The morning sun over Lowhaven was far too bright for Aiven’s liking, especially since his left shoulder was currently vibrating at a frequency that made his teeth ache.

  "I’m telling you, Master, the next time that over-dressed mosquito shows his face, I shall not merely blast him," Virelle declared, drifting alongside him as they walked toward the Guildhouse. She was currently occupied with magically polishing a smudge off her sleeve. "I shall transmutate his blood into particularly sour lemon juice. He will be the first vampire in history to die of extreme heartburn."

  Aiven adjusted the strap of his bag, his new brass fingers clicking softly against the leather. "Sure, but I wish that we won’t be seeing him again. I haven’t had a smooth, normal quest run since I became an adventurer.”

  They pushed through the heavy oak doors of the Guildhouse. Being a Sunday, the hall was relatively quiet, the usual roar of adventurers replaced by a low, sleepy murmur. Aiven headed straight for the quest board.

  "AIVEN! HOLY—WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!”

  The shout was so sudden and so loud that Aiven nearly fired a mana bolt into the ceiling. He spun around to see Rysa standing by the tavern bar, a half-eaten piece of toast in one hand and her jaw practically hitting the floor.

  The red-haired pugilist sprinted over, her green eyes wide with a mixture of shock and professional curiosity. Before Aiven could move, she had grabbed his left arm, turning it over to inspect the brass plating and the pulsing white mana stone.

  “Is this… is this Marnie’s work?” Rysa whistled, her bandaged knuckles brushing the etched crystal. “Surviving her testing is one thing, but what kind of mess were you in to be desperate enough to go to her?”

  "It’s... it’s a long story, Rysa," Aiven stammered, gently disengaging his arm before Virelle decided to intervene. "But what are you doing here? I thought you said you only worked Mondays and Fridays? It’s Sunday."

  Rysa’s exuberant expression soured instantly. She leaned back against a pillar, crossing her arms. "I’m short on cash. Painfully short."

  Aiven blinked. "Didn't you just get a full gold coin from our last quest? That should have lasted you a month in the Lower Sectors."

  "Things happened," Rysa muttered, looking away. "Long story. Tell you what—you tell me how you sprouted a golden limb, and I’ll tell you where my gold went. Deal?"

  "My Master does not care for the tragic tales of fiscally irresponsible brawlers," Virelle interrupted, floating between them with her arms crossed. Her eyes flickered with a warning light. "He is busy being a pioneer of magi-technology. Your 'stories' are an inefficient use of his time."

  Rysa didn't even flinch at the threat. She just grinned at Virelle. "Hi to you too, Virelle. Nice to see your ego is still floating higher than your feet." She turned back to Aiven. "Listen, since we're both here and clearly both desperate for work... should we party up again?"

  She jerked a thumb toward a parchment she had already pulled from the board. "D-rank quest. Goblin eradication near Oakwood village. Pay is decent, and it’s mostly just clearing out some pests that are harassing the local farmers. What do you say?"

  Goblins.

  The word sent a cold shiver down Aiven’s spine. He had a sudden, vivid flashback to the Kobold subjugation—the smell of the damp woods, the sound of his own bone snapping, the feeling of absolute helplessness as he looked into the eyes of a monster that shouldn't have existed.

  His mechanical hand twitched, the brass fingers contracting with a sharp whir-click.

  Virelle’s hand settled on his shoulder, her touch surprisingly grounded. She didn't look at Rysa; she only looked at him. "Master," she said, her voice dropping its theatrical edge. "Do not let the past dictate the potential of your future. I was caught off guard once. It will never happen again."

  Aiven looked at Virelle’s determined face, then at Rysa’s expectant grin. He couldn't hide in his apartment forever. He chose the life of an adventurer. He promised himself to no longer hide and choose the safe way out. More importantly, he promised her.

  Images of Hearthport rose unbidden in his mind—the warmth, the familiar streets, the easy smiles he had once taken for granted.

  "Alright," Aiven said, his voice stronger than he felt. "Let's do it."

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  They walked over to the reception desk, where Clara, the guild’s primary receptionist, was sorting through a stack of blood-stained reports. She looked up, her professional smile faltering as she saw Aiven’s new arm, but she quickly masked it.

  "Aiven Roan, Rysa Ashfall, and the volunteer elf. Registering for the Oakwood Subjugation?" Clara asked as she stamped their papers.

  "That's the one," Rysa said.

  Clara paused, her expression turning uncharacteristically grave. She leaned over the counter, lowering her voice. "Just... be careful out there, you three.” She tapped the stack on her desk. "There’s been a spike in grave injuries—and more than a few deaths—even on the lower-ranked quests. Goblins, wolves, slimes... they’re changing. Some of the survivors are describing deformed monsters. Things that are faster and stronger than they have any right to be."

  She handed back their registration cards. "Don't take anything for granted. Not even a goblin."

  Aiven took his card with his brass hand. The metal felt cold, but the white stone at the center pulsed with a steady, rhythmic hum, as if it were eager for the fight Aiven was so desperately trying to avoid.

  The journey to Oakwood took 2 hours.

  At the village, they were met at the village gate by a family of three: a broad-shouldered man with a face like weathered leather, his weary-eyed wife, and a teenage daughter who stared at Virelle’s floating form with wide, unblinking eyes.

  "Chief Bran at your service," the man said, bowing low. "We’re grateful to the Guild for sending help. These goblins... they started as a nuisance. Stealing tools, scaring the livestock. Just pranks, really. But lately..."

  He trailed off, looking toward the dark treeline of the nearby forest. "We’ve heard rumors from the South. Entire villages decimated by Goblin Kings. Usually, those monsters stay deep in the caves because they know adventurers will hunt them down, but now? They’re acting like they’re confident no one can stop them. Like they’ve found something that makes them untouchable."

  Virelle let out a sharp, melodic laugh that made the teenage girl jump. "A Goblin 'King'?" she mused, idly spinning her prismatic orb between her fingers. "A grand title for a creature that lives in its own filth and struggles with the concept of fire. Whether they are confident or merely delusional is irrelevant. They are pests, and I am quite skilled at pest control."

  "What she means is," Aiven added quickly, stepping forward with a strained smile, "we've got this. We’ll check it out and make sure your village stays safe."

  Rysa nodded, her bandaged hands resting on her hips. "Don't sweat the kings, Chief. They all bleed the same color. Just point us in the right direction."

  The Chief pointed toward a dense, jagged patch of forest to the east. "There’s a cave system in there. We don't know the exact spot—none of us are brave enough to go looking—but that’s where the tracks lead."

  The trio set out immediately, leaving the nervous villagers behind. As they entered the shadow of the ancient trees, the air grew cool and damp. Virelle drifted ahead of them, her prismatic orb beginning to pulse with a low, scanning violet light. She tilted her head, her nose wrinkling in a look of profound aristocratic distaste.

  "I can detect it," Virelle whispered. "The vile, musk-heavy stench of unwashed hides and rotted meat. It is a primitive, oily odor that clings to the very ley lines of this forest. Finding them will be as simple as following a trail of garbage."

  Aiven watched her as she hovered just inches above the ground, her head darting left and right as she "scented" the magical atmosphere. She’s actually really good at this, he thought. The way she’s tracking... it’s almost like...

  "Wow," Rysa blurted out, breaking the silence. "You’re basically a high-tier hunting dog, aren't you? Just point that nose and lead us to the bone."

  The violet light in the forest died instantly.

  Virelle froze mid-air. She turned slowly, her long lavender hair floating as if submerged in water. Her magenta eyes were wide, vibrating with a level of offense that surpassed anything Aiven had seen before.

  "A... dog?" Virelle’s voice was a whisper of pure, icy outrage. "You compare a scion of the arcane, a master of the celestial weave, to a four-legged beast that licks its own paws and barks at the moon?"

  "I mean, it’s a compliment!" Rysa said, completely oblivious to the impending magical storm as she cracked her knuckles. "Dogs are loyal, they’ve got great noses, and they get the job done. You’re doing the exact same thing."

  "I am tracking!" Virelle shrieked, her orb flaring with a violent sparks. "I am sensing the displacement of mana and the residue of chaotic entities! I am not 'sniffing' for a bone!"

  "Virelle, calm down!" Aiven lunged forward, his mechanical hand making a frantic whir-click as he grabbed her sleeve to pull her back. "She didn't mean it like that! Rysa just has a... very direct way of speaking! She knows you’re a genius!"

  "She called me a canine, Master!" Virelle wailed, turning her indignation toward him. "She suggested I have a nose for filth!"

  "She's just impressed by your efficiency!" Aiven pleaded, giving Rysa a 'please shut up' look over his shoulder.

  Virelle huffed, crossing her arms and turning away with a sharp hmph that sent a small shockwave through the nearby ferns. She stayed silent for several minutes, drifting with a stiff, insulted posture, until her orb suddenly turned a deep, bruised crimson.

  "There," she said, her voice dripping with chilly professionalism. "Behind that ridge of moss-covered stone."

  Aiven looked ahead. Through the thick undergrowth, he could see the dark, jagged maw of a cave. The air coming from it was cold, and he realized the Chief was right. He could sense that in there, there was something sharper, something deformed.