By the time we reached the city gates, word had spread. No tolls for heroes, apparently—another classic RPG convention (Well I defeated a wyvern). Guards saluted, citizens cheered, and I caught at least three people sketching what were probably going to become very flattering wanted posters.
The commander—who introduced herself as Captain Lydia Steelheart because of course her name was something like that—escorted me toward the guild hall. Why do I have to go to the guild. Sassy perched on my shoulder, glaring at every person who looked at me with anything resembling admiration. Her tiny claws dug into my armor whenever someone got too close.
The guild hall was exactly what you'd expect: wooden tables covered in ale stains, a bulletin board full of suspiciously convenient quests, and adventurers who all looked like they'd stepped out of a character creation screen.
Captain Steelheart introduced me to the guild master—a gruff man with impressive facial hair and the kind of knowing smile that suggested he'd seen this exact scenario play out dozens of times before.
"So," he said, looking me up and down, "another hero appears just when we need one most. How convenient."
"Yeah, about that," I started, but he was already reaching for a stack of papers.
"Don't worry, we'll get you registered. Standard heroic package includes room and board, quest access, and a modest stipend for equipment maintenance. The demon lord's forces have been stirring lately, so we'll probably need you to—"
"Wait, wait, wait." I held up a hand. "Demon lord? Already? Shouldn't there be more buildup? Maybe some smaller regional threats first? A tournament arc?"
The guild master blinked. "Well... I suppose we could start you off with some goblin extermination quests if you prefer?"
"No, that's not..." I sighed. "Never mind. Continue."
Sassy chirped and breathed a small puff of flame that somehow conveyed deep sarcasm.
Somehow, in the span of a single day, I'd acquired a dragon daughter and my first harem candidate. The protagonist's life was already spiraling exactly as predicted.
And the worst part? I was pretty sure I was starting to enjoy it.
"Alright," I said, accepting the guild registration papers. "Let's see how badly this world wants to follow the script."
Captain Steelheart smiled—a genuine expression that made her look less like a walking romantic subplot and more like an actual person.
Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be as predictable as I thought.
Sassy sneezed, singeing the registration papers.
Or maybe it would be exactly as ridiculous as every webnovel I'd ever read.
Either way, I was committed now.
The guild hall smelled like beer, sweat, and the faint trace of disappointment—the kind of place where adventurers gathered to brag about jobs they didn't actually do themselves. Wooden tables bore the scars of countless knife games, and the bulletin board was covered in quests that ranged from "suspiciously convenient" to "obviously a trap."
I walked up to the front desk and dropped my loot onto the counter with a satisfying clunk. The receptionist—a woman with the kind of professional smile that had been weaponized through years of customer service—looked up from her paperwork.
"Golem core," I announced, placing the glowing crystal fragment carefully. "Wyvern fang." The tooth was easily the size of a dagger and twice as sharp. "Oh, and this sword and armor I... found."
I gestured vaguely at my equipment, hoping she wouldn't ask for details. How exactly do you explain mysterious treasure chests that spawn after boss fights? "Well, you see, I defeated a stone giant with garbage and then a convenient loot container materialized because this world runs on video game logic."
The receptionist examined the pile with the practiced eye of someone who'd seen everything twice. She didn't even ask where I got them, which was either professionalism or willful ignorance. Probably both.
She wrote something down in a ledger that looked older than civilization, stamped a piece of parchment with the enthusiasm of someone processing tax forms, and handed me a thin metal tag.
"Congratulations," she said with professional cheer that could have powered a small village. "You are now registered as an F-rank adventurer."
I stared at the tag. "F rank. As in... bottom of the barrel. Lowest of the low. Didn't-I-just-kill-a-damn-wyvern F rank?"
"Yes. All new registrants start at F rank, regardless of previous... accomplishments."
"Right. And I suppose the wyvern was just... a warm-up exercise? A gentle introduction to local wildlife?"
Her smile could have cut glass. "Guild protocol is very clear on this matter."
I could see the joy in her eyes die a little more with each word. Somewhere behind that customer service facade was a human soul slowly being crushed by bureaucracy.
"Of course it is," I muttered. "Because nothing says 'logical progression' like ignoring actual evidence of competence."
Sassy, perched on my shoulder, chirped in what sounded suspiciously like agreement.
At least they gave me something for the wyvern: a small pouch of silver coins. Enough to live comfortably for a week or two, assuming I didn't need anything fancy like "good food" or "a room without suspicious stains."
I considered buying some civilian clothes, but then I remembered the iron law of protagonist fashion: you get one outfit, and you wear it forever. Battle, formal dinner, swimming—same clothes. They stay spotless after fights, never smell bad, and somehow always fit perfectly regardless of how much muscle you gain from constant combat.
Do these people even shower? The world may never know.
I decided to embrace the absurdity and stuck with my mysterious chest armor.
Two days later, I was back at the guild, feeding Sassy at one of the corner tables. The little dragon was working on her third plate of roasted chicken, eating with the focused determination of someone who'd discovered capitalism and decided to bankrupt it through sheer appetite.
"You're going to eat me out of house and home," I told her, watching her demolish another drumstick. "Do you have any idea how much chicken costs?"
She burped a small puff of smoke directly into my face, which I chose to interpret as "No, and I don't care, keep the food coming, Papa."
That's when I overheard Captain Steelheart talking at the bar, her voice carrying that particular tone of someone discussing a problem that was rapidly becoming a crisis.
"The water supply situation is getting worse," she said to a grizzled man who looked like he'd seen every possible disaster twice. "The elves are charging us triple for fresh water now, and they won't explain why. Their usual trade representatives keep giving us the runaround."
She paused to take a drink. "We've also heard rumors that they're struggling with their own water sources. Some kind of contamination, maybe? Their caravans have been smaller, and the merchants look... worried."
Elves. Charging exorbitant prices for water while being mysteriously evasive about their reasons. That was almost impressive in its combination of capitalism and suspicious plot development.
I immediately thought: This. This is exactly the kind of mid-level quest that advances the main storyline while providing character development opportunities.