Osric returned to the Adventurers' Guild with dried blood on his boots and a heavier pouch at his side.
The building was busy in the late morning—voices overlapping, parchment rustling, the familiar smell of ink and iron hanging in the air—but none of it felt overwhelming. He moved through the space with quiet confidence, posture relaxed, steps steady.
Franklin noticed him immediately.
Not because Osric was loud.
Because he wasn't.
The branch leader's gaze lingered as Osric approached the desk and placed the proof down carefully—boar tusk first, then the marked section of hide. No flourish. No unnecessary words.
Franklin examined it in silence.
He turned the tusk in his hand, ran his thumb along the cut, then glanced once at Osric's sword—still iron, still plain, still earned the hard way. The wounds matched the report. The damage told a clear story.
After a moment, Franklin nodded.
"Clean work," he said.
He reached beneath the desk and set a small pouch on the counter.
"Eighty copper. As promised."
Osric took it, fingers closing around the weight without hurry.
Franklin didn't look away this time.
Not impressed.
Not suspicious.
Interested.
And that, Osric realized, mattered more than praise.
Franklin watched Osric leave the guild floor before he allowed himself to think too deeply.
The boy didn't look back.
That mattered.
Franklin returned to his small office at the back of the guild and closed the door behind him, shutting out the noise and movement. Only then did he sit, resting his elbows on the desk, fingers interlaced.
House Greydell had ruled this territory for generations.
Not contested rule. Not fragile rule.
Absolute.
Their soldiers patrolled every road worth controlling. Their knights answered only to the Baron. Taxes flowed upward, obedience flowed downward, and anything that resisted either was quietly broken or bought.
Franklin had learned long ago that direct opposition was suicide.
So he hadn't opposed them.
Not openly.
For nearly a decade now, he had been building something quieter.
The Adventurers' Guild in Ashbrook officially held fewer than a hundred registered members. On paper, they were neutral—contract-bound, apolitical, useful. That was how the Baron preferred them.
In reality, only about half of them were people Franklin truly trusted.
Not because the others were disloyal—but because fear and comfort were powerful tools. Many followed orders because it was safer to do so. Because the Baron paid well. Because asking questions had consequences.
Franklin didn't blame them.
But he didn't count on them either.
Beyond the guild, his faction was smaller still. A few dozen people in Lowbrook who trusted him. Shopkeepers, informants, former adventurers who'd lost friends to "accidents" involving soldiers. And a single mercenary band—ten members only—handpicked over years, loyal not to coin, but to him.
Ten.
Against a mercenary guild of over two hundred who worked for anyone with enough silver—and who currently found House Greydell very generous.
Against hundreds of trained soldiers.
Against apprentice knights.
Against knights.
The imbalance was laughable.
Franklin exhaled slowly through his nose.
He was strong—one of the strongest individuals in the barony, if it came to that. Another like him existed as well, though they stood on opposite sides of the same line.
But individuals didn't win wars.
Numbers did.
Structure did.
Timing did.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
There was a lever inside Greydell Castle. One he had cultivated patiently, carefully, at great risk. A secret weapon—not of steel, but of position.
But using it now would be suicide.
The power gap was still too wide.
That was why Franklin watched people like Osric.
Not because of raw strength.
Not because of talent alone.
But because Osric carried something most people didn't.
A reason.
Grudges made men reckless—but they also made them honest. Hardship stripped away illusions faster than training ever could. And those who had already lost everything were far harder to buy.
Franklin folded his hands together.
Osric wasn't ready.
Not even close.
But he was learning. Surviving. Choosing carefully instead of charging blindly. And more importantly—he wasn't trying to impress anyone.
That made him dangerous in the long run.
Franklin allowed himself a thin, humorless smile.
If I'm going to challenge a house that's ruled for generations, he thought, I won't do it with heroes.
I'll do it with people who know exactly what the world costs—and are still willing to pay.
Outside his office, the guild continued its steady rhythm.
And somewhere in Ashbrook, Osric walked away with eighty copper in his pouch, unaware that he had just stepped onto a much larger board than he realized.
Not as a pawn.
But not yet as a piece anyone else could see.
Osric returned home before midday.
The broken door creaked as it always did, the familiar sound grounding rather than irritating now. He shut it behind him and knelt, pulling the coin pouch free from beneath the loose floorboard. This time, the weight felt different—not heavy, not light.
Earned.
He loosened the string and let the copper spill out across the wooden floor.
Seventy-eight from before.
Eighty from the Thornback Boar.
He counted carefully. Once. Then again.
One hundred and fifty-eight copper crowns.
Osric exhaled slowly.
It wasn't wealth. Not even close. But it was more than survival. Enough to eat properly. Enough to rest when needed. Enough to choose his next step instead of being forced into it.
That mattered.
He gathered the coins back into the pouch and hid it away again, then sat still for a moment longer, listening to the quiet of the room. His body felt steady. His mind felt clearer than it had in weeks.
The boar fight replayed itself in fragments—not the fear, not the danger, but the decisions. Where he'd moved. When he'd struck. When he hadn't.
That was the difference.
E-rank missions weren't glamorous. They weren't heroic.
But they were real.
Creatures that fought back. Mistakes that punished. Lessons that stayed.
Osric rose to his feet and adjusted the sword at his side.
'I'll keep taking them,' he decided. 'One after another.'
Not to rush strength.
Not to chase numbers.
But to learn how to fight properly—through pressure, through consequence, through repetition that mattered.
The pace would change.
It had to.
And when the time came—when experience finally caught up to instinct—he would make sure he was ready to learn more than just how to survive.
Osric lay down on the thin blanket, letting his eyes close.
Tomorrow, he would take another mission.
And the one after that.
Step by step.
Blade by blade.
Not as someone scrambling to stay alive—
But as someone finally moving forward.