Altair Vane walked.
Not aimlessly—but without urgency.
The road stretched ahead in a long, quiet line. Stone beneath his boots. Wind brushing past his coat. Nothing felt wrong enough to demand attention. If anything, the land felt… normal.
Too normal.
He walked for hours.
Hills rose and fell. Sparse trees lined the road. A few travelers passed him by—carts creaking, boots crunching, conversations drifting past without pause. Altair paid them little mind. Different regions used different materials. Different customs. Differences meant nothing on their own.
He didn't question it.
Not yet.
It was only when the town appeared that he slowed.
Low stone walls rose from the land, solid but unpretentious. Watch posts crowned the gate towers, banners hanging limp in the still air. Smoke curled lazily above tiled rooftops, drifting without urgency.
A small town.
Busy. Breathing. Alive.
A wooden sign stood beside the gate, its surface worn smooth by time but its lettering freshly carved.
GRAYHAVEN
Altair's eyes lingered on the name for half a second.
"…Grayhaven," he murmured.
It didn't ring a bell.
Two guards stood at the open gate, spears resting against their shoulders. Their armor was practical—well-maintained, standardized, designed more for routine than war.
"Morning," one of them said, glancing at Altair as he approached.
"Business in town?" the other asked, tone bored but polite.
Altair didn't slow.
"Passing through," he replied casually.
The guards gave him a brief once-over—cloak, sword, posture.
No tension. No alarm.
One of them waved him through.
Altair stepped past the gate—
—and felt it.
Not pressure.
Not danger.
Just… displacement.
The streets unfolded before him, stone laid in clean, deliberate lines. Buildings stood close together, efficient in their spacing. The town wasn't old—but it wasn't new either.
The buildings were wrong.
Not broken. Not unfamiliar in shape—
—but in style.
Stonework was cleaner, blocks cut uniformly. Windows were framed with metal instead of wood. Roofs sloped at angles he didn't recognize, tiles fitted with a precision that left no room for guesswork.
This wasn't decay.
It was progress.
Altair walked on, eyes moving without hurry.
Street layout. Drainage channels cut neatly along the sides. Signboards hung at regulated heights, letters carved cleanly and consistently, as if following a shared standard rather than individual taste.
"…Oh," he muttered quietly.
Merchants shouted prices from open stalls. Children darted between pedestrians before being pulled back by scolding parents. Near a tavern, a cluster of adventurers laughed loudly, armor clanking as mugs slammed against wooden tables.
Loud. Messy. Alive.
Grayhaven didn't feel wrong.
It felt… newer than it should have been.
Altair's lips curved faintly as he continued deeper into the town.
Then he saw it.
A familiar symbol, etched cleanly into stone above a large building near the town's center.
Two crossed blades.
A shield.
Adventurer Guild.
Altair stopped.
This wasn't a large town. Not a trade hub. Not a border city.
And yet—
"…This place has a guild?" he murmured.
His eyes narrowed slightly—not in suspicion, but calculation.
Small towns didn't used to warrant guild branches.
Which meant either the guild had expanded…
Or the world had reorganized itself while he wasn't looking.
Altair smiled faintly.
"Well," he said quietly, stepping forward,
"that answers a few questions."
He pushed open the door.
The guild hall was crowded.
Laughter spilled across the room. Adventurers bragged loudly, mugs clashing against wooden tables. Armor scraped against chairs. The air smelled of sweat, alcohol, and ink.
Quest boards lined the walls—parchments arranged neatly by rank, each stamped with an official seal.
Altair stood just inside the entrance, letting the noise wash over him.
He wasn't looking for anyone.
He was looking at how things were done.
Too orderly.
Too standardized.
He moved toward the notice wall, eyes drifting over requests and bounties without really reading them—until something above them caught his attention.
A wooden calendar.
Large. Official. Recently updated.
Altair stopped.
Stepped closer.
His eyes moved across the carved text.
Year 8400 — Post Great War
He stared.
"…Eight thousand four hundred?"
His brows knit together.
"No… last time it was…"
He frowned, lips moving silently as he recalculated.
"…Eight thousand one hundred fifty."
Silence crept into his thoughts.
Two numbers.
One gap.
Altair's eyes widened.
"…That's…" He paused. "…Two hundred and fifty years."
For a moment, his mind went blank.
Then it filled—fast.
He leaned back slightly, gaze unfocused.
"The sweet shop near the western gate…" he muttered. "…Definitely gone."
His lips twitched.
"The old weapon stall that overcharged for sharpening…"
"…Yeah. No chance."
He exhaled through his nose.
"And that rice bun stand run by the loud old man…"
A short pause.
"…I actually liked that one."
Altair stared at the calendar for another second.
Then he sighed.
"…That's unfortunate."
He turned away from the wall and walked toward an empty table and sat down, elbows resting lightly on the surface.
Two hundred and fifty years.
Altair leaned back in his chair, letting it creak under his weight. His gaze drifted to the ceiling, unfocused, as if the numbers were hanging there waiting to be arranged.
"…Twenty-five days," he murmured.
His fingers lifted, tapping lightly against the tabletop once.
"I went through all seven Hells," he said quietly.
Another tap.
"Roughly twenty-five days total."
He lowered his hand and stared at it for a moment.
"…And two hundred and fifty years passed up here."
Silence.
Altair's eyes sharpened slightly.
"…So one day down there," he muttered, lips curling faintly,
"equals about ten years on the surface."
He exhaled.
"Different flow," he said under his breath. "Figures."
No anger.
No disbelief.
Just acceptance.
He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the table.
"…So the world didn't stop," he said quietly. "Didn't wait."
A pause.
"…Just kept moving."
Altair straightened.
"Well," he added, almost casually,
"that explains a lot."
Altair was still mid-thought when a shadow fell across the table.
"Oi."
He didn't look up.
"Boy," the rough voice continued, irritated now. "Stand up. I want this seat."
Altair didn't respond.
Not because he was ignoring him.
Because his mind was still somewhere else.
A few heads turned.
Whispers followed.
"That's Garron Ironjaw."
"Poor kid's done for."
"At best, he'll be in bed for months."
A heavy hand slammed down on the table hard enough to rattle the mugs.
Garron Ironjaw leaned in, his bulk blocking the light, breath thick with alcohol.
"Didn't you hear me," Garron growled. "Or do you want—"
Altair's arm moved.
No wind-up.
No shift in posture.
Just a short, casual backward punch, barely extended.
THUD.
The sound cracked through the hall.
Garron's eyes bulged as his massive body lifted off the floor, smashing backward through the guild wall in a violent spray of wood and stone. He crashed through the street outside and vanished into the opposite building with a thunderous impact.
Silence fell like a dropped curtain.
Every head turned.
Altair pushed his chair back and stood up—fast.
Not tense.
Excited.
He planted both hands on the table, leaning forward, eyes bright.
"…I've decided."
He straightened and walked toward the reception counter with an easy stride.
The young receptionist froze as he approached, eyes wide, fingers tightening around her ledger.
Altair stopped in front of her.
His grin widened—open, genuine, unmistakably pleased.
"Registration," he said cheerfully.
"I'd like to become an adventurer."
To Be Continued…