Maxwell arrived at the receptionist's desk.
"Good day," he greeted. "I'm here to collect my packages."
The receptionist sitting behind the desk was a young lady, quite different from the one he met yesterday. This lady had a bright smile, a much-eased expression, and she didn't stare at Maxwell like he would devour her the moment he moved.
With a cheerful smile, the receptionist greeted:
"Good day, sir! What package is that?"
Maxwell's eyes widened subtly, but he asked.
"The guildmaster didn't inform you? I'm supposed to get my license today, my rewards from yesterday's hunt and the profits from the alchemical auction last night."
"Oh!" The lady's eyes widened. "Yes, the guildmaster sent in a report. Hold on, please."
Maxwell patiently waited as the lady searched through the shelf of her desk, rummaging through files and heaps of paper.
Finally, she dropped a file on the table.
Maxwell blinked.
"May I ask you for your name, good sir?" The receptionist asked.
"Maxwell."
"Pardon me, but Maxwell who?"
Maxwell was about to respond, but then his mind flashed back, and scenes he thought he'd long forgotten vividly appeared in his mind.
Of how he was thrown out, the disdainful look on his father's face, his brothers' sneers.
Ah, how delightful. They were the people who made Maxwell who he was. If they hadn't cast him away, would he have found Rita? Would he have become an 8th-circle water mage in just four years?
Maxwell loved to think he wouldn't have. That was why he didn't value petty revenge. In his past life, he fervently held on to the belief that success was the greatest revenge for those who looked down on him. And maybe he was right. But the petty revenge didn't matter to him when he finally found true love, happiness and a real family. Not even when he'd become more successful than house Belognia, the Empire-proclaimed Duchy of flames.
Maxwell sighed, shaking off the festering thoughts. He was no longer a twenty-four-year old kid — at least not in mind — so he shouldn't let himself get shaken by the problems of one.
After a few seconds of intense silence that made the receptionist sweat, Maxwell uttered:
"Nothing. Just Maxwell. Check it."
The receptionist let out a relieved sigh, like a heavy weight left her chest. And then she nodded courtly, sifting through the pages of the file on the table.
"Oh! Maxwell. It's exactly as you say, no last name or middle name. Ah, it says you have a cash reward to cash in. You also have the alchemical auction profit to cash in, as you said. And you have to get an…" Disbelief flashed through her face as she read the last line. The receptionist looked up, staring at Maxwell for a second as if it were untrue. "S-rank golden license."
Maxwell felt a familiar presence approaching the receptionist's desk. But he didn't turn back to glance at the approaching figure, because he knew who it was without turning.
And so, he beamed at the receptionist, nodding.
"Exactly."
The receptionist cleared her throat.
"But it also says you have a partner. Everything is split fifty-fifty between the two of you." She squinted her eyes, gazing at the name. "The name is–"
"That would be me." A familiar voice cut in.
The receptionist raised her head, gazing at the newcomer.
"Oh?" She blinked. "Sir Vin?"
Vin nodded.
Maxwell lightly tapped Vin's shoulder, smiling. He didn't look surprised in the slightest.
"Morning, Vin. Had a good night's rest?"
Vin blinked, eyes almost widening.
"Morning. Yes, I had a good night's re– wait, aren't you surprised? I came out of nowhere."
Maxwell chuckled.
"No you didn't."
Vin was dressed in the standard mercenary attire. Leather shirt, pants with patches of armor. His brown hair ruffled along with the flow of what little breeze blew in this lobby, and the hilt of his sword gleamed as they rested on his waist.
"Right," Vin gazed at the receptionist, smiling now. "Forgot you're a 7th-circle."
The receptionist gazed at the file once more.
"So, Sir Vin, you're getting an A-rank silver license, while Sir Maxwell's getting an S-rank. And I'm going to add both the cash reward from the mature, A+ rank wyvern hunt and the cash profit from the alchemical auction, which should be roughly around…" She grabbed a pen from her desk and a sheet of yellowish paper, scribbling on it, low screeching sounds echoing. "2000silvercoins, which should be around 500goldcoins. And splitting it between you two would be…"
Vin gazed at Maxwell.
"That amount alone is enough for me to get a house in the inner district of Ludia. Or a tavern in the outer district, or even a small inn!"
Maxwell only chuckled and shrugged.
"Max, I know I've probably said this more times than I could count yesterday, but I really am grateful. Thank you very much. I don't even know how to repay you. Really," Vin bowed, "Gratitude, Ma–"
Maxwell stopped Vin, straightening the man's posture.
"Raise your head, Vin. Don't bow. It's fine, really."
Vin's warm smile widened.
"My wife's never been happier, man," Vin chuckled, "and it was a little odd at first, knowing the fact that she was against me getting a job as a mercenary in the first place."
Max blinked.
"She was? Why, though?"
Vin shrugged.
"Eh, I was a soldier before I became a mercenary. I'd lived a life of… constant fighting ever since I was… a bit older than you. I sought to chase glory and fame, riches and all the other nonsense young boys believe is worth getting killed for in battle. You know, I almost died, not once, not twice. But I somehow survived, even as a coreless swordsman. The other cadets back then learned to assimilate mana and formed cores, but I couldn't for some reason. That's how I knew I was doomed."
Maxwell relaxed his brows.
"Oh, sorry, buddy."
Vin raised a hand, waving it.
"No, I'm fine. I already accepted the life of mediocrity."