held back, Excellency. Out of respect for your hallowed halls. My master's true techniques... they were never required against such rabble."
Rosy giggled, unfazed. "That explains the 'dumb mercenary' act! Guess the name fits! 'Dunce.' Still, quite the performance."
Mari stood frozen. The name hit her like a physical blow: "*Dunce*... *Dunce*..."
The blood drained from her face, leaving her ashen. Her fingers trembled uncontrollably, causing her crystal goblet to slip and shatter on the stone floor. The sharp sound echoed like a gunshot in the sudden silence of the hall. *Dunce... My Dunce... Not dead? Alive? And so... powerful?* Years of grief, the acceptance of loss taught to her by that slimy Reaper Shu... it all shattered with the glass. Her mind reeled, the ornate Governor's hall blurring around her. The world narrowed to the patch of empty air where that tall, powerful figure, clad in tatters yet radiating undeniable strength, had just stood.