Memo 05: Let's make an agency!

The cavern air was still clinging to their clothes as the trio emerged into the sunlight. Yuranu stretched, yawning as if she’d just shaken off a bad dream.

Yuranu: “So… now what? Is this where you start taking on real quests? Maybe hunt a wyvern? Or slay a bandit lord? That’s how adventurer stories usually go, right?” She skipped a step ahead, her wide grin betraying both excitement and disbelief.

Nagisa, however, wasn’t paying her much mind. She had Nateas on a short leash—literally—walking behind her, sulking like a chained beast. Every time he muttered under his breath, Nagisa only smiled wider.

They turned the corner into the city’s broad avenue, where the Adventurers’ Guild loomed in front of them. The building was a sprawling mix of tavern and fortress: banners of guild crests, weapons mounted on walls, and the constant noise of mercenaries bragging about their exploits. The heavy doors creaked as Nagisa pushed them open.

The Adventurer’s Guild was less a hall and more a cathedral of ambition. Its vaulted ceilings rose like the spires of a church, carved beams inlaid with silver and bronze running along the rafters, catching the glow of a hundred lanterns. Stone columns, each engraved with scenes of legendary hunts and epic wars, held up the immense chamber. But for all its splendor, the place stank faintly of sweat, ale, and ink.

Banners of deep red and black hung between the arches, each bearing the sigil of Veylstra: a circle of thorns enclosing a spear tipped with flame. It was said the symbol represented unity, though the old adventurers whispered it was instead a mark of domination—the proof that the guild had long been bent beneath the plagues of men in power, kings and warlords who siphoned its might for their own ambitions.

The floor was a chessboard of polished obsidian and white marble, filled with constant motion—knights in gleaming mail sharpening their gauntlets, cloaked mages poring over spellbooks, beast hunters selling fresh trophies still dripping on the stone. 

Inside, Yuranu’s eyes darted across the bustling hall—warriors sharpening blades, robed mages haggling for spell scrolls, clerics sipping bitter brews to drown the fatigue of their missions. A huge quest board stood at the center, parchment after parchment tacked across it like the wings of moths.

Yuranu (whispering): “Do we… do we just pick one? Or do we have to prove ourselves first? Oh—maybe they’ll test us! Do you think they’ll make you fight a slimes?!”

Nagisa adjusted her jacket, scanning the guild with a reporter’s cold curiosity rather than a hero’s awe.

Nagisa (to herself): “This is where the stories start… the real scoops are hidden in the shadows of places like this.” Meanwhile, Nateas dragged his feet, glaring at the floor. His shackled pride radiated like heat.

The adventurer’s guild was buzzing—armor clanking, laughter booming, the smell of sweat, steel, and ale heavy in the air. Knights sharpened their blades, mages murmured incantations, rogues polished their daggers. And then Nagisa walked in. Every eye turned.

Not because she looked particularly strong. Not because she carried a sword or staff. But because she was different.

Whispers moved through the hall.

“...What race is she?”

“...No guild crest...”

“...Some kind of outsider?”

At the polished marble counter sat the receptionist

The receptionist was a striking sight, a tall elf with skin pale as birch wood and long hair the color of autumn gold, her pointed ears glinting with silver earrings. Her uniform was pressed tight against her voluptuous frame, and the wide glasses perched on her nose gave her a stern but scholarly air. Every time she leaned over the counter, half the guild hall turned to watch. But her voice, clipped and efficient, betrayed none of her allure—it was the voice of one who had seen thousands of adventurers pass, rise, and fall, and was no longer impressed. A heavy ledger sat open on her desk, runes glowing faintly along its spine, ready to record quests and contracts in binding ink. Her quill moved like a dagger—sharp, precise, and with authority.

a tidy woman with crisp posture and kind—but calculating—eyes. She looked Nagisa up and down before forcing a professional smile.

“Welcome, traveler. The Adventurer’s Guild can register you for quests. What rank do you seek? Slaying goblins? Escort missions? Hunting beasts?”

Nagisa set the camera down on the counter with a click.

The entire guild hushed.

“I don’t want to slay beasts,” she said, voice steady, eyes gleaming with strange conviction. “I don’t want to chase coin like the rest.” The receptionist blinked. “...Then what exactly are you here for?”

Nagisa leaned forward. “I want to make an agency.” The word cut through the air like a sword slash.

Knights exchanged confused glances. Mages scoffed. One burly adventurer in the back barked out a laugh, spilling his drink. “An... agency?” the receptionist repeated, pen faltering in her hand. “Yes,” Nagisa said, unwavering. “A reporting agency. You take quests to slay beasts. I’ll take quests to reveal truths. I’ll document, investigate, and uncover what others refuse to see. And you—” her eyes swept the hall, catching glares, sneers, and curiosity alike—“will one day beg for my scoop.”

Silence.

Then, a voice from the crowd:

“...This girl’s insane.”

Another:

she’s something.”

The receptionist frowned, uncertain whether to laugh, reject, or cautiously indulge the strange request. Yuranu leaned closer to Nagisa, whispering. “...You’re not here to fight?”

Nagisa smirked. “Reporters don’t fight. They expose.”

A member of the Veylstra Vanguard, the guild’s most ruthless enforcers, nursing his foaming draft of beer. His eyes were sharp even as he drank, flicking toward the odd party—Nagisa, Yuranu, and the bound-but-moving Nateas.

A member of the Veylstra Vanguard. His armor gleamed with polish, its etched plates styled in decadent flourish rather than practical use, a warrior meant to be seen as much as to fight. His blond hair was slicked back into an arrogant wave, reminiscent of Gilgamesh himself, and the golden earrings swayed as he tilted his head back in laughter at his own jokes.

Finishing his drink in one final swallow, he stood with a swagger, clanking toward the desk. On his way, his shoulder collided hard with Nateas, the sound of metal striking fabric punctuated by a brief silence in the hall. The Vanguard knight turned slowly, his lips twisting into a half-smirk, half-challenge, as though daring anyone—especially this odd companion of Nagisa’s—to respond.

“The name’s Eirikr maelstrom, of the Veylstra Vanguard. Not quite at Yano’s station, but my sword sings just as sharp when called upon.” He chuckles, brushing his slicked-back hair with his hand, gold earrings swaying. 

Eirikr leaned lazily against the desk, his golden earrings glinting as he tilted his head toward Nateas. The smirk never left his lips.

“Yano was telling us he had a run-in with a demonill. Pesky little thing,” he drawled, his voice smooth and mocking. He flicked two fingers down in front of Nateas’s forehead, then gave the top of his head a light pat as if sealing the insult. “Wonder where that demonill scurried off to… oh, right. He’s here. Under the thumb of someone.”

He chuckled, letting the words drip with venom. Nateas didn’t flinch. His eyes locked on Eirikr, sharpened into blades of pure contempt. He didn’t speak, but the weight of his stare alone made the air between them heavy, daring Eirikr to push further.

Eirikr, of course, only grinned wider.

Nateas didn’t move. His jaw tensed, knuckles white at his side, his gaze locked onto Eirikr with the weight of a thousand unspoken blades.

But Eirikr pressed on, voice dropping into a venom-laced growl.

“I know your kind. Nothing but scoundrels at the bottom of a barrel. Leftover muck beneath the boots of the powerful. Garbage dressed in rags and pretending at worth. You belong in the dirt, and the only reason you’re standing here—” he jabbed a finger into Nateas’ chest, “—is because no one’s stepped hard enough to grind you back down where you belong.”

The guild hall seemed to hold its breath, watching the strange duel—Eirikr’s cruelty against Nateas’ restraint.

The guildhall air turned heavy, the laughter and chatter of adventurers warping into something darker—hungry for blood. Nateas’s aura flared, faint threads of shadow hissing off his frame like smoke off a brand. His shoulders rose and fell with sharp breaths, jaw clenched so tight it looked as though his teeth might shatter.

Eirikr leaned in, so close their foreheads almost touched, his grin dripping venom. His voice dropped into a mocking whisper only Nateas and those nearest could catch:

“Go on. Hit me, filth. Show them what you really are.”

He tilted his chin forward, presenting it like an executioner’s block, eyes alight with cruel delight.

The crowd didn’t stay silent. They fed it. Cheers and jeers erupted like a chorus of knives:

“Do it!”

“End it here, demonill!”

“Better yet—let the Vanguard clean up the mess afterward!” “Trash like him ain’t fit to breathe our air!” Boots stomped against the wooden floor, tankards slammed down, the sound building into a rhythm—mock trial, mock execution. The eyes of the guild burned into Nateas, every gaze a nail hammered deeper into his chest.

—Nagisa tugs his jacket, her voice cutting through the haze like a silver bell:

Nagisa: “It’s not worth it.”

Her eyes burn with contempt for the drunken crowd baying for blood. She raises her camera, its lens catching Eirikr’s smug face. Click. A flash of otherworldly light flares, and in the instant it develops, the truth unravels.

In Nagisa’s hand, a glossy photo forms—Eirikr slumped over a chamber pot, armor around his ankles, his cheeks flushed red. The caption scrawled by the magic of the camera itself reads:

“Most Glorious Warrior of the Vanguard… Defeated by Mead.”

She flicks it into the air, and it flutters down like a feather for the nearest onlooker to catch. Then another copy—then another. Soon, the entire crowd has one in their hands. Laughter erupts like thunder.

The jeers flip instantly:

“That’s your Vanguard?”

“Ha! Couldn’t even hold his drink!”

“All that mouth, and he can’t hold his bladder!”

Eirikr’s smirk falters as his own weapon—public shame—turns on him. The patrons who only moments ago chanted for Nateas’ blood are now red-faced, cackling at the fallen pride of a Vanguard knight. Nagisa smirks faintly, tossing the camera back to her hip.

Nagisa: “That’s what’s embarrassing. Not him,” she nods at Nateas, “—you.”

Eirikr’s jaw clenches, his eyes blazing with fury as he rips one of the photos in half. But it’s too late—the damage is done.

Eirikr stares daggers towards nagisa before walking out the guildhall. Nateas spins on her, face twisted in disbelief.

Nateas (jeering): “Wench, I didn’t ask you to do a damned thing for me! You think this’ll make up for anything!?”

Nagisa plants a hand on her hip, unfazed.

Nagisa (snapping back): “Make up for it? Please. I was in that cage for hours. You’ll make up for it with a thousand years of servitude.”

Nateas’ jaw drops, his shriek almost comical.

Nateas: “HUH!?”

Nagisa turns to the receptionist and wonders what it'll take to make the agency?

The receptionist perks up with that overly rehearsed customer-service smile, flipping open a big ledger and rattling off details in a matter-of-fact, almost sing-song tone:

Receptionist: "Well, to establish an official agency under the Registry, you’ll need the following, dear—" "A recognized name, properly registered. Nothing vulgar, ominous, or plagiarized." "A founding roster of at least three core members. One must be designated as leader, one as recorder, one as treasurer."

"A permanent location—or at least a rented building recognized by the city council."

"A bulletin board out front, publicly visible, for contracts, notices, and announcements."

"Standard uniforms or insignia, however humble, so the people can tell you apart from mercenaries."

"A seal of authenticity, issued by the city, which costs a small fortune in filing fees." "And, of course, the monthly maintenance dues and guild tax, which are… considerable."

She shuts the book with a thump and beams.

Receptionist: "So, in short, a building, paperwork, uniforms, taxes, and a little miracle money. Quite manageable, wouldn’t you say?"

Nateas throws his hands up. Nateas: "Manageable? Wench, yesterday you were crammed in a cage, begging for water! Where exactly do you think the two of us will squeeze a building, a treasury, and a blasted guild seal from? You don’t even have bread money!"

Nagisa crosses her arms, tapping her foot like she’s already two steps ahead.

that’ll all come to a preliminary cost of 1,000 Zents.

Nagisa, hands on her hips, smirks. “Well, now you’ve invested in our future. Think of it as… forced financial partnership.”

Nateas rolls on the floor in despair, clawing at the ground: “ZEROOO ZENTSSS! 

Yuranu can’t hold it in anymore—she doubles over, laughing so hard her sides hurt. “Pffhhahhah! Your money’s gone in a blink! Oh Nateas, you’re a walking piggy bank with legs!” Nateas, still crumpled on the floor.

Since we’re official now, what’ll be the name of our agency?” Camera, eyes glowing with excitement, zooms in on Nagisa.

“Yes, what do we call ourselves? Something bold? Something flashy? Or maybe… mysterious!” Nagisa plants her fists on her hips, beaming like a general about to christen her army.

“The name will be…”

The underground cages still reeked of rust and blood, chains clinking faintly where they hung empty. A lantern swung overhead, throwing jagged shadows across the walls.

The heavy iron door creaked open, and a man in a black top hat stepped inside, his polished cane tapping against the stone. His sharp eyes scanned the rows of cells, his mouth tightening into a thin line.

Top Hat Man: "Tch… damn demonill’s gone AWOL."

He walked slowly down the aisle, cane dragging across the bars with a screeching scrape. Empty cells answered him in silence.

Top Hat Man: "And the captives… every last one… gone as well."

At the far end of the chamber, another figure stepped out of the shadows—skin veined with an otherworldly glow, eyes too sharp to be human. A Demonill, its presence heavy and suffocating. Behind it, boots clanged—a man clad in Vanguard armor, sigil of the Collect carved into his breastplate.

The Vanguard raised his weapon in salute.

Vanguard Soldier: "Orders are clear. We secure him… for the Collect."

The Demonill tilted its head, lips curling in something between a grin and a snarl, as if savoring the hunt yet to come. The man in the top hat smiled faintly, tipping his hat forward to shadow his eyes.

Top Hat Man: "Good. Then let’s bring our little escapee back… before the whole damn city realizes what slipped through their fingers."