The grand adjudication hall of the Royal Adventurers Guild smelled of hot sealing wax, melted lead, and centuries of administrative pride.
Dozens of veteran mercenaries, silver-ranked spellblades, and armored frontier scouts stood gathered in restless clusters across the floor.
Whispers rippled through the crowded hall like wind across tall mountain grass, carrying frantic rumors of the previous night's events.
Word of the Seven-Shard Gate's total collapse in the northern foothills already shook the capital's military circles to their foundations.
To compound the frenzy, rumors exploded at dawn that two high-tier underworld assassins lay crippled and broken behind Weaver's Market.
Several older guild veterans who spent fifteen years grinding their ranks in the mud stared toward the entrance with tense, expectant expressions.
Three months ago, Hajin was nothing more than a ragged, half-starved orphan who took copper-tier pest extermination quests in the municipal sewers.
