After that, and once all the necessary details were recorded in the contract, the clerk moved quietly. She reached into one of the desk drawers and pulled out a massive folded map, exuding the scent of old parchment and aged ink, as if it were a relic transported through time.
With a graceful motion, she unfolded it across the desk, stretching it until it nearly covered the entire surface. The moment the map settled, everyone leaned in, driven by their curiosity, inching closer as if afraid to miss even the smallest detail of this rare artifact. It wasn't an ordinary map—it resembled a painting crafted by an artist obsessed with detail. Its features went far beyond faded lines and conventional borders. It pulsed with life in every sense. The trees weren't just green symbols—they were drawn in full detail, from their intertwined trunks to their swaying leaves, rendered in layered colors that suggested astonishing realism.
Some trees were enormous, their roots sprawling in all directions, while others were smaller, as if bowing to the towering majesty around them. Yet what drew the most attention wasn't the precision of the drawings—it was the dark red blotches scattered across the map, resembling bloodstains smeared across various regions.
The clerk raised her hand and pointed to one of the blotches, then spoke in a quiet voice, though her words carried a heavy warning:
"These marks… indicate the recorded sightings of the Rotwood Tree Beast. Locations where it was spotted during previous expeditions."
A hush fell over the room. The clerk continued, her tone now more serious, her eyes scanning the group as if weighing their reactions.
"As you'll notice, these areas are completely barren—almost as if life itself fled. And as some of you may know—or perhaps don't—the Rotwood Tree Beast isn't simply a decayed tree, as some might imagine. It is a terrifying entity, a fusion of rotting roots and crumbling bark, with abilities far more lethal than you might expect. Its jagged branches move like frenzied serpents, lashing out with terrifying speed. If they strike, there is no escape. Those who survived encounters with the beast did so only by fleeing."
Silence gripped the room as if the air itself had frozen, the danger now clearer than ever. Their eyes flicked between the clerk's severe expression and the map laid out before them. This wasn't an ordinary mission—it was a confrontation with a creature that defied reason, a monster that breathed death and spread it like an unrelenting storm.
Then, the clerk took a deep breath, as if summoning her courage, and added:
"That's not even the most terrifying part. It's the toxic aura surrounding the creature—a thick, creeping fog that flows around it like a curtain of death. Standard protective masks are ineffective, offering only minutes of defense. No known method can mitigate the toxicity. The concentration of poison around the creature exceeds lethal limits. Put simply—it strangles you to death."
Again, silence reigned, this time heavy with fear that slithered into their hearts. Each one began to picture themselves facing this nightmare, gasping for breath in the deathly haze. Then, in a firm voice that allowed no dispute, the clerk stressed another critical point:
"I also want to draw your attention to something extremely important—often overlooked when facing this tree-like monster. It's common, even obvious, to believe that fire is the best weapon against such a being, given its wooden structure. But the reality is far more dangerous."
She paused for effect, then continued:
"The greatest mistake lies in ignoring the nature of the gases it emits. They're not only toxic—they're flammable. A single spark, even a tiny one, could turn the battlefield into a raging inferno in seconds. And fire attacks don't work near its body. The gases around it seem to behave differently, actively suppressing any nearby flames. So, there are only two viable options when fighting it: end the battle quickly, or escape the moment you can. There is no room for hesitation—no margin for error. Teamwork is the only path to victory or survival."
After all that had been said, something shifted in the adventurers' eyes—a mix of anxiety and resolve. Some clenched their weapons, others swallowed hard, but all understood one thing: this mission was truly a turning point.
Then, the clerk brought out a set of masks—five black ones, crafted from unfamiliar materials. She laid them on the desk one by one, then stated firmly:
"These masks are our latest development, designed specifically to endure exposure to the gas for as long as possible. They are equipped with special filters containing crystals that purify the air and block harmful substances from entering your lungs. The masks fit securely to ensure they won't fall off during battle. They provide up to two hours of protection at most."
Margola picked up one of the masks, examined it for a moment, then lifted his gaze toward Ace and, in a voice that sliced through the silence, asked him in front of everyone:
"Are you still sure about your decision? You still have the chance to withdraw."
All eyes turned to Ace again, as if awaiting his final verdict after hearing everything. At that moment, it wasn't just a choice—it was a decision between life and death.
Some thought he would back down, that the weight of the mission would crush his resolve. This wasn't just an ordinary adventure—even the strongest among them were inwardly asking, "If I were asked to join... would I have the courage to accept?"
Amid the uncertainty, his voice rang out—steady, unwavering, confirming his commitment. The hall fell into a heavy silence. There was no room for argument anymore. The choice had been made. The young man had declared his path before everyone. All that was left was to respect it—and let him face his fate.
With steady steps, the team exited the guild. But Ace paused at the threshold of the door. He turned, as if something had pulled him back. There, behind the desk, the clerk was watching him, her eyes filled with concern. He said nothing. He simply gave her a quiet look—a look that carried unquestionable confidence. It was a silent message of gratitude for her concern, and another—an unspoken promise that he would return.
In that moment, no words were needed. She understood exactly what he meant. Her eyes shimmered, and she placed a hand over her chest in a spontaneous gesture, full of conflicting emotions—worry and hope.
She slowly nodded, a gesture of understanding. At that moment, Ace Farland turned and walked out, the wooden door letting out a faint creak behind him, as if groaning under the weight of a moment destined to be etched in memory. It swayed briefly before settling still, as though witnessing an irreversible decision.
By the time they stepped into the street, the light had fully crept through the town's alleys. It wasn't long before eyes began to turn toward them, one after another—curiosity tinged with amazement and riddled with silent questions.
It felt as if the entire town was awakening to the rhythm of their footsteps. A wave of anticipation swept through the area. Some feet halted, others slowed, while men and women exchanged glances and hushed murmurs, as though afraid their words might be overheard.
All eyes were drawn to the golden badges that gleamed beneath the sunlight, swinging above the chests of those confident strangers. This remote town was not accustomed to welcoming high-ranking adventurers—let alone ones who bore such pride in their eyes. With every step they took, the intrigue grew among onlookers eager to understand.
The whispers spread, threading their way through the marketplace like a quiet tide before swelling into a surging current of speculation. Some cautiously approached, trying to get a closer look at the strangers' faces, while others remained rooted in place, watching silently, their anticipation weighty.
Among the crowd were those who had once visited the capital. It took them only moments to recognize three of the individuals. Their bodies jolted as if struck by a bolt of disbelief. They pointed at the group with trembling fingers. Within seconds, the silence tore apart:
"They... They're the New Victory Party! One of the strongest adventurer teams in the capital!"
Those words were like a spark tossed into dry hay. In an instant, noise erupted, a mix of awe and excitement. Hearts pounded faster. Some stared at the party with suspicion, trying to grasp why they had come to this quiet town, while on others' faces bloomed shy expressions of hope, as if they realized the moment they had long awaited had finally arrived.
In the midst of it all, as the spark flared into a blaze, Margola came to a stop. The others halted behind him. He raised his head high, scanning the crowded faces. He inhaled the cold air deeply, then slowly exhaled, as if filling the space with his presence before his voice rang out—strong, resolute, meant to be heard and remembered:
"People of this town—ladies and gentlemen—we are members of the New Victory Party!"
Silence swept through the crowd. Not even a whisper remained. Only hundreds of eyes, wide and eager, waiting to hear what these adventurers had come to say. Margola continued, his eyes gleaming with irrepressible fervor, as if this moment had been written for him since time began:
"We have traveled here from the distant capital to end your suffering. The monster that has long spread disease among you every season—the Rotwood Beast—shall be slain today!"
His words echoed in the air, like a prophecy sinking into souls before reaching ears. It was more than a declaration—it was a promise, laden with hope, firm as the pillars of ancient temples, beyond retreat or hesitation. Eyes widened. Hearts leapt. Faces lit up with a blend of astonishment and anticipation. And then, suddenly, the silence burst like a volcano. Cheers and cries erupted, shaking the ground beneath their feet and rebounding off the walls of homes and shops, announcing the dawn of a new era.
The news spread like wildfire. People surged from every direction, drawn by an invisible force to the center of the event. Doors flew open. Men and women poured out. Shopkeepers, who typically clung to their business no matter the circumstance, abandoned their stalls—perhaps realizing that their true trade wasn't in gold or silver, but in seeing their town come alive again.
Yet, amid the swell of people, there was one who could not cheer, one who couldn't even smile.
The crowd gathered, their bodies present but their souls lost in a whirlwind of memories. Their eyes shimmered with tears long held back, now flowing freely, as if washing away wounds that had never fully healed. One saw the face of a lost brother in the haze of remembrance; another glimpsed the shadow of a father—memories of dear ones lost to the illnesses caused by those toxic gases.
The announcement was simple—just a few unadorned words—but it carried an unseen power. The power of hope, seeping into hearts like a soft breeze. It wasn't an ordinary morning, nor just another passing moment in the town's history. It was a rebirth, a declaration of the end of a dark chapter, and the beginning of something new. Amid the cheers, Margola continued walking with proud strides, saluting the crowd with the gesture of a commander ready for battle. His eyes burned with unwavering passion.
But in the grandeur of that moment, one detail clashed with the rest—a dissonant note in an otherwise triumphant song.
At the rear of the group walked a girl in church garb, her head bowed, avoiding eye contact. A bronze badge glimmered faintly on her chest, betraying her rank as a novice adventurer, just beginning her journey. She wasn't alone. Beside her walked a young man with an iron badge—a level far beneath the glory surrounding the three at the front.
Their presence felt out of place. Like dark smudges on a bright painting. Neither of them resembled the heroes leading the charge, those whose medals spoke of resilience and victory. While the girl tried to mask her unease, she couldn't help but notice the boy beside her—the same boy who had spoken yesterday, in chilling tones, of betrayal and murder. Now he radiated with joy and laughter, like someone entirely different.
How could someone so callous seem so innocent? How could one who had waded through bloodshed smile so effortlessly? She was overcome with conflicting emotions—a mix of confusion and discomfort. A sense of detachment, as though she didn't belong in this world she now found herself in.