A Question of Trust

“Don’t you worry about that,” Kyoto said, his voice imbued with a calm, reassuring quality. “The term ‘N-Lit’ is open to broad interpretation. It seems these kinds of stories have cultivated a significant following outside of Nihon—more than enough to inspire dedicated, albeit unofficial, English translations.” He explained that a particular website, Lit-Verse Central, acted as a free digital library of sorts, a central hub that cataloged and provided links to the various fan translation groups. “There’s also Sovereign Path Sagas, which is for original English content. It’s a platform where aspiring fantasy authors can freely publish their work. You should really check it out; some of the writing there is truly exceptional.”

The perceived scope of this new world was expanding at a dizzying rate. Kyoto’s animated explanations were a welcome anchor, a flow of genuinely useful information that helped ground me in this bewildering new reality. Our conversation flowed with an easy, comfortable rhythm, a brief island of normalcy in the midst of our surreal journey, until Voktah’s voice sliced through the air from just behind me.

“Boss,” he said, the single word cutting through our pleasant exchange with the precision of a scalpel. “Your number one rule is to never trust a stranger. Isn’t that what you told us?”

I let out a slow, deliberate exhale, turning away from Kyoto to face Voktah, who had fallen into step directly behind us. “And? That is exactly what I said.”

“So why is it you trust us?” he pressed, his gait matching mine as he closed the remaining distance between us. A smile touched his lips as he posed the question, but it was a dangerous, predatory thing that held no warmth and never reached his eyes. His voice, normally tinged with a detached and cynical humor, had become as frigid and featureless as glacial ice.

“Why shouldn’t I?” I retorted, keeping my own tone perfectly even, refusing to rise to the bait. “Are you planning to betray us? To bring us harm?”

“Nope.” The denial was clipped, immediate, and absolute.

“Then that serves as our answer, doesn’t it? Fighting that creature together was a testament to everyone’s character. I’m choosing to place my faith in the actions I have witnessed.”

Voktah conceded with a simple, “All right,” but the ominous, unsettling grin remained fixed in place. He extended an empty hand, palm upturned, in a gesture of demand. “Since you trust me so completely, let me hold the pistol.” His gaze was heavy with intent, his expression a mask of practiced, ingrained malice.

I had already anticipated this move. The old man wasn’t unhinged; he was deliberately constructing a persona, meticulously playing the part of the most grating, untrustworthy antagonist imaginable. This was a test.

“And why is that?” I asked, feeling the air grow thick and heavy with unspoken tension. “You don’t believe I can handle it safely?”

“That’s right,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that somehow amplified its icy clarity. “I don’t trust a so-called plumber who’s far too quick on the draw, possesses the coiled musculature of a seasoned fighter, and wears a veritable roadmap of blade and bullet scars across his skin.”

His words hung in the air like a death sentence, bringing all four of us to an abrupt halt. A few steps ahead, Amara sensed the sudden shift in atmosphere and stopped as well, the children instinctively shrinking behind the shield of her legs.

He had deftly cherry-picked disparate facts, weaving them together into a compelling narrative of suspicion that painted me as the true threat. I refused to grant him the satisfaction of the reaction he so clearly craved, meeting his intense, challenging gaze with an impassive mask.

“Didn’t we already move past this?” Kyoto stepped forward, his voice strained as he attempted to mediate the escalating conflict. “We agreed that we’re in this together. That requires a foundation of mutual trust.”

Voktah waved a dismissive hand at him. “Oh, don’t you worry. I trust him.” He paused, letting the silence stretch and coil, before adding with sharp, biting emphasis, “Implicitly.”

The abrasive, sarcastic remark earned a deep frown from Kyoto. A tense, unbreachable stalemate settled over our small group. From behind the safety of Amara’s legs, Elara and Elira peered out, their small faces etched with a fear that could not possibly comprehend the true nature of the conflict unfolding before them. I’m sorry, kids, I thought with a pang of guilt. You shouldn’t have to witness this.

“What is going on with you two?” Amara finally intervened, her tone firm and unyielding, a clear demand for an end to the hostility.

I forced a casual, unconcerned note into my voice. “It’s nothing. Voktah here just offered to be in charge of dinner tonight, and I was foolish enough to question his culinary expertise.”

“Deeply,” Voktah added, his voice dripping with a sardonic irony that the children, thankfully, could not possibly comprehend.

“See?” I turned to Amara, flashing a placating grin. “Just a simple misunderstanding between friends. I trust him, he trusts me. We’re golden.”

Amara let out an exasperated sigh. Her perceptive gaze told me she saw right through the flimsy, transparent deception, but she wisely chose not to press the issue. “I’m holding you both to that. Elara says we’re almost there, so do not start something now.”

The immediate crisis averted, we resumed our journey toward the Explorer’s Guild. Less than a minute later, we found ourselves standing before a massive, two-story edifice that thoroughly dominated the street.

At first glance, it looked less like an official institution and more like a sprawling, boisterous tavern. Through its large front windows, I could make out the silhouettes of patrons drinking and conversing animatedly in the warm, lantern-lit interior. The entrance featured a pair of swinging double doors, instantly recognizable and seemingly plucked straight from a classic western film.

“Look!” Kyoto exclaimed, his earlier tension completely replaced by a youthful, unadulterated delight. “Batwing doors! Just like in the reference materials! This is the archetypal entrance for an Explorer’s Guild!”

These doors, however, were constructed on a far grander scale than their cinematic counterparts. They were wide and tall, easily two meters in height, and set within a frame that towered to nearly three. The entire entrance was, to put it mildly, immense—clearly designed to accommodate beings of a size far greater than any human.

Pushing through the heavy doors, we stepped inside. The interior was, as expected, a hybrid of a public lounge and a tavern. To one side, a long, polished wooden bar was lined with adventurers nursing frothy ale from heavy wooden tankards. On the opposite side, a lounge area hosted various clusters of people, their heads bent together in earnest conversation. Are people actually job-hunting in here? The notion of mixing ale with employment applications was a foreign and baffling one to me.

The room opened into a vast central hall. A wide balcony ran along the edge of the second story at the far end, offering a commanding view of the entire floor below.

“Alright, we’re here. Where do we go to get IDs made?” I asked, my eyes scanning the room, taking stock of the layout and its diverse occupants.

It was then I noticed that our entrance had not gone unobserved. More than a few heads had swiveled in our direction. Or, more precisely, they had turned toward Amara. A ripple of whispers spread through the tables as people stared openly. Some of the patrons offered blatant, mocking grins, their laughter low and derisive.

“Most likely over there,” Kyoto said, gesturing toward a section beside the lounge that was furnished with several formal-looking desks, reminiscent of a bank’s teller line. “That appears to be the administrative counter for official business. It matches the descriptions in most of my guides.”

With a nod, I led our group across the floor. Three clerks were stationed at separate counters. Two of them, staffed by young, comely women, had long lines of adventurers waiting patiently. The third counter, situated on the far left, was utterly deserted. Its clerk was an old woman with the stern, severe bearing of a disciplinarian grandmother, her hair a cascade of silver shot through with grey. The overt preference of the clientele was almost comical. I felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for the old woman.

We made our way directly to her vacant desk. “Excuse me,” I began politely. “We need to register for IDs.”

The elderly clerk lifted her head with painstaking slowness. Adjusting the spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose, her sharp, discerning eyes deliberately appraised each member of our group, one by one.

“Do you hear the words coming out of your own mouths?” Her voice, though raspy and crackling with age, was as solid and unyielding as stone. “This is no place for citizen jests.”