Orengard's towering structures loomed, a stark defiance to the familiar horizons of the Northern Veil, as Emmet walked its bustling streets. His keen eyes, accustomed to ancient landscapes, traced every detail: crystal-powered mechanisms hummed softly, fortified buildings shimmered with energy channels, and the ever-present gaze of the Luminary Church seemed to pierce even the densest crowds. Yet, in this vast, bustling city, he felt a peculiar sense of invisibility—not physical, but social. He was just another face in the crowd, easily overlooked, especially given his chosen guise, for a pilgrim from the Northern Veil, while not unusual, was simply not expected to care about technology. To the Luminaries, he was just another nomad passing through, harmless and irrelevant to their grand designs. But Emmet was curious. More than just a fleeting glance at advancements, he wanted to understand how far civilization had come, and more importantly, how much it was being held back.

  The shimmering glass windows of a tailor's shop, a boutique specializing in customized travel attire, caught his attention. Fabrics unlike anything he'd seen—temperature-adaptive, reinforced yet lightweight, infused with energy to resist elemental wear—were on display. This was the advancement he needed, not merely for comfort, but for crucial survival. His journey through the wildlands, with its unpredictable weather shifts, biting cold mountain passes, and scorching sun-baked plains, had already proven his old robes inadequate. Stepping inside, he carefully relayed his request to the tailor, a stout woman with surprisingly keen eyes who gave him a curious, almost knowing glance. He asked for a cloak that could withstand rain, snow, and heat, enhancing his survival for the long journey ahead. He also specified that the fabric, despite its modern durability, should be stitched to retain his identity as a pilgrim—a perfect balance between tradition and innovation. The tailor nodded, accepted his gold payment, and promised the cloak would be ready in three days.

  With his next steps planned, Emmet sought lodging at a modest inn tucked away in the merchant district, its wooden sign creaking softly in the breeze. A faint aroma of old wood and spices met him inside. He paid for a room, dropped off his belongings, and then turned his attention to the local food stalls lining the streets, their tantalizing aromas filling the air. Orengard's cuisine was a fusion of tradition and adaptation. He sampled crystal-boiled stews and steamed grain infused with elemental energy, finding their flavors new and complex, a stark contrast to the simpler fare of the Veil. His day was for sightseeing and indulging in the city's flavors, but also for observation. As he ate, he subtly watched the city's flow, the patterns of its citizens, the routes of its guards, and the subtle signs of the Luminary presence, searching for weaknesses, dissent, or hidden mechanisms of control. Every interaction and observation was a piece of the puzzle he was assembling.

  Emmet knew the Finder's Guild was his next destination, but he needed to wait for his new attire. First impressions mattered, especially when seeking access to an organization like the Finder's Guild. Arriving in his worn robes, despite his experience, would not command the respect he aimed for and might invite unnecessary scrutiny. His new cloak, blending advanced functionality with his pilgrim identity, would allow him to present himself as prepared and intentional—a figure capable of navigating the modern world without abandoning his origins. It was about projecting competence and signaling that he was a serious individual, not just another wandering devotee. For now, he would roam, observe, question, and prepare himself for the reality of this transformed civilization.

  He strolled through Orengard, the crisp air carrying the scent of smelted ore and the distant, rhythmic hum of crystal-powered machinery. The city, he observed, was built for function, its very heart beating in rhythm with trade, ore refinement, and Luminary control. It possessed a stark, almost sterile efficiency, lacking the vibrant, chaotic life he knew from other settlements. Art and entertainment were minimal, and every building seemed designed for utility rather than beauty. Everywhere, the mark of the Luminary Church was unmistakable. Their stark white banners, emblazoned with the sun-and-sword emblem, lined every street, fluttering in the manufactured breeze. Their watchmen stood at every major intersection, silent and unmoving, their gazes sweeping over crowds with an unnerving, omnipresent vigilance that made casual conversation feel strained. He noted the towering structures, each designed with efficiency but never excess—no grand libraries, no sprawling theaters, no public spaces for artistic expression, only stores, trade halls, and factories. Even the children seemed to play with a subdued energy, their laughter muted. The crystal-powered train glided noiselessly through the main avenue upon rails lined with infused crystal. Efficient, yes, but also restricted—only functional enough to serve those permitted to use it, its routes fixed, its speed controlled. Civilians moved with a hurried rhythm, most dressed in practical work attire, their faces etched with labor, their expressions often weary, rarely joyful.

  Amidst the industry-focused establishments, Emmet spotted a small bookstore, an anomaly tucked between a bustling smithing guild and a massive merchant's warehouse. It was a quiet place of learning amidst the clamor of trade, yet not large enough to be considered a true center of knowledge. It felt almost like an afterthought, its wooden facade a stark contrast to the polished metal and stone around it. He stepped inside, greeted by the comforting scent of aged parchment and bound leather, a familiar aroma that instantly put him at ease. Shelves were lined with approved texts—regulated history, sanctioned technological studies, and Luminary doctrine. He noted the pervasive absence of anything that challenged the status quo: no theories of forbidden innovation, no records of unrestricted advancements, no philosophical treatises questioning authority. He skimmed titles like "The Divine Chronicle: How the Luminaries Guide Us", "Surviving the Bloom: Approved Techniques of Protection", and "Orepike's Prosperity: The Economics of Ore Trade." Nothing questioned their dominance. Nothing spoke of ideas beyond controlled progress. He specifically looked for texts on advanced energy theory or independent historical accounts but found none. The censorship was subtle, achieved through omission rather than overt banning. Still, knowledge was valuable. Even filtered knowledge held clues. Understanding what they allowed meant understanding what they feared, what truths they sought to suppress. He purchased a few texts—a book on mineral refinement, another on Luminary governance history, and a third detailing the limits of crystal-powered energy. Perhaps knowledge within restrictions could reveal pathways beyond them, like finding cracks in a carefully constructed dam.

  As he left the bookstore, the drone of the city's industry returned. He found himself near a central plaza, where a stern-faced Luminary speaker, a priest in immaculate robes, recited approved scripture to a small, weary group of workers gathered during their break. Their words preached guidance, strength, and unwavering trust in those who controlled progress, their voices amplified by a hidden crystal. Emmet watched in silence, understanding one fundamental truth that solidified with every passing moment: Orengard was not a city of progress in the way he understood it. It was a city of controlled survival. Knowledge was permitted, but only within barriers. Advancement was tolerated, but only as dictated. He took a deep breath, scanning the streets once more. The city felt less like a living entity and more like a vast, intricate machine, its gears grinding in a predetermined rhythm. He imagined a bird in a gilded cage, singing, but never truly free to fly. Two more days until his cloak would be ready, two more days until he would step into the Finder's Guild. For now, he would learn what he could while remaining unseen.

  The morning light filtered through Orengard's stone-lined streets, casting long shadows over the marketplace as Emmet stepped out of the inn. His thoughts, quiet but focused, settled on the coming days. One more day, and his cloak would be ready; soon after, he would present himself to the Finder's Guild. A low thrum of anticipation hummed beneath his usual calm, a quiet hum of purpose. For now, there was no rush, just a day to observe, reflect, and absorb the city's clockwork rhythm before he became a more active part of it. The vast, efficient machine of Orengard moved like clockwork, its rhythm dictated by trade and regulation. Workers loaded carts with refined ore, their movements precise and practiced. Merchants haggled over shipments, their voices sharp but controlled, and Luminary enforcers stood at key intersections, watching with the same unyielding, almost robotic presence, their eyes missing nothing. There were no distractions, no idle wanderers—everyone here had a purpose, a role, and little time for anything beyond survival and obedience. Even the stray dogs seemed to move with a sense of urgency. Emmet blended in, his steps measured as he made his way toward a quiet corner of the trade district, his senses attuned to the subtle currents of the city. He noticed the lack of street performers, the absence of spontaneous laughter, and the way people avoided eye contact with the Luminary guards.

  Later, he stopped by a food stall offering roasted grain and seasoned meat, its preparation enhanced by ore-infused heatstones, making the process more efficient yet still simple. The aroma was inviting, a comforting warmth in the cool morning air. As he ate, he exchanged idle words with a merchant resting nearby, a man with calloused hands and tired eyes. Their conversation was casual, about trade, the unpredictable weather, and the city's ever-present rules. The merchant spoke without resentment, but also without enthusiasm, his voice flat. "Orengard is not a place for dreams, only work," he said with a sigh, a simple truth that resonated deeply with Emmet's observations. Emmet listened, nodded, and moved on, the merchant's words echoing the pervasive atmosphere of the city. As the day neared its end, he sat by a quiet plaza, the sounds of the city beginning to soften. He took stock of his gold reserves, ensuring he had enough for the Finder's Guild fees, potential supplies, and whatever else might be needed. Mentally, he ran through his approach for the first impression—how he would introduce himself, how much of his pilgrimage he would reveal, and how he would prove his capability without standing out too much. There was no excitement, no tension—just steady planning, ensuring he was ready when the moment arrived, every contingency considered, every variable accounted for. With his thoughts settled, he returned to his room, letting the day fade into quiet recollection. The next time he stepped out, he would collect his new cloak. Soon after, his journey with the Finder's Guild would begin. For now, the day was done.

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  Emmet stepped through the guild's entrance, his new cloak shifting subtly as the temperature-adaptive fabric adjusted effortlessly to the warmer air inside. The Finder's Guild had an unmistakable atmosphere—structured, focused, and filled with purpose, a stark contrast to the controlled rigidity of the city outside. The murmur of voices, the rustle of papers, the faint clink of gear—it was a symphony of dedicated activity. This was it. The moment he had waited for. Approaching the front desk, his excitement was barely contained, a subtle tremor in his hand as he reached for the counter, his pulse quickening beneath his calm demeanor. Yet, his face remained perfectly composed, a mask of quiet determination. "Good morning!" he greeted, his voice carrying genuine, yet controlled, enthusiasm. "I'm here to apply to become a seeker of the Finder's Guild." The receptionist, a young woman with tired eyes and a practiced, almost robotic efficiency, barely reacted, having heard those words countless times before. She slid an application form across the polished counter, along with the entrance fee notice—1 gold required. "That's cheap," Emmet mused internally, his fingers gripping the form. He knew the real cost wasn't the gold, but the rigorous trials ahead. "Once accepted, it gets refunded."

  Before filling out anything, he turned toward the notice board, his sharp gaze scanning every document pinned onto the wooden surface. Each parchment, record, and recruitment flyer contained essential details—the guild's structure, mission, policies, and strict entry guidelines. He wasn't about to rush this. Mistakes weren't an option, not when so much depended on his success. His fingers traced over the Guild's Mission Statement, absorbing the core ideals that resonated deeply with his own purpose: "To uncover the unknown, safeguard the weak, and preserve knowledge." He noted its uncompromising stance on neutrality, dedicated to exploration and truth, never swayed by political or military agendas. This, he thought, was a place where truth might still be pursued without Luminary interference. Next, he scanned the Guild's Organizational Structure—the layers of leadership, the various departments ensuring smooth operations, and the strict regulations governing payment and mission assignments. Finders earned rank through merit, not status. All payments had to go through Guild channels, and strict neutrality meant no involvement in kingdom wars or assassination contracts. The Finder's Guild operated with control, integrity, and order—a structure built to last and designed to withstand external pressures. Moving to the next section, he skimmed the recruitment flyer, ensuring he understood the full process before filling out his application. The requirements were standard: age 16+, rank starting at the lowest tier regardless of skill, guild discretion with background checks, and inactive membership revoked after one year without missions. He noted the background check; his pilgrim facade would need to hold up. Then came the banned applicants list—a stark reminder of the Guild's commitment to neutrality, a clear line drawn against corruption. Murderers, criminals, political agents, and radical loyalists were all forbidden. He smirked slightly, a genuine, brief flash of amusement. No kingdom pawns here. This was a place for genuine seekers, not political tools.

  His attention shifted to the category-specific trials, the real tests that would determine his entry. He imagined himself in each scenario, assessing his strengths and weaknesses: Explorers—solve puzzles, navigate ruins, and recover artifacts. (This resonated most with his core mission.) Escorts—defensive combat, endurance, and tactical protection skills. (He could manage this, but it wasn't his primary interest.) Wardens—monster identification, live combat with non-human threats. (A necessary skill, but again, not his focus.) Locators—tracking, stealth, and intelligence retrieval. (Intriguing, and certainly useful.) He took a slow, deliberate breath, ensuring he understood which path he needed to take, his mind already formulating strategies for the Explorer trials.

  With everything absorbed, he finally turned his attention to the form before him, the parchment feeling substantial under his fingertips. His fingers hovered over the paper, his mind steady and clear. This was the moment—where preparation met reality, where his long journey began to take tangible form. He took the quill, pressed its tip to the parchment, and began to write.

  Emmet sat at the guild's desk, quill poised, scanning the application form to ensure every detail was correct. Name? Easy. Age? Straightforward. Category? Decided. Then came the "Code Name" field. He blinked, seeing two boxes: "Code Name" and "Alias Name." He frowned slightly. Two boxes? They wanted both? Naturally, his chosen identity was Totem. But he'd intended to add "Man" or "Bearer" to the second box. For some reason, his mind blanked, and instead of "Totem Man," his hand instinctively wrote: Totem Totem. As soon as the ink settled, he froze, staring at his mistake. "...Did I just name myself Totem Totem?" he whispered, barely audible. He glanced around, debating whether he could scratch it out without ruining the form. Was this allowed? Would they even notice such a trivial error among hundreds of applications? "Okay, maybe they'll think it's intentional," he thought, a desperate flicker of hope. "Maybe Totem Totem sounds legendary. Maybe I just invented the most intimidating name ever?" Or maybe he just signed up to become the only Finder with a double-word title that made absolutely no sense, a walking, talking joke. He covered his mouth, suppressing the laugh bubbling in his throat—a mix of genuine amusement and mortification. Too late to fix it now. The ink was dry. With a deep breath, he slid the form toward the receptionist, keeping his face perfectly neutral, a master of composure even in the face of his own ridiculous blunder. The fate of Totem Totem now rested in guild bureaucracy.

  Emmet stood firmly at the registrar's desk, his expression unwavering as he filled out the final section of the application form. "Explorer," he wrote without hesitation. Becoming a combat specialist never interested him, even when he admired the strength and skill of Smileyface, the legendary Seeker he had idolized since childhood. Smileyface, known for his uncanny ability to navigate treacherous ruins and unearth long-lost truths, embodied the spirit of discovery Emmet craved. The thrill of uncovering forgotten ruins, deciphering lost texts, and retrieving ancient artifacts—this was the true reason he sought the Finder's Guild, aligning perfectly with his deeper purpose of understanding the world's hidden mechanisms. Handing over the completed form, he met the gaze of the registrar, who reviewed his details with practiced efficiency. "Explorer, huh?" the registrar noted, a slight, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her lip as she read the name. "That'll be considered, but keep in mind—the exam results determine placement, not preference." Emmet gave a small nod. He understood that even if he passed, his role would be determined by his actual abilities, not simply what he desired. The registrar continued processing the form, her fingers deftly moving across the parchment, pausing momentarily before muttering: "...Totem Totem?" Emmet stiffened, a jolt of mortification. The moment of realization struck again—his accidental name mishap was now officially registered, forever etched into the Guild's records. He fought the urge to react, forcing his expression to remain neutral as the registrar shrugged and moved on, clearly unfazed by the unusual moniker. Well, there was no fixing it now. "Alright, just wait in the waiting room, sir." Emmet stepped away, taking a seat within the designated applicant area, where others gathered—some chatting nervously, some casually stretching, and a few nervously fidgeting with their forms, their anxiety palpable. He remained quiet, excitement surging through him, a powerful current beneath his calm exterior. There was no need for small talk. His focus was absolute. The test master would call him soon. And then—his journey would truly begin.

  Emmet sat in the testing hall, quill still in hand from his written exam. At first, he assumed it would be straightforward; after all, he had spent years studying, and books were his foundation. But the test revealed gaps in his knowledge. While he aced history, logic, and artifact theory with ease, his lack of firsthand experience with the continent made sections on geography, regional disputes, and Finder-specific operations much harder. A question about the precise trade routes of the Sunstone Desert, for instance, had given him pause. Still, by relying on reasoning and his innate ability to connect disparate pieces of information, he pushed through. When the examiner collected his papers, a small nod of approval signaled his success.

  Next came the physical trials. It was a structured assessment to gauge his basic physical condition, not a life-or-death struggle: Speed Test—a short-distance sprint, measuring his reflexes. Weight Assessment—standard muscle checks, recorded by guild medical staff. Jumping & Agility—vertical jumps, obstacle movement, flexibility checks. Swimming Trial—a simple endurance swim, testing balance and stamina. For Emmet, these were manageable. While he wasn't built for sheer speed, his core strength and endurance were solid, reinforced by years of travel and constant, rigorous training with his Rock Totem. He had spent countless hours carrying its immense weight, performing complex movements, building a unique kind of functional strength.

  The combat exam was different. Instead of forcing applicants to master every weapon, the guild allowed them to select which combat types they excelled in, requiring proficiency only in their chosen discipline. Weapons weren't Emmet's specialty. He scanned the racks lined with swords, axes, spears, and bows, feeling no connection to their sharp edges or swift movements. Then, his gaze landed on the two-handed mace, club, and staff weapons. That felt familiar. It resonated with the raw, elemental power he channeled through his totem. Gripping a heavy, unadorned training club, he instinctively knew how to move, how to shift weight, how to use it like his Totem, turning raw force into controlled, devastating strikes. He spun it, brought it down in a controlled arc, the air whistling with its passage. Through sheer natural ability, he aced it—his precision, strength, and adaptability marking him as a combatant who understood his own power, even if it was unconventional.

  Finally, the magic trial. Emmet stood before the test masters, two robed figures whose faces betrayed nothing, ready to demonstrate his unique ability. Summoning his connection to his Totem, he enhanced himself—his body strengthened, movements sharpened, earthbound energy surging through his limbs, a faint, almost imperceptible glow emanating from his skin. He felt the familiar surge of power, the world sharpening around him. And yet—no reaction. The test masters did not look surprised. No raised eyebrows, no murmurs of astonishment, no frantic scribbling on their clipboards. They simply observed, recorded, and nodded, their expressions utterly neutral. Wasn't this supposed to be a big deal? Emmet thought, a flicker of confusion, then a dull ache of disappointment. Wasn't this rare? Unique? He had always assumed his connection was exceptional, a gift. But here, it seemed, it was merely another data point. The realization dawned on him, sharp and sudden, making the large testing hall feel even larger, shrinking him. Are there more unique beings out there? Am I just a small fish in a vast ocean, my unique abilities just another common trick in this new world? But rather than self-doubt, the thought sparked something stronger, a defiant spark in his eyes: "No matter. I'll do well either way." His path was his own, regardless of how others perceived his power. With the test complete, he exhaled slowly, a long, controlled breath, ready to see what came next. His journey had just truly begun.