Avilio stood just outside a blacksmith's shop, the heat from the forge still lingering in the air. The sun was high, casting sharp shadows across the cobbled street. It was already noon, and the once-busy roads of Sentril had quieted slightly, the morning rush giving way to a slower pace.
He leaned against a wooden post, watching the steam rise from nearby vents and listening to the distant clanging of hammers deeper in the alley. Moments later, Tora stepped out from the shop, a look of faint disappointment etched across his face.
"I was really hoping to meet them," he sighed.
"Who?" Avilio asked, barely looking up.
"The Despaired Souls," Tora replied, a bit more animated now. "I thought they might pass through this route on their way to the Northern Cliffs. But it seems they took the other trail instead. It could've been a huge chance… I've never seen them in person."
Avilio shrugged, his tone flat. "Your upgrade done, then?"
Tora shot him a quick glare. "Hey, at least pretend to care."
Avilio gave a small, dismissive smile. "You seem to know this place well."
"Yeah," Tora nodded, letting the moment pass. "Back when I traveled with a merchant caravan, we used to visit Sentril often. This town is a haven for traders—blacksmiths, tinkerers, you name it. If it can be built or fixed, it can be done here."
Avilio glanced down at his sword. "Mine doesn't really need much maintenance."
Tora raised a brow. "Doesn't dull?"
"Not even a scratch," Avilio said quietly. "I don't know how, but it always stays sharp."
"That's insane." Tora's voice held a mix of awe and envy. "I mean… it's like the blade chooses to stay ready."
Avilio didn't reply. He just gazed down the sunlit street, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Let's go to the registration center," Tora said, adjusting the strap of his bag.
The two began walking down the gently sloping street, where the mechanical hum of Sentril's forges blended with the distant sounds of whistles and creaking pulleys. Along the way, they passed workshops with open windows, where sparks flew like fireflies and iron sang under the hammer's blow.
The registration center stood at the edge of a broad plaza, surrounded by bulletin boards filled with requests, notices, and ranks. It was a tall, sandstone building reinforced with riveted steel beams, its emblem—a cogwheel surrounding a sword—painted in faded red above the doorway. The place wasn't packed, but a steady stream of adventurers came and went, some carrying trophies, others bandaged and tired.
As Avilio and Tora stepped inside, the cool air hit their faces. The interior was lined with booths and rune-engraved columns, each buzzing with a faint magical pulse. A large crystal orb floated in the center, pulsing softly with shifting colors—it scanned and verified adventurers during registration.
"Take a number and wait," a receptionist muttered without looking up, busy with her ledger.
Tora took the brass number plate and gestured toward an empty bench near the far end of the room. As they moved, a group entered from the opposite door, instantly drawing attention.
They were six in total—five confidently carrying themselves with the air of seasoned fighters, and one visibly younger, trying to keep up. The group moved with cohesion, like parts of a well-oiled machine. The youngest was tall but clearly new, his clothes a bit too clean, his expression a bit too unsure.
"That's… the Inner Demons," someone whispered nearby.
Avilio turned his head slightly.
The leader stood out immediately—lean, long dark coat, one side torn at the shoulder. His hair was buzzed close, and a strange, curling scar ran down his cheek. His eyes were sharp and unblinking, scanning the room like he'd already predicted every threat it held.
Tora leaned in, lowering his voice. "That's Nassh. A specialist. I met him a few months ago. He used to run solo but eventually formed the Inner Demons. Nobody really knows where he's from, but his combat style is brutal—like he's trying to tear his own fate apart."
"Charming," Avilio muttered.
The younger member was gently ushered toward one of the runic pedestals by Nassh. The orb glowed brighter as he stepped forward, a faint scan initiating. The room watched silently.
"Name," the receptionist asked, typing without looking.
"Vint," the boy said nervously. "Vint Erwin."
"Any previous affiliations?"
"No."
"Alright. Registration pending. We'll assess and tag you for a Gray Marker."
The orb dimmed, and with a small chime, a rune was etched into a small metal tag that the boy was handed. Nassh gave a nod of approval and patted Vint's shoulder before turning his head slightly, his gaze landing directly on Avilio.
The look wasn't aggressive, but it wasn't friendly either. It was like someone silently acknowledging a ripple in still water.
Avilio didn't flinch. The moment passed.
"Let's go," Nassh said, and the party of six exited just as swiftly as they had arrived.
Tora was in the other room to take a serial. When he came the Inner Demons had already left. But Tora saw the scene from afar. "What was that about?" Tora asked as he returned.
"I'm not sure," Avilio replied. "But I don't think it's the last time we'll see them."
"I really don't want to see him again," Tora whispered.
Their number was finally called. They stepped up for verification while Avilio presented his ID tag.
The receptionist blinked as she glanced at his sword and again at his tag. "No rank?"
"Just started," Tora replied on his behalf, chuckling nervously.
The woman nodded slowly, clearly curious, but said nothing more. After a few moments, Avilio was handed his grey marker.
"Alright," Tora stretched his arms as they left the building. "Sentril's been fun, but it's time to get moving. The wilds don't wait."
Avilio didn't reply.
As the heavy doors of the registration center creaked open behind them, Avilio and Tora stepped out into the soft buzz of Sentril's plaza. The sun had shifted slightly, casting longer shadows beneath the hanging iron cables and cog-driven lanterns. A breeze carried the scent of oil, warm stone, and a hint of smelted steel.
But what caught their attention wasn't the familiar machinery hum. The Inner Demons were still there.
Standing just across the plaza beneath a rust-covered arch, their formation was looser now, more relaxed. Nassh leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded as if he'd been expecting them. The others stood or sat nearby—calm, confident, and far too quiet for a group their size.
"You took your time," Nassh called out.
Tora blinked. "Huh?"
"I saw you inside earlier," Nassh continued, pushing off from the pillar. "Wanted to say hello. It's been a while."
Tora forced a smile, his body stiff. "Y-Yeah. A while."
But Avilio noticed it immediately—Tora's hands fidgeted near his belt. His smile didn't reach his eyes.
Nassh walked closer, now standing a few paces from them. His boots were coated in dust, but his long coat remained oddly clean. His scarred cheek twitched ever so slightly as he examined Tora, then glanced at Avilio.
"You're the one with the oversized blade," Nassh said, smirking. "Didn't expect a rookie to swing something that big without snapping his spine."
Avilio didn't react outwardly, though inside he noted every detail. This close, the Inner Demons were a strange, jagged puzzle. Pieces that shouldn't have fit together—but somehow did.
He noticed the woman with the white braid, standing with one leg crossed over the other, polishing a pair of brass daggers with terrifying precision. She didn't look up once.
The archer with half his face covered by a bronze-plated mask leaned against a lamp post, fingers lightly gripping a recurved bow. His arrows were tipped with silver—not iron, not steel—silver.
Another wore robes of shifting green, possibly a mage. He seemed almost detached, watching the clouds like they were whispering to him.
And then there was the boy from earlier—Vint. He lingered a step behind the others, eyes darting between the faces like he was still learning who to trust.
Avilio met Nassh's gaze. "The blade does the work. I just hold on."
Nassh let out a dry chuckle. "Good answer. Remind me not to bet against you."
Tora cleared his throat. "So… you're still in town?"
"For the day," Nassh replied. "We've got some business here. Vint needs orientation. Some of the forges in Sentril owe me a few favors." His eyes flicked to Tora again, slower this time. "Didn't expect to see you here, honestly. Thought you'd go back to being a regular guy."
Tora's smile faltered. "Things change."
A moment of silence hung in the air—just long enough for Avilio to know there was history here. Something heavy. Something unfinished.
"Well," Nassh said, straightening up, "it's a good thing. You've still got that merchant spark in your eye, but maybe a bit more edge now." He paused a bit and again started. "Ok. I should let you go. You've got ground to cover."
No one objected. The woman with the braid didn't even blink.
Tora gave a small nod, then looked at Avilio. "We should get going. It's a long way before sundown."
Avilio agreed silently.
Nassh gave a parting nod. "Northbound, aren't you? Watch the river forks. The east path's quicker but crawling with winged serpents. Unless you're trying to prove something, don't take it."
Tora managed a chuckle. "Thanks. We'll think about it."
As they turned to leave, Avilio glanced back once. Vint was watching them, eyes wide with unspoken curiosity. Avilio offered the faintest nod. The boy nodded back.
The two walked in silence for a while, their boots kicking up light dust as they exited the main road of Sentril. The sounds of the town slowly faded behind them—replaced by the call of distant birds and the low rumble of gears turning one last time behind them.
"Are you okay?" Avilio asked at last.
Tora exhaled. "I'm fine. Just… wasn't expecting to see him."
"You never told me you were this close to Nassh."
"Not something I like to talk about."
Avilio didn't press. Some ghosts were better left buried—at least for a while.
Ahead, the dirt path forked into two: one marked by worn wooden signs, the other nearly hidden by overgrowth.
They took the longer path, westbound. No serpents or hounds today.
As the sun hovered gently above the horizon, casting golden light on the road ahead, Avilio tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.
The journey was far from over. And fate, it seemed, had already begun to set the pieces.