The crimson dawn light barely penetrated the stained-glass windows of the Mage Guild's upper floor when Mystic Mystic Moon's blood-curdling scream shattered the quiet. Geiger, mid-sip of his morning tea downstairs, nearly choked. "What in the Abyss?" His mind raced: *Red Blood Skeleton Monk Priest's daughter… under my roof… dead?* Survival instinct kicked in before thought. Frostbone coalesced in his palm, the sharp point of a gleaming Frostbone Spike materializing with a crackle. He didn't aim; he simply unleashed it towards the source of the scream – the bed, and the shadowy figure above Mystic Mystic Moon, Dunce.
Dunce, mind still fogged with sleep and the shock of waking to Mystic Mystic Moon's outrage and flying fists, barely registered the blur of incoming frost. To dodge meant exposing Mystic Mystic Moon behind him. Gritting his teeth, raw power – his recently advanced Sheng Dou Qi – surged through his fist. He punched forward, meeting the crystalline spear head-on.
**BOOM!**
The Frostbone Spike exploded in a shower of frigid shards and diamond dust. But success was bitter. A wicked sliver of ice, sharper than a dagger, punched clean through Dunce's forearm. Blood Skeleton bloomed across the white sheets, stark and violent.
"Master Geiger! Wait! I didn't do anything!" Dunce gasped, pain washing over him.
The instant the ice left his hand, Geiger knew he'd acted rashly. Looking at Dunce's wide, confused eyes, the boy seemed incapable of malice. *And naive as hell. Would he even know what to do?* Besides, both were fully clothed; Mystic Mystic Moon was swaddled defensively in the covers like a cocoon... Geiger massaged his temples. "Then what in the Nine Hells *is* going on?"
Clutching his bleeding arm, Dunce stammered out the night: the shared room, the single bed, his collapse from exhaustion, the untouched blankets like a fortress wall between them.
Geiger sighed, a wave of relief weakening his knees. He rounded on Dunce. "You imbecile! Do you know nothing? You can't just bunk with a highborn maiden! Especially *her*!" He softened his voice towards Mystic Mystic Moon, who huddled like an affronted goddess. "Miss Mystic Mystic Moon, the boy… Dunce… speaks truth. He's simple, but harmless. See? His arm is impaled! Please, forgive his stupidity."
Mystic Mystic Moon sniffled, her knowledge of worldly matters as sharp as her magic but just as shallow. "R-really? But… but he slept next to me! Could I… could I be with child?" Her voice rose in pure horror. "A child like *him*? So… so *dim*? I'd rather die!"
The words struck Dunce like physical blows. *Dim. Simple. Harmless.* They echoed the internal voice that had whispered to him all his life – gutter rat, thief, fool. Mystic Mystic Moon's privileged disdain crystallized it. He took a step back, then another. The warmth in his eyes faded, replaced by the frozen depths of a glacier pond. A familiar numbness settled over his heart.
Geiger fought the urge to laugh at the absurdity. "Child? Oh, Gods above, no! For that, one must… well… *do the deed*. Dunce's not capable of such complexities. You feel fine, don't you? No harm done. Dunce! Apologize! Now!"
Dunce obeyed, stepping forward like a condemned man. He kept his gaze low, his voice devoid of its usual hesitant warmth. "My apologies, *Miss* Mystic Mystic Moon. I am but a peasant, fresh from the backwater. I know nothing of your civilized world. I offended you. Forgive my existence. I vow never to touch you again, nor stray beyond my station as your… shadow." He stepped back into his designated space. He was trapped now, bound by his sacred oath (and the prospect of warm rolls that came with it) and the debt owed to the Red Blood Skeleton Monk Priest whose magic had unlocked his new power.
Geiger missed the lethal coldness in Dunce's tone. He placated Mystic Mystic Moon, who, mollified but still outraged, demanded fresh clothes identical to the bloodied ones, a new Mage Robe, and immediate departure. Geiger couldn't get her out fast enough.
Alone in the room, tension hung thick as swamp mist. Mystic Mystic Moon's tears dried. The pool of blood on the bed seemed suddenly much larger. An unfamiliar pang of something like guilt pricked her. She *knew* Dunce was likely innocent. The tantrum was mostly frustration directed at the awkwardness and his frustrating lack of… *suitability*. He belonged far below her, a peasant in the shadow of her divine lineage.
"Dunce," her voice sounded small. "Come. I'll mend your arm."
Dunce glanced at the wound. The icy chill had faded, replaced by a sickening, persistent throb. Geiger's strike had been blindingly fast, bypassing his nascent defenses. No bones broken, thankfully, but the blood loss made his head swim. "No need. I can manage." With swift, practiced motions from a harder life, he tore a strip from his ruined shirt, bit one end, and pulled it tight around the wound with his good hand. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the pain.
Mystic Mystic Moon huffed. "Suit yourself! Saving my mana." But her eyes stayed fixed on the crude bandage.
"I wouldn't dream of wasting your precious power on this… *triviality*," Dunce replied flatly. He grabbed his travel sack and left the room.
Alone, Mystic Mystic Moon gaped. When Dunce picked up his sack, she'd glimpsed that frozen, unfamiliar look. Why had he suddenly changed? The hesitant, foolish boy was gone, replaced by this guarded, detached stranger. Was it because of the bed? *But I couldn't… he should understand… he's just a servant!* The thought settled, cold and imperious. He was her shadow. His feelings were irrelevant.
Soon, Dunce returned. His face was paler. His left arm hung stiffly. In his good hand, a tray held a simple breakfast. He placed it before her.
"Eat, *Miss* Mystic Mystic Moon."
Mystic Mystic Moon blinked. "You're not eating? Is that all?"
Dunce shook his head, gaze averted. "A shadow doesn't eat with its master. I shall eat elsewhere. Call if needed." He vanished again.
Outside, Dunce leaned against the cool stone wall, exhaling the suffocating tension. The ache inside was worse than the wound. *Of course.* A gutter-born thief beside the Blood Skeleton Monk Priest's jeweled daughter. A gulf as wide as the ocean. *A year. Just a year.* He thought of Gorithi's workshop. Another year's delay. *I promised...*
Geiger found him there. "Dunce? You look like a kicked mutt." The elder mage's eyes were kind.
Dunce lifted his head. "I'm fine. Thank you."
Geiger sighed. "My fault. Lost my head. Here, let me fix that wound properly. A puncture like that… festering is ugly business." He invoked a Water Mage's restorative magic, soothing tissue and knitting flesh. Dunce endured it silently, respectful of the older man.
The healing warmth flowed into Dunce's arm, restoring limited motion. Breakfast helped his pallor. Geiger lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Lad, brace yourself. Guarding that little… *princess*… won't be easy. That family? Unfathomable power. You're walking a razor's edge." He paused, his expression grave. "And heed me, boy. Guard your heart. Tandor't… *care* for her. Not like that. That chasm between you? It'll drown you." His gaze was piercing.
Dunce's laugh was cold and humorless. "Worry wasted, Master Geiger. A thief and the Blood Skeleton Monk Priest's jewel? Different universes. Nothing could happen."
Geiger clapped his shoulder. "Tandor't sell yourself short. Your strength for your age… impressive." He gestured. "Rest. I'll deliver the package to our departing storm. Here." He handed Dunce a fresh, plain Mage Robe.
Alone, Dunce pulled on the new robe. He flexed his injured arm – stiff, sore, but functional. His inner energy flowed, silently mending damaged pathways beneath the surface scar. Last night's fragile truce was obliterated. Mystic Mystic Moon's casual cruelty had iced whatever warmth remained. His heart felt barricaded, guarded like a fortress under siege.
His hand brushed the hidden shape strapped to his chest beneath his shirt. *The Death God's Blade.* His new strength… Fifth Layer Sheng Dou Qi. *The Underworld Script's first form. I can start.* The power called, a dark seduction mixed with remembered agony. The terrifying might of the sword was seared into his mind. So too was its evil hunger. Could he wield such poison without becoming poison? Oro's dying words were the only anchor: *"Use it for good, it becomes a shield. Use it for evil, a scourge."* Gritting his teeth, Dunce made his choice. He would honor Oro. When the moment came, he would learn.
Geiger emerged, followed by Mystic Mystic Moon, resplendent in her new attire, blue hair in twin tails. The effect was slightly marred by puffy eyes. Dunce stood.
"Miss," he said, the title a barrier.
Mystic Mystic Moon wrinkled her nose. "*Mystic Moon Mystic Moon.* Call me Mystic Moon Mystic Moon. Or should I call you *Slowpoke*?"
"You are my employer. Call me what you will." Dunce's reply was monotone.
Geiger coughed, clearing the awkward air. "Departing, Miss Mystic Mystic Moon?"
"Eager to see the back of me, eh?" Mystic Mystic Moon sniffed. "I'll be back. You mark my words. Let's go, *Slowpoke*!" She strode towards the Mage Guild doors.
Geiger looked heavenward. *Back?* A tremor ran through him. He gave Dunce a meaningful look – *Good luck, you'll need it.*
Dunce bowed to Geiger, then followed the whirlwind of blue hair and silk into the morning sun.
Mystic Mystic Moon marched unerringly towards the beating heart of mercenary life in this quadrant – the Guild of Blades. Dunce followed, the hood of his deep crimson traveler's cloak pulled low, face obscured. He'd wisely left his giant Skybreaker Blade hidden in the Mage Guild; no need for trouble with Tranquil and the Scarlet Lions here. They'd be long gone on a contract anyway.
The Guildhall was a controlled riot. Raucous shouts, deals struck over cheap ale, the clank of armor – the soundscape of coin and risk. Mystic Mystic Moon and Dunce's entrance drew immediate notice. The gleaming gold Mage's crest on Mystic Mystic Moon's chest was like a beacon in this warrior realm. Mages – *real* combat Mages – were rarer than dragon's teeth. Every major crew wanted one. A warrior shield-wall, backed by elemental fury or divine light? That was the dream.
"Ma'am! Red Tempest Commandos! We'd make room for you!"
"Lady Mage! Iron Legion security contracts, prime rates! We bleed before you do!"
"Ma'am! Dragon and Phoenix Crew! We got sisterhood, real camaraderie!"
The swarm was immediate, a press of hopeful faces, promises, and cloying sales pitches. Mystic Mystic Moon blinked, then preened internally. *So sought after!*
"Back! BACK!" Her voice cut through the din. "I'm not signing! Clear a path! I'm *starting* my own crew!"
Silence, then utter disbelief. A *Mage* founding their own Blade Guild crew? With what, *two people*? And a woman? Young?
Dunce acted before the tide turned. Muscle memory from harder streets kicked in. Subtle surges of contained Dou Qi parted the crowd like an unseen prow. They reached the deep alcoves where the actual Guild operations hummed: Registration, Job Board, Pay Office.
"My Guild," Mystic Mystic Moon declared to the Registration counter. A young woman looked up, eyes widening at the Mage Crest.
"Ma'am? You're… founding a Guild Crew?" Skepticism laced her tone. She'd seen initiates, warriors, scouts… never a core spellcaster looking to captain their own dinghy in these shark-infested waters.
"Yes! Make it quick!" Mystic Mystic Moon snapped.
The clerk managed a professional smile. "Your Guild Name? Number of members? Soldier Captain? Second?"
"Two!" Mystic Mystic Moon jabbed a thumb at herself. "Soldier Captain, Mystic Mystic Moon." Then at Dunce's stoic bulk. "Second, Slowpoke… Dunce."
The clerk's lips twitched at 'Slowpoke' but wrote it down. "Their classes? Skills?"
"Mages! Mine's Light. His… Fire? Or fists? Whatever." The gathering crowd pressed behind them.
Mystic Mystic Moon hissed under her breath. She snapped her short staff up, chanting. A flare of pure white light erupted – a simple Dunce spell, but amplified by her innate Sacred energy. It pulsed with power, radiating purity and menace like a miniature holy symbol. "The next grubby hand that touches me gets smote! Stand DOWN!" The crowd instinctively flinched back from the searing light and palpable pressure. Only a few hardened veterans held their ground.
"As you see," the clerk murmured, amused. "Your Guild's rank will be Initiate – Tier Four. Due to your… profession… we're starting your *personal* Rank at Bronze – Tier Three. Here." She handed over two engraved metal discs – bronze swords crossed over a shield. "Your ID chips. Keep them safe. Report loss immediately. Show them to take jobs. These are Bronze Rank badges."
Mystic Mystic Moon scowled at the simple bronze badge. "*Bronze?* Pathetic!"
"Ranking up takes blood and bodies, ma'am," a familiar voice chuckled. Cary stepped forward, the red storm emblem of Red Tempest prominent on his tactical vest. "Even Initiate to Bronze… grinding low-end contracts takes most a year. The Guild did you a solid favor."
Mystic Mystic Moon spun. "Still lurking? Told you, not joining!"
Cary spread his hands disarmingly. "Business isn't the only game. Might be routes you need muscle for. Traps needing extra eyes. We offer partnership. Name your terms."
*Partnership?* Mystic Mystic Moon's eyes lit with the thrill of bigger prospects. Her tone thawed a fraction. "Alright then, *Old Timer*. Cary, right? Fine. We'll remember. Slowpoke! To the job boards!"
They pushed past the residual crowd to the towering Job Board. Four tiers. Mystic Mystic Moon's eyes scanned greedily:
* **Gruntwork:** Babysitting merchant caravans, item courier runs. Pay: pocket change.
* **Bronze Tier:** Quirky, riskier tasks. "Seek Smokewind Herb" made Dunce's eyes narrow.
* **Silver Tier:** Higher stakes. Hunt rare artifacts, delve dangerous ruins. "Retrieve the Nine Dragon Grail – Reward: 10,000 Gold!" shone temptingly.
* **Platinum Tier:** Only one listing:
* **Objective:** Deathspine Range. Edge territories, disputed lands. Caves rumored to hold Grade-A Prime Arcane Crystals.
* **Contract:** Retrieve Prime Arcane Crystal, verify at Guild Hall.
* **Reward:** Negotiable (based on Crystal Quality/Element). Minimum Guarantee: 1,000 *Crystal Marks* (equivalent to a small kingdom's treasury).
*A thousand Crystal Marks?* Mystic Mystic Moon's avarice warred with her holy lineage. She knew Arcane Crystals. Core foci for any serious magic. Rare. *Prime* Crystals? Mythic multipliers of power. Worth empires.
Cary leaned closer. "See that? Prime Crystals. Worth more than cities. That job's an old specter. Posted by some top-tier Artificer, we heard. Never closed. Never will be."
Mystic Mystic Moon frowned. "Why? You're the *Red Tempest*. Can't swarm the place? Maps? Scouts? A thousand Crystal Marks is life-changing!"
Cary's smile turned grim. "Look at the location. *Deathspine Range*. Not worth the blood price. No crew takes it. Not even ours. Orders from the top."
Dunce finally spoke, drawn in by the promise of something truly valuable, something tangible to offer his master. "Why? What's there?"
Cary met the hooded boy's gaze. "Why do you think they call it the *Deathspine*, kid? It's not the views."