"An adventure team? Really?"
Standing beside the towering notice board cluttered with overlapping parchments, a young man with thin spectacles muttered under his breath. His fingers held up a freshly written flyer, the ink still slightly damp, and his gaze shifted back and forth between the words on the page and the two figures waiting in front of him.
The guild hall bustled behind him with noise and restless ambition. Steel clinked against steel. Boots dragged across wooden floors polished by years of blood and ale. Most people came here hoping to join something already powerful, already respected. Few were bold enough, or foolish enough, to start from nothing.
"Yes, I would also be providing a daily fee of 3 gold coins for anyone above tier 3 rank 1 that's willing to join."
The man who spoke wore thin plated armor that fit close to his body, practical rather than ornamental. A carved goat mask covered his face, the curved horns casting faint shadows over his shoulders. His voice was calm, measured, as though he were negotiating for livestock rather than warriors.
Vincent had spent the entire night weighing possibilities.
Every path that led to the queen ended in walls of suspicion. Every shortcut invited scrutiny from her guards and advisers. If he moved openly, her spies would swarm. If he moved in secret, he would be hunted.
Except this one.
The banquet.
An old tradition dressed in new politics. What had once been a celebration of valor had become a stage for influence and loyalty. Still, its foundation remained unchanged. The strongest gathered. The promising were displayed. Titles were granted.
Recognition kept blades loyal. Reward kept ambition leashed.
And above all, the queen appeared.
To her subjects it was a rare blessing. To Vincent it was a door left slightly ajar.
"Tier 3?" The attendant frowned, lowering the parchment slowly. Tier three heroes were not common swords for hire. They were assets. They chose banners with history, with reputation carved in stone.
Three gold coins was respectable for lesser ranks. For a tier three, it was barely worth the ink used to write the offer.
"I'm afraid the price is too low for tier threes. Why don't you just join an already established team? There's an opening for the Black Hawks, and I can tell you're quite powerful."
He spoke carefully, almost kindly, as if steering a misguided youth away from embarrassment. Establishing a team required influence, backing, and proof of strength. Without those, it was little more than a joke pinned to a board.
"It's fine. Up the price to 5 gold coins and add the tier of the team leader. She is Liana Draken, a demon hunter from the academy."
Vincent paused only briefly before saying it. The adjustment was small, deliberate. He did not raise his tone. He did not hesitate long enough to seem uncertain.
His identity as Leon Draken shimmered like a drawn blade. Tier eight. Chosen to slay the Demon of Lust. A rising symbol the kingdom already whispered about.
If word spread that Leon was forming a party, the hall would flood within the hour. Eyes would follow. Questions would rise.
He did not need attention. He needed control.
So he used Liana.
"Tier 6? Demon hunter?"
The attendant's brows knitted together. He lifted his gaze past Vincent, toward the woman standing a short distance behind him. She appeared to be in her thirties, composed, watchful. Her presence was quiet yet heavy, like a blade resting in its sheath.
His mind raced. A tier six demon hunter was no small matter. Even established companies would think twice before offending one.
After a moment, he nodded, the hesitation fading into professionalism.
"May I ask what title this party would like to adopt?"
The question lingered in the air, thin and expectant.
"Name? Heavenly Demon Slaying Party."
Vincent answered without pause. The words fell cleanly, almost casually, yet there was a weight beneath them.
The attendant stiffened slightly at the audacity of it but wrote it down all the same. Ink scratched against parchment, sealing intention into record.
Vincent turned away from the board before anyone nearby could properly study him. He walked toward Liana, whose eyes remained steady, unreadable.
"Let's head into the city."
He handed the attendant a small token inscribed with a communication rune before leaving, ensuring that any interested applicants would be redirected without needing to return.
They stepped out of the guild hall and into the open air.
The city stretched before them in layered stone and rising banners. Carriages rolled across wide streets. Vendors shouted from beneath colorful awnings. The scent of baked bread mixed with iron and sweat.
This was City.
Not the capital, but prosperous enough to feel its influence. Towers rose beyond the market district, their rooftops glinting beneath the afternoon sun. Patrols moved in pairs along the main roads, crests polished, posture rigid.
Day two since Vincent's escape.
He walked calmly beside Liana, his mask hiding the faint curve of satisfaction beneath.
This was the beginning.