The Adventurers' Guild of Westridge had endured three monster waves, two internal schisms, and one incident involving a drunk pyromancer and a grain silo.
Silence had never unsettled the hall like this.
The man stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
Click.
The sound carried.
Conversation died in the same instant, like a blade drawn across a throat.
Dozens froze mid-motion.
A tankard hovered near a man's lips. Dice lay scattered across a table. A woman halfway through laughter stopped, breath caught in her chest.
The man took note without expression.
Environmental response exceeds projected threat assessment.
He moved forward.
The floorboards creaked.
Three adventurers flinched together.
Someone near the back whispered a prayer no priest would recognize.
Behind the front desk sat the receptionist, spine straight, red hair pulled tight. Her smile held the practiced firmness of a shield wall.
"Good afternoon," she said.
Her voice stayed steady.
Her eyes did not.
"How may the Adventurers' Guild assist you?"
The man approached at an even pace.
No one blocked the path.
Courtesy played no role.
"I require information," he said.
A fair request.
The word landed poorly.
"Of course," the receptionist replied too fast. "We offer monster bounties, regional reports, contract mediation—"
"What level of danger exists in this region?"
The question carried no curiosity.
No concern.
Only evaluation.
Silence followed.
A veteran with a scarred cheek leaned toward his tablemate. "Strange way to ask," he muttered.
No reply came.
The receptionist cleared her throat.
"Westridge and surrounding territory qualify as low risk," she said with care. "Minor monster activity. Occasional bandits. Nothing beyond registered capacity."
The man nodded.
Data outdated.
His gaze swept the room.
Adventurers. Mercenaries. People paid to move toward danger.
Many watched without realizing.
"Explain the power hierarchy," he said.
Tension spiked.
A mage's fingers twitched, half-formed spell fading as embarrassment flushed his face.
"You mean the tiers?" someone asked.
"Yes."
The word sounded empty in his voice.
That absence unsettled them.
The receptionist hesitated, then leaned on training.
"Six recognized stages," she recited. "Unofficial, but widely accepted."
One finger rose.
"The Unrecognized. Those without impact."
Another.
"The Noticed. Attention begins to follow actions."
A third.
"The Feared Name. Reputation alters local behavior."
Her pace slowed.
"The Myth. Expectations bend around existence."
A breath.
"The Legend. Presence shapes history."
No one moved.
"…And Tier Six," she finished.
No explanation followed.
None ever did.
The man listened.
Current status: Noticed. Projection: imminent escalation.
"Where do I fall?"
The question drained the room.
No answer came.
A man near the wall laughed, sharp and forced. "That's a good one."
The man turned his head.
Only that.
Laughter collapsed.
Color fled the man's face.
"I am not joking," the man said.
A system chime sounded, quiet.
[Social Pressure Threshold Exceeded]
[Recommendation: Disengage]
Agreement followed.
"I have no further questions. Departure follows."
Relief swept the hall like wind through grass.
He turned for the door.
"Wait!"
The receptionist's voice cracked.
He paused.
Slowly, with care, she slid a parchment across the desk.
"Guild policy," she said. "Registration required for regional activity. Temporary status allowed."
His eyes fell on the page.
Name. Origin. Specialization.
Names remain inefficient.
"Proceed," he said.
Her pen hovered.
"Your name, sir?"
He stared at the blank line.
No loss surfaced.
Only absence.
"I lack one," he said.
A few nervous laughs surfaced, then died alone.
"Everyone has a name," she said, weak.
"Incorrect," he replied. "Use any designation."
Her hand trembled as she wrote:
The Unanswered
The parchment shimmered, faint but undeniable.
A shiver passed through the room.
"The Guild accepted," someone whispered.
Another chime sounded.
[World Recognition Update]
Status: Noticed (Confirmed)
No change followed.
That registered as a concern.
The receptionist slid the badge forward with both hands.
"Temporary registration. No assigned rank."
He took the badge and left.
The door closed.
Ten seconds passed.
Then the Guildmaster locked the door from within.
Outside, the man paused.
Environmental instability detected.
He walked on.
Behind him, rumors spread faster than truth.
And for the first time, the Guild filed a report without a classification field filled.