The next day, just as Ace stepped onto the ground floor, a new scent slipped into his nostrils—a layered blend of cotton threads and hints of aged wood. He peeked in and found the young girl seated, immersed in her work, surrounded by a halo of golden rays. The scene closely resembled the previous day, yet this time, he noticed a few distinct details.
Despite her evident skill in sewing, her fingers bore multiple scars—like remnants of a silent battle fought against needle and thread. It looked as though she'd been trying to recreate a different design, one similar to the young man's attire. While she worked, her eyes danced along the fabric, carefully tracing the needle's path, wary of it losing its way in the cloth's maze. Yet, despite her intense focus, she sensed his presence. A glance from the corner of her eye was enough to freeze her fingers mid-stitch.
She set the needle aside and stood, causing fine cotton threads to scatter around her. She walked toward Ace and stopped before him. Before either of them could speak, she ran her fingers over his clothing, feeling the stitches as if searching for any detail that might hinder his movement during his first mission.
Finding nothing wrong, she stepped back and looked up at him, her gaze lingering on the adventurer's pendant hanging from his chest. For the first time, she felt as though she played a role in preparing an adventurer. Despite the quiet joy in that realization, she couldn't stop herself from offering a warning. She said,
"Don't forget, Mr. Ace. You need to bring me the mission request before you leave so I can read it for you. Understood?"
He nodded in acknowledgment. Just then, the bell above the door chimed, and the first morning footsteps entered the shop, signaling the start of a new workday. Ace told her he was leaving, but she stopped him and asked if he had eaten breakfast. He replied that he wasn't hungry, especially after the large dinner he'd had the night before. She understood, though a part of her wished he had eaten something light before leaving. Then, she wished him good luck on his first mission and reminded him once again to return with the request.
He nodded and turned to leave. On his way out, he offered a polite greeting to an elderly woman entering the shop, delivered with such courtesy that it brought a blush to her cheeks. Meanwhile, Emilia continued to watch him silently, her eyes carrying an unspoken plea—a wish that he would be assigned an easy mission.
After leaving, Ace headed straight for the Adventurers' Guild. Inside, the noise of laughter and chatter mingled with the clinking of glasses being raised and slammed down on tables, causing strong vibrations that sent some liquid splashing onto the floor. Bottles of drink were being opened with loud pops, their corks flying through the air before bouncing off the tables or floor.
Tables were overturned in moments of excitement, chairs scraped harshly against the floor, producing sharp screeches. It was a scene one wouldn't expect at such an early hour, yet much of the commotion began to subside the moment the strange young man stepped into the room.
This time, the gazes that met him weren't mocking. Instead, they were filled with skepticism—and even a hint of jealousy. They realized he was the source of the mysterious surge of magical energy the day before. They had also heard of his performance against the drunken man, confirming he wasn't just some ordinary fellow as his appearance might suggest. Still, respect was not offered.
Ace made his way past their stares toward the request board. Once there, he closely examined the various postings. Some were scrawled in rough handwriting on worn-out paper, as if written in haste and urgency. Others were far more ornate, with golden or silver patterns along the edges and finely detailed symbols and illustrations, seemingly crafted to tempt the most ambitious of eyes. Some posters were vivid and eye-catching, while others remained dull, as though no one had cared much about their presentation.
As his eyes moved between the flyers, he noticed that some were written in the local language, of which he only understood fragments. Others were adorned with mysterious symbols he couldn't decipher. Certain recurring words caught his attention, possibly indicators of mission rankings.
Amid his search, one particular flyer stood out—an old, tattered sheet barely clinging to life. Despite its poor condition, its contents fascinated him. The image depicted a creature resembling a rabbit, but with features far more sinister. Its tiny eyes glinted with malevolence, and its jagged, tightly packed fangs looked engineered for tearing.
The drawing was unsettlingly detailed, suggesting the artist hadn't relied on imagination but had likely seen the creature—or even encountered it. Acting on instinct, Ace reached for the flyer. The moment he touched it, he realized it wasn't made of ordinary paper, but rather a thin piece of hide. The surface felt coarse beneath his fingertips. He tried to read the words beneath the image, but time had rendered them partially illegible.
Still, he turned and walked over to the reception desk, where several staff members were busy recording notes in thick ledgers. The sound of pages turning and pens scratching against paper filled the air.
He approached the same receptionist from the previous day. She looked up at him with a warm smile, welcoming him to his first mission. He placed the flyer on the desk. The moment her eyes scanned the request, her face paled and her eyes sparkled with an odd gleam—like a flash of lightning quickly extinguished. It was as if she had seen something she hadn't expected. Her fingers froze on the desk. But within seconds, she composed herself, her features returning to calm, though something stormy still lingered beneath.
She raised her eyes to Ace again, this time examining him as though trying to read his thoughts—trying to understand why he had chosen that particular request.
Before she could ask, Ace explained his issue—that he couldn't fully read the writing on the flyer. As soon as he said it, her expression changed again. Her eyes widened slightly, her lips quivered for a moment, as if struggling to process what she had just heard.
Disbelief briefly crossed her face before her brows furrowed in a mix of hope and bitterness. She appeared to stand on the precipice of a new realization. Then, the silence between them was broken by a coarse voice from behind, dripping with sharp sarcasm.
Ace turned to see a large man carrying massive barrels on his broad shoulders, as though they weighed nothing. Ace recognized him from the day before—his thick black beard, wide jaw, and bald head flanked by tufts of tangled hair made him unmistakable.
The man's narrow eyes, carved into a face that resembled a brute more than a thinker, gleamed with disdain. He examined the young man before curling his lips into a crooked grin—one steeped more in mockery than amusement. Then he said:
"Well, isn't that something!" he sneered. "An adventurer who can't even read the job postings! How do you expect to survive in this line of work if you can't grasp the basics?"
He let out a loud, grating laugh that made the liquid inside his barrels slosh violently, as though joining in his ridicule. Yet none of the other adventurers paid him any mind, lost in their own laughter and conversations. Ace's expression didn't change. His eyes remained steady as he looked up slightly, replying in a calm voice:
"It's only natural."
His tone was neutral, devoid of anger or shame. He continued:
"It's true—I'm not good at reading the writing here. But that's normal. I'm from faraway lands, and the characters here are unfamiliar. I don't see any reason for surprise or laughter."
His words were wise and rational, expressing a simple truth. But the man, unused to receiving logical rebuttals to his mockery, grew visibly irritated. His narrow eyes became even tighter, their gleam sharper.
"But you speak our language—why can't you read it, then?" he demanded.
Ice's demeanor remained unchanged. He answered evenly:
"As I said, the characters here differ from those in my homeland. Sometimes, the same language uses different scripts across regions. Even within a single country, dialects can vary. That's well-known."
His voice was steady, free of arrogance. It softened the tension in the air, as though his words were not just a response but a quiet lesson—one the man wasn't prepared to learn. The man's face twisted; his brows knitted in a scowl. He stood motionless for a moment, as if trying to process what he'd just heard. He hadn't expected a simple answer to dismantle his insult—or his stance. His expression wavered between doubt and disbelief, his eyes flickering with unease, searching for a flaw, a comeback—but finding none.
A moment passed in silence. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose, causing his thick mustache to flutter with the air's force. He looked around, checking to see if anyone had noticed his failed attempt at ridicule. It seemed he wanted to salvage whatever pride remained. Fortunately for him, no one had paid attention. Without another word, he turned and stomped away, each step heavy with disappointment. He muttered something unintelligible—perhaps curses, or simply complaints too bitter to voice aloud.
His footsteps faded into the noisy atmosphere, but the pungent smell from his barrels lingered, reaching the noses of nearby adventurers who began to circle him, curious about his cargo. This seemed to revive him a little. A crooked smile crept across his face, tinged with concealed pride. He raised his chin and declared loudly:
"These aren't your average barrels, fellas! They're filled with the finest aged cranberry juice you can get your hands on. Bought them from the guild—planning to sell them off for a nice profit."
The adventurers exchanged puzzled glances. One of them crossed his arms and asked skeptically:
"Why didn't the buyer get them himself? Wouldn't that be cheaper?"
The man's eyes gleamed, as if the question had given him the perfect opportunity to boast. He leaned in and lowered his voice, as though sharing a secret:
"Let's just say… he can't buy them himself."
He burst into laughter again, sending another wave through the barrels. Then he strode away, leaving behind a trail of fermented aroma and a group of adventurers exchanging baffled looks.
Back at the reception desk, Ace and the clerk had silently observed the exchange. Then, she looked at him once more. A faint smile appeared on her face—one that hinted at a new kind of respect. Respect for a young man who handled tension with composure and wisdom, without raising his voice or resorting to violence. Unlike the many adventurers the guild had welcomed—men and women who boasted of strength and shouted to be heard, solving problems with fists and fury—this one was different.
He belonged to that rare type who combined strength with cunning, sword with mind, presence with peace. He wielded an invisible weapon: words chosen with care, and an ability to read situations and take the right actions without recklessness.
She took a deep breath, concealing her personal reaction before returning to her professional tone. Then, she said,
"Alright, Mr. Ace," she spoke steadily, opening the request file and running her fingers over the lines of neatly written details. She continued:
"This request was submitted about two weeks ago. It concerns a creature known as the 'Demonic Rabbit.' According to the two elderly farmers who filed it, their farm east of town was attacked by a small group of these creatures—estimated to be ten in number."
She looked up at Ace as she added:
"These monsters are low-tier. They're fast, which makes chasing them difficult, and they show signs of intelligence. Individually, they're not strong—but in small groups, they can be dangerous."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, trying to read any expression on Ace's face, but he remained silently attentive, as if absorbing every word. She pressed her lips together—not as a brief pause, but as someone who felt the weight of the farmers' hardship. In her eyes was a kind of understanding—the kind that knows loss isn't always measured in money, but in the sweat of years. Then, suddenly, she spoke with a tremor in her voice:
"For farmers like them, who rely entirely on their land, this isn't just a loss of property… it's the loss of months of hard work."
Silence settled between them. The clerk hadn't needed to add that final phrase, yet perhaps she had hoped to stir something within him. Still, he didn't appear moved by pity. Instead, he seemed lost in thought, analyzing the information and eliminating possibilities—something she had already noticed about him. He wasn't impulsive or excitable; rather, he examined every detail before making a decision.
She continued to watch his face, trying to catch any sign, any glint in his eyes that might suggest he had grasped the weight of the matter. She wanted her tone to carry a sense of sincerity—to make the young man before her feel the burden of responsibility that came with accepting the request.
"How much is the reward for carrying out this task?"
His question came suddenly, and the clerk felt a twinge of irritation. These weren't the first words she had hoped to hear from him. Still, she quickly masked her feelings behind a veneer of professionalism and answered:
"The reward allocated for getting rid of all those rabbits…"
She paused before continuing, hesitating to reveal the amount. Ace noticed the slight hesitation, though it lasted only seconds. The clerk then continued:
"The reward is just 100 bronze coins."
"That's about 10 silver coins, correct?"
"Y-Yes, that's right," she replied, stumbling slightly despite her efforts to maintain an official tone. Then she added, with a voice that carried a clear emotional undertone:
"It may sound modest given the request, but for the two elderly people, that's all they can offer."
After she said that, Ace continued to look at her silently, then asked:
"Is this task suitable for a beginner adventurer?"
The clerk raised her eyebrows slightly, as though the question caught her off guard. She nodded, then formed a measured, kind smile—one that carried a hint of subtle encouragement—as she said:
"Yes! It's an iron-rank mission. Perfect for someone at your level as a beginner adventurer. Despite its apparent simplicity, it's a good chance to gain experience without significant risk."
Having said that, Ace stared at the notice for a few moments, then looked back at the clerk and asked with a more serious tone:
"Sorry, this might sound like an odd question, but why hasn't anyone taken this request so far? I noticed there are other iron-rank adventurers in the hall."
At that moment, the clerk's expression changed again. It wasn't the question that bothered her, but the truth behind the answer—one she was reluctant to admit aloud. She glanced at some of the adventurers in the hall before looking back at Ais, then answered with a voice that carried a hint of sharpness and a trace of frustration:
"As you can see, Mr. Ais, the adventuring profession isn't a charity. Most people who enter this field only care about missions that bring quick and generous rewards. And this particular task…"
She gestured toward the notice, as if placing a final period on her sentence.
"…requires hours of travel to reach the farm. On top of that, it takes effort to track and eliminate the rabbits. So, 100 bronze coins simply isn't enough compensation for the time and effort involved."
Her words were laced with unmistakable disappointment, as though she was indirectly blaming those adventurers who viewed missions superficially, ignoring the sense of duty they ought to possess. She had always believed that working in this field shouldn't be just a way to earn money—it should mean something more than personal gain. But reality was harsher than she liked to admit.
That realization had created a bitter internal conflict. Her professional obligation was to prioritize the most efficient and rewarding missions for adventurers, which often clashed with her personal desire to offer more opportunities to those who seemed caught between need and despair.
She let out a quiet sigh, watching Ace with a glimmer of hope in her eyes. Her breath grew heavy, her fingers tensed on the desk, as she struggled to suppress her professional instinct to suggest a simpler, better-paying task. But something inside her clung to a faint hope that he would take the request. Moments later, just before she could speak—before the words of professional advice formed on her tongue—Ais's voice broke through the hesitation:
"Alright, I'll take this request."
In an instant, it felt as though a mountain of tension had been lifted from her shoulders. She stared at the young man in disbelief, eyes wide, her limbs trembling as she echoed back with a mix of surprise and excitement:
"Really? You're really going to take the request?"
Her voice rose louder than usual, drawing the attention of a few nearby clerks. Ace simply replied with a calm but certain:
"Yes."
Though she didn't show it outwardly, the woman was practically jumping for joy inside. Without hesitation, she grabbed an elegant pen, dipped it in black ink, and pulled out a large logbook. Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as she flipped through its pages rapidly. With a graceful motion, she signed across the paper. Not stopping there, she pulled out a sheet and began sketching with practiced precision—a detailed map with clear, organized lines, reflecting the skill she had honed through years of work.
There was a tree with tangled branches, a distinctively shaped rock, and a stream winding through bends until the farm appeared at the center of the page like a marked destination. The other clerks, watching from a distance, observed her silently, their smiles a mix of amusement and admiration. One of them leaned toward a colleague and whispered with a teasing tone:
"Finally, someone accepted that request!"
The other replied in a soft, warm voice:
"Yes! I'm so happy for her."
After finishing her little masterpiece, the clerk held the paper up like a treasured artifact dug from the earth. She studied it critically for a moment, then handed the map to the young man.
Ace examined the paper for several moments, impressed by the detail. But as he looked up at the clerk, he noticed her expression had changed. She was staring at the worn-out request slip in front of her. When he asked if something was wrong, she replied softly, with a hint of hesitation:
"Well… it's a bit odd. The farm's location and the type of monsters attacking it don't quite match."
"What do you mean?"
"The town, the farm, and the entire surrounding region are located on the kingdom's outskirts, where it's freezing this time of year. Demonic rabbits don't live in such areas—they always prefer warmer, temperate climates. So, their presence here doesn't make much sense."
"Could it be a form of mass migration?"
"Perhaps…" she said cautiously, before adding, "But I've never heard of anything like that before."
Her expression revealed skepticism, as though her professional instincts were telling her this went beyond a natural migration—perhaps something larger, something hidden in the shadows. For a moment, silence fell between them again. Then, as if trying to ease the tension she had unintentionally caused, she spoke gently, her tone polite and reassuring despite the uncertainty:
"In any case, it doesn't change how easy the task should be. Oh, and one more important detail—you need to collect the rabbits' ears after killing them. They'll serve as proof that you completed the mission and earned your reward. If they're damaged in the fight or somehow lost, a signed slip from the requestor confirming the job was done will also be accepted as verification. With that said, I wish you the best of luck."
After she spoke, a warm smile spread across Ais's face. He thanked her for all the information she had provided. And at the sight of that gentle expression, the clerk felt a subtle warmth rise to her cheeks. She tried to conceal her nervousness by organizing the papers on her desk, but her hands lacked their usual steadiness.
As Ace prepared to leave, whispers and soft giggles rippled through the other clerks. It wasn't hard for them to grasp what was going on—the eyes often reveal what the heart tries to hide. Slightly flustered, the clerk turned to her colleagues and asked with a mix of embarrassment and frustration:
"W-What? Why are you all looking at me like that?"
They replied in unison with playful delight:
"Nothiiiiiing." Then they exchanged amused glances and added in teasing tones:
"Riiiiiight?"
Her face flushed crimson as she begged them in a trembling voice to get back to work.