Adventurer Guild

Jarathia | Jarathia City | Docks

Hanla stretches as the ship lowers its gangplank. Jakob waits at the dock, arms folded, sea wind tugging at his beard.

“So, Cezaria—or should I say Hanla the Dragonfist,” he says, voice warm, “the Adventurer Guild’s in the City.”

Hanla smiles faintly. “I’ll kinda miss you, old friend.”

Jakob grins and bumps her fist with his. “And I’ll miss you. But I’ll keep my eyes open for your name in the newspapers.”

As he turns back to the ship, he raises his voice so all can hear:

“Hanla the Dragonfist will write her own adventure!”

Hanla chuckles, shouldering her bag, and walks off the dock. It’s a modest harbor, built for one ship at a time, but feels like a gateway to something larger.

The streets are worn, cobblestone paths flanked by Blackwood medieval buildings—wood that never burns, tall and dark, harvested from the strange forest nearby. The sign above the road reads: Jarathia City.

Hanla takes it in: crooked shops, a looming town hall, and bandits standing on street corners with easy arrogance. The townsfolk look weary, dressed in tattered clothes, their eyes heavy with anger and resignation. Only the children, chasing one another through the alleys, still wear smiles.

Hanla’s chest tightens.
My first island, and already I see them—innocents on the edge of breaking, merchants with forced grins. A familiar look.

Her eyes catch a wooden sign pointing toward the Adventurer Guild when a tall woman steps into her path.

Noble bearing. Black and white hair pulled back…

“You’re new here.” The woman says. “Heading to the Adventurer Guild?”

“Yes.” Hanla answers evenly. “Just found the way.”

The woman’s smile gets sharper. “So what rank are you, then?”

“I’m new.”

“Oh, fascinating. A fresh adventurer… starting here of all places. That’s bold.”

Hanla tilts her head. “And what exactly are you doing, young lady?”

The woman’s painted-red lips curve wider. “You can call me… Chisa.”

Hanla steps closer, gaze unwavering. “How many guys fall for your act, Chisa?”

Chisa laughs, low and delighted, her noble composure cracking into something sharper.

“Many fall for me. But you… you’ve got keen eyes. Young as you look, how did you know that?”

Hanla’s reply is cool. “If you read your environment, you see more than you’d expect.”

Chisa chuckles, then leans in close, her gaze suddenly sharp and dangerous, her eyes aglow in a threatening orange-red.
“A guy once gave me the same answer. Don’t be a troublemaker here, girl… and everything will work out fine.”

Hanla doesn’t flinch. She simply turns and follows the sign toward the guild.

The Adventurer Guild looms above her: tall, carved entirely of Blackwood, its blue flag painted with a black eagle in silhouette.

Inside, the hall is half-empty. A few adventurers lounge in armor, others in travel-worn clothes. The air smells of ale and woodsmoke. A quest board hangs near the kitchen, where a blonde receptionist sits, her eyes bright blue, chest huge and idly playing with the curls in her hair.

At her counter stands Nine. His voice is low as he places a bag of bones on the desk.

“Beatrix. Here.” He says in a baritone.

She blinks, weighing them. “That’s enough… five thousand rupees. For slaying the beast.”

He only nods, pocketing the reward.

Hanla freezes mid-step.

That’s him. Black jacket. Deep voice. Sharp manners. Cold and edge. SO EDGY! Exactly what I’ve been looking for… my first guild member.

Before she can think twice, she rushes forward.

“I’m Hanla. A new adventurer. Join my guild!”

The man—Nine—doesn’t even look at her. He takes the money and turns to leave.

“Beatrix. See you.”

“DON’T IGNORE ME!” Hanla grabs his arm.

Nine tries to shake her off, but her grip doesn’t budge. He scowls. “Let me go.”

Hanla smirks. “Not until you join.”

Nine sighs, and his other hand crystallizes—blue shards spreading into a jagged gauntlet. He squeezes down hard on her grip.

Hanla only grins, mimicking his crystals—the same crystalline layer forming across her own arms. And then she takes her other hand to squeeze down on Nine’s in return. Their grips clash.

Nine narrows his eyes. “What are you— THIS STRENGTH!”

Hanla leans in, teeth bared in a cocky grin. “Exactly what I’m looking for.”

The pressure builds. Crystals grind. Neither moves—until Nine’s lips curl in frustration.

“…Tch.” He lets go first.

Hanla’s smile widens.

“Thought so.”

Hanla finally lets Nine’s arm slip free.
“I’m quite strong!” She declares, flexing her toned arm with a cocky grin.

Nine turns, walking away to the far end of the hall. For just a second, Hanla swears she catches a flicker of a grin tugging at his lips.

He smiled. He totally smiled!

She struts to the counter.

Behind it, Beatrix watches with a complicated look—half envy, half amusement. The blonde receptionist tilts her head, twirling a curl of hair.

“…Do you know him?”

Hanla shakes her head. “Nope. But I want someone edgy in my guild.”

Beatrix blinks. “Edgy?” Then sighs and straightens. “Never mind. Where are my manners—I’m Beatrix, receptionist of the Adventurer Guild.”

Hanla plants both fists on her hips, chin held high.
“I am Hanla the Dragon Fist! I want to be an adventurer!”

The few adventurers in the hall glance up at her bold introduction. A few snicker, others whistle.

Beatrix chuckles softly. “Quite a show.” She pulls out a thin wooden board with parchment attached. “Then let’s start your registration.”

The form is shockingly short. Name. Ability type. Nothing else.

“Wait, that’s it?” Hanla asks.

Beatrix nods. “We don’t need much. Just your adventurer name, and the classification of your ability.”

Hanla tilts her head. “Classification?”

Beatrix explains patiently:
“We have physical-types—those who modify or strengthen their body. Environmental-types—who bend the elements, like flame, lightning, storms, even grass.
Mages— Are able to heal, support, or combine abilities. Flexible, but bound by their mana.
And finally, the gifted. Rare individuals with no ability or mana, but unmatched talent—swordmasters, archers, natural prodigies.”

Hanla nods slowly. “Then I’m physical-type. But… my sister always called herself a creator. Isn’t that a category too?”

Beatrix’s smile fades. Her voice lowers.
“…Creators are their own category. But to be honest—it’s considered a curse. Creators have the ability to create a specific element at any time without mana. It has a lot to do with the brain. Everything mental plays a role: emotions, poor sleep, poor focus. The risk of accidents is incredibly high. And so every second creator dies from a nightmare or panic attack. But if someone would manage to control it, they could ignore the rules of this world.

It’s rarer and more dangerous than even high-tier magic…”

Hanla leans forward, voice steady. “Thanks for your honesty.”

She takes the quill and scrawls down her name:

Adventurer Name: Hanla the Dragon Fist.
Ability Type: Physical.

“No questions about age or background?” Hanla asks as she signs.

“Not necessary.” Beatrix smiles faintly, “You’ll learn why soon.”

Beatrix takes the contract, then lifts a hand.
“Please wait.”

She disappears into the backroom.

Almost immediately, a figure approaches Hanla—a tall man with a musketeer’s hat, a bow slung across his back, and a neatly trimmed black beard. His brown eyes appraise her.

“Quite impressive,” he says, “that you chose this hellhole of a city to start.”

Hanla doesn’t smile. Her expression stays unreadable, sharp.
“I’m experienced.”

The man raises an eyebrow, then nods slowly.
“Tuntris. That’s my name.”

Hanla inclines her head. “Hanla.”

He chuckles. “After your dramatic shout, we all know that already.”

He jerks a thumb behind him, where two others linger—a towering warrior in full metal armor, a greatsword strapped to his back, and a blindfolded woman with flowing red hair, leaning calmly on a staff.

“We need someone physical in our guild.” Tuntris says. “Ah, in case you don’t know yet, people can join up into official teams within the Adventurer’s Guild—and guess what? They’re called guilds too. Our guild isn’t very physical, so we could really use your muscle.”

Hanla shakes her head. “Not interested. But I appreciate the offer.”

Tuntris tilts his head, curious. “May I ask why? You’re still alone.”

Hanla’s eyes flick toward the door Nine walked out of earlier.
“Because I’ll create my own guild. And I’ll choose my members wisely.”

Tuntris’ lips twitch. “You mean him? Nine.”

Hanla doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Tuntris snorts. “He’s a troublemaker. Always challenging bandits, provoking the mayor, stealing profitable commissions. He’s half the reason Jarathia’s guild has so many complaints these days.”

Hanla smirks faintly. “You’ve just given me all the more reason to recruit him.”

That makes Tuntris grin. “Hanla the Dragon Fist… bold. I’ll keep that in mind. We are the Shadow Rats.”

“And I’ll keep that in mind-” Hanla replies evenly.

Tuntris leans in, his tone dropping low. “Don’t get dragged into things, new adventurer. Stay at the level of quests and simple coin. The world is… far too complicated.”

Hanla’s silver eyes glint. “Who knows.”

Tuntris studies her one last time, then turns away with his companions.

The door behind the counter clicks open. Beatrix returns, carrying a red crystal brooch and… a small knife.

Hanla frowns. “Why a knife… and a brooch?”

She glances around and notices the adventurers in the hall. Each one wears a brooch pinned to belt or trousers—their mark of belonging.

Beatrix sets the items down. “It’s the ritual of acceptance. A blood oath. The brooch marks you as one of us, and your blood binds it. We don’t need background checks or paperwork—your essence is enough.” Her blue eyes soften. “It’ll sting a bit, but cut your finger and drip the blood onto the Crystal.”

Hanla shrugs, takes the knife, and slices the edge across her palm.

Blood doesn’t drip—it flows. Heavy and vibrant, spilling over the brooch until it looks like a shard of molten ruby.

Beatrix’s breath hitches. Her hands tremble, eyes widening. “T-too much…”

The crystal pulses once, glowing heavily as if drinking in Hanla’s blood.

The guild hall goes quiet after they see the crystal’s glow.

Beatrix's eyes widen, her body shuddering.
“That… that’s impressive.” she whispers. “Such a reaction is NOT normal.”

The brooch on the table keeps glowing unerringly.

Hanla exhales, watching as her skin knits itself back together.
“What does it mean?”

Beatrix attempts to keep her voice steady, though her hands tremble.
“I-It means your ability runs deeper than most. The stone reacts to strength… yours is overwhelming.”

Hanla glances down. A faint glowing letter has appeared on the brooch.
“…E?”

“That’s your starting rank,” Beatrix explains softly.

Hanla’s eyes narrow. “That’s low.”

“It’s normal.” Beatrix insists. “Every adventurer begins there. Commissions raise your standing over time or you beat stronger Guilds.”

Hanla tilts her head. “Then let me ask—if I take on harder commissions, my rank climbs faster? And If my Guild beats an S-Rank guild it's an instant boost?”

Beatrix hesitates, then nods. “Yes… though I wouldn’t recommend it. You aren’t gatekept, but— S-Rank is quite hefty.”

Hanla interrupts, pointing to the bones Nine left on the counter. “Those. What were they?”

“Fire wyverns.” Beatrix replies, still cautious.

Hanla smirks. “Then I’ll hunt five.”

Beatrix blinks, stunned. “By yourself?”

Hanla grins wide, her voice cheeky. “Yeees.”

Beatrix pinches the bridge of her nose. “Saints above… fine. I’ll process your offer.”