Altair walked back toward Grayhaven.
Hands in his pockets.
His boots followed the curve of the road as the forest gradually loosened its hold. Trees thinned. Shadows softened. The air lost its edge, trading damp leaves and old bark for dust and stone.
Ahead, the town walls caught the late afternoon light.
Altair slowed slightly—not because he needed to, but because his thoughts refused to stay quiet.
"…Divine Order," he muttered.
The word tasted strange. Too clean. Too deliberate.
He rolled it around his tongue once more, then clicked his tongue.
"Tch. Never heard of it back then."
The banners rose again in his mind—not their symbols, but the feeling they carried. The way the land beyond them had felt trimmed, disciplined. Not wild. Not hostile.
Claimed.
Restricted area.
Altair's gaze drifted to the side as he walked, eyes unfocused.
"So something like that shows up…" he murmured, "…and starts drawing lines."
His boots crossed from dirt to stone.
The first signs of town life reached him—distant voices, the clatter of carts, the faint ring of metal on metal. A pair of merchants passed him going the opposite way, arguing loudly about prices. Neither spared him more than a glance.
Altair passed beneath the gate.
The guards nodded absently, more concerned with their own boredom than the man slipping past them. Inside, the streets were alive—stalls reopening, people moving with purpose, children darting between legs before being shouted back by parents.
Ordinary.
Too ordinary.
Altair exhaled quietly through his nose.
"And that blood-thirst…" he muttered, eyes half-lidded as he walked. "Controlled. Held back."
His steps slowed for half a heartbeat.
"…That kind of thing doesn't belong to small players."
A cart rattled past him, snapping him back into motion. He shifted aside without looking, letting it pass.
The memory of the bar surfaced—two old men, voices dropping when certain names came up, jokes that stopped just short of saying anything useful.
"…Those old guys knew more than they said," Altair murmured.
He rolled his shoulders once, loosening them as if shedding the forest along with its questions.
"I need answers," he said quietly.
He glanced down the street toward the guild hall, its familiar silhouette rising above the surrounding buildings.
"…And I won't get them out there."
Altair adjusted his stride and headed deeper into the town, expression settling into something lighter—curious, almost amused.
He stoped infront of the guild.
The moment Altair pushed open the guild doors—
noise slammed into him.
Not the usual chatter.
Not the relaxed chaos of before.
This was louder.
Denser.
Alive.
His eyes widened slightly.
The hall was packed.
Adventurers filled nearly every table—some laughing, some arguing, some hunched over maps. Weapons leaned against chairs. Armor clinked when people shifted. The air buzzed with overlapping voices and restless energy.
"…Huh," Altair muttered.
He stepped inside.
The wall.
His gaze flicked to the far side of the hall.
The jagged hole that once existed was gone. Stone restored. Beams reinforced. Not even a crack remained.
Altair stared at it for a moment.
"…Fast workers," he murmured.
He wove through the crowd with unhurried steps, slipping between groups without apology. No one stopped him. A few glanced his way—some curious, some annoyed—but the noise swallowed attention quickly.
Then he heard it.
A sharp voice near the counter.
"We're not mad enough to take that mission."
Altair slowed.
A man with red spiky hair stood at the front desk, arms crossed, expression hard. His armor was scratched but well-maintained—someone experienced, not reckless.
Beside him, a woman with purple hair shook her head.
"Exactly," she said flatly. "You won't find a single adventurer in this town willing to accept that request."
A bulky beastman stood behind them, fur bristling slightly as he grunted in agreement.
"No one's risking their life for that."
Altair's eyes widened.
"…Life-threatening?" he muttered.
A smile crept onto his face.
He stepped forward.
"I'll take it."
The words cut cleanly through the hall.
The noise died.
Chairs creaked as people turned.
Conversations stopped mid-sentence.
Every eye shifted toward him.
The red-haired man turned slowly.
His gaze dropped first—landing on the small copper badge hanging at Altair's waist.
Then it snapped back up.
"…Copper?" he said.
The word came out flat. Disbelieving.
For a second, he just stared—then his brows shot up.
"Oi," he barked, stepping half a pace forward. "You're copper-ranked."
A beat.
"…Are you seriously that suicidal?"
A few nearby adventurers shifted. Someone let out a quiet scoff. Another shook their head as if they'd already decided how this would end.
The purple-haired woman crossed her arms.
Her eyes lingered on Altair for a moment longer than necessary before narrowing.
"Do you even know what the mission is?" she asked.
Altair's smile didn't fade.
It didn't sharpen either.
"No."
The word dropped into the space between them.
And stayed there.
Conversation died mid-breath.
A mug froze halfway to someone's lips. The low murmur of the guild thinned into an awkward hush, as if everyone was waiting to see if that answer had been a joke.
It wasn't.
The receptionist stiffened behind the counter, fingers tightening around her ledger.
"S–Sir," she said carefully, forcing a professional smile that didn't quite hold, "this is a… highly risky request."
The red-haired man nodded sharply, seizing the opening.
"I'm Silver-ranked," he said, tapping his own badge with a hard finger. "And even I won't touch it. So stop being foolish."
An old couple standing just behind the counter shifted uneasily.
The woman clasped her hands together. The man stepped forward, bowing his head slightly—not deeply, but with respect earned from years of habit.
"Young one," the old man said, voice calm but weighted, "we appreciate your courage. Truly."
He hesitated, eyes flicking to the copper badge.
"But you're still young. And your rank—"
Altair laughed.
Not loud.
Not mocking.
Just… amused.
A short breath of laughter, like he'd heard something unexpectedly funny.
"Old man," he said easily, lifting one hand in a casual wave, "don't worry."
He smiled—not wide, not sharp.
Comfortably confident.
"You don't know me."
The old man blinked.
Altair's gaze slid back to the counter.
"Just tell me the mission."
The receptionist hesitated.
Then straightened, shoulders squaring as she slipped back into procedure.
"…This request is classified as Gold-ranked," she said clearly. "Escort these two safely to Ravenfall City."
A ripple moved through the hall.
Someone inhaled sharply.
Another adventurer muttered, "Gold…?"
The receptionist continued, eyes flicking briefly to Altair before returning to the couple.
"The route requires crossing the Ashfall Mountains," she said. "There is a wyvern nest along the path."
Altair blinked.
Once.
"…And?" he asked.
The silence stretched.
The receptionist stared at him.
"…Sir," she said slowly, as if speaking to someone hard of hearing, "there are at least a dozen wyverns."
Altair burst out laughing.
This time, it was louder.
A clean, bright sound that didn't fit the tension in the room at all.
He even wiped at the corner of his eye, shoulders shaking faintly.
"Those flying lizards?" he said, still smiling. "Yeah, they're dangerous."
He lowered his hand and looked back at them.
"For you."
A few jaws dropped.
The purple-haired woman's lips parted slightly before snapping shut.
Altair turned toward the old couple.
His tone softened—not gentler, just steadier.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'll take your mission."
The woman's eyes widened.
"I was planning to head toward a city anyway," Altair added casually. "There are things I need that I can't get in this town."
The couple exchanged glances.
Uncertainty passed between them—fear, hope, doubt tangled together.
Then the old man nodded slowly.
"Thank you," the old man said quietly. "If you escort us safely… we promise to help you however we can."
Altair nodded.
"Get ready," he said. "Tell me when you are."
Then—
they nodded.
The old woman smiled faintly.
"We won't take long."
They turned and left the guild together.
Altair watched them go, hands still in his pockets, smiling.
"Kid," the red-haired man said behind him, disbelief thick in his voice, "do you really want to die?"
He paused.
"…Who are you, anyway? I've never seen you around."
Altair glanced back.
"I'm not from this town."
He shrugged.
"I came yesterday, registered as an adventurer, and now I'm leaving."
He turned—
—and winked.
The purple-haired woman scoffed.
"You've got a pretty face...too pretty," she said. "Too bad there's nothing inside your head."
The beastman snorted.
"Handsome without brains."
Altair laughed.
Not loudly.
Not mockingly.
Just enough that it carried.
"You guys are really funny."
A few adventurers bristled at the tone. Someone clicked their tongue. Another scoffed under their breath.
Altair didn't wait for a response.
He turned, scanned the hall once, then walked toward an empty table near the center. The chair scraped softly as he pulled it back and dropped into it without ceremony.
Altair leaned back into the chair.
The wood creaked softly beneath his weight.
He folded his arms across his chest, settled in as if he had nowhere else to be—then lifted one leg.
Then the other.
His boots came to rest on the tabletop.
The sound was small.
A dry, strained groan of wood pushed past its tolerance.
Someone nearby sucked in a sharp breath.
Another adventurer froze mid-sip.
The mug slipped.
Ale splashed across the table as the man choked, coughing violently.
"Hey—!"
Altair didn't turn.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't even open his eyes.
He tilted his head back a fraction more, spine easing into the chair as if he'd just found the most comfortable spot in the room.
And then—
he closed his eyes.
Just like that.
The guild hall reacted a heartbeat later.
Chairs scraped. Voices dropped. Then surged back up, tangled and sharp.
"Is he serious…?" "That's copper rank?" "No way." "Is he trying to die?" "Who does that inside a guild hall?"
Eyes turned.
Not all at once.
But steadily.
Some narrowed. Some widened. A few lingered with open irritation.
A silver-rank adventurer clenched his jaw. Someone else's hand hovered near their weapon, then pulled back.
Altair remained still.
Breathing slow. Even.
The noise reached him—then slid past.
Like wind against stone.
He exhaled once.
Long. Unhurried.
The table creaked again under his boots.
That was the only answer he gave.
To him, the argument was already over.
The mission was taken. The path was chosen.
All that remained—
was time.
To Be Continued.....