The next day Osric ate before noon.
A proper meal—warm, filling, unhurried. Seven copper gone, accounted for, the familiar routine grounding him before the day began. By the time he wiped his hands and stood, his body felt ready in a quiet, reliable way. Not sharp with urgency. Not dulled by fatigue.
Just steady.
He left the small inn close to home and made his way toward the Adventurers' Guild with the same measured pace he'd grown used to. The city was already active, midday traffic filling the streets, but Osric moved through it without distraction. His wounds no longer pulled at his attention. His sword sat comfortably at his side.
When he entered the guild, the familiar sounds met him—voices, parchment, the scrape of chairs. Everything looked the same.
That was why Franklin's voice caught him off guard.
"Osric."
Osric stopped before he reached the mission board.
Franklin was already standing behind the desk, watching him—not casually, not with his usual neutral calm. There was a weight in his expression that hadn't been there before.
"Come with me," Franklin said.
The tone left no room for interpretation.
Osric nodded once and followed without asking questions.
Franklin didn't explain as he led the way toward the back of the guild. He didn't slow his pace. He didn't speak. When he opened the door to his office, the sounds of the guild floor were cut off cleanly behind them.
Franklin closed the door.
Only then did he turn.
And for the first time since Osric had known him, the branch leader looked… serious.
Osric sat across from Franklin in the small office, the space feeling tighter than it had before.
The desk between them was plain, worn smooth at the edges by years of use. Papers lay stacked neatly to one side. Nothing about the room suggested urgency—except the man sitting behind it.
Franklin studied Osric for a moment before speaking.
"How are your wounds?" he asked.
Osric answered without hesitation. "Healing well. They won't be a problem."
Franklin nodded once, as if he'd expected nothing else.
"That's good," he said. Then, after a brief pause, "I wouldn't have called you in otherwise."
Osric waited.
Franklin leaned back slightly, fingers resting together. "I have a mission," he said. "Not one posted on the board."
Osric met his gaze calmly. "What kind of mission?"
For a heartbeat, Franklin didn't answer.
Then his tone shifted—not sharper, not louder, but heavier.
"A scouting party located the hobgoblin this morning," he said. "The one you reported. It's injured. Missing an arm."
Osric felt the surprise—but he kept it contained. His expression didn't change, though his attention sharpened immediately.
"I see," he said.
"The D-rank party that survived will be going after it," Franklin continued. "All three of them." His voice remained even, but there was no mistaking the meaning beneath it. "They intend to finish what they started."
Osric understood that too.
"Last time," Franklin went on, "they were ambushed. Numbers they didn't expect. I don't intend to let that happen again."
He leaned forward slightly.
"I want additional people with them."
Osric didn't respond immediately.
"And I want you," Franklin added.
That earned a pause.
Osric looked down briefly, thinking—not weighing his pride, not imagining himself stronger than he was. Just measuring reality.
Franklin watched him closely.
"This isn't a solo task," Franklin said. "You won't be leading. You won't be carrying the fight. What I care about is how you function with others when the pressure is real."
A test, then.
Osric exhaled slowly.
Before he could speak, Franklin added one more thing—casually, as if it were secondary.
"Payment will be one silver crown if the mission succeeds."
That made Osric look up.
One silver.
Real money.
Enough to matter.
But he didn't answer right away.
The hobgoblin was still dangerous—even injured. And D-rank adventurers dying meant mistakes could still be fatal. This wasn't like rats. This wasn't a controlled lesson.
It was risk.
Osric sat with it.
He thought of the missing arm. Of numbers this time being known. Of how little experience he had working alongside others.
And of how much he lacked because of that.
"This would be… useful," Osric said finally. "Not just the coin."
Franklin waited.
"I've never fought as part of a group," Osric continued. "If I avoid that now, I'll avoid it forever." He met Franklin's eyes again. "I'll go."
Franklin nodded.
Not approval.
Acknowledgment.
"Good," he said.
He stood and motioned toward the door. "Come with me."
Osric rose and followed without question.
Franklin led him through a rear corridor Osric had never noticed before, then out through a back door that opened into a small, enclosed yard. Packed earth. Weapon racks. Training dummies scarred by years of use.
A training ground.
"You can use this place anytime," Franklin said as they walked. "No schedule. No permission needed."
Osric blinked in surprise. "Thank you."
They crossed the yard and stopped near its far edge.
Five people stood there.
Three Osric recognized immediately—the D-rank adventurers who had returned alive. Their expressions were hard, focused, unfinished. Two others stood with them, unfamiliar, armed, watching quietly.
Franklin stopped beside Osric.
"This is the group," he said.
Osric felt it then—not excitement, not fear.
A shift.
He wasn't being thrown into something.
He was being included.
For the first time since stepping into the guild, Osric wasn't standing alone at the edge of things.
He was stepping into the current.
And whether he sank or swam would depend on more than just his blade.