The stairs of the Moonveil Guild were wide and made of heavy, dark oak that didn't so much as creak under Tristan's weight.
He descended slowly, one hand gripping the banister as if it were a lifeline.
His ribs still throbbed with a rhythmic, dull heat, but the "1" in his Durability stat was apparently enough to keep him upright.
The main hall was a cathedral of organized chaos.
It was mid-afternoon, and the air was thick with the scent of pipe tobacco, old paper, and the sharp, ozone smell of active magic.
In his previous life, the most social interaction Tristan had was a "GG" in a team chat.
Now, walking into a room filled with actual, living people—people who looked like they stepped out of a high-budget period drama—made his palms itch with a phantom grease.
"Look at that," a booming voice echoed from the far end of the hall.
"The Sleeping Beauty finally decided to join the living."
Tristan turned to see the man who had pulled him out of the gutter.
Garrick Ironhart was sitting at a massive circular table littered with iron-bound ledgers and half-eaten crusts of bread.
He looked like the quintessential veteran: tall, scarred, and wearing a dark duster coat that had seen more rain than a coastal village.
"Garrick," Tristan said, his voice still a bit scratchy.
He sat down heavily in the chair opposite the big man. "I... I wanted to thank you properly. For the alleyway."
Garrick waved a meaty hand dismissively.
"Don't thank me. Thank Sylvara. She's the one who insisted we patrol that rat-hole. I was perfectly happy staying in the district with the better ale."
He leaned back, his dark eyes studying Tristan with a disconcerting intensity. "So. The 'Lost Silverbrook.' How's the head? Still foggy?"
"A bit," Tristan lied, leaning into the amnesia angle.
It was his only shield.
"People keep mentioning my family. The Silverbrooks. Sylvara made it sound like I should be famous, but I can't remember why."
Garrick snorted, reaching for a mug of dark liquid.
"Famous is one word for it. Mythic is another. According to the histories, the Silverbrooks were once the high nobility of Valdoria—mages so powerful they could command the very weather. But like all great things, they faded. Their numbers dwindled until most people thought the line had simply burned out a hundred years ago."
He took a long swig, wiped his mouth, and leaned in closer.
"There's a legend, kid. An old one. It says a Silverbrook only appears when Valdoria is in absolute, dire need of one. A 'Guardian of the Final Hour,' they call it."
Tristan felt a cold shiver run down his spine that had nothing to do with the drafty hall.
The Guardian of the Final Hour?
He thought of the Eschaton—The Blade of the Final Hour.
The System wasn't just giving him a cool name; it was tying him to a prophecy.
Garrick let out a sudden, bark-like laugh that startled Tristan.
"Of course, looking at you, I'd say the legend is about as reliable as a three-legged horse. You've got the hair, sure. But your mana? Kid, I've seen housecats with more magical 'oomph' than you're putting off right now. If the kingdom is waiting for you to save it, we might as well start learning the enemy's national anthem now."
"I... I'm working on it," Tristan muttered, his face heating up.
"Most people don't believe the stories anyway," Garrick continued, his tone turning more serious.
"To the modern Valdorian, a Silverbrook is just a ghost story. A fairy tale for kids who won't go to sleep. But keep your head down. Whether the legend is true or not, having that hair makes you a target for every ambitious noble and bored scholar in the capital."
Tristan nodded, his mind racing.
If the legend is true... and I just showed up... then something bad is coming.
The logic was simple, the kind of "inciting incident" logic he had seen in a thousand light novels.
The Hero appears because the Demon Lord is waking up.
But the Hero in this case was a guy whose magic sword broke on a piece of leather.
"I'll... I'll keep that in mind," Tristan said, standing up. "Thanks for the info, Garrick."
"Sure thing, 'Savior,'" Garrick chuckled, turning back to his ledgers.
"Try not to trip on the way back to your room. I'd hate to have to set those ribs a second time."
Back in the safety of his room, Tristan felt the walls closing in.
He went to the small wooden desk in the corner and opened the drawer, hoping to find something—anything—that might help him understand this world's magic.
Inside, he found a few discarded sheets of parchment covered in complex, geometric diagrams.
They were circles within circles, overlaid with strange, flowing script that looked like liquid gold.
Mana circuits, he realized. Or maybe spell-weaving patterns.
He stared at the diagrams, trying to concentrate.
In his old life, he could memorize the frame-data for a fighting game character in an afternoon.
But as he looked at the parchment, the lines seemed to blur and shift.
His head began to ache.
It wasn't just that it was a foreign language; it was as if his brain was physically refusing to process the information.
[ IQ: 1 ]
The blue notification popped up in the corner of his eye, mocking him.
"I get it! I'm stupid!" Tristan hissed at the empty air.
He slammed the parchment back into the drawer.
It was infuriating.
He was in a body that could probably win a bodybuilding competition, but his brain felt like it was running on a dial-up connection in a fiber-optic world.
He slumped onto the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.
He was a fraud.
A silver-haired fraud.
He wasn't a savior; he was a NEET who got lucky with a character-recreation screen he didn't even get to use.
Knock. Knock.
Tristan jumped, his heart rate spiking instantly. "I-in! Come in!"
The door opened, and a woman stepped inside.
She wasn't Sylvara.
This woman was shorter, with a bubbly energy that seemed to fill the room the moment she entered.
She had a bob of chestnut-brown hair and wore the green-trimmed robes of a junior guild mage.
She was carrying a tray with a bowl of steaming broth and a hunk of crusty bread.
[ NEW TARGET DETECTED ]
[ TARGET 03: SELENE BRIGHTWOOD ]
Status: Guild Mage / 3rd Circle
Social Standing: B-
Potential Stat Points: 50
Relationship Level: Curious
Curious? Tristan's internal alarm bells went off.
What does 'curious' mean? Is she suspicious? Does she know I'm a fake?
Selene walked over and set the tray on the bedside table with a cheery clatter.
She didn't leave immediately; instead, she pulled the velvet chair closer and sat down, crossing her legs.
She leaned her chin on her hand, her bright eyes scanning Tristan from head to toe.
"So," she said, her voice filled with a playful lilt.
"The legend awakens. I'm Selene. I work in the alchemy and lens-grinding department, but I moonlight as the guild's unofficial welcoming committee."
Tristan swallowed hard, his skin feeling three sizes too small. "I... I'm Tristan. Silverbrook. Apparently."
"Apparently?" Selene giggled, reaching out as if to touch his hair before pulling back at the last second.
"Oh, it's the real deal. I've seen enough noble-born 'pretty boys' to know the difference between a dye job and the genuine article. That shimmer is unmistakable. You look like you were forged in a moonlight kiln."
"T-thanks," Tristan stammered. He could feel the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.
Don't panic. Just be a normal human. Talk to her. She's just a 3D girl. A very high-definition, very close 3D girl.
Inside his mind, the 28-year-old Masaru was screaming.
This was his nightmare. A beautiful woman, less than three feet away, looking at him with genuine interest.
In his old life, he would have retreated into a world of "uWu" and "lol" behind a screen.
Here, he could see the individual lashes of her eyes and the way her lips curved into a smirk.
"Sylvara told me you've lost your memory,"
Selene said, her eyes narrowing slightly, though the playfulness remained.
"That's a very convenient trope, Mr. Silverbrook. Is it true? Or are you just hiding from some very angry creditors? Or maybe a jilted lover?"
"It's true," Tristan said, perhaps too quickly.
"I don't remember anything before waking up in that alley. Everything is... blank."
"How tragic," Selene murmured, though she didn't sound particularly sad.
She leaned in closer, so close that Tristan could smell the faint, herbal scent of the alchemy labs on her robes.
"But you know, sometimes a blank slate is a good thing. Especially for a Silverbrook. You get to decide what kind of 'Legend' you're going to be."
She reached out again, and this time, she didn't pull back.
She ran a finger down the sleeve of his shirt, tracing the line of his bicep. Tristan froze, his breath hitching.
"You're very well-built for a 1st Circle mage," she noted, her voice dropping a semi-tone.
"Most of the boys in the academy are like wet noodles. They spend so much time in libraries they forget that muscles exist. But you... you look like you could actually hold your own in a fight, if you weren't so busy getting robbed."
"I... I was caught off guard," Tristan managed to say, his voice cracking. God, why am I sweating so much? My Durability is 1, but my Social Anxiety is 9999.
Selene's eyes traveled back up to his face.
She seemed to be enjoying his discomfort.
To her, he was a mysterious, handsome noble who was adorably shy.
To him, she was a terrifying predator in a green robe.
"You're very tense, Tristan," she said softly.
"Are you afraid of me? I'm only a 3rd Circle. I can't do much more than light a fire or clean a lens."
"I'm not... I'm just not used to... company," he replied, his eyes darting toward the door.
Selene laughed, a bright, clear sound that seemed to mock his inner turmoil.
She stood up, but she didn't leave.
Instead, she walked around the bed, her skirts brushing against the frame.
She stopped right beside his shoulder, leaning over so that her hair nearly touched his cheek.
"You know, everyone is talking about you," she whispered.
"A Silverbrook in the Moonveil Guild. It's the biggest thing to happen since the King's Jubilee. We're all wondering the same thing."
"W-what?" Tristan asked, his heart hammering so hard he was sure she could hear it.
Selene turned her head, her lips just inches from his ear.
Her expression was no longer just playful; it was pointedly, dangerously inquisitive.
"A man who looks like you... from a family like yours... who has ended up in a gutter with no memory and no mana." She paused, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips.
"Tell me, Tristan. Are you a virgin?"