When Gunnar and Jeliel stepped through the gates of the Adventurers’ Association of Trowell, the scene before them was chaos.

  A slow-moving line stretched ahead, filled with anxious chatter, shuffling boots, and curious eyes. The hall buzzed with noise, the air thick with the smell of damp leather, dust, and raw anticipation. It looked like half the kingdom had decided to become adventurers that morning.

  “Told you,” Jeliel said with a lopsided grin. “If you wanted to beat the line, you had to show up before dawn—with bread in hand.”

  Gunnar nodded, taking in the surroundings. Decorative shields lined the walls, worn bronze plaques bore faded inscriptions, and a noticeboard overflowed with scribbled missions and reward posters. It felt more like a market — except with adrenaline instead of fish.

  “The system works by insignias,” Jeliel explained. “You start as Teicho — wooden badge. Pretty name for saying: you do whatever nobody else wants to.”

  “Like what?”

  “Cleaning latrines. Finding cats. Harvesting turnips. Hauling sacks. Delivering letters. Helping old men chop firewood. If someone’s paying for it, the guild marks it as a mission.”

  Gunnar grimaced.

  “That’s being an adventurer?”

  “For some, yeah. Some folks just want the badge to dodge farm work. Others use it to stay out of the army. With it, you can travel between cities without paying tolls. It’s... freedom, kind of.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m copper,” Jeliel said, tapping the badge on his lapel. “Second rank. Then comes iron — that’s when the real fun starts.”

  “And after that?”

  “Bronze. That’s where the real rankers show up — mages, warriors, proper alchemists. People who survive monsters. Silver and gold? That’s legend.”

  The line inched forward. Gunnar absorbed it all with quiet focus.

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  “And you want to climb?”

  “Sure. But every step costs more — and gets more dangerous. For now, copper feeds me, gives me a bed, and lets me choose when I nearly die.”

  “Next!” barked a tired voice from behind the counter.

  Felicia looked like she was made of vinegar and boredom. She didn’t even glance up.

  “Name?”

  “Gunnar. Gunnar of Dunverin.”

  She scribbled in a ledger.

  “Age?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Can you read?”

  “More or less…”

  “Ever killed something bigger than a rat?”

  “A kremel…”

  She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

  “Wow. A kremel. You’ll go far, kid.”

  Gunnar cleared his throat, unsure if it was sarcasm or praise.

  “Five copper rees,” she said, hand out.

  “So friendly,” Jeliel muttered.

  Before Felicia could respond, a steady voice cut across the hall.

  “That’s enough. This’ll take all day.”

  A man in light armor with scarred forearms approached. He wore a bronze badge. His gaze was sharp, his voice confident.

  “Wager,” Felicia grumbled. “Gonna interrupt my register again?”

  “We’ll do a practical group test. Saves time. Most of them are marching out with the army tomorrow anyway.”

  “You just want an excuse to play arena.”

  “And I will,” he said, ignoring her tone. Beside him, a priestess in pale linen folded her arms.

  “No healing requests. I’m warning you now.”

  “It’ll be light,” Wager replied. “I’ll hold back.”

  Reluctantly, the recruits agreed. It beat standing in line.

  The arena was a stone gym beside the guildhall. Worn ground, high windows, and the smell of dust and sweat. Jeliel looked around and muttered:

  “Great. Humiliation before lunch.”

  Wager stood in the center.

  “Ranker. Level two. I’ll hold back. If you’re not idiots, you’ll walk out just fine.”

  He called the first: Osmad. The boy was on the floor in two seconds.

  Then he called Gunnar.

  He stepped forward, trying to remember Tolvad’s lessons. Solid footing. Low stance.

  But Wager was fast. One twist, one pull — Gunnar hit the ground hard.

  “Next.”

  But Gunnar got up.

  His ribs ached. His pride more so.

  Wager turned his back. Gunnar charged — and landed a punch on the ranker’s jaw.

  It wasn’t strong.

  But it was honest.

  Wager turned, grinning — and replied with a proper strike. Not lethal, but charged with mana.

  Gunnar dropped like a felled tree.

  “I might’ve overdone it,” Wager admitted.

  The priestess stepped in.

  “Is it broken?”

  “No. Just a nasty bruise,” she said, healing with a faint glow.

  Jeliel appeared, grinning.

  “You hit him first. You can say you punched a ranker and lived.”

  Wager, watching from a distance, turned to the priestess.

  “The big one… did you feel anything?”

  “Nothing. No mana trace. Just raw strength.”

  “Hmph. Waste of talent.”

  Later, Gunnar limped back to the tent — bruised, aching, and red-faced from both pain and embarrassment.

  But waiting for him was news:

  They would depart.

  And the wooden badge was already pinned to the side of his worn-out shirt.