The last thing the Guild Master saw was Shinji's back disappearing into the crowd.
No hurry. No hesitation. Just a clean departure, as if the weight that had settled over the hall belonged to everyone else.
That image lingered.
Shinji stepped out into the open air.
The guild's stone facade loomed behind him, banners stirring lazily above the doors. The noise from inside dulled the moment he crossed the threshold, replaced by the lower, constant hum of the city—vendors calling, boots on cobblestone, the distant clang of metal from a smithy down the street.
He did not stop.
The Apex Devour rested against his side, wrapped and bound, its presence quiet. Too quiet. Shinji adjusted the strap across his shoulder as he moved, blending into the morning traffic with practiced ease.
He turned once at the corner.
Nothing unusual.
People passed him without a second glance. A pair of adventurers argued over a map. A child darted between carts, laughter sharp in the air. Everything looked as it should.
And yet—
The feeling did not fade.
It wasn't pressure. Not danger in the way blades or spells announced themselves. It was the sensation of alignment, of something behind him matching his pace without ever drawing close enough to be seen.
Shinji slowed.
So did the world.
He took another step, then another, letting his breathing settle. His eyes traced reflections in shop windows, the shimmer of polished shields hanging from a stall, the warped glass of a tavern door.
Still nothing.
He turned down a narrower street and walked three more paces.
Then stopped.
The presence stopped with him.
That was confirmation enough.
Shinji exhaled softly and stepped sideways—into a space that didn't exist a moment before.
The street folded inward, sound collapsing into silence as the city peeled away like a discarded layer. The air changed, becoming thin and still, neither warm nor cold. The ground beneath his feet smoothed into something indistinct, colorless, as if the world itself had decided not to commit to form.
Hinata was already there.
She stood a short distance away, arms folded, her expression neutral but her eyes alert. Unlike Shinji, she did not pretend this place was natural.
"You left quickly," she said.
"Had a reason," Shinji replied.
Hinata tilted her head slightly, listening—not with her ears, but with something deeper. Her gaze flicked once, twice, toward the emptiness behind him.
"You're being followed," she said. "Carefully."
Shinji nodded. "I noticed."
"Not guild," Hinata added. "Not human."
That narrowed things.
Shinji rested a hand lightly against the wrapped hilt at his side, not drawing on it, just acknowledging its existence. "How close?"
Hinata hesitated. "Close enough to watch. Far enough to avoid being seen."
She looked back at him then. "They didn't expect you to step aside like this."
"Good."
A brief silence passed between them, the kind that carried more meaning than conversation. Hinata studied him openly now, as if measuring not his strength, but his calm.
"This started the moment you left the hall," she said. "Whatever you did in there—it reached farther than you think."
Shinji did not answer.
He already knew.
The stillness around them rippled faintly, the edges of the space thinning, ready to release them back into the city.
Hinata's voice softened, just a fraction. "Be careful."
Shinji turned toward the fading boundary. "I always am."
The world reasserted itself in a rush of sound and motion. Shinji stepped back onto the street as if he'd never left it, the city continuing without pause.
Behind him, unseen, something adjusted its distance once more.
Part 2: A Quiet Interruption
Behind him, unseen, something adjusted its distance once more.
The sensation lingered even after Shinji had stepped back into the street.
The city moved as it always did—too busy to notice him, too loud to care—but the alignment remained. Not closer. Not farther. Perfectly measured.
Shinji did not turn around.
He walked three streets farther, past a dye shop that smelled of bitter roots, past a row of leaning homes where laundry hung like faded banners. Only when the crowd thinned did he slow his pace again.
Then he stepped aside.
Reality bent without resistance.
Sound fell away first. Then color. The street thinned into suggestion before vanishing entirely, replaced by the same quiet, indeterminate space Hinata favored—neither void nor room, just elsewhere.
Hinata appeared a moment later, as if she'd been waiting for him to decide.
"They didn't follow you in," she said immediately.
"They couldn't," Shinji replied.
"That's not what I meant."
She walked a slow circle around him, eyes unfocused, attention stretched outward. "They stopped the instant you stepped out. Too precise for instinct."
"Meaning?"
"They're trained," Hinata said. "Or experienced enough to know when not to cross a line."
That narrowed things further.
Shinji rested his hand against the wrapping of Apex Devour. The sword remained dormant, its presence contained—but there was awareness there now. Not agitation. Recognition.
"They're not here for the sword," he said.
Hinata stopped. Looked at him. "You're sure?"
"If they were," Shinji replied, "they'd be closer."
Silence settled between them. This one heavier than before.
Hinata exhaled slowly. "Then they're here for you."
Shinji didn't deny it.
"They started watching after the evaluation," she continued. "Not during. After. That means something changed for them once you were acknowledged."
"S-rank," Shinji said.
"Status," Hinata corrected. "Visibility."
She faced him fully now. "You passed a threshold. Someone noticed."
Shinji's gaze lowered, thoughtful—not troubled. "Only one?"
Hinata hesitated. "Only one that I can feel."
That answer carried weight.
Shinji stepped past her, moving toward the thinning edge of the space. The boundary wavered, ready to release him again.
"You're not going to confront them," Hinata said.
"No."
"You're not going to run."
"No."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Then what are you going to do?"
Shinji paused at the edge, half in one world, half in the other.
"Nothing," he said. "For now."
Hinata watched him for a long moment, then gave a small nod. "That's usually when things get complicated."
A corner of Shinji's mouth lifted—not a smile. Just acknowledgment.
The city rushed back around him, sound and motion reclaiming their places. He stepped onto the street and continued on, unhurried.
Behind him, at a distance chosen with care, the presence followed.
Part 3: Bread and Voices
Behind him, at a distance chosen with care, the presence followed.
Shinji did not acknowledge it as he turned onto the wider street.
The sounds of the city grew thicker here—voices stacking over one another, the hiss of oil on hot metal, the clatter of bowls and cups from open storefronts. He let the rhythm take him, adjusted his pace to match the flow, and within moments became just another figure moving through town.
The group was easy to find.
They had gathered near a low, open-front eatery wedged between a tanner's shop and a spice seller, the smell of warm bread and simmering broth drifting into the street. A few rough tables sat outside, already half-filled with adventurers who hadn't yet learned to eat quietly.
Kaede saw him first.
"There you are," she said, standing halfway from her seat before stopping herself. "You disappeared."
"Had something to take care of," Shinji replied.
No elaboration.
She studied him for a breath longer than necessary, then nodded once and sat back down. "We were about to order."
Shinji took the empty space at the table, setting Apex Devour carefully against the bench beside him, wrapped and still. The wood creaked under his weight. Across from him, one of the others paused mid-conversation, then resumed as if nothing had happened.
They ordered simply.
Bread. Stew. Water.
Metal bowls were set down one by one, steam curling upward in thin, wavering lines. The scent was familiar—root vegetables, salt, something smoked and stretched thin to feed many. Shinji broke a piece of bread and dipped it into the broth without comment.
The first few minutes passed like that.
Normal sounds. Normal motions.
And an awareness that none of it quite fit the way it had yesterday.
Kaede stirred her bowl without eating. Another member of the group laughed at something said two tables over, a beat too late. Someone else reached for the salt, then stopped, hand hovering before pulling back.
Shinji ate.
The food tasted the same.
That, somehow, made it worse.
"You're quiet," Kaede said at last, not looking at him as she spoke.
"So are you," Shinji replied.
A corner of her mouth twitched. "Fair."
Silence settled again—not heavy, not strained, but shaped. As if everyone at the table were carefully avoiding the same thought from different angles.
A pair of adventurers passed by, glanced once at Shinji's shoulder, then looked away too quickly. At the edge of his vision, someone across the street paused, pretended to tie a bootlace, then moved on.
The presence behind him remained.
Measured. Patient.
Shinji finished his bowl and set it aside. He reached for his cup, drank, and placed it down with care.
Kaede finally met his eyes.
The question was there—but not yet spoken.
Part 4: Black Dagger
Kaede's fingers tightened slightly around her spoon.
"You know," she said, keeping her voice even, "now that you're S-rank… you're eligible for solo assignments."
The table stilled.
Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough for the space between them to change shape.
Shinji lifted his gaze to her. Apex Devour rested where he'd placed it, wrapped, quiet, its presence as restrained as he was.
Kaede continued, "High-risk requests. Independent clearance. You don't need a party anymore."
A few nearby conversations bled into the silence—laughter from another table, a chair scraping stone—but their table felt separate now, suspended.
"So," she said at last, meeting his eyes fully. "Are you thinking of—"
"Black Dagger?"
The voice came from behind Shinji. Too close. Too familiar.
It cut cleanly through the moment.
Shinji's hand paused halfway to his cup.
There was a brief shuffle of boots, then a man stepped into view—leather worn thin at the shoulders, guild badge dull with age. An E-rank badge. Scratched. Repaired once, badly. He looked at Shinji like he always had: not impressed, not cautious—just surprised to see him sitting there.
"…It is you," the man said, breaking into a grin. "I thought I was seeing things."
Kaede blinked. "Black… what?"
The man laughed and stepped closer, already pulling out a chair without asking. "That's what we used to call him. Black Dagger. Gods, you still carrying that thing around?"
His eyes flicked—not to the badge at Shinji's chest, but to the wrapped sword beside him.
Shinji set his cup down slowly. "You shouldn't sit there."
"Still like that, huh?" the man said, ignoring the warning as he dropped onto the bench. "Wouldn't let anyone touch it. Remember? First day I tried, you nearly took my hand off."
One of the group shifted uncomfortably.
Kaede's gaze slid from the man, to the sword, then back to Shinji.
The E-ranker kept talking, oblivious. "We thought it was cursed or something. Turns out you were just… territorial." He chuckled. "Didn't matter how bad the day was—cheap stew, bad pay—you'd still sit there like that dagger was the only thing keeping you upright."
He finally noticed the quiet.
"…What?" he said, glancing around the table. "Did I miss something?"
Kaede leaned back slightly, studying Shinji with new attention. "You never mentioned a nickname."
Shinji shrugged once. "It didn't last."
The man frowned. "Didn't it?"
His eyes dropped again—this time to the guild emblem on Shinji's chest.
The smile faded.
Slowly.
"…That's new," he said.
No one spoke.
Part 5: Old Friend
"That's new," the man said, staring at the badge on Shinji's chest.
Then he laughed.
Not loudly. Not mockingly. Just a short, disbelieving sound, like he'd found a coin in an old coat pocket.
"Well, damn," he said. "Guess I really wasn't imagining things."
Shinji looked at him for a second longer than before.
"…You still alive?" Shinji asked.
The man blinked—then burst out laughing. "That's the first thing you say after all this time?"
Something slipped in Shinji's expression.
Just for a moment.
A breath escaped his nose before he could stop it. Not quite a laugh—but close enough that Kaede noticed instantly. Her eyes widened slightly. One of the others froze mid-motion, spoon hovering over their bowl.
The man grinned, emboldened. "You remember that job in the marshlands? The one where you refused to sleep because you were convinced something was going to steal your dagger?"
"I was right," Shinji said.
"You were paranoid," the man shot back. "You slept sitting up. With it in your hands. I thought you were going to stab me when I tried to cover the fire."
Shinji shook his head once. "You were loud."
"Because you kicked me," the man said. "Twice."
That did it.
Shinji laughed.
It was short—sharp—but real. It surprised him enough that he paused afterward, as if checking whether it had actually happened.
Across the table, Kaede stared.
She had seen Shinji fight. Had seen him stand unmoved under pressure that bent others in half.
She had not seen this.
The man leaned back, satisfied. "See? Same old Black Dagger."
Shinji glanced at the wrapped sword beside him, then back at his friend. "Don't call me that."
"Still hate it," the man said cheerfully. "Still fits."
They talked after that.
Not about ranks. Not about titles.
They talked about cheap inns. About failed quests. About food so bad it nearly counted as poison. About a time Shinji had traded his only spare cloak for a dagger whetstone and spent three days cold because of it.
"You said it was an investment," the man said.
"It was," Shinji replied.
Kaede and the others listened in silence—not because they were excluded, but because it felt wrong to interrupt. This wasn't the Shinji they had met days ago.
This was someone older. Rougher. Familiar in a way that couldn't be learned quickly.
For a moment—just one—Shinji let himself stay there.
No watchers.
No ranks.
No expectations.
Just a table, a friend, and a memory that still knew his name.
Then the moment eased, naturally, like laughter fading after a joke.
Shinji stood. "I have somewhere to be."
The man nodded, no disappointment in his eyes. "Yeah. Figured."
As Shinji stepped away, the man called after him—not loudly.
"Good seeing you, Shinji."
Shinji paused.
Then, without turning, he lifted a hand in acknowledgment.
Behind him, unseen, the presence adjusted its distance once more.
And the city kept moving.