Reagan leaned his head against the cool glass of the car window, watching the elven metropolis blur into a smear of neon and silver.
' I thought I could farm that dream dungeon all night, he mused, his eyes narrowing. ' Three clears per day. No crystal regeneration. Half EXP after the first run.
So much for infinite farming. I really need that Hunter's License.'
The car slowed to a crawl, eventually stopping before a structure that defied gravity. The Moonlight Guild Headquarters was a spire of white marble and reinforced glass, etched with sprawling, iridescent murals of a crescent moon.
"So, this is her guild," Reagan murmured. Even from the curb, the air felt different here—saturated with the scent of expensive incense and high-grade mana suppressors.
As he stepped through the automated crystalline doors, the atmosphere shifted from silent luxury to a buzzing hive of activity. Dozens of hunters in polished, enchanted gear moved with purpose, their boots clicking against the polished floor. But as Reagan walked toward the center of the lobby, the buzzing stopped.
One by one, heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. The silence wasn't respectful; it was heavy, laced with a cocktail of shock and simmering resentment.
'I wonder why they're staring? ' Reagan thought, though a part of him already knew.
' Is it just because I'm a new face? '
He reached the marble reception desk, where a woman was typing rapidly on a computer. She didn't look up until he cleared his throat.
"Welcome to the Moonlight Guild. How may I help you?" she asked, her voice a practiced, polite trill.
"I'm here to see the Guildmaster, Laura Greywoods," Reagan said.
The receptionist's fingers froze. She looked up, and the polite mask shattered. Her face contorted into a mask of cold, professional disdain—a "mean face" that looked like she had just swallowed vinegar.
"Do you have an appointment?" she snapped, her eyes scanning his face with an intensity that bordered on an interrogation.
"No, I don't think so—" Reagan started, but then he remembered.
"She told me to come. She called me an hour ago."
"And your name?" the receptionist pressed, her voice dropping an octave.
"Reagan. Reagan Greywoods."
The name hit the lobby like a tectonic shift. Reagan felt the stares behind him turn into physical pressure, like dozens of tiny needles poking at his back. The murmurs erupted—hissed whispers of "Sacrilege," "Disrespectful," and "How dare he use that name?"
Before the receptionist could eject him, a figure materialized from the crowd. She moved with a fluid, silent grace that suggested she didn't walk so much as glide through the air.
"I'll take care of this, Vivian," the woman said. Her voice was like honeyed silk, yet it carried a weight of authority that silenced the room.
"Yes, Vice Captain," Vivian whispered, immediately bowing her head.
Reagan took in the newcomer. Flora Hatherwood. Even without someone telling him, he could feel the radiating warmth of her mana. She was one of the top ten healers in the Three Kingdoms. It was common knowledge that if she possessed an S-rank core instead of an A-rank, she would be among the top five ranked healers.
"This way," Flora said, gesturing toward a private staircase. She didn't look at him with hate, but with a profound, weary sadness. As they climbed, she spoke softly. "Please, don't mind the staff. They loved the Prince. To them, seeing a man with your face... it's like seeing a ghost wearing a mockery of a crown. An impostor is a hard pill for them to swallow."
Reagan remained silent, his mind racing. 'So that's how it is.'
Flora led him to a set of massive, double-horizontal doors. "The Guildmaster is finishing her morning session," she said, pushing them open. "She instructed me to bring you here the moment you arrived."
The room was a cavernous training hall. The floor was etched with six massive sparring rings, each glowing with blue containment runes. In the central ring, the air was screaming.
Laura Greywoods was a blur of silver and white. She was facing three elite guild members simultaneously, all of them armed with heavy wooden practice claymores. Laura held only a single, slender wooden rapier.
Reagan watched, his eyes tracking her movements with predatory focus. One attacker lunged—a vertical cleave that should have ended the match. Laura didn't parry; she flowed around the strike like water, her rapier flickering out like a snake's tongue. Tap. She struck the attacker's wrist. Tap. His shoulder. Tap. The hollow of his knee.
The man collapsed as if his tendons had been cut.
The other two rushed her from opposite flanks. Laura dropped low, sweeping her leg in a wide arc that forced them to jump, and in that split second of mid-air vulnerability, she exploded upward. Her wooden blade moved so fast it created a sonic pop.
Thwack. Thwack.
The two hunters were sent sprawling back, their weapons clattering against the reinforced floor. The fight had lasted less than ten seconds.
'Incredible,'Reagan thought, his pulse quickening.
'Did she learn swordsmanship when she was young.'
Laura stood in the center of the ring, her breathing barely elevated. She tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear and looked directly at Reagan. Her eyes were like flint.
"You're late," she said, her voice echoing in the vast hall.
"Flora, take him to my office," Laura commanded, wiping sweat from her brow with a towel offered by an attendant. "I need to shower before we speak."
Fifteen Minutes Later
Reagan stood in Laura's private office. It was a space of cold glass and high-tech monitors, but one wall was dedicated to the past. He stood before a series of framed portraits. They were images of a royal family—The Queen, Telvin Laura and Reagan.
The Prince in the photos had a softness in his eyes that Reagan had long ago buried
The door hissed open. Laura entered, wearing a sharp, charcoal-gray suit that radiated power. The scent of rain and ozone followed her.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said
"Is everything okay?" Reagan asked, his eyes lingering on the portrait of the Prince.
"A few pets insisted in meeting you." she replied.