Chapter 94
Written by Bayzo Albion
"Welcome back, anyway. Gonna grab the craziest quest on the board and pull off another miracle, like always?"
I shook my head slowly, my eyes dropping to the ancient counter. The wood was a tapestry of history: notches from daggers, dents from slammed coins, and grooves worn smooth by desperate fists. The entire guild pulsed with the echoes of others' pain, sweat, and spilled blood—a living monument to survival's harsh toll.
"I'm sorry, my dear lady," I said softly but firmly. "I'm not dancing with death a second time. I barely scraped through the first round by sheer luck. And death? She's a vengeful one. Best not to poke her."
She tilted forward again, something razor-sharp flashing in her eyes, like a hidden dagger catching the light.
"You're definitely still a child," she murmured, "but you talk like you've lived a thousand years. Your words carry the weight of an ancient sage, weary from centuries of watching empires crumble and stars ignite."
"No, I'm still a kid," I chuckled, a wry smile tugging at my lips. "Come on, I only weaned off my mother's milk not long ago—it's probably still drying on my chin. I haven't lived a millennium. I'm just smart because I'm weak. When you lack raw power, you survive on wits alone. So I sound like an old man... otherwise, I'd have been dead ages ago."
The receptionist fell silent for a couple of heartbeats. A shadow flickered in her eyes—respect? Or just the impulse to call my bluff? She couldn't quite pin down how much of it was genuine wisdom and how much was my usual defensive posturing. Finally, she exhaled heavily, shuffled the papers in front of her, and thrust a quest board toward me without meeting my gaze.
"Fine, then pick your poison, you old soul in a boy's body. We've got it all: rat extermination in cellars, treks into cursed lands. Just don't come whining if you drag your sorry ass back here for bandages again."
I snatched the board and scanned the listings. It was all standard fare: monster clears, escort missions, ruin explorations, rare ingredient hunts. The bread-and-butter of an adventurer's grim existence. But one entry snagged my attention, standing out like a thorn among weeds:
"Dawn Gorge: The Vanished Silence."
No reward listed. No deadline. Just that cryptic title.
"What's this one about?" I asked, jabbing a finger at the line.
She glanced up, one eyebrow quirking in mild surprise.
"That? No one's touched it. The fools who tried never came back. And the ones who did... well, they returned as empty husks—no tongues, no minds, no words left in them."
I frowned, a prickle of unease crawling up my neck.
"And it's still up there?"
"Yeah." She shrugged nonchalantly. "Too ancient to archive, too terrifying to claim. Some say it's a trap. Others think it's a test from higher powers."
"And you?" I locked eyes with her, searching for the truth behind her facade.
She cocked her head slowly, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper.
"I think if you're as clever as you claim, you'll steer clear. But you're not clever—you're just bored with safety."
I smirked, a thrill racing through me—a intoxicating cocktail of fear and exhilaration that made my pulse quicken.
"Then maybe that's exactly where I need to poke my nose."
She studied me for a few more seconds, as if trying to dissect me: forged from iron will or sheer idiocy? Then she snorted, shaking off whatever thoughts plagued her.
"In that case, take this one too. My recommendation," she said with a sly grin, pulling a yellowed parchment from beneath the counter. The paper reeked of dust and a bitter herbal tang, like dried roots left too long in the dark. Scrawled in jagged handwriting was:
"White Mushrooms from the Depths of Darkwood Forest. Alive. At least three."
"They brew a potent elixir from these," she explained lazily, her words rolling out as if she'd sampled it herself once upon a time. "Folks say it lets you see spirits after a few swigs. But that's not the real draw. These shrooms have a unique property—no matter how much you drink, you won't get hooked. The alcohol doesn't stick. No withdrawals, no cravings. Pure magic, believe it or not."
She propped her cheek on her hand, her eyes glinting with cool detachment.
"They're a godsend for drunkards. Chug buckets if you want, and addiction never sinks its claws in. Nobles love stuff like this—miracles without messy repercussions. Fancy balls, endless wine, dancing with 'ghosts,' puking in the corners... and come morning, they're fresh-faced with zero regrets or evidence."
"And to keep their 'innocence' spotless," I grumbled, "some poor sap like me has to crawl into that damned forest and pry the mushrooms from rotting stumps."
"Spot on," she replied without a trace of a smile. "The forest gives, but never for free. We pay in time, in agony... and sometimes in flesh. That's how the world works. Magic's a fickle whore—she doesn't entertain empty-handed suitors."
I chuckled under my breath, staring at the faded parchment.
*So, to rake in gold by the shovel-full, I'll have to cozy up to the Forest Queen herself,* I thought wryly. *And preferably without getting devoured in the process.*
I looked back at the receptionist.
"Two quests at once? Trying to bury me or just test how greedy I am?"
She shrugged again, indifferent.
"Maybe both. But if you haul those mushrooms back alive, I might stop seeing you as a pathetic whelp." She tilted her head, almost affectionately. "Almost."
"Thanks for the invaluable intel," I said, turning away from the counter. My voice came out dry but composed—nearly polite.
On my way out, I glanced at the worn map tacked to the wall and mentally plotted my path.
*If rare magical flowers and fungi thrive in spots teeming with powerful monsters... then I just need to seek out the deadliest zones. Wonders don't sprout in peaceful meadows. Want fortune? Court death. That's where you'll find it.*
"Good luck, little hero," the receptionist called after me. Her tone wrapped everything: mockery, weariness, and that peculiar ring when "luck" sounds like a funeral bell tolling.
"Yeah," I muttered shortly.
I folded both parchments carefully and tucked them into my shirt, feeling their weight like twin death sentences pressing against my chest.
"Mark me down as departed," I said over my shoulder. "If I don't return, write me off as is. No songs, no speeches."
She raised an eyebrow, then nodded reluctantly.
"As you wish."
I pushed through the doors, the hinges creaking in protest. For an instant, the hall fell into an uneasy hush, broken only by the distant clatter of mugs and a muffled chuckle from the shadows. But I could feel the weight of dozens of eyes boring into my back—some hoping I'd return laden with spoils, others praying I'd vanish for good.
The guild's clamor fell away as I stepped outside—shouts, tankards, curses, laughter—all fading like a play I'd never belonged to. The door thudded shut behind me, cutting off the noise.
The street greeted me with its usual bustle, yet everything felt strangely alien. Cobblestones glistened with morning fog. Vendors barked prices at passing crowds; wagon wheels rattled; livestock lowed somewhere beyond sight. The smell of fresh bread drifted through the air, tempting yet distant, as if meant for someone else.
I slipped into a narrow alley where the noise dimmed. Damp wood and rusted iron scented the air; crates and barrels sagged along the walls. I sat on a worn cask and unfolded my map. My finger traced the faded ink: "Dawn Gorge." Below it: "Magical Forest." Names heavy with warnings.
*What the hell am I even doing?* The question echoed in my mind, unanswered and insistent. It wasn't for glory—I'd never craved the spotlight. Not for riches, though my pockets were light enough to tempt fate. Certainly not for revenge; no old grudges drove me forward. No, it was simpler, more primal than that. I just... had to keep moving. Standing still felt worse than marching straight into oblivion, like stagnation would rot me from the inside out before any monster could lay a claw on me.
With a faint sigh, I folded the map and set off toward the city's edge. Stone streets gave way to rutted earth; buildings thinned into open fields where wild grass swayed behind old fences. The road narrowed and curved into the wilderness.
On the horizon, the forest waited—silent, watchful.
The Magical Forest offered no warnings, no gates, no markers. One moment the path existed; the next it vanished beneath towering trees. Their blackened trunks rose like burnt pillars, their tangled canopy swallowing the sun and drowning the undergrowth in twilight. Shadows pooled thick and unmoving.
I stopped at the threshold, balanced between two worlds. One step would change everything. Even the wind felt different here—heavy, cautious—carrying faint whispers that lifted the hairs on my neck.