Marcus led him out of the Rank Re-evaluation Room and down a different corridor, one that smelled faintly of old maps and gun oil instead of polished stone. A war room, Aryan realized as they entered — tables covered in terrain charts, pins marking troop positions, a low hum of tension that hadn't existed anywhere else in the Guild.
"Three days ago, an Abyssal Gate opened in the Northern Wastes," Marcus said, tracing a finger along a map pinned to the central table. "Level 50 classification, minimum. The military's been holding a containment line since, but it's bleeding them dry. Two A-Rank teams went in to try and close it from the source. Neither came back out."
Aryan studied the map — rough terrain, a circle marked in red ink where the Gate itself sat, smaller marks radiating outward showing skirmish points, casualty counts written in a hand that had clearly stopped trying to keep the numbers neat. "And you're telling me this because..."
"Because you just tested A-Rank on a machine that's never registered anyone above sixty percent strain, and because something about you doesn't add up the way normal hunters add up," Marcus said bluntly. "I'm not going to pretend this is a fair request. A Level 50 Gate is not a reasonable thing to send anyone at, let alone someone who got his System a day ago." He looked up, meeting Aryan's eyes directly. "But the wave breaking through that line is going to hit this city in under twenty-four hours if something doesn't change. I'm asking, not ordering. You're free to walk out that door and never think about the Northern Wastes again."
Aryan thought about that for a long moment — not about the danger, which was obvious and real, but about the shape of the choice itself. Three days ago he'd had no choices at all. He'd carried bags where he was told, walked into caves he was told to walk into, and bled for people who'd left him there the first time it cost them anything. Marcus, for all his bluntness, was the first person in a long time to actually ask instead of assume.
"What's in it for me," Aryan said, "besides the obvious satisfaction of not watching this city get overrun?"
Marcus almost smiled at that — relief, maybe, that the boy was thinking practically instead of nobly. Nobility got people killed. Practicality, at least, suggested he intended to survive.
"Guild Vault access," Marcus said. "Limited, but real — three items of your choosing from the restricted collection if you come back successful. Beyond that, hazard pay scaled to A-Rank emergency response rates, and I'll personally sponsor your registration so nobody questions your rank again." He paused. "And whatever the System decides to give you. I understand that part's out of my hands entirely."
As if summoned by the mention, a familiar chime sounded in the back of Aryan's mind.
[Emergency Quest Available: "The Abyssal Wastes."]
[Objective: Assist in containing or closing the Level 50 Abyssal Gate.]
[Note: Full closure not required for quest completion. Survival and meaningful contribution will be assessed.]
[Warning: Threat level significantly exceeds Host's current capabilities. Proceed with extreme caution.]
The warning landed differently than the one in the cave had. That one had been a flat, indifferent statement of fact before a fight he'd had no choice but to enter. This one came with an actual door marked exit, clearly labeled, genuinely available.
Aryan read it twice, and found that the fear it should have produced wasn't quite there in the way he expected. What was there instead was something closer to recognition — the same quiet, sharpening focus he'd felt staring down the Alpha in that cavern, except this time he was choosing it instead of being cornered into it.
"It says I'm not strong enough," Aryan said.
"Probably accurate," Marcus said. "The two A-Rank teams that went in were considerably more experienced than you, and considerably better equipped. I'm not going to lie to you about the odds to get a yes out of you. That's not the kind of Guild Master I want to be, not with something like this."
"I appreciate the honesty," Aryan said. "Doesn't change the answer, though."
He thought of the cave. Of the side tunnel nobody listened to him about. Of the Alpha's claws and the dagger torn from his grip and the rock he'd driven into its throat with the last strength his body had to offer. He'd been outmatched then too, by every number that mattered, and the numbers had been wrong about exactly how the fight would end.
He didn't know if that pattern would hold against something built to swallow A-Rank teams whole. Nobody could promise him that. But he found, standing in that war room with a map full of red ink and missing soldiers, that he genuinely wanted to find out — not for the Guild, not even entirely for the city, but for the simple, stubborn reason that he was done letting other people decide how far his strength was allowed to go.
"I'll go," Aryan said. "But I want one thing clear before I do."
"Name it."
"If I die out there," Aryan said, "I want the report to say what actually happened. No 'presumed deceased, in line of duty' dressing it up into something prettier than it was. Just the truth. Whatever that turns out to be."
Marcus held his gaze for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind his eyes — respect, maybe, or the particular grief of a man who'd made this same request of soldiers before and watched too many of those reports get written for real.
"You have my word," Marcus said quietly. "Whatever happens out there, the truth gets written down. No dressing, no exceptions."
He extended a hand. Aryan shook it.
Outside the Guild's tall windows, the afternoon sun was already beginning its slow tilt toward evening, and somewhere far to the north, past roads thick with refugee carts and military convoys, a wound in the world kept widening, patient and hungry, waiting to see exactly what the city would send at it next.
Aryan didn't know if he'd survive what came through that Gate.
He knew, for the first time in a long time, that the choice to find out was entirely his own.