After finally calming down and making sure no one had accidentally stabbed anyone during the chaos of the morning, the group gathered their belongings and made their way downstairs.
Jace had expected a quiet exit. Just slip out the door and into the light of day. But as they reached the bottom step, the tavern keeper himself—Brenn, the wall of a man, his forearms of thick corded muscles, a massive beer belly, and a glorious beard that could house a small ecosystem—called out in a gravel-thick voice.
“Oi, new guy!”
He didn’t sound angry, but he didn't sound none too happy either.
Jace paused, halfway to the door, already bracing himself for a gruff "never come back" speech. He couldn't even bring himself to turn around.
Instead, he saw out of the corner of his eye, Brenn's grin. “You're welcome here anytime. Room and drinks are half price from now on.”
Jace blinked. “Uh… thanks? But why?”
Brenn just chuckled, folding his arms and giving him a look like he knew exactly how much Jace remembered. “Let’s just say the regulars needed a laugh. You delivered. Looks like we have a new entertainer.”
And that was it. No further explanation. Just that knowing smirk.
Jace finally turned and gave him a half smile, unsure of how to reply to that. He didn't want to piss off the large man, so he gave a quick nod. He wasn't able to remember almost all of the night anyway.
As soon as they stepped out into the early morning chill, Jace turned to Nyra, suspicion etched across his face. “Okay. What was that all about?”
Nyra opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Sylas burst out laughing like she’d been holding it in since sunrise.
Torak, completely deadpan, beat them both to the punch. “You sing very well for a smooth-skin.”
Jace froze. “No.”
Patch rumbled from behind him, nodding in solemn agreement. “Your vocal performance was enjoyed by all.”
“No,” Jace said again, this time in a whisper of growing dread.
Nyra’s grin widened, Cheshire-like and dangerous. “Oh yes.”
Jace buried his face in his hands. “What did I do?”
Sylas, still giggling, clapped him on the back. “After around three drinks—because you are a lightweight, by the way—you stood up and told the bard to take five because, and I quote, ‘Sad shit kills vibes.’ Still not sure what that means, but he got very angry and stormed off.”
Torak nodded gravely. “You then took the bard’s place.”
Jace groaned, but Sylas was already leaning in with mischief in her eyes. “You sang about drinking. About fighting. About love. And—oh gods—”
Nyra chimed in, her face red, nearly wheezing, “—about sex. Softly. Like, real softly.”
Jace’s entire face turned a violent shade of red as his brain unearthed pieces of the night.
Standing on the table. The patrons clapping. The roaring applause.
The chorus from that old Tenacious D song.
And then—oh gods—the hip thrusting.
He let out a strangled noise and looked skyward as if praying for a meteor.
Nyra patted his arm, completely unhelpful. “You’ve officially given us an embarrassing story. That means you’re one of us now.”
Sylas grinned. “Welcome to the squad.”
“I hate all of you,” Jace muttered.
They laughed again, warm and unguarded. Jace didn’t feel like a tagalong or a burden. He felt like part of the team—even if it meant being their favorite joke for a while.
As the conversation drifted to less traumatic things—like Nyra’s ability to outdrink a dwarf and Sylas's habit of muttering threats in her sleep—they made their way deeper into the heart of Valtross.
The city was larger than Jace expected—a more sprawling town than a sleepy little village, but not quite a bustling metropolis. The streets were wider than the dirt roads he was used to in his small town in Texas, paved in uneven cobblestone that glistened faintly from the morning dew. Wooden buildings with sloped rooftops lined the avenues, smoke curling from chimneys as the scent of roasting meats and baking bread filled the crisp air. It intermingled with the smell of the countryside and created this beautiful melody of smells, unlike anything he ever remembered.
Vendors shouted over one another at open carts and stalls set up underneath the sloped awnings, selling everything from dried herbs to gleaming weapons to slightly suspicious “enchanted” trinkets. Children darted between adults with laughter and muddy feet, while adventurers of every size and species haggled over potions and armor.
Then Jace saw it.
The Adventurers’ Guild.
It loomed over the plaza ahead like a stone sentinel, five stories tall. It's dark stone walls etched with intricate runes and old scars from the weather. Twin oak doors stood closed at its base, old but unyielding. Above them hung a massive sign carved deep with bold lettering and silver inlay that shimmered in the light:
ADVENTURERS’ GUILD — VALTROSS BRANCH
Nyra came to a stop at the base of the wide steps and turned to him with mock grandeur, spreading her arms wide.
“Well,” she said, “Welcome to the deep end.”
Jace exhaled slowly, staring up at the massive building before him.
The Adventurers’ Guild.
Five stories of blackened stone and iron trim loomed overhead like a fortress, its bulk casting a shadow that swallowed half the square. It was solid. Intimidating. A cathedral of ambition and blood-soaked contracts. And yet, somehow, also inviting.
Like a gate into the next chapter of his life was swinging open and daring him to step through.
This is it, he thought. New world. New rules. New me.
It felt surreal.
He’d read this story a hundred times. Played it a thousand more.
The scrappy protagonist with a tragic backstory wandering into a guild hall, fresh stats in hand, ready to face monsters, climb ranks, and inevitably get involved in saving the world. Except… this wasn’t fiction. He wasn’t holding a controller, a mouse, or a keyboard. There was no HUD or pause screen. Just mysterious voices and a glitchy UI.
He was the story now. It was his.
And that thought was enough to make him hesitate at the steps, like a tourist gawking at his first skyscraper. He probably looked ridiculous—just standing there, staring like the building might come alive and start judging him.
He cast his glance around when he caught sight of a large dragon-like creature standing on two legs, its light grey skin looked aged and weathered. At first, he thought it was a statue with how still it was, until its gaze turned to meet him. Its long, slitted tongue darted from its mouth as if tasting the air. Then its large dragon-like tail flicked.
Jace was unsure if he was terrified or surprised.
The dragon person smiled and nodded, then turned and slowly walked away.
A sharp tug at his sleeve snapped him out of it.
Nyra stood beside him, eyes bright with amusement and that usual hint of smugness. Her tail flicked impatiently behind her. “Come on, daydreamer. You’re not gonna get any just for admiring the architecture.”
Jace huffed out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Let’s do this.”
With a deep breath and legs that felt a little heavier than they should, he stepped forward and pushed open the great oak doors.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the world changed.
The air inside buzzed with energy—heat from the hearths, the clatter of armor, the rumble of dozens of voices all talking over one another. It was organized chaos, thick with the scent of sweat, old ale, and polished steel. The ceiling soared overhead, beams blackened with time. Flags from every region hung along the rafters, faded from age and firelight.
The Guild was alive.
Adventurers of every kind milled about—humans in cloaks, beastkin in patchwork armor, dwarves laughing loudly at their own jokes, and a lizardfolk person sharpening what looked like a jagged machete made from obsidian. Goblins argued over loot in one corner. A giant of a man—orc, maybe?—lounged on a bench built just for him.
And yet, despite the noise, it didn’t feel overwhelming. It felt perfectly right.
Jace caught movement to his right—a massive corkboard wall nearly twenty feet across and ten feet tall, littered with worn sheets of parchment pinned. They were delineated in what looked like four rows. Adventurers were already crowding around it, shoving and arguing, occasionally ripping one off the board like they’d just won a prize fight.
Nyra nudged his elbow. “That’s the contract board. Ranked by difficulty. If you’re slow, you get the scraps. It's always best to get here early, right after they post the contracts. Best time to get the best ones.”
Sylas let out a dramatic sigh. “And as proud Bronze-rankers, we get nothing but scraps, no matter what time.”
Torak nodded, calm as ever. “The only advantage is volume. Many small contracts equal faster advancement. It is best to grab a bunch in the same area, less traveling.”
Patch, standing like a sentinel behind them, added, “Efficiency. Endurance. Repetition.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Nyra said with a wave of her hand. “We’ll rank up soon enough.”
She turned to Jace, her tail excitedly flicking behind her again. “So, decision time. Are you joining up with us for real, or thinking of taking your chances as a lone wanderer in bandit country?”
Jace blinked. “I don’t know… do you think I’d make a good bandit leader?”
Several nearby adventurers turned to glare at him like he’d just confessed to robbing their grandmothers.
Nyra smirked without missing a beat. “Please. You look like someone who’d end up in a prison cell five minutes after trying.”
He chuckled—but then his voice leveled, quiet and clear. “I want to join. With you. With all of you.”
The others froze—not in shock, but in that subtle, weighty way where movement stops mid-breath. Nyra’s tail stilled mid-sway, her eyes narrowing just slightly. Sylas’s smirk faded, her fingers still curled around the rim of her mug. Even Torak’s mandibles paused their habitual click, while Patch—always the stillest—stood straighter, as if recalibrating.
A beat passed.
Then the weight of Jace’s words began to settle in.
He swallowed the nerves building in his throat. “I’ve been on my own since I got… uh, since I left. But since I met you guys, things have… made more sense. I’d have someone to watch my back. I think I belong here. With your team.”
Sylas raised a brow, then smiled. “Damn, Jace. That was almost heartfelt. If you get any more sincere, I might have to steal your boots out of spite.”
Torak nodded in approval. “He has chosen correctly.”
Patch, as always, gave the final analytical word. “Emotional reasoning is consistent with team dynamics. Welcome.”
Nyra’s expression softened—just for a second—and she nodded. “Then let’s make it official.”
Before Jace could react, Sylas seized his arm like a bounty and dragged him toward one of the shorter lines at the registration counter. “Let’s get you in the system before you change your mind and decide to go flirt with any of the other beastkin teams.”
When they reached the front desk, a young clerk greeted them with practiced patience and slightly wary eyes. Her auburn hair was tied back in a tight bun, and she looked like she’d dealt with enough adventurers for ten lifetimes, and it was too early.
She eyed Jace for a moment, then her eyes went wide. “Wait—you!?”
Jace blinked, already nervous. “Uh… depends who you think I am…”
“You probably don’t remember me,” she said, grinning. “We were at the Silver Hearth last night. I didn’t know you were an adventurer and a bard.”
Jace groaned softly. “Oh gods. Please tell me you didn’t hear me sing, too.”
She laughed. “You stood on a table and sang three songs about booze, one about heartbreak, and one very passionate ballad about... cabbages.”
“Cabbages?” Jace was now utterly confused.
“You had the entire room shouting ‘Good times never smelled so good’. Cabbage doesn’t smell good, Jace.” Nyra's nose crinkled.
Then he remembered. He was singing Sweet Caroline…
“No, the song goes, Sweet Caroline, bah bah bah. Not sweet cabbages…” Jace instantly regretted it when everyone burst into laughter around him. He covered his face with both hands. “I want to crawl into a dungeon and never come out.”
Nyra clapped him on the back. “Perfect. Good news—we’re professional dungeon crawlers.”
She turned to the clerk. “Need a new member registration form before this one embarrasses himself again.”
Before the clerk could even reach for it, Nyra had already swiped it, quill and all, and shoved it at Jace like she was handing him his fate.
“Write neatly,” she warned. “The last guy filled it out in blood. Very off-putting.”
Jace rolled his eyes. “What exactly am I signing up for?”
“Just the basics, it says so on the sheet. Name, race, class, level, the usual. You’ll do an assessment soon—this just gets you logged in.”
He glanced over at the next clerk, who had a huge smile on her face and now held a stone tablet glowing faintly with runes.
“That’s the system log,” Nyra explained. “Once you’re in, the Guild tracks your stats, ranks, contract history… all of it.”
Jace raised a brow. “That doesn’t sound creepy at all.”
“Welcome to bureaucracy,” Sylas said with mock cheer.
Jace filled in the form with a mix of confidence and mild existential dread:
Rank Applying For: Bronze
Name: Jace Halloway
Race: Soulborne
Class: Vitality Leech
Level: 17
Inductor: Nyra Wildheart
Allergies: None (I think?)
Permanent Medical Injuries: None (Okay?)
Assessment Type: Team
He had to go with the closest approximation for his level. After talking with Nyra and Sylas about their levels last night during their drinking, that was the closest he had come to. With Nyra at level 17, Sylas at level 16, Torak at level 18, and Patch at level 19. He gently asked for their stats and did some math, and based on his stars compared to the average of all theirs, he ranked around level 19. So he fibbed a little and went a little lower, so he didn’t look suspicious.
As for his class, he went with what he had already told them before. The Vitality Leech. He couldn’t think of anything cooler for fear that it would set off alarm bells just like his actual class would.
The clerk skimmed the form, raised an eyebrow at the race and class, but didn’t comment. “Looks good. Since you’re registering with an existing team, it’ll be fast-tracked. Normally, we’d have to issue a solo contract for your assessment.”
As she stepped away to process it, Jace turned to Nyra. “So… what’s the test like?”
Nyra shrugged. “Oh, you know. Danger. Violence. Existential crisis. The usual.”
Sylas grinned. “And probably paperwork afterward.”
Torak added, “There will be blood.”
Patch hummed. “Prepare accordingly.”
Jace sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Yeah, okay. Definitely made the right call.”
And as they stood in the middle of the Guildhall—surrounded by shouting adventurers, roaring fires, and the lingering smell of armor cleaner and worked leather—he realized something else.
Nyra and Sylas were practically vibrating with excitement, whispering like giddy schoolgirls at a bloodsport match. Even Torak gave a pleased nod, and Patch’s glowing runes pulsed with faint approval.
Jace… felt slightly less thrilled.
It wasn’t fear exactly—it was the kind of anxious dread you felt right before a surprise test from a teacher who hated fun and smiled like they enjoyed grading in red ink.
Jace watched the clerk return, but she wasn’t alone.
Behind her stood a towering figure. Broad. Gray-furred. Massively clawed. His yellow eyes swept across the room like a predator in no hurry to chase.
A werewolf. A very large, very serious-looking werewolf.
Jace’s stomach tried to drop through the floor. His pulse spiked.
The creature’s gaze locked onto him with unsettling interest.
“This is Instructor Garrik,” the clerk announced. “He’ll be handling your assessment.”
Nyra clapped Jace on the back, not at all helpful. “Ohhh, we’re gonna have fun.”
Sylas grinned like she was about to enjoy a murder mystery. “Hope you like bleeding. This one doesn’t play nice.”
“But we aren’t going to play with him.” Patch rumbled in confusion, but Sylas ignored his comment.
Jace tried to respond but only managed a nervous squeak as Garrik extended a thick, furred arm. He hesitated before gripping it in a warrior’s arm shake.
“Jace,” he croaked as if he had just hit puberty.
The werewolf gave a rumbling chuckle that sounded like it could rattle bones. “No need to be nervous,” he said, then added with a fang-filled smile, “I don’t bite… much.”
‘Yeah. Terrifying.’ He felt the egg in his pack shudder just a bit.
A paw-like hand that could palm a watermelon clapped down on Jace’s shoulder, nearly buckling his knees. Garrik turned and motioned them toward the contract board.
“The Guild lives and dies by these,” he said. “Your work, your pay, your reputation—it all starts here.” His other clawed hand swayed out over the large corkboard.
The massive board was a mosaic of quests and contracts, fluttering parchment pinned in rows. Jace caught glimpses of job titles: Slay, Escort, Extract, Purge.
Then, Garrik moved.
Clawed fingers snatched a sheet from the board. Jace only saw one word:
Harvest.
Okay. Not too bad. Plants maybe? Mushrooms? I can garden.
Then the werewolf grabbed another.
Hunt.
Oh. Less fun. But not horrible.
Then a third.
Dungeon.
The room went quiet.
Sylas let out a slow whistle. “Three? He is serious.”
Even Torak blinked. Patch made a low chime that sounded suspiciously like oh no.
Jace’s blood turned to ice.
“Come,” Garrik said, ushering him to the clerk’s desk like a condemned man to his final paperwork. “Contract submission is required. For accountability. And statistics.”
“Right. Stats. Love stats,” Jace muttered, nearly tripping as Garrik handed over the papers.
The clerk looked up, read the first contract, then the second, and froze at the third.
“Three, Instructor?” she asked, disbelief dripping from every word.
Garrik’s only reply was a slow, toothy grin.
She gave Jace a look full of genuine pity, the kind usually reserved for sad puppies and soldiers before a suicide mission.
A soft ding chimed in Jace’s mind as three system messages rolled across his vision like tombstones.
New Contracts Assigned:
[Harvest - Rank: Tin+]
[Hunt - Rank: Bronze++]
[Dungeon Delve: The Veilwood…
Jace stared at the contracts. He quickly noticed the pin had been over the rank part of the dungeon contract, and it had ripped off where the rank was supposed to go. “Perfect.”
He turned, his golden eyes scanning the group. “We leave at first light. Bring your gear. Bring your grit. Or stay behind.”
Without waiting for a reply, he strode off, his cloak flaring behind him like a curtain dropping on a warning.
The moment he was out of earshot, the group turned.
Jace looked at Nyra. “Three?”
Nyra sighed. “Yeah. He must be testing all of us. How we work together.”
Sylas rolled her eyes. “Garrik believes in the ‘trial by fire, followed by more fire, and oh hey there isn’t enough fire here's some tinder’ method.”
Torak nodded. “A thorough evaluation of adaptability, stamina, and survival instinct.”
Patch grumbled in response.
Jace groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So I’m going to gather herbs, get chased by something with fangs, and possibly die horribly in a dungeon… all in one day.”
Sylas patted his back. “We’ll miss your singing.”
“I hate you.” Jace tried to elbow her, but she Shadow-Stepped away.
Nyra smirked. “Ah, now he's getting it.”
Jace stared down at the contracts in his hands. Three sheets of ink and doom.
No XP. No Leveling. No clue what he was doing.
‘Oh well, that will be a tomorrow problem.’ The egg agreed with him.
“OH MY GOD, TORAK, YOU CAN’T JUST END A CHAPTER LIKE A MISSION REPORT!”
Sylas (dramatic voice):
NEXT TIME, ON HARMONY OF THE FALLEN…
Will Jace actually survive his trial-by-contract?
Will Nyra finally admit she’s adopted him?
Will Patch heal the enemy again out of “data collection”?
Will Torak try to duel the concept of stress?
And will the egg finally hatch, or is it just freeloading?!
Patch (calmly): “This is acceptable dramatic structure. Approved.”
Sylas: “Thank you, Patch. At least one of us has taste.”
What part of Jace’s big Guild debut will haunt him the longest?
