Chapter 29: The Impossible Quests.
**IRONFORGE ADVENTURER'S GUILD - AFTERNOON**
The guild hall erupted the moment they entered.
Not with violence—with recognition.
Every head turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. A mug shattered on the floor, ale spreading like spilled blood across stone.
Because walking through those doors wasn't just Hexia anymore.
Princess Nerissa Nassiren flanked his right, violet hair catching the crystal light, purple eyes scanning the room with royal assessment. Durgan Gearbeared bounded at her heels, his gear-embedded beard whirring with excitement. Durin Thunderbeared moved with the measured tread of mountains walking, electricity crackling faintly in his magnificent beard.
And behind them—Sirenia and Lhoralaine, moving with the coordinated grace of warriors who'd learned to fight as one unit rather than competitors.
The whispers started immediately.
"That's the Swordsman of Rolling Heads—"
"Is that Princess Nerissa?"
"The *actual* princess? With the void magic?"
"Look at his face—gods, he's beautiful—"
"Focus on his companions, you idiot, they're all legendary—"
"Did you see the mark on his hand? It's *glowing*—"
Hexia endured the attention with the patience of someone who'd learned to ignore discomfort. His crimson eyes swept the room once, cataloging threats out of habit, then fixed on the reception desk.
A young dwarven woman sat frozen behind the counter, her quill hovering mid-air, ink dripping onto paperwork she'd forgotten existed.
"We need to register princess nerissa and her companions, she's joining our party." Hexia's voice was flat, cutting through the noise like a blade through silk.
The receptionist blinked. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "You're—you're the—"
"The chosen hero, yes. These are my companions. Princess nerissa with her companions are joining our party Hexagram. Is that a problem?"
"No! No problem! I just—give me one moment—I need to—" She scrambled from her chair, nearly tripping over her own feet. "GUILDMASTER! GUILDMASTER, THEY'RE HERE!"
"Who's here?" A voice boomed from the back offices—deep, authoritative, carrying the weight of someone who'd commanded respect for decades.
"THE CHOSEN HERO! WITH THE PRINCESS! AND—AND EVERYONE!"
Footsteps. Heavy. Measured. The kind that announced someone important was approaching.
The door opened.
**GUILDMASTER THORIN IRONHEART**
He was *massive* even by dwarven standards—six feet of compressed muscle and iron will, his beard braided with steel rings that clinked as he moved. Scars crossed his exposed arms like a roadmap of battles survived. His eyes were sharp, assessing, missing nothing.
Those eyes landed on Hexia. Then Nerissa. Then swept across the rest of the group.
His expression shifted through several stages—surprise, recognition, calculation, then something that might have been respect.
"Well." His voice was gravel over steel. "Color me impressed. Princess Nerissa, gracing my guild hall. And the Light Hero himself." He descended the stairs from his office, approaching with measured steps. "I'm Thorin Ironheart. Guildmaster of the Ironforge branch. And you've just made my year *very* interesting."
"Princess nerissa and her companions needs registration." Hexia's tone suggested he didn't care about interesting years. "Party name: Hexagram. Three members currently, it's going to be six after princess nerissa and her companions joins, more to be added as we recruit."
"Six?" Thorin's eyebrows rose. "You've already got a full party? That was fast."
"Three humans, three dwarves." Hexia gestured. "Myself, Sirenia, Lhoralaine. Princess Nerissa, Durgan Gearbeared, Durin Thunderbeared."
"That's not a party. That's a small army." Thorin circled them slowly, appraising. "And you want to register officially? All of you?"
"Yes."
"You understand that means guild contracts, regulations, assessments—"
"We understand." Nerissa's voice carried royal authority that made even the guildmaster pause. "But we need legal standing to travel between continents. Access to information networks. The ability to take contracts without explaining ourselves at every border."
"Smart." Thorin nodded approvingly. "Very smart. Most chosen heroes just wander around expecting their reputation to open doors. You're thinking tactically."
"We have six years to find four more heroes and prevent apocalypse." Hexia's voice was dry. "Tactical thinking seemed appropriate."
"Fair point." Thorin returned to stand before them. "Here's the situation: registering is simple. Getting *ranked* is complicated. Normally, new parties start at E-rank and work their way up. But you—" He gestured at Hexia specifically. "—you're already legendary. The Swordsman of Rolling Heads. Thirty six bandits in one battle. Fifty in another. Fred Butlix executed with surgical precision."
The crowd was listening now, openly, making no pretense of privacy.
"And Princess Nerissa," Thorin continued. "Void magic. Artifacts of your power are already being studied by scholars. You're not some unknown."
"So what are you proposing?" Sirenia asked carefully.
"Skip the rankings. You're S-rank by reputation alone." Thorin's grin was fierce. "But that means you take S-rank contracts. Immediate. Dangerous. The kind that kill normal parties."
"We're not a normal party," Lhoralaine said.
"No. You're really not." Thorin pulled out a massive ledger, began writing with practiced efficiency. "Party name: Hexagram. Members: Hexia, Sirenia, Lhoralaine, Nerissa Nassiren, Durgan Gearbeared, Durin Thunderbeared. Rank: S. Designation: Active. Special notes: Prophesied heroes, royal affiliation, catastrophic threat potential."
"Catastrophic threat potential?" Durgan's eyes lit up. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever written about me!"
"It wasn't a compliment," Thorin said dryly.
"I'm taking it as one anyway!"
The guildmaster finished writing, then pulled out six guild badges—each one carved from a single piece of obsidian with silver inlay forming the guild's symbol. "These mark you as S-rank. They'll be recognized at every guild hall on every continent. Don't lose them."
He distributed the badges with ceremonial gravity. Hexia accepted his, studying the weight, the craftsmanship. It felt permanent. Official. Like a contract with destiny that couldn't be broken.
"Now." Thorin's expression turned serious. "About contracts. I have several S-rank available. High risk, high reward, maximum casualties expected."
"Show us." Hexia's tone suggested he expected nothing less.
Thorin pulled out four scrolls, laying them across the counter.
"**Contract One: Dire Hounds**. Thirty of them, hunting in coordinated packs near the Deepstone territories. They're massive—eight feet at the shoulder, jaws that can bite through steel. They've killed seventeen dwarves in the past month."
"**Contract Two: Frost Trolls**. Twenty-four of them, occupying the Northern Holds. Regeneration capabilities, extreme cold resistance, and they're smart enough to set ambushes. Twenty-two adventurers dead trying to clear them."
"**Contract Three: Berserk Mountain Giants**. Ten of them, rampaging through the Forge Mountains. Each one is forty feet tall, strong enough to throw boulders like pebbles, and completely immune to reason. They're destroying trade routes."
"**Contract Four: Glacial Dragons**. Two of them, nesting in the Stonewall Peaks. Ancient. Intelligent. Powerful enough to level cities. They haven't attacked yet, but their presence is driving off game and causing avalanches."
Silence descended as the party absorbed this information.
"You want us to take all four?" Sirenia asked carefully.
"I want you to take *one*." Thorin's voice was firm. "These are S-rank for a reason. Even legendary parties struggle with contracts like these."
"We'll take all four." Hexia's voice was flat, final.
The guild hall gasped collectively.
"That's suicide," Thorin said bluntly. "Even for you."
"We need materials for legendary weapons." Durin's voice was granite. "Dire Hound fangs for piercing enchantments. Frost Troll blood for regeneration properties. Mountain Giant bones for structural reinforcement. Dragon scales for armor that can withstand Ancient fire."
"You're planning to fight *Ancients* with equipment made from guild contracts?" Thorin's skepticism was palpable.
"We're planning to be prepared." Nerissa's purple eyes held no compromise. "These materials are necessary. We'll complete all four contracts."
"In what timeframe?"
"One week per contract." Hexia's math was simple. "Four weeks total. We'll start with the Dire Hounds tomorrow."
"That's—" Thorin stopped himself, studying their faces. Seeing absolute confidence. No bravado. Just certainty. "You're serious."
"Completely."
The guildmaster was quiet for a long moment. Then he laughed—booming, genuine, delighted. "You magnificent bastards. You're actually going to do it."
"Yes."
"Fine. All four contracts accepted. Kill counts must be verified—bring back proof. Trophies, scales, something physical." He stamped each scroll with official guild seal. "You have four weeks. Miss the deadline, and the contracts default. Understand?"
"We understand."
"Good." Thorin's grin widened. "Now get out of my guild hall. You're making my regular adventurers feel inadequate."
**THE STREETS OF IRONFORGE - EVENING**
They walked through the city in comfortable silence, the weight of four S-rank contracts sitting heavy but manageable.
"Thirty Dire Hounds tomorrow," Lhoralaine said thoughtfully. "That's a lot."
"We'll split into teams." Hexia's tactical mind was already working. "Nerissa and I draw their attention. You and Sirenia flank. Durgan provides ranged support. Durin acts as mobile anvil—enemies that reach him die."
"What about casualties?" Durgan asked with manic enthusiasm. "How many do we think we'll kill in the first hour?"
"All of them." Hexia's tone suggested this was obvious.
"I meant how *many* in the first hour specifically—"
"All. Of. Them."
Durgan deflated slightly. "You're no fun."
"I'm efficient."
"Efficiency is boring!"
"Efficiency keeps you alive."
"Staying alive is *also* boring!"
"Then die in an explosion. Problem solved."
Durgan gasped dramatically. "You're giving me *permission* to explode things?!"
"I'm giving you permission to explode *yourself* if you prefer dying to boredom."
"Oh. That's less exciting."
Nerissa was laughing—genuine, delighted laughter that made passing dwarves turn and stare. Their princess, laughing with humans and engineers in the street like some common adventurer.
"You two are perfect for each other," she told Hexia and Durgan. "Blunt honesty meets manic enthusiasm. It's beautiful."
"It's exhausting," Hexia corrected.
"That too."
They reached a tavern—The Molten Mug—and claimed a large table near the back. Food arrived quickly: roasted meat, fresh bread, ale in stone mugs. The kind of meal that preceded hard work and harder violence.
"Tomorrow we hunt." Durin's voice was steady, purposeful. "Tonight we plan. Hexia—formation?"
"Standard hammer and anvil." Hexia pulled out a piece of parchment, began sketching. "Nerissa and I are the hammer—we hit hard, fast, draw aggression. Sirenia provides artillery support from elevated position. Lhoralaine is our mobile striker—she goes where the line breaks. Durgan sets up killing fields with area denial. Durin holds center ground—nothing gets past him."
"What if they scatter?" Lhoralaine asked.
"They won't. Dire Hounds hunt in packs—they coordinate. They'll come at us in waves, trying to overwhelm through numbers." His crimson eyes were distant, seeing the battle before it happened. "We use that against them. Funnel them into kill zones. Make their coordination work for us."
"And if we're wrong?"
"Then we adapt." He looked up, meeting her eyes. "We're not rigid. We're fluid. That's why we'll win."
Sirenia studied the sketch. "How long do you think the battle will last?"
"Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty if they're smarter than expected."
"That's fast for thirty kills."
"That's the goal." Hexia's voice was flat. "Speed prevents injury. Injury prevents future contracts. We need to be efficient."
"There's that word again," Durgan muttered.
"Get used to it. We have six years and four heroes to find. Efficiency isn't optional."
The meal continued with easier conversation—Durgan explaining his latest weapon designs, Durin critiquing them with brutal honesty, Nerissa mediating with diplomatic skill that came from years of royal training.
And Hexia watched them, these people who'd somehow become his team, his companions, his *friends*—though that word still felt foreign in his mouth.
Six months ago, he'd been alone. Empty. Wishing for death.
Now he was here. Planning hunts. Leading a party. Preparing to save a world he'd never asked to be part of.
It wasn't happiness. Not quite. But it was something close.
Something worth protecting.
"Tomorrow we kill Dire Hounds," he said quietly.
"Tomorrow we kill Dire Hounds," they echoed.
And in that moment, sitting in a tavern in a city carved from mountains, Hexia felt something he hadn't felt in years.
Purpose.
---
**TO BE CONTINUED...**
*Tomorrow brings the hunt. Thirty Dire Hounds. An S-rank contract. And the first demonstration of what Hexagram can do when working together.*
*No mercy. No hesitation. Just efficiency.*
*Just rolling heads.*
*Literally.*