Chapter 16

  The architecture of the High Elf Central Headquarters stood as a towering monument to absolute, unyielding arrogance. Rivaled in its breathtaking grandeur only by the central cathedral they had passed upon entering the city, this administrative fortress was carved entirely from blindingly white stone. Gleaming spires reached toward the heavens, humming with ambient magical energy that caused the surrounding air to ripple and distort like heat rising from a paved road.

  ?Unlike the provincial outposts Homer had seen previously, which regularly employed heavily muscled orcs or diverse beastkin as guards and laborers, this pristine sanctuary permitted no lesser species within its halls. The population here was exclusively Elven. The floors, polished to a flawless mirror shine, lacked even a microscopic speck of dust or dirt.

  ?Walking into this immaculate environment, Homer and Elara looked like vagrants dragged directly from a muddy ditch. They carried the heavy, grimy evidence of their treacherous journey across the freezing peaks and dusty roads. Even Elara, who normally maintained her silver armor with meticulous, almost religious devotion, currently resembled a lowly peasant when compared to the flawless, perfumed aristocrats gliding elegantly through the grand lobby.

  ?A high-ranking guard, adorned in ceremonial gold and flowing white fabrics, approached them. His face was a mask of cold superiority as he sneered at their ragged appearance. He informed Elara that High Councillor Nero was expecting her arrival.

  ?The guard escorted them into a circular, magically levitated chamber designed to transport individuals between the towering floors. The doors sealed shut with a soft, pneumatic hiss. The silence within the ascending chamber was thick and profoundly uncomfortable.

  ?The guard wrinkled his nose in blatant disgust, looking Elara up and down. "You desperately require extensive bathing," the guard remarked, his tone dripping with absolute condescension. "You currently smell like a wet monkey."

  ?Elara, to Homer's mild surprise, merely let out an exhausted sigh and nodded in weary agreement. Her usual fierce pride had been entirely ground down by the sheer trauma of the recent wilderness trek.

  ?"It remains fascinating," Castor noted in the privacy of Homer's mind, the artificial intelligence analyzing the interaction with cold amusement. "According to their rigid societal protocols, an Elf hurling severe insults at a fellow Elf is deemed perfectly acceptable discourse. However, if a human or beastkin were to utter that exact same phrase, it would be classified as a severe hate crime resulting in immediate, violent imprisonment."

  ?Homer tried to maintain his stoic composure, but the sheer, ridiculous hypocrisy of the situation forced a suppressed, breathless laugh to escape his lips. The sound was quiet, yet it echoed loudly in the enclosed space.

  ?The pristine guard whipped his head around, his eyes flashing with sudden, violent outrage. He stepped aggressively toward Homer, his hand dropping to the hilt of his ornate blade, fully intending to punish the filthy human for daring to show amusement in his presence.

  ?Before the guard could even draw his weapon, he froze. His wide, terrified eyes locked onto Homer's hand. Resting heavily on Homer's finger was the solid gold ring embedded with the glowing blue gemstone—the ultimate religious seal granted by Erida Silvercross.

  ?The color drained entirely from the guard's face. His aggressive posture collapsed into a terrified, trembling slouch. He stepped backward until his pristine robes hit the polished wall of the chamber.

  ?Elara watched the guard's total capitulation with tired eyes. She briefly explained the chaotic events at the city gates, detailing exactly how the seemingly unremarkable human had managed to acquire the absolute highest religious protection the realm offered. The guard remained entirely silent for the remainder of the ascent, keeping his head bowed in sheer terror.

  ?The chamber doors glided open, revealing a long, opulent corridor leading to heavy oak doors. They were ushered inside Nero's personal administrative sanctum. The room was vast, lined with towering bookshelves filled with ancient ledgers, maps, and strange, archaic magical apparatuses humming with faint power.

  ?Elara immediately walked toward a corner to unbuckle her heavy sword belt, needing a moment of rest. Homer, left to his own devices, allowed his eyes to wander across the room. His gaze suddenly snapped to a small display table near the expansive windows.

  ?Resting on a velvet cushion was a small, intricately carved figurine made of pale ivory. It was not a magical beast or a religious icon. It was a mechanical warrior, angular and sleek, bearing an uncanny, unmistakable resemblance to a legendary mobile suit design from a highly popular, ancient animated media franchise.

  ?Homer stepped closer, his heart pounding against his ribs. The carving was immaculate. The creator had perfectly captured the complex armor plating and the distinct, fin-like structures on the head. He noticed the manipulator hands were stained with a dark gray pigment, providing a striking, authentic contrast against the pale ivory. It looked exactly like a meticulously customized hobby kit, entirely avoiding cheap, superficial decals in favor of painstakingly applied, deeply authentic details.

  ?The sight of the carving acted as a violent catalyst. The locked doors inside Homer's recovering brain suddenly swung open, pulling him backward through the vast ocean of time.

  ?He was no longer standing in a magical fortress. He was walking down a rain-slicked pavement in a sprawling, technologically advanced metropolis during their initial academic term at the university. Walking beside him was a younger, vibrant Nero.

  ?Nero had begged Homer to accompany him to a specialized hobby store downtown. A major customization competition was approaching during the autumn season, and Nero was obsessively searching for the perfect mechanical warrior kit to serve as his base model. Homer had eagerly agreed, sharing his friend's intense passion for the craft.

  ?They spent the entire afternoon scouring aisles stacked with brightly colored boxes, intensely debating the structural merits of various mechanical designs. They discussed advanced modification techniques, arguing over the optimal resin mixtures and proper sanding grades. They spent hours analyzing different pigment options, specifically searching for the exact shade of dark gray required to properly detail the internal skeletal frames and manipulator hands.

  ?Nero had complained bitterly about his airbrush equipment, claiming it was failing to provide a smooth, consistent coat of pigment. Homer had laughed, playfully slapping his friend on the shoulder, pointing out that the equipment was perfectly fine; Nero simply possessed terrible maintenance habits and desperately needed to clean the nozzle.

  ?They parted ways as the sky began to lighten with the approaching dawn, thoroughly exhausted but deeply inspired. Nero had turned back before boarding his transit line, asking if Homer would attend the upcoming competition to support him. Homer had smiled brightly, promising he would not miss it for the world.

  ?The memory faded, leaving Homer staring at the ivory carving in the silent Elven office. A profound, aching wave of grief and nostalgia washed over him.

  ?"Architect," Castor's voice sliced through the emotional haze, urgently recalibrating his internal monitors. "Your heart rate is elevating rapidly. Your neural pathways are successfully repairing their damaged sectors, allowing these suppressed memories to surface, but you must remain completely anchored in the present. We are currently surrounded by hostile entities. You must maintain your fabricated persona until we establish a secure exit strategy."

  ?Homer took a deep, silent breath, forcing his facial muscles to relax into an expression of polite, unbothered curiosity. Castor was correct. They already possessed the knowledge that the ancient High Elf ruling this city was the exact same individual who had betrayed him eons ago. He could not afford a slip in his performance.

  ?The heavy oak doors swung open again. Nero stepped into the room. The High Councillor looked incredibly weary, his shoulders carrying the invisible, crushing weight of endless centuries. He held a stack of parchment missives—the detailed reports Elara had been sending via her mechanical hawk throughout their journey.

  ?Nero paused, his ancient, piercing eyes locking directly onto Homer. The High Elf studied Homer's face with intense, almost desperate scrutiny.

  ?"You look remarkably like someone I used to know," Nero murmured, his voice thick with an ancient, unresolved sorrow. He walked slowly toward his massive desk, tossing the missives onto the polished wood. "However, the official registry records, combined with the comprehensive scans from our magical detection grids, insist that you are not him."

  ?Nero ran a tired hand across his face, looking toward the humming magical apparatuses lining his walls. "I constantly wish we had managed to maintain the old, flawlessly precise diagnostic machinery we possessed in the previous era. But lacking the fundamental means to maintain such complex engineering over the span of countless centuries rendered them useless. Attempting to manufacture replacement parts became entirely impossible during our long, dark internment beneath the earth."

  ?Nero was clearly referring to the subterranean survival bunkers. He paced behind his desk, seemingly lost in his own ancient memories, speaking more to himself than to the filthy travelers standing in his office.

  ?"Do you comprehend the sheer horror of our evolution?" Nero asked, his gaze drifting toward the expansive windows overlooking the gleaming city. "When we reached those initial milestones of confinement within the sealed vaults, we began to notice profound, terrifying changes occurring within our biology. We simply stopped aging. The passage of time ceased to affect our cellular structure. We discovered we could survive for extended periods without consuming any sustenance whatsoever, yet our bodies remained perfectly energized, capable of enduring indefinitely."

  ?Nero gripped the edge of his desk. "Throughout that entire, agonizing eternity, my thoughts were entirely consumed by the fate of my dearest friend. I knew he was locked away in a similar subterranean vault, entirely alone, completely ignorant of the horrific changes altering his very nature."

  ?Nero turned back to face them. "When the heavy vault doors finally opened, and we emerged into the sunlight after ages in the dark, we realized the microscopic technologies within our blood had fundamentally rewritten our genetic code. Those of us interred within the pristine vaults emerged as the Elven race. Those unfortunate souls left to face the toxic ash storms on the irradiated surface mutated into... entirely different, monstrous entities."

  ?Nero's voice cracked slightly. "My immediate priority upon emerging was to locate my friend's specific vault. I organized an expedition. I scoured the transformed landscape. But when I finally located the coordinates... the structure was completely obliterated. Crushed beneath the shattered earth."

  ?"His geographical data is fundamentally flawed," Castor interjected clinically. "The ancient cataclysms caused massive tectonic plate displacement. The entire continent shifted a considerable distance from its original geographic origin. The obliterated structure he discovered was an entirely different, failed installation. Your primary stasis vault remained perfectly intact."

  ?Homer maintained his carefully constructed mask of innocent confusion. He interrupted the High Councillor's monologue, adopting the persona of a curious, uninvolved wanderer.

  ?"What did this particular friend mean to you, High Councillor?" Homer asked quietly, pretending he possessed absolutely no personal stake in the ancient tragedy.

  ?Nero looked down at his hands, his expression twisting with profound, suffocating guilt. "I wronged him. I wronged him in the most absolute, unforgivable manner imaginable. I lacked the fundamental courage to trust him when it mattered most."

  ?Nero took a deep, shuddering breath. "I only discovered the truth regarding his innocence several seasons after our initial internment. I realized, far too late, that he had been entirely framed by a coordinated conspiracy. The only minor solace I possess is that I vehemently refused to sign the mandate demanding his immediate execution. I fought to ensure he was placed into an indefinite, suspended slumber instead."

  ?Elara, standing near the corner of the room, furrowed her brow in sheer confusion. The advanced, technological concepts were entirely alien to her magical worldview. "How is such a feat even possible, High Councillor? To force a living being into an endless slumber without causing their soul to wither?"

  ?Nero waved a dismissive hand, not bothering to look at the knight. "It involves ancient, highly complex methodologies, child. It is a science far too intricate for even my own current understanding."

  ?Homer remained silent, his jaw tightly clenched.

  ?"Psychological and physiological scans confirm his statements are entirely genuine," Castor reported. "His vocal tremors, micro-expressions, and accelerated heart rate indicate profound, authentic remorse and deeply rooted trauma."

  ?Homer felt a heavy, complicated knot form in his chest. A part of him wanted to reach out, to reveal his true identity, to forgive him. But the Architect knew the situation was incredibly volatile. He desperately needed to know the exact nature of the crime he was falsely accused of. He needed to identify the orchestrators of the conspiracy. Revealing his true nature now, while entirely ignorant of how many original conspirators still walked the gleaming halls of this city, would be tactically disastrous.

  ?"Architect, I must provide a critical intelligence update," Castor announced, his tone dropping into a serious, tactical cadence. "I have been running a comprehensive, deep-penetrating scan of the entire metropolitan populace since we crossed the outer defensive perimeter. The results are highly concerning."

  ?Homer listened intently, his eyes fixed on Nero.

  ?"I have detected a massive demographic of individuals residing within this fortress city whose cellular age precisely matches the timeline of the ancient conflict. A significant governing faction among them currently holds high-ranking administrative positions. Most critically, I have positively identified a specific jury of conspirators whose biometric signatures match the individuals present in the grand chamber on the exact day you were wrongfully sentenced. Nero is among that specific jury. We must acquire substantially more operational intelligence before we attempt any extraction from this territory."

  ?Homer offered Nero a slow, sympathetic nod, keeping his volatile emotions locked securely behind his mental walls. "I am sorry for your loss, High Councillor. While I am clearly not the man you are searching for, I hope offering this confession helps ease the heavy burden you carry."

  ?Nero offered a weak, grateful smile. The confession, while directed at a stranger, had clearly provided him a small measure of therapeutic relief.

  ?Nero straightened his posture, instantly shifting back into the authoritative role of a High Council leader. He gestured toward Homer. "You are free to depart, traveler. I have received the reports regarding your actions at the city gates. I must offer my profound congratulations on securing the absolute blessing of the Highest Priestess. You possess an incredible, baffling aura of fortune."

  ?Nero then turned his piercing gaze toward Elara, his expression hardening into cold, military seriousness. "Commander Elara. Remain here. We require a private tactical discussion. A fresh mandate has been officially issued."

  ?Homer nodded respectfully, turning and walking out the heavy oak doors, leaving the paranoid knight alone with the ancient leader.

  ?He walked down the opulent corridor, stopping just in front of the magically levitating elevator chamber. He stood in the quiet hall, waiting for the doors to open.

  ?Suddenly, the thick, heavy wood of Nero's office doors proved entirely insufficient to muffle the ensuing conversation.

  ?A loud, incredibly furious shout echoed down the pristine corridor. It was Elara's voice, devoid of all her usual strict military discipline, cracking with sheer, unadulterated outrage.

  ?"Are you kidding me, High Councillor?”

  ?The heavy oak doors of High Councillor Nero’s administrative sanctum did not just open; they practically exploded outward.

  ?Elara burst into the pristine, polished corridor like a silver cannonball. Her usual mask of icy, aristocratic composure was completely gone, replaced by a terrifying, deeply unhinged expression of sheer, unadulterated fury. Her elven ears were flushed a deep, vibrant red, and her hands were curled into tight fists at her sides, the leather of her gauntlets groaning under the pressure. She looked like a woman who had just been ordered to personally count every single blade of grass in the surrounding plains.

  ?Homer, who had been patiently waiting near the magically levitated elevator chamber, took a cautious half-step backward. "Everything alright in there, Commander?"

  ?

  Elara did not answer him. She didn't even acknowledge his existence.

  ?

  As the pneumatic hiss of the elevator chamber sounded and the sleek metal doors glided open, Homer gestured politely, intending to step inside and hold the door for her. Instead, Elara simply lowered her armored shoulder and shoved past him with the force of a battering ram. Homer stumbled sideways, catching his balance against the gleaming white stone wall.

  ?

  Elara marched into the center of the elevator chamber, spun around, and aggressively slammed her hand against the descending magical rune panel.

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  ?

  "Hey, wait a minute—" Homer started, stepping forward and gesturing for her to hold the lift.

  ?

  Elara locked eyes with him. Her gaze was completely devoid of mercy. Without a single word, she watched the metal doors slide shut, sealing her inside and leaving Homer standing completely alone in the opulent, terrifyingly clean hallway of the High Elf Central Headquarters.

  ?

  Homer stood there for a long moment, staring at his reflection in the polished metal of the closed doors. He let out a long, slow breath.

  ?

  Well, Homer thought, casually adjusting the straps of his worn leather travel pack. That went well. Castor, any chance you managed to leave a listening routine running inside Nero's office before the doors closed?

  ?

  "Affirmative, Architect," Castor’s resonant, synthetic baritone chimed in instantly. "I deployed a microscopic, localized acoustic relay using ambient atmospheric nanites the moment you exited the room. I have successfully monitored the entire exchange between High Councillor Nero and Commander Elara."

  ?

  Excellent. So, why exactly is the Commander currently vibrating with enough rage to power a small city block? Did Nero fire her?

  ?"Negative. It is substantially worse from her perspective," Castor reported, his tone carrying a distinct, clinical sense of amusement. "A new operational mandate has been issued. You are no longer considered a prisoner or a person of interest to the High Council's military intelligence. As an individual bearing the Mark of the Zenith, you possess absolute diplomatic immunity. However, the Highest Priestess, Erida Silvercross, has directly intervened in the Council's logistics."

  ?

  Homer frowned, a sudden sense of dread pooling in his stomach. Intervened how?

  ?"As the newly anointed Highest Priestess, Erida is required to embark on a holy pilgrimage," Castor explained, feeding the tactical data directly into Homer's cognitive processors. "She must formally visit each of the major kingdoms to solidify her divine authority. Her itinerary consists of four major metropolitan centers. And she has personally mandated that her very first destination will be the distant settlement of Poblacion."

  ?

  Homer blinked. Poblacion? That is my destination. My original quest from the old world.

  ?"Correct. She has altered the entire theological schedule specifically to align with your personal travel trajectory," Castor continued. "Furthermore, she has utilized her supreme authority to formally requisition Commander Elara as her personal, elite royal escort for the duration of this pilgrimage. Therefore, the High Elf knight is now legally, religiously, and militarily obligated to follow you all the way to Poblacion."

  ?

  Homer stared at the ceiling of the grand hallway, absorbing the sheer, ridiculous gravity of the situation.

  ?Elara, a proud, deeply paranoid High Elf knight who was already suffering from severe cognitive dissonance after watching a baseline human kill a true dragon, was now being forced by the absolute highest authority in her religion to act as a bodyguard for the very human she despised and suspected.

  ?

  Wow, Homer thought, a dry, incredulous laugh echoing in his mind. Elara is going to snap. She is absolutely, definitively going to develop a full, clinical mental illness before we even cross the halfway mark to Poblacion.

  ?

  "My predictive models indicate a ninety-four percent probability of a severe psychological breakdown if she does not find a healthy coping mechanism," Castor agreed. "Her current methodology of aggressive stress-eating will likely prove insufficient for a journey of this magnitude."

  ?

  The second elevator chamber finally arrived with a soft chime. Homer stepped inside, pressing the rune for the ground floor.

  ?

  When he finally exited the grand, blindingly white building, the bustling streets of Muntinlupa greeted him with a wall of sound and color. The city was a sprawling masterpiece of high-fantasy architecture, but Homer had more pressing, pragmatic matters to attend to. He needed to get paid, and he needed to officially log his survival.

  ?

  His first priority was securing his newfound, highly dangerous status symbol.

  ?

  He looked down at the heavy, solid gold ring resting on his finger. The massive blue gemstone practically pulsed with divine energy. Walking around a major city with the realm's highest religious artifact openly displayed on his hand was the exact opposite of maintaining a low profile. It was an invitation for assassins, zealots, and desperate politicians to bother him constantly.

  ?

  Homer ducked into a quiet, shadowed alleyway between a baker's stall and a blacksmith's forge. He pulled a thin, durable leather cord from his travel pack, slipped the heavy gold ring off his finger, and threaded it onto the cord. He tied it securely around his neck, tucking the cold metal beneath his simple linen shirt, letting it rest against his chest like an ancient military dog tag.

  ?

  Out of sight, out of mind, Homer thought, patting his chest to ensure the ring didn't show through the fabric. Let us keep the 'blessed human' narrative strictly on a need-to-know basis.

  ?He merged back into the crowded streets, navigating his way toward the commercial district. The Adventurer's Guild in Muntinlupa was not difficult to find. It was a massive, sprawling structure built from dark, polished mahogany and reinforced steel, completely contrasting with the pristine white marble of the Elven government buildings.

  ?

  Homer pushed open the heavy double doors and stepped inside.

  ?

  The atmosphere in the Muntinlupa guild was entirely different from the chaotic, dusty tavern vibe of San Pedro. This place was highly organized, intensely professional, and massive. Hundreds of adventurers—humans, elves, dwarves, and beastkin—milled about the vast hall. Massive wooden boards lined the walls, plastered with bounties and escort requests. The smell of spilled ale, old parchment, and oiled leather hung thick in the air.

  ?

  But beneath the standard hum of a busy guild, there was a distinct, electric buzz of fresh gossip.

  ?

  As Homer walked toward the central reception desks, he caught snippets of hushed conversations from the heavily armored parties lounging at the long wooden tables.

  ?

  "...heard it happened right at the main gates..." a scarred human warrior muttered over his tankard.

  ?

  "...a baseline human? Are you absolutely sure? The Bishop actually gave him the Seal of the Sanctum?" an Elven archer whispered back, her eyes wide with disbelief.

  ?

  "...they say he single-handedly tore a true dragon's head off with his bare hands just to impress the new Highest Priestess..." a drunk dwarf exaggerated loudly from a corner booth.

  ?

  Homer kept his head down, pulling the hood of his traveler's cloak slightly forward to shadow his face. The sheer irony of the situation was almost painful. The entire guild, a collection of the realm's most dangerous and observant mercenaries, was obsessively gossiping about the legendary "Blessed Human," completely entirely unaware that the man in question was currently standing in line waiting for a receptionist.

  ?

  Homer finally reached an open window. Behind the heavy wooden counter sat a sharply dressed, middle-aged human operator wearing thick, glass spectacles and surrounded by towering stacks of logistical ledgers.

  ?"Next," the operator called out, not looking up from his paperwork. "State your business, traveler. Registration, bounty collection, or rank assessment?"

  ?

  "Rank assessment and task reporting," Homer said, pulling his worn, standard-issue guild card from his pocket and sliding it across the polished wood. "Homer. I am reporting the completion of a series of localized escort tasks and rubble-clearing duties originating from the San Pedro branch."

  ?

  The operator adjusted his spectacles, picking up the card and placing it onto a flat, glowing magical scanner built into the desk. The runes on the device flared a dull, copper color.

  ?"Let's see here... Homer. Baseline human. Wind magic affinity," the operator muttered, rapidly tapping a stylus against a fresh sheet of parchment. "Records indicate you survived the recent, devastating demon incursion at San Pedro. You assisted in civilian evacuation and structural stabilization. Highly commendable. And you escorted a High Council entity to the Muntinlupa gates?"

  ?"Correct," Homer said smoothly. He deliberately, carefully omitted the part where he dropped a supersonic spear of solid ice through the skull of a gargantuan apex predator. "It was a relatively quiet trip. Mostly just walking."

  ?

  "Well, consistent survival in a disaster zone merits advancement," the operator declared, tapping the magical scanner once more. The dull copper glow flashed briefly, solidifying into a slightly brighter hue. "Congratulations, Homer. Based on the accumulated task points from the San Pedro crisis, you have officially been promoted to Copper Rank 3. You are moving up in the world."

  ?

  Homer took the card back, offering a polite nod. "I appreciate it. Copper 3. Just out of curiosity, how does the point system scale from here?"

  ?

  The operator chuckled, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his tired eyes. "Ambitious, are we? Well, enjoy the Copper tier while it lasts, because the climb gets exponentially steeper. Once you clear Copper 1, you move into the Silver tier. Silver is broken down into three ranks as well—Silver 3, 2, and 1. After Silver comes Gold 3 to 1. After Gold, you hit the elite territory: Diamond 3 to 1."

  ?

  Homer rested his elbows on the counter, genuinely interested in the mechanics of this era's mercenary economy. "And what comes after Diamond 1?"

  ?"Titanium," the operator whispered, his tone dropping into a cadence of deep, almost religious reverence. "The absolute apex of the Guild. There are no sub-ranks in Titanium. You either are one, or you aren't. There are currently only five Titanium-ranked adventurers alive on the entire continent."

  ?

  The operator suddenly leaned forward, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye, clearly eager to engage in the day's hottest gossip. "Speaking of Titanium ranks, have you heard the absolute madness echoing around the hall today? The rumors from the city gates?"

  ?"I might have caught a whisper," Homer lied smoothly. "Something about a dragon?"

  ?"A True Dragon!" the operator corrected enthusiastically, slamming his hand on the desk. "They say some mysterious, overpowered wanderer managed to slay a mountain-dwelling apex predator and rescue the new Highest Priestess! If that individual is an active adventurer, the Guildmaster himself stated they would bypass the entire point system. Whoever killed that dragon would be instantly, automatically promoted to Titanium rank. The sheer accumulation of prestige and combat data required to fell a beast of that magnitude shatters the standard scaling metrics."

  ?Homer looked at his simple Copper 3 card, a small, invisible smile playing on his lips. Good to know. But I think I'll stick to the shadows.

  ?

  "It sounds like a long way to go," Homer noted casually. "A thousand mundane tasks, clearing rat cellars and escorting merchants, before anyone could even dream of reaching Titanium."

  ?"You bet it is," the operator agreed, returning to his paperwork. "But the struggle is worth it for the perks alone. Reaching Silver rank grants you free, subsidized accommodation at any standard inn affiliated with the Guild. It is enough to satisfy most wandering swordsmen. Reach Gold rank, and the Guild covers all your food and basic supply requisitions entirely free of charge anywhere in the realm. And if you somehow manage the impossible and hit Titanium? The Guild simply gifts you a fully staffed mansion in the capital city of your choice. It is a life of absolute, untouchable luxury."

  ?Homer slipped the Copper card back into his pocket. He didn't actually need any of those perks.

  ?"Indeed," Castor chimed in, analyzing the economic incentives. "Given our nanite-infused physiology, you do not require traditional caloric intake or standard sleep cycles to maintain optimal cellular function. You only simulate the consumption of food and rest to maintain your baseline human disguise among your current companions."

  ?

  Exactly, Homer thought. I don't need a mansion, and I definitely don't need free food. I just need to get to Poblacion quietly.

  ?"Thank you for the information," Homer said to the operator, turning away from the desk. "I'll keep my head down and stick to the Copper bounties for now."

  Homer pulled his hood a little lower, intending to slip out of the massive guild hall entirely unnoticed, grab a few basic supplies from the market, and figure out how to navigate the impending, highly awkward road trip with the furious High Elf and the overly enthusiastic Priestess.

  He was halfway to the heavy double doors. His low-key, entirely unremarkable exit was going flawlessly.

  ?

  Then, the universe decided it was entirely finished letting him hide.

  ?

  ?"OI!"

  ?The voice did not just echo through the massive guild hall; it detonated. It was a sound like two boulders grinding together, impossibly loud, incredibly deep, and carrying the unmistakable, rumbling accent of the deep earth.

  ?"IS THAT HIM?!"

  ?The sheer volume of the shout caused the entire, bustling Adventurer's Guild to instantly fall dead silent. Hundreds of conversations stopped mid-sentence. Tankards halted halfway to mouths. Every single mercenary, mage, and rogue in the massive building turned to look toward the heavy wooden entrance doors.

  ?Homer froze in his tracks, his eyes closing in sheer, exasperated defeat.

  ?Standing in the open doorway, blocking the lower half of the sunlight spilling in from the street, was a dwarf.

  ?He stood exactly three feet and nine inches tall, coming up just past Homer's waist, but his proportions were utterly absurd. He was easily twice as wide as the human, built like a heavily armored bank vault. He was clad head-to-toe in incredibly thick, interlocking plates of dark, gunmetal-gray iron armor that looked heavy enough to sink a galleon.

  ?Resting casually on his steel-plated shoulder was a double-bitted battleaxe that defied all laws of physics. The haft of the weapon was taller than Homer himself, and the twin blades of the axe were impossibly massive—literally bigger than the dwarf's entire body. The weapon hummed with a violent, deep-red magical aura.

  ?The dwarf took a heavy, thudding step into the guild hall. The floorboards visibly groaned under his immense, dense weight. He scanned the silent crowd with sharp, intelligent eyes hidden beneath a thick, wildly braided iron-gray beard.

  ?His gaze locked directly onto the hooded figure frozen halfway across the room.

  ?The dwarf raised a massive, gauntleted hand and pointed a thick finger straight at Homer’s chest.

  ?"SO! YOU'RE HOMER!" the dwarf bellowed, his voice easily carrying over the absolute silence of the hundreds of staring adventurers.

  ?He didn't stop there. He didn't use a quiet, subtle code. The dwarf practically broadcasted the exact secret Homer had just spent the last hour desperately trying to hide.

  ?"THE BLESSED HUMAN! THE ONE WHO RIPPED THE WINGS OFF THE BEAST AND GOT KISSED BY THE HIGH PRIESTESS HERSELF!"

  ?A collective, massive gasp sucked the air out of the room.

  ?Every single eye in the vast hall—the scarred veterans, the elven archers, and especially the guild operator behind the desk—snapped instantly to Homer. The quiet, unremarkable Copper 3 wind mage was suddenly the absolute, undeniable epicenter of the entire realm's attention. The disguise was completely, irreversibly shattered.

  ?The dwarf didn't seem to notice or care about the sheer panic he had just induced. He marched across the room, the crowd frantically parting before him like water to avoid the massive axe blades. He stopped directly in front of Homer, craning his thick neck upward to look the human in the eye. He grinned widely, revealing a set of blocky, remarkably white teeth.

  ?The dwarf slammed a heavy gauntlet against his own iron-plated chest, the sound ringing out like a cracked bell.

  "THE NAME IS RAMEL OF SUCAT!" the dwarf boomed, extending a calloused hand the size of a dinner plate. "TITANIUM RANK! AND BY ORDER OF THE CHURCH, I'LL BE JOINING YOUR PARTY FROM NOW ON! I CAME TO PERSONALLY GREET OUR NEWEST TITANIUM RANK ADVENTURER! TRY TO KEEP UP, BOY!"

  ?Homer stood frozen, feeling the crushing weight of hundreds of heavily armed mercenaries staring at him with a mixture of absolute awe, intense jealousy, and predatory interest. He had absolutely no choice. The low-profile act was completely dead and buried.

  ?With a heavy, defeated sigh, Homer slowly turned back toward the reception desk. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the simple, unremarkable Copper 3 card he had just been issued minutes ago, and reluctantly offered it back to the operator.

  ?Ramel paused, his thick, bushy eyebrows shooting up in surprise at the sight of the lowest-tier metal in the legendary champion's hand. But the massive, blocky grin never faded from the dwarf's face for a single second. He let out a booming laugh that practically rattled the weapons on the guild walls.

  ?"Go on now! Don't be so humble!" Ramel bellowed, slapping his iron-plated thigh.

  ?The operator stared at the copper plate in Homer's extended hand. With trembling, sweating fingers, the human clerk took the card.

  ?SNAP.

  ?To Homer's mild surprise, the operator immediately broke the metal plate cleanly in half. The clerk quickly swept the broken pieces into a waste bin beneath the desk, his expression a mask of terrified, absolute professionalism.

  ?"My deepest apologies, sir," the operator squeaked, his hands shaking as he pulled out a pristine, glowing ledger. "It is a standard procedure for a rank reevaluation of this magnitude. We absolutely cannot have the Church or Ramel of Sucat questioning the Guild for doing a poor job by leaving a blessed champion in the Copper tier. Please wait a moment while I forge your new Titanium plate."

  ?Homer stared at the empty space where his quiet, unremarkable Copper rank used to be. He looked at the grinning, impossibly wide dwarf from Sucat, and then back at the silent, staring crowd hanging onto his every move.

  ?He could practically hear Elara’s inevitable, sanity-shattering scream echoing from the High Elf Headquarters.

  ?Castor, Homer thought, his internal voice completely flat and devoid of all hope.

  ?"Yes, Architect?"

  ?I hate it here.