Silver Sky

Jarathia | City Outskirts

Hanla and Nine walk side by side through the dim streets.

She sees his hand shaking once more.

I can’t ask him how he feels. If he lets it out, it will trigger his ability. My sister sealed hers for the same reason—suppressed it with magic. He mastered his, but even so… it’s not the physical damage dragging him down.

“You’ve noticed.” Nine says, voice flat. “I’m not doing well. My mental state is… messy.”

“But you’re honest.” Hanla answers. “I’ll handle the talking. You can take a break.”

“Sure.”

They hit the heart of the city—civilians huddle in doorways, faces hollow, fear souring the air.

Hanla hops a step ahead of him and spins on her heel. “I’ll be the Strong Leader. You’re my Silent Vice Leader. Your lines are—”

She stuffs both hands into her pockets, giving a solemn nod. “Yes. Mmm. Got it…” Then she shrugs. “Something like that. It’ll be a big wow moment! And boom—everyone sees you as the badass vice leader.”

Nine actually laughs at the silliness. “Joking now? That’s… a kind of power.”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd as they walk by.

“We’re going to die and she’s smiling—”

“Why’s she dancing around in front of him?”

“This constant doom is exhausting. I mean, I have my moments too, but this is getting annoying.” Hanla mutters.

Nine yawns. “Funny, isn’t it? The Outskirts have it harder, but they’re still upbeat. This is… interesting. I have more positive encounters with the people in the Outskirts than this negativity here. Only Sunthia and the kids here are okay to talk to. And Jenna and Tyrese. Other than that… the people are really depressing and arrogant around here… it’s annoying.”

He lifts his gaze. The night sky is covered in a sheet of mist, turning it silver.

“Got a name for our guild?” He asks.

“Mmm… Truthseekers?”

“Sounds lame. Are we really seeking the truth?”

Hanla looks up at the pale sky. “I’ve always wondered what the truth is. But once we uncovered that wyvern mess, I realized that the truth really needs actors.”

“Truth-actors?”

“Worse than Seekers,” she groans, “we need something that sticks. Something memorable.”

“The mist is thicker today,” Nine says, “look at the sky.”

She does. The fog glows—eerie, glinting. Coloring the sky in shimmering silver.

“Silver Sky?”

“You like it?”

“It’s perfect. And unique!” She grins. “Back home, there was a band I loved with a song called ‘Silver Sky.’ It’s a nice coincidence.”

“Coincidences don’t exist.”

“Maybe that’s true, Vice Leader.”

“It is, Leader.”

Jarathia | Jarathia City | Adventurer’s Guild

They reach the guild and push the doors open.

The hall is in chaos—thirty adventurers crowd the counter, voices tripping over each other.

“We’re going to die! Why isn’t a ship coming?” One shouts.

“We can’t do anything about politics, and no one’s strong enough— we’re done for!” Another wails.

Behind the counter, Beatrix’s hand trembles. “Even if I call a rescue now, it’ll arrive in a week. The volcano is too hot—its lava has heated the sea too much and would damage any ships.”

Hanla strides forward with Nine at her shoulder. “Beatrix—”

“THERE’S NO ESCAPE, WE’LL DIE!—” Panic rises.

Hanla drops the bag on the counter. Beatrix opens it, sees the pulsing core, looks up at their faces, then back down, then up again.

“Oh. Wait.” She vanishes through the back door.

The panic rises even more.

“I don’t want to die…” someone whimpers.

“Yes.” Nine offers, hands in his pockets.

Hanla elbows him. “You only say ‘yes’ after I say something cool.”

“Yes. Mhmm."

“That wasn’t cool!”

Their bickering attracts a few panicky stares. From where Beatrix has disappeared, her shouts echo.

“Yes! Yes, yes, YES!” She cheers. “They beat an epic-level calamity! We can survive this! Yes— guild papers, now— I refuse to die to an angry fire dragon!”

At the muffled words, every head turns toward Hanla and Nine.

Nine keeps the same pose, words deadpan. “Yes. Mhhm. Mhhm.”

“Stop it.” Hanla mutters. “Airhead.”

“Don’t call me airhead, airhead.” He mutters back, grinning.

They’re both laughing when Beatrix bursts back out, flushed and bright-eyed, a stack of forms in her hands. “You beat a calamity. Didn’t even know that was a thing here.”

She slaps down the forms. The sheet is simple: Guild name. Leader. Vice leader. Members. Classes.

“That’s it?” Hanla blinks. “No essays? No vows?”

“In the Adventurer’s Guild,” Beatrix says, “your blood will always be enough.”

“Mmm. Okay then.” Hanla writes steadily: Silver Sky. Leader: Hanla. Vice leader: Nine.

Beatrix whistles. “Silver Sky. A nice name.”

Nine’s gaze sharpens. “We want to declare a mission.”

“And you know which one.” Hanla says.

A few tables over, a trio whispers.

Tuntris lifts his head. “What?”

Jerisa, the mage, squints. “No way. She started yesterday and now she’s leading a guild with a Creator prodigy?”

Aristo, the plated warrior, nods toward the window... “If you listen to her, she barely knows what she slew. It’s insane.”

Tuntris gets goosebumps. “The easy road of quest and coin… She wanted more I guess…”

Beatrix scans the form, then barks a laugh. “An E-rank adventurer as leader and an A-rank as the vice… ah, it’s great, your rank-ups will be insane…”

“Mhhm. Yes.” Nine says, trying very hard to look cool, but failing when a crooked grin grows on his face. “This girl is reckless, Beatrix. She’ll act first, think never.”

Hanla plants her hands on her hips, chin high. “I am Hanla, the Dragon Fist! Our next mission: killing the Fire Dragon and freeing Jarathia from the chains of miasma!”

Silence, then Tuntris stands—his team with him. “With all due respect, you’re insane. You’re wounded. And you still—” He starts laughing, Jerisa and Aristo joining him.

Beatrix lifts a stamp and slams it down. “The guild Silver Sky takes on a Legendary-rank mission. Supporting guilds and groups are welcome.”

“Mersa’s raising troops.” Nine adds. “He’ll have missions for everyone.”

Hanla leans toward him, whispering. “Did he say that?”

“No.” Nine whispers back. “But he’ll need the help.”

“Then the guild will negotiate with him.” Beatrix crisply agrees.

She steps out from behind the counter, hefting a gigantic crystal-blue axe in one hand. A brooch glints on her thigh: S-rank.

“Whoa,” Hanla breathes. “S-rank?”

“I’m Beatrix,” she calls, voice carrying to the rafters. “Adventurers of Jarathia, this is a call to duty! Rise up! We’ll free the civilians from the smaller beasts! Wyverns are rising, so form teams and—”

“Be careful,” Nine cuts in, “they carry miasma.”

Beatrix’s enthusiasm deflates. “Uugh. Niiine, sweetheart— you tell us only now…? WHY WERE WE NOT INFORMED?” her eyes go comically wet— “Ah, right, politics…”

Nine reaches over and squishes her cheeks. “Just don’t be stupid. Do the right thing. I also hate politics…”

Hanla blinks. “What’s your relationship?”

“Childhood friends,” Beatrix says, grinning in spite of her smushed cheeks. “My old guild and Raven’s White Ravens were good friends…”

“Hehe.” Nine drily says, unconvincingly innocent.

Hanla sighs. “I’ll be asking you both about that later.”

“Sure.” Beatrix replies.

She faces the hall again. “We won’t meddle in politics—but we will save lives! Understood?”

A roar answers her.

Hanla and Nine trade a quick wink. Beatrix swings the axe onto her shoulder. “Stay calm. I’ll be back.”

As they head out, they find Mersa stood in front of the guild. The civilians around him are calm, but whispers flow through the streets like wind through chimes.

“It’s Mersa—”

“The old mayor’s son?”

“Wait, Mersa is free?”

“He’s moving with the guild… and Nine… and an S-rank!”

Hope catches like kindling. Faces peek out of shuttered windows. Footsteps trail at a distance, then fade as the group turns into a long-abandoned district of pale stone.

Houses crouch under sheets of dust. A tower-like mansion looms ahead—its arched windows lined with cobwebs, iron lanterns choked in ash.

Mersa slows. “Rizario banned access to these buildings,” he says quietly, “they were my family’s. Big enough to shelter refugees—and far from the noble quarters.” He glances at Beatrix. “I want to make it as clear as possible. That this is a new beginning.”

“Don’t drag me into politics.” Beatrix warns.

“That’s why we’re here.” Mersa replies, and the corner of his mouth lifts.

They cross a courtyard strewn with withered plants and step into a grand hall. A cold hearth. A red leather couch, scuffed by time. The air tastes like old stone and rain that never came.

“This is my home.” Mersa says, voice steady. “Welcome to the mansion.”

“Wow.” Beatrix breathes.

“Kinda nostalgic.” Nine murmurs.

“Follow me.” Mersa says.

They pass statues lining the shadows—guard captains frozen mid-salute—and a corridor of portraits: stern men, softer men, all with the same eyes.

“Your family?” Hanla asks.

Mersa nods.

They stop at a heavy door stamped: