Katherine-The Guild's Receptionist
After the last of the silver marks were counted and the transaction for the wolf pelts was meticulously filed away, I finally allowed myself a breath. The ledger was closed. The coins were secure. I glanced up at the large clock ticking steadily on the wall. My shift was finally, blessedly over. Right on cue, the side door opened, and Sitar, the lanky new receptionist, ambled in, yawning.
"Shift's all yours," I said, my voice thankfully steady. He nodded, still half-asleep, and I didn't linger. My business wasn't finished.
Making my way toward the guild master's private office, the chaotic images from the hall replayed in my mind like a stuck record: the suffocating pressure, Zeren's ashen face, and that boy—that impossible boy—standing unwavering against a force that should have shattered him. But more than anything, I kept returning to the Guild Master's actions. Why? Why had the old man unleashed his killing intent the moment he'd entered? It wasn't just a show of force; it was a test. A dangerous, reckless test conducted in a room full of people. The weight of the question pressed down on me with each step up the creaking stairs, the rolled-up newspaper gripped like a weapon in my sweating hand.
I didn't bother knocking. I pushed the door open to find him standing with his broad back to me, gazing out the large window that overlooked the main street below. I could see the tops of Seres and Ardyn with a grey whitish cloak now, as they walked away, two small figures moving toward the city gate.
My patience, stretched thin by hours of tension and confusion, finally snapped.
I crossed the room in three quick strides. With a sharp, practiced motion, I bonked him squarely on the back of his head with the rolled newspaper. Thwack.
He jolted, his shoulders stiffening in surprise.
"Explain yourself!" I demanded, my voice firm and leaving no room for evasion. I didn't care about protocol anymore. I needed clarity. "What in the world possessed you to use killing intent like that in a crowded hall? You could have triggered a panic! Or a riot! Or worse!"
Borin didn't startle or turn around. He simply leaned back in his worn leather chair, the old thing groaning in protest under his weight. He clasped his hands loosely over his belly, his single eye still fixed on the view outside the window. The setting sun dipped low, casting long, dramatic shadows that stretched across the guild hall below, painting everything in shades of orange and deep blue. He was silent for a long moment, utterly lost in thought, his gaze tracking two small, familiar figures—Ardyn and Seres—as they passed through the distant city gates and vanished into the twilight.
Finally, he spoke, his voice a low, calm rumble that carried the weight of decades of command and consequence. It filled the quiet office, leaving no room for interruption.
"I guess I wanted to check something," he began, as if that were a perfectly reasonable explanation for nearly inciting a bloodbath in his own guild.
Borin remained facing the window, the fading light etching the deep lines of his face. "You know, it's rare—almost unheard of—for Finel to vouch for someone," he said, his voice a low, thoughtful rumble. "That man, a numbered A-rank, doesn't take sides. He weighs facts, not feelings. His reputation is built on cold, hard impartiality."
He finally turned his head slightly, his single eye catching the last of the sunset's glow. "And yet, he spoke for this boy. At first, I wondered if it was just for Seres. She helped him when he was a nobody—a rookie with more guts than coin. Gave him herbs for his wounds, shared her food when he could barely afford a loaf of bread. That kind of debt… it sticks with a man."
He shook his head, a short, definitive motion. "But no. That's not it. Finel wouldn't compromise his integrity, not even for her. He'd find another way to repay a debt. This?" He gestured vaguely toward the window, toward where they had disappeared. "This was different. He saw something. Something that made him break his own rule of silence. He trusts Seres's judgment, yes, but he also saw something in that boy that demanded his respect. And that… that is significant."
Borin's gaze hardened, his voice dropping to a low, deliberate timbre that seemed to absorb the last of the daylight in the room. "Finel is precise. Calculating. He doesn't lie. Not here. Not in this guild. Not ever." He leaned forward slightly, the leather of his chair groaning. "A false word in these halls can get a man killed—or worse, expelled and disgraced. We deal in lives, not rumors. High expectations, rules, protocols—they are not suggestions. They are the foundation that keeps us from devolving into mercenaries and cutthroats."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "For a man like Finel to stake his reputation, to break his own famed impartiality and vouch for this boy… it means he saw something extraordinary. Something genuine. He wouldn't do it out of pity or for an old debt. Not even for Seres." Borin's single eye narrowed, sharp and intent. "It means the boy's skill, his actions in that clearing, were real. And that… that reflects on the boy himself. Trust isn't given lightly here. If Finel believes in him, then there is truth in his potential. I wouldn't dismiss that lightly. Not even someone in my position can afford to ignore a testimony like that."
Borin's voice lowered, becoming almost contemplative, as if he were speaking more to himself than to me. "So, I thought," he began, his gaze drifting back to the window where the last sliver of sun was vanishing, "I might as well see for myself." He unclasped his hands and spread them slightly. "The opportunity came in a… chaotic way. Zeren's bluster, the wolves, the whole hall in an uproar. The boy found trouble faster than a moth finds a flame. It was a perfect chance to test what Finel had claimed under pressure. I wanted to watch him, to judge for myself if he truly possessed the raw strength and unteachable skill that Finel trusted him to have."
He fell silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his tone shifted. It was no longer speculative; it was definitive, the voice of a man who had seen all he needed to see. His gaze sharpened, focusing on some internal replay of the events below.
"And now, after seeing him in action—truly seeing him—I can confirm it." He turned fully in his chair to face me, his expression stark and serious. "The boy may have killed those wolves alone. Not a single trace of mana. No official rank, no guild training, no backing. Yet his instincts…" Borin shook his head, a gesture of pure professional astonishment. "The speed, the precision, the control under threat. It was all there. It wasn't trained; it was… innate. Like breathing."
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his single eye holding mine. "It's dangerous, that kind of power in someone so unknown. Unnerving. But it is undeniably, terrifyingly capable. I needed to see it firsthand. I couldn't risk the guild's reputation—or its safety—on Finel's word alone, no matter how much I respect the man." A faint, grim smile touched his lips. "And the boy… he didn't disappoint. If anything, he confirmed every one of Finel's claims and then some."
"The killing intent I used?" Borin's voice was calm, measured, as if dissecting a tactical maneuver. "It wasn't cruelty. It wasn't anger. It was a firm warning. One arrow, two birds." He held up a thick finger. "To stop the boy from crossing a line he couldn't return from—and to caution Zeren that his bullying would no longer be tolerated in my hall. It prevented a disaster and reasserted authority without a single blade drawn."
He leaned back, the shadows of the room deepening around him. "The boy has potential, Katherine. Raw, undeniable potential. But even potential can be dangerous in the wrong hands—or an unguided one. What I did was a lesson, a test, and a safeguard, all in one move."
"You see," he continued, his tone turning thoughtful, almost philosophical, "sometimes I must intervene to observe properly. The guild hall is a stage; controlled chaos can be the sharpest lens. Ardyn's reactions, his preternatural calm under direct threat, the precision of his control—none of that would have been revealed in peace. It took pressure to force it into the open. Finel saw the aftermath. I needed to see the character." He met my gaze squarely. "That's how we ensure true talent is recognized, and how we ensure dangerous power is understood before it spirals out of control. The boy proved himself today. Not with boasts or papers, but with action. And now… now we know."
As the last of the twilight faded from the sky, Guildmaster Borin reached out with a casual flick of his wrist. One by one, the floating mana bulbs suspended from the ceiling ignited, their soft, white glow pushing back the shadows and filling the high-ceilinged office with a calm, steady light. The dancing shadows on the wood-paneled walls stilled. He leaned back in his worn leather chair, the familiar groan of its frame a comfortable sound in the quiet room, and steepled his thick fingers. Turning his head, his one good eye fixed on me, gleaming with a familiar, deep curiosity.
"Katherine," he said slowly, the word hanging in the air between us. "What do you think is the true value of a numbered A-rank adventurer?"
I paused, setting down the quill I'd been absently holding. The question wasn't casual; it was a test, an invitation into his way of thinking. I considered my answer carefully, wanting to match his seriousness with precision.
"Well, Guildmaster," I began, my voice measured. "Numbered A-ranks are… exceedingly rare. They are the proven elite." I straightened slightly, falling into the familiar rhythm of reciting guild statistics, but with a tone of reverence these individuals commanded. "Out of the roughly 1,200 active A-rank adventurers registered across our entire continent of Velandra, only half—approximately 600—carry a number. That number isn't just a title; it means their strength, skills, and accomplishments have been rigorously assessed, officially ranked by the Continental Guild Assembly, and are a matter of public record. They aren't just powerful; they are known quantities, pillars of stability. Their very presence can deter conflicts, their word can settle disputes, and their actions can shape the safety of entire regions." I met his gaze. "Their value is incalculable. They are the foundation the guild system is built upon."
I nodded, seeing he was following the nuance. "Precisely, Guildmaster. The unnumbered A-ranks, while undoubtedly powerful, operate with a degree of… anonymity. Their exact capabilities are not publicly dissected. The guild might have a rough estimate, but it isn't scrutinized. Their abilities are less closely monitored by the central Assembly unless they cause significant trouble." I glanced up at the softly glowing mana bulbs, their light a metaphor for the transparency expected of those elite few. "But a numbered A-rank? They are a definitive step above. They are individually ranked against their peers—Number 47 is understood to be stronger than Number 203, for instance. Their combat specialties, known weaknesses, and even preferred mission types are a matter of public record for any guildhall to access. This transparency creates trust but also comes with immense pressure. They are held to exponentially higher expectations of conduct and performance. They aren't just adventurers; they are symbols, and their actions reflect directly on the entire guild system."
Borin's brow furrowed slightly as he absorbed this, his single eye tracing the lines of data charts pinned to his wall—complex maps and graphs detailing adventurer distribution and threat levels across the federation. "So, the number isn't just for prestige or a bigger paycheck," he mused, his voice a low rumble. "It's a systematic tool. A way for the Federation to measure reliability, gauge potential, and maintain a layer of oversight over its most powerful assets." He gestured toward the charts. "It turns individuals into data points. Manageable, deployable data points. For an organization that has to balance thousands of volatile variables, that kind of certainty is priceless." He fell silent for a moment, the implications settling in the quiet room. "A tool for stability, then. And a leash, of sorts."
"Yes, exactly," I replied, glad he was grasping the deeper implications. "The numbering system ensures a level of accountability that simply doesn't exist for others. For instance, when a numbered A-rank like Finel—Number 413, to be precise—vouches for someone, it carries immense weight. The Federation trusts his judgment implicitly because his rank isn't just about combat skill; it's a testament to his proven decision-making, his reliability, and his understanding of the guild's laws. His word is a quantifiable asset."
I leaned forward slightly, wanting to ground the conversation in hard data. "To put the scale in perspective: out of roughly 214,000 active adventurers registered across the continent, only about 1,200 ever achieve A-rank. And of those, as I said, only 600 carry a number. S-ranks are a mythic tier unto themselves—there are only around 150 in total. The vast, vast majority of adventurers fill the ranks from G through B." I met his gaze, ensuring he understood the significance. "Numbered A-ranks are the elite within the elite. Their abilities, depending on their specific specialization, can sometimes even rival lower S-ranks. They are walking strategic resources."
Borin's question cut through the statistical haze, bringing us back to the heart of the matter. He slid Finel's letter across the desk toward me. The parchment felt weighty, its seal broken but its contents still potent.
"All that rank talk aside," Borin began, his voice calm but layered with the full weight of his curiosity and authority. The soft light from the mana bulbs glinted off the wax seal. "Katherine… tell me this—why does Finel vouch for Ardyn as an adventurer, and not simply as an individual? What in this," he tapped the letter, "makes this a matter for the guild?"
I carefully shifted the letter in my hands, my eyes scanning the precise, familiar handwriting. "In it," I began, summarizing the key points, "Finel doesn't just recommend him; he issues a warning. He writes to 'be wary of a man who killed wolves without mana at all, relying purely on raw instincts.' He emphasizes the objective danger of such a feat, stating that even a seasoned C-ranked adventurer would struggle against a pack of E and D ranks without employing skill or magic. He's framing it as a guild matter because Ardyn's actions defy the established understanding of power."
I looked up, meeting Borin's intense gaze. "He also confirms he learned of Ardyn's amnesia and circumstances directly from Seres while carrying him to safety. But his concern is professional. The letter explicitly advises that Ardyn should not be pushed into harsh activities or confrontations until Finel finishes his current mission and returns to the city to… 'assess the situation further.' He's not vouching for his character; he's reporting a tactical anomaly that requires guild-level attention and caution."
Borin stroked his chin thoughtfully, the coarse sound of his calloused fingers against his stubble loud in the quiet room. "I see…" he murmured, the pieces clicking into place. "Finel isn't writing a personal reference. He's delivering a professional assessment. He isn't vouching for the boy's character or his past—he's coldly evaluating his potential as an adventurer based on observable, incredible facts. That," he emphasized, "makes his recommendation far more significant than any ordinary endorsement. It's a strategic report."
He tapped the table with a blunt finger, his eyes flicking up to meet mine. The soft mana light caught the intensity in his single gaze. "Given this, why not officially make him one? An adventurer, I mean." The question was rhetorical, his mind already racing ahead. "We register him. We monitor him directly. That allows us to follow Finel's advice to the letter—we can ensure he doesn't engage in any dangerously premature activities. We can guide him." A spark of pragmatic opportunity lit in his eye. "It's rare we encounter talent this raw, this… instinctual. It would be beyond wasteful to let it slip through our fingers due to bureaucratic hesitation."
"The reality is," Borin added, leaning forward so his broad shoulders blocked the light from the window, "skilled adventurers are always in short supply, especially this far from the capital. If someone has the innate instincts, the sheer skill, and the proven capacity to handle extreme danger—even without a shred of formal training or mana—then cultivating that talent isn't just an opportunity; it's in everyone's best interest. Finel's trust, his clear-eyed evaluation, only confirms the urgency of keeping a structured, official eye on him."
I nodded slowly, understanding the flawless logic woven through his reasoning. It was protective, practical, and shrewd. "By officially registering him," I echoed, solidifying the plan, "we honor the spirit of Finel's request. We maintain the oversight he advised, and we create a framework to ensure the young man's dangerous abilities develop safely—for his sake and for everyone else's."
Borin's expression softened slightly, though his focus remained on the darkening window, as if he could still see the path Ardyn and Seres had taken. "Exactly." The word was final. "Ardyn will become an adventurer under our watchful eye. It won't be a mere formality. It will be a measure to guide, to protect, and most importantly, to nurture an extraordinary potential that fate literally dropped on our doorstep." He let out a slow, weary breath that seemed to carry the weight of his long years. "After all, opportunities like this… they are once in a lifetime."
Borin pushed himself up from his chair with a soft grunt, the weight of the day's revelations seeming to lift from the room as he moved. Katherine followed suit, gathering a few loose papers into a neat stack before extinguishing the mana bulbs with a wave of her hand. They stepped out of the guild hall's side entrance, the heavy oak door closing with a solid thud behind them. The evening air was crisp and cool, carrying the damp, clean scent of the nearby river.
"I suppose a little reprieve is in order," Borin murmured, rolling his broad shoulders to work out the stiffness, the events of the day clearly etched in the tired lines of his face.
Katherine smirked, planting her hands on her hips. "A reprieve, yes—but remember, you're paying, Guildmaster. Don't think I'm letting you off that easily after all that."
The old man let out a low, genuine chuckle, the sound rumbling in the quiet street. "Of course, of course. Tonight, the drinks are on me." Their easy laughter mingled with the distant sounds of the evening bustle as they turned and made their way toward the warm, inviting glow of the nearest tavern.