Situated at the intersection of the King's Highway and the Merchant's Old Road, it was a massive structure of dark timber and grey stone, its chimney belching white smoke that smelled of roasting boar and pine. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cheap ale, sweat, and the damp wool of cloaks drying by the roaring hearth.
It was a place where stories were traded for coin, and coin was traded for silence.
The first floor was a cacophony of noise. Low-level adventurers, merchants, and travelers clinked tankards, boasting about killing goblins or surviving bandit raids.
However, on the second floor, visible from the open mezzanine but separated by an invisible wall of status, the atmosphere was different. There was no boasting here. Only tension.
Three figures sat around a heavy oak table in the VIP alcove. They didn't look like the rabble downstairs. Their gear was polished, their scars were old, and their auras were sharp.
On the left sat the Blonde Knight, a young man who wore his light plate armor with an easy, almost casual grace. He had short, tousled golden hair and clear, bright eyes that scanned the room with a practiced boredom. A velvet blue cloak was draped over one shoulder, softening the martial lines of his steel pauldrons. He rested his chin on his knuckles, giving off the impression of a noble who found the world slightly amusing.
In the center, a broad-shouldered Bald Man dominated the table by sheer mass. His armor was heavy steel, dull and scratched from years of deflecting claws and blades. A thick, grey-streaked beard framed a stern face that looked like it had been carved from granite. He sat solidly, his elbows planted on the wood, radiating the calm, heavy authority of a tank who had stood between his team and death a thousand times. This was Journ.
On the right, a Woman in simple clothing contrasted sharply with the armored men. She wore a white dress tied with a red sash that accentuated her waist, her long brown hair falling freely around her shoulders. She wore no armor, carried no visible sword, yet she was the most dangerous thing at the table. Her posture was relaxed, leaning forward with a soft, knowing smile, but her eyes were sharp—like a hawk watching a field for mice. This was Cresty.
Behind each of them stood their respective subordinates—pages, squires, and apprentices—standing at attention in the shadows. But the leaders ignored them.
"How are you two?" asked the Blonde Knight, his voice smooth like polished glass. "It's been a season."
"Been better," Cresty replied, swirling the red wine in her glass. "The pay in the North has dried up. Too many peace treaties."
Journ, the bald tank, didn't engage in small talk. He looked at the blonde man before darting his gaze toward Cresty.
"Let's not waste time here," Journ rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly.
He reached into a hidden pocket of his breastplate and pulled out a rolled parchment. The leather was old, cracked at the edges. He placed it on the table and unrolled it. Before it could curl back up, Cresty placed her wine glass on one corner, and the Blonde Knight placed a dagger on the other.
"This is the map of the Ruin of Flamasca," said Journ.
The map was a nightmare of cartography. It depicted a subterranean labyrinth of complicated turns, narrow corridors, and vast open chambers marked with ominous red ink. Scribbles like 'Magma Flow', 'Ambush Point', and 'TRAP!' cluttered the paper.
Cresty leaned in, her eyes narrowing. She let out a low whistle.
"That's a lot of traps," she murmured. "And the layout... it's a maze designed to kill."
"Traps are one thing; the monsters in there are the other," said the Blonde Knight, shaking his head. "The Crimson Guild tried a raid last month. They couldn't even make it to the third stratum. They came back with half their party burned to ash."
"That's why we're here, Blondie," said Cresty with a smirk, tapping the table with a manicured fingernail.
"My name is Kael," the knight sighed, though he didn't seem truly annoyed.
"Whatever," Cresty waved him off. "You called me here because you need eyes. Traps don't trigger if you see them coming. And monsters don't ambush you if you smell them first."
"Cresty is right," Journ agreed. "Your sensory skills are needed to claim the raid. Without a High-Level Scout, Flamasca is a suicide mission."
"Oof, flattery," Kael chuckled. "But what about the reward? I hope the payout is worth the risk of being melted."
"So far, the outskirts of the ruin had Level 10 Magma Lizards," Cresty explained, tracing a route on the map. "The deeper we go, the higher the concentration of Aether. In all likelihood, we can expect a Level 20 Boss in the final chamber."
A Level 20 Boss.
The table went silent for a moment. In the hierarchy of adventurers, Level 20 was the threshold of the elite. A monster of that caliber could wipe out a small army of regular soldiers.
"Let's return to the reward talk, Journ," Kael said, his eyes gleaming with greed. "If the Boss drops a Rare Item... who takes it?"
"We sell it off to the Capital Auction House and divide the earnings by three," Journ stated firmly. "If any of us wants to keep it, they must buy out the shares of the other two at market price."
"That's... slightly fair," Kael nodded. "Though, honestly, this will be a breeze with our danger detector over here." He smiled charmingly at Cresty.
"Of course," Cresty crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair with a smug expression. "It's one of those useful Passives. My [Alert] has never faile—"
Suddenly, she froze.
A flash of absolute cold washed over her.
It wasn't a draft from the window. It was a psychic scream that hit her nervous system like a hammer. Her goosebumps rose instantly, hard as pebbles. Her heart skipped a beat, then slammed against her ribs in a panic rhythm.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Her pupils shrank to pinpricks, then dilated wildly as her instincts screamed one word: RUN.
What is going on?! Her mind raced. What was that? That wasn't a monster. That was... Death.
It felt as if a dragon had just curled up beneath the floorboards. It felt like the air itself was holding its breath.
"Cresty?" Journ asked, his hand instantly going to the hilt of his sword. "What is it?"
Cresty couldn't speak. She gripped the railing of the balcony, looking down into the first floor. She scanned the crowd desperately. Where is it? Where is the monster?
"A room for one, please."
The voice was casual. Leisured. It cut through the sudden silence of Cresty's mind like a knife.
Downstairs, standing at the reception desk, was a man in tattered rags. He looked like a beggar, or a refugee from a destroyed village. But the air around him... it was heavy.
"For two! For two!"
A woman's voice corrected him hurriedly. A brunette with soot on her face popped up from behind him, holding up two fingers to the confused bartender.
Lexel shrugged, his demeanor relaxed. "Fine, two."
He turned around, scanning the first floor with lazy eyes. He looked bored. He looked harmless.
But Cresty knew better. Her [Alert] was vibrating so hard her teeth hurt. It's him, she realized with horror. That beggar... he's a walking catastrophe.
Then, Lexel looked up.
His lava-colored eyes met hers.
For a split second, Cresty expected him to unleash killing intent. She expected him to jump to the second floor and slaughter them all. She braced herself, her hands gripping the wooden railing so hard the varnish cracked.
Lexel blinked.
His gaze didn't lock onto her eyes. It drifted lower.
Gravity, it seemed, was working overtime on her neckline. Leaning over the railing as she was, her white dress offered a generous, panoramic view of her assets.
"Uhh... can I help you?" asked Lexel.
His voice trailed off. His eyes widened slightly.
His vision was drowned in cleavage.
His lips gaped open a little.
"Nice view," Lexel muttered, the terror of the world instantly reduced.