Back at the Guild
The swordswoman—Brynn, as the guild now chorused her name—charged.
Her form was perfect, a textbook lunge honed by a hundred real battles. The wooden practice blade in her hands was a blur, its path a line of pure, efficient violence aimed not to kill, but to indisputably dominate. The air itself seemed to part for her.
Sai Ji stood perfectly still.
In his head, time didn't slow. It simply… clarified. He saw the minute shift in her shoulders predicting the strike's angle, the faint scuff of her boot on the sawdust, the flare of her nostrils as she committed. It wasn't a supernatural sense. It was the cold, hyper-detailed clarity of a predator watching prey move, a function of a mind and body built to command battlefields, even if he couldn't remember why.
"A sliver, my King," Sal Vera whispered, her voice a calming hum in the storm of his panic. "Just a whisper of force."
"What's the metric for a 'whisper'?" he thought back, desperation edging his mental voice. "Pascal-seconds? Newtons? The force required to open a stubborn jar?!"
"Think of not breaking a soap bubble."
That was worse.
Brynn was upon him. The wooden sword swept in, aiming to crack against his ribs and send him sprawling in a humiliating, crowd-pleasing heap.
Sai Ji moved.
He didn't parry. He didn't dodge. He simply rotated his torso, letting the blade whistle past him by a millimeter, and then brought his own practice sword up in a short, almost dismissive, tapping motion.
He aimed for the flat of her blade, a gentle redirect.
His wood met hers.
CRACK-THOOOM.
The sound was wrong. It wasn't the clack of training weapons. It was the sound of a mature oak being split by lightning, followed by a deep, concussive thump of displaced air.
The swordswoman's eyes, moments ago blazing with triumph, widened into perfect circles of shock.
Then she was gone.
Not knocked back. Catapulted.
She flew across the guild hall in a flat, horizontal line. She crashed through a stack of training mats, which exploded into a cloud of stuffing and leather. She tumbled over a roped-off sparring ring, snapping the posts. She slid, back-first, across a long wooden table, scattering cards, coins, and ale steins, before finally coming to a stop wedged between two large ale kegs, her legs sticking comically into the air. A single, slow drip of water from a overturned tankard plinked onto her forehead.
The silence that followed was so absolute, Sai Ji could hear the faint fizz of a dying magic lantern across the room.
Someone in the back dropped a boiled potato. It hit the floor with a solid, accusatory thud.
Midnight Wolf's voice was a strangled squeak. "A… a tap? That was a TAP?! Bro, you yeeted a fully-armored A-ranker with a love tap!"
Nyx let out a long, slow sigh, the sound of a man watching his master use a holy relic to swat a fly. "Master… your calibration is, and I say this with utmost respect, catastrophic."
Aeliana winced. "The intent was gentle. The execution was… tectonic."
Sai Ji stared at the practice sword in his hand, then at the devastation trail leading to the dazed swordswoman. "I… I aimed for a parry," he whispered, horrified. "A soft parry."
The dwarf who had spoken earlier let his tobacco pouch fall from limp fingers. "Lad," he rasped, "that wasn't a parry. That was a localized weather event."
A rogue near the doorway made a holy sign over his chest. "Sealed demon lord," he muttered to his companion. "Has to be. Or a demigod doing a penitence quest. No level one has 'accidental sonic boom' in their skill tree."
Sal Vera's delighted laughter trilled in his mind. "Oh, splendid! You have communicated your 'otherness' quite succinctly. They will now fear you in an entirely new, bureaucratically complex way."
"This isn't helpful!" Sai Ji screamed internally.
Brynn groaned, pushing herself upright. She was soaked in ale, covered in sawdust, and her armor was dented in a perfect, sword-shaped impression over her breastplate. She looked down at it, then up at Sai Ji. The fury was gone. Replaced by a sort of dazed, reverent terror.
"You…" she breathed, her voice carrying in the silent hall. "You hit me… with a wooden sword… and I felt the mountain fall on me."
Sai Ji took a step forward, hands raised placatingly. "I am so, so sorry! Are you okay? Do you need a healer? I have… a moldy apple?" He fumbled in his beginner's bag.
Brynn just stared. "A monster," she said, but the word held no malice. It was a statement of fact, like calling the sky blue.
The guild erupted, not in violence, but in a cacophony of disbelief and wild theory-crafting.
"GENETICALLY STURDY?!" someone roared, repeating Sai Ji's pathetic excuse.
"He's a dragon in a skin-suit!"
"A cursed prince!"
"A walking dungeon boss!"
"I want his autograph!"
Midnight Wolf had prostrated himself at Sai Ji's feet. "SENPAI! IGNORE THEM! THEY KNOW NOTHING! Take me as your disciple! Your sandal-bearer! Your professional hype-man! I can fetch potions and provide comic relief!"
Sai Ji tried to step around him. "I don't need a hype-man, I need a time machine and a less-conspicuous bone structure!"
Nyx watched the prostrate player with clinical interest. "He is enthusiastic. Loyalty could be cultivated. He would make an adequate herald."
Aeliana flicked Nyx's ear. "We are not collecting strays. We are trying to be inconspicuous." She gestured to the room full of people now either staring in terror or sketching Sai Ji's likeness on napkins. "It's going poorly."
Before the chaos could spiral further, the main doors of the guild hall boomed open.
Not from a kick, but from the sheer presence of the man who entered.
The cold of Frostfall swept in with him, but it was less chilling than his demeanor. Guildmaster Rokan stood a head taller than anyone else, his frame broad under a worn fur-lined coat. A web of old scars traced one side of his face, pulling his mouth into a permanent, dissatisfied grimace. His eyes, the grey of winter stone, swept across the hall—the cratered floor, the shattered mats, the ale-soaked, starstruck Brynn, and finally came to rest on the cluster of absurdly beautiful newcomers surrounding the source of the destruction.
Every other adventurer in the room snapped to a form of attention, their previous noise dying instantly.
"Guildmaster," a few muttered.
Rokan didn't acknowledge them. His boots, thick-soled and practical, echoed on the wooden floor as he walked toward Sai Ji. He stopped a few paces away, his gaze like a physical weight.
"You," he said, his voice a low rumble that didn't need to be raised. "The walking catastrophe in the cheap cloak. Explain."
Sai Ji's mouth went dry. Up close, Rokan didn't smell of ale or sweat, but of pine, steel, and something cold and sharp—like the air after a lightning strike. "It… it was an accident. A duel. She insisted. I tried to be gentle."
Rokan's eyes flicked to Brynn, who was being helped up by her mortified party members. "Gentle." He repeated the word as if tasting something foreign. He looked back at Sai Ji, his gaze dissecting him. "You're not human."
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through Sai Ji. He knows. He sees it. The game is over. "I—I am! Mostly! Very, verifiably human-shaped!"
Nyk shifted subtly, a hand drifting toward a hidden blade. Aeliana's posture became deceptively relaxed, the prelude to movement.
Rokan's scar twitched. "I didn't say you weren't human-shaped. I said you're not human." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "You're too… polished. The proportions are off. The way the light hits your face. It's like looking at a master's painting of a person, not the person themselves. You're hiding something under a very good glamour, kid. And whatever it is, it packs a punch."
The relief was almost as dizzying as the fear. He didn't see the Sovereign. He just saw a really good disguise. Sai Ji could work with that. "I… come from a long line of… aesthetically fortunate people? With… surprising grip strength?"
Rokan stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then he snorted, a short, humorless sound. "Fine. Keep your secrets. This is a guild, not an inquisition. But you broke my hall." He gestured to the destruction. "And you've caused a spectacle, which I hate."
He turned to address the room. "The show's over! Clean this mess up! You!" He pointed at Brynn's party. "Your tab just doubled. Consider it a stupidity tax."
Then he turned back to Sai Ji. "You want to be an adventurer?"
"Yes," Sai Ji said, the word fervent with genuine desire.
"What rank?" a bold mage called out.
"He launched Ironmaiden Brynn into next week!" the dwarf tank yelled. "That's S-rank raw power!"
"A-rank at minimum!" another shouted.
Rokan silenced them with a look. He appraised Sai Ji again, not looking at his face, but at his hands, his stance, the wary, hopeful look in his eyes. "Beginner," he declared.
The guild erupted in fresh outrage. "BEGINNER?!"
"YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS!"
"HE'S A NATURAL DISASTER WITH EYELASHES!"
Rokan's voice cut through the din, sharp as a whip crack. "He has no registered kills. No completed quests. No party history. He walks in, causes a diplomatic incident with a piece of pine, and you want me to give him a rank that lets him take goblin-clearing contracts? No." He fixed Sai Ji with his flinty gaze. "You start at the bottom. F-rank. You'll fetch lost cats and pick herbs until you learn control. And you'll pay for the repairs out of your first ten quests' earnings."
A wave of profound, soul-deep relief washed over Sai Ji. F-rank. Anonymous. Bottom of the ladder. It was perfect. It was everything he wanted. "Thank you," he said, the sincerity startling even himself.
Rokan grunted, seemingly unmoved. "Don't thank me. You'll hate it within a day." He jerked his head toward the back of the hall. "Registration desk. Now."
The Registration Desk
The receptionist, a tired-looking elf with ink-stained fingers, watched their approach like one might watch a landslide slowly advance toward one's house. She slid a parchment form across the worn counter without a word.
"Name?"
"Sai Ji."
"Level?"
"...One."
She didn't even blink,just made a note. Her eyes drifted to the still-steaming Brynn being comforted by her party.
"Previous combat experience?"
"Traveling,"Sai Ji said, sticking to the script. "Some… self-defense."
"Mhm."She scribbled. "Party affiliation?"
He glanced at Aeliana and Nyx."Just… forming one."
"Designation?"
"The…Moonborn Vanguard?" Aeliana supplied softly.
The receptionist wrote it down,her expression suggesting she'd heard dumber names. With a final, decisive stamp, she pushed a small, rough-hewn wooden badge across the counter. It had a single, carved 'F' on it.
"Congratulations.You're now the least important person in the guild. Here's your starter kit." She heaved a small, stained burlap bag onto the counter.
Sai Ji opened it. Inside was:
· One slightly moldy apple (ration).
· One small, very dull knife (weapon).
· A coil of cheap twine (tool).
· A pamphlet titled, So You Didn't Die on Day One: A Beginner's Guide to Not Being a Liability.
He stared into the bag, then up at the magnificent, chaotic, dangerous guild hall around him. He looked at his F-rank badge, then at the awe and terror still on the faces of the adventurers stealing glances at him.
A slow, real smile spread across his face. It was the smile of a man who, after being chased by gods, armies, and his own destiny, had finally found the starting line.
"It's perfect," he said.
Nyx nodded solemnly. "The humble trappings suit your current narrative, Master."
Aeliana smiled, her eyes warm. "You look like a proper adventurer. A terribly handsome, inexplicably strong one, but an adventurer nonetheless."
"Congratulations, my King," Sal Vera whispered, her voice soft with a pride that had nothing to do with thrones. "You have successfully infiltrated the most dangerous social dungeon of all: normalcy. The first quest is always the hardest."
Sai Ji hefted the sad little bag, the weight of the dull knife and the moldy apple more precious to him than any crown. He looked toward the guild's quest board, plastered with slips for missing pets, herb collection, and cellar rat extermination.
"Okay," he breathed, the word full of promise. "Let's go find a cat."