The guild had not forgotten.
And neither had the people inside it.
Laughter no longer echoed—but something worse had taken its place.
Whispers.
Low. Sharp. Persistent.
The four summoned heroes sat at a wooden table near the far wall, their presence drawing glances that quickly turned away, followed by quiet murmurs that carried just enough for them to hear.
"…Those are the ones…"
"…Slimes, seriously…"
"…The Kingdom's chosen heroes…"
Dylan's fingers tapped against the table, each strike heavier than the last.
"This is ridiculous."
Arthur adjusted his glasses, though the gesture lacked its usual calm precision.
"Public perception is an important factor in maintaining authority. We failed our first mission in a visible manner. This reaction is… expected."
Vanessa leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs as if she owned the room, though even she couldn't fully mask the slight tension in her expression.
"Well, at least they're talking about us. That's still attention."
Elena said nothing.
Her hands remained folded in her lap, her head lowered just enough to avoid eye contact with anyone around them.
"…I don't want this kind of attention…"
Standing nearby, Seraphine remained silent.
Observing.
The situation.
The people.
Them.
After a moment, she spoke.
"We will request assistance."
Dylan scoffed.
"From who? These people?" He gestured toward the guild. "They already think we're a joke."
"They think correctly," Seraphine replied without hesitation.
Silence fell instantly.
Her eyes moved across the room.
"Which is why we will correct that."
They tried.
One by one, they approached other adventurers.
A seasoned swordsman polishing his blade didn't even look up when they spoke.
"No interest."
A group of mid-ranked hunters laughed before they even finished explaining.
"We're not cleaning up after failures."
A mage waved them off with visible annoyance.
"I don't deal with unstable infestations. Find someone desperate."
Each rejection chipped away at what little confidence remained.
Dylan's patience snapped first.
"Unbelievable…!"
Vanessa clicked her tongue.
"You'd think being chosen by a king would at least buy us some respect."
Arthur spoke more quietly this time.
"Respect must be earned."
Elena's voice barely rose above a whisper.
"…Then we have nothing…"
The weight of that statement lingered longer than any insult.
And then—
A sound cut through the room.
Heavy.
Metallic.
Deliberate.
Every head turned toward the entrance.
The guild doors opened slowly.
What entered was not merely a man.
It was presence.
Tall.
Broad.
Encased in thick, battle-worn armor the color of burned iron and deep orange. Scratches and dents marked its surface—not decorative, but earned. A long plume rose from his helmet, swaying slightly with each step.
Resting on his shoulder was a weapon that defied simple classification—a massive slab of metal shaped like a sword, yet too thick, too brutal. More akin to a crushing instrument than a cutting one.
Each step he took echoed across the wooden floor.
He stopped in front of them.
Silence followed him like a shadow.
"…You're the ones who ran."
His voice was low. Grounded. Unhurried.
Dylan stood immediately.
"…Got something to say about it?"
The armored figure tilted his head slightly.
"No."
A pause.
"I have something else."
Seraphine stepped forward.
"State your name."
The man reached up and removed his helmet.
Short ash-brown hair. Dark skin. Eyes steady—unshaken by the attention of the entire guild.
"Brakk Ironveil."
Recognition rippled quietly through the room.
Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly.
"…Ironveil… that name appears in several border conflict records…"
Brakk rested his weapon against the ground with a dull, heavy sound.
"I watched your fight."
Vanessa exhaled sharply.
"Oh, so you saw everything."
"I saw enough."
His gaze moved between them.
"You lack control. Awareness. Coordination."
Each word landed cleanly.
"But you are not weak."
Dylan frowned.
"…Make up your mind."
Brakk met his gaze.
"You are unfinished."
A beat passed.
"I can help."
The offer hung in the air.
Unexpected.
Simple.
Elena blinked.
"…Why?"
Brakk didn't hesitate.
"Because you will die if you don't improve."
No drama.
No exaggeration.
Just truth.
Seraphine studied him for a moment longer.
"…We move now."
The farmland welcomed them with the same uneasy stillness.
Nothing had changed.
Which meant everything was wrong.
Brakk walked ahead of the group without waiting for instruction.
"Stay behind me."
Dylan opened his mouth to argue—
Then stopped.
Something in the man's presence made arguing feel… pointless.
The ground shifted.
The first slime appeared.
Then another.
Then dozens.
The same pattern.
The same mistake.
But this time—
Brakk stepped forward.
He didn't rush.
Didn't shout.
Didn't prepare.
He simply moved.
The weapon rose.
And fell.
The impact shook the ground.
The slime beneath it didn't split.
It didn't react.
It ceased.
Completely.
Vanessa's eyes widened.
"…That's not magic…"
Arthur leaned forward slightly, observing.
"…He's destroying the core structure entirely… eliminating the division trigger…"
Another slime lunged.
Brakk caught it mid-air.
His hand closed.
Pressure.
It burst instantly.
No residue.
No split.
Gone.
Dylan clenched his fists.
"…So that's the difference…"
Brakk continued.
Each movement precise.
Efficient.
Violent in its simplicity.
He didn't fight the slimes.
He ended them.
Within minutes, the infestation collapsed.
Silence returned.
Elena exhaled slowly, her shoulders relaxing for the first time.
"…It's over…"
Brakk rested his weapon again.
"…That is how you deal with them."
On the way back, Seraphine walked beside him.
"You were not trained as a knight."
"No."
"Where did you learn to fight like that?"
"The borderlands."
His voice didn't change.
"Out there, you don't learn technique first."
A pause.
"You learn to survive."
Arthur nodded slightly.
"…Adaptive combat development…"
Brakk stopped walking.
Turned.
His gaze met Seraphine's directly.
"I want to become a knight."
Dylan blinked.
"…That's it?"
Brakk's expression didn't shift.
"No."
A pause.
"I want your position."
Silence.
Vanessa's smile faded slightly.
"…Now that's bold."
Brakk didn't look away.
"The strongest knight in the Kingdom."
Seraphine held his gaze.
Unmoved.
But not dismissive.
The throne room was colder than usual.
The four heroes stood in line.
Still.
Tense.
For the first time since their summoning—
They felt small.
Brakk stood beside them.
Unbowed.
The King observed them from above.
His presence alone pressed down on the room.
"Explain."
Seraphine stepped forward.
"The slime anomaly has been resolved."
A pause.
"This man was responsible."
The King's eyes shifted to Brakk.
"…Name."
"Brakk Ironveil."
"…And your purpose?"
Brakk stepped forward.
He did not kneel.
"I seek knighthood."
The tension spiked instantly.
Guards shifted.
Hands moved.
The King leaned forward slightly.
"…You understand where you stand?"
"Yes."
"Then kneel."
Silence.
Brakk didn't move.
"I don't kneel for permission."
The air froze.
"…I stand for opportunity."
For a moment—
Nothing moved.
Then—
The King smiled.
"…Interesting."
He stood.
"Very well."
The room seemed to tighten around his words.
"You will be tested."
His gaze moved to the heroes.
"…All of you will be tested."
A pause.
Then—
His voice dropped.
Cold.
Sharp.
Final.
"Your objective remains unchanged."
Silence.
"…Find the anomaly."
The words carried weight.
"…The one summoned by mistake."
Kael.
"…And eliminate him."
No one spoke.
No one moved.
But something shifted.
Not just in the room.
But in the story itself.
And far from the capital—
Unaware of the storm approaching—
Kael slept.
For now.