Let’s step back and ask why this particular group was marching toward a wyvern-infested mountains instead of, say, quietly fixing an old widow’s roof.

  The Adventurers’ Guild hall smelled of parchment and oil used to clean equipment.

  It was also in a state of panic.

  Because Fanática stood in front of the quest board like a child in a sweet shop.

  She plucked three parchments with cheerful efficiency.

  “‘Help Widow Mara repair her roof after the storm.’

  ‘Find little Timmy’s lost puppy in the meadows.’

  ‘Retrieve lost heirloom from the old mill.’

  "All nearby. All simple acts of kindness. Perfect!"

  Behind the counter, two guild clerks - a young woman named Delira, and an older man named Harlan - exchanged glances that could curdle milk.

  Delira cleared her throat.

  “Um, Sister Fanática… those are lovely, but they’ve actually been taken. See? I registered them just this morning.”

  Faná tilted her head.

  “Oh? By whom?”

  Right on cue, a scruffy mercenary in a mismatched plate swaggered up from a side table.

  “Yeah, that’s ours. Err,” he took a quick sideway glance at the quest paper that was lying on the counter.

  “Widow Mara’s roof. We’re heading out now.”

  Another adventurer - a wiry elf archer - leaned in from the other side.

  “Puppy’s mine. Little Timmy’s been crying all week.”

  A third, a burly man in dirty cloak with suspiciously clean boots, nodded solemnly.

  “Heirloom. Already claimed.”

  Faná blinked, then smiled wider.

  “How wonderful! The Goddess provides helpers for every need.”

  The clerks’ shoulders sagged in visible relief.

  Gorzod, twenty paces back with the rest of the party, muttered under his breath.

  “Staged. Every damn one of ’em.”

  Thrain snorted.

  “They’ve probably got a whole roster of paid actors on standby. The diocese must be footing the bill.”

  Liora, leaning against a pillar with arms crossed, deadpanned:

  “They’re trying to send us to the moon. Or at least the next continent.”

  Erian fidgeted.

  “But… she’s just trying to help people…”

  But then Faná sighed softly.

  “Well… if all the simple acts of kindness are taken, perhaps I should try the herb-gathering quest instead? The Goddess values hard work.”

  Delira made a strangled noise and lunged forward, sweating so profusely a droplet rolled down her nose and plopped onto the counter.

  “Wait! Sister Fanática! There is… one more. Just opened. Very urgent.”

  She reached under the counter a little too quickly and pulled out the red-bordered S-rank parchment with trembling fingers, sliding it across like it was a live grenade.

  Faná paused, tilting her head at the crude wyvern illustration.

  “A mother wyvern in Blackridge Caverns? That does sound… pressing. But…”

  She hesitated, finger tracing the border.

  The older guild executive stepped in smoothly.

  His voice was calm, carrying just the right note of dramatic concern.

  “These wyverns are infamous, Sister. They have a… particular appetite for the honest, pious, Goddess-loving folk. Be them simple villagers, shepherds or pilgrims, anyone who walks in the Light. If left unchecked, they’ll strip the foothills bare of the faithful. It’s a true emergency for someone of your… unique devotion.”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Faná’s eyes lit up like twin suns.

  “Then the Goddess has clearly guided me here. We shall go at once!”

  Delira and Harlan exhaled in perfect, synchronized relief.

  Gorzod sighed. “She just took bait.”

  Outside, as the party shouldered packs, Thrain grumbled:

  “S-rank wyvern. They didn’t even try to hide it.”

  Liora shrugged, her voice perfectly flat and deadpan.

  “Better than another collapsed tavern or brewery. She can’t blow up anything important while on the road or in the wilderness, right?”

  Back to present.

  The Blackridge Caverns smelled of wet stone and the faint foul tang of wyvern excretions.

  Faná led, maul in hand, halo casting a steady golden light that pushed back the dark like a lantern in a storm.

  Juvenile wyverns, half-grown, hissing things with leathery wings lunged at them from alcoves.

  Gorzod caught one mid-leap, axes crossing in a wet crunch.

  Thrain’s hammer caved another’s skull with a dull thump.

  Liora’s arrow punched through a third’s eye before it could screech.

  Erian’s firebolt singed a wing, sending it tumbling.

  There were so many of them that the dwarf's backpack, in which he hid party loot, was almost as big as he was.

  Faná swung once - in a casual, almost gentle way.

  The maul connected with a big juvenile that barred their way, hissing.

  It didn’t crumple.

  It simply… ceased to exist.

  A burst of golden motes drifted upward like dandelion seeds.

  Thrain stared at the empty space.

  “That was a prime specimen. Hide alone would’ve fetched fifty aure. Now it’s holy confetti.”

  Gorzod chuckled.

  They pressed deeper.

  The tunnel opened into the roost.

  A cavern vast enough to swallow a town cathedral.

  Stalactites hung like jagged teeth.

  On a broad stone ledge sat the mother wyvern - ancient and monstrously swollen, with scales as black as oil and wings folded.

  Around her: there were hundreds of lesser wyverns.

  Juveniles were clinging to walls, adults coiled in nests of bone and shed scales and hatchlings cheeping in cracks.

  Every head turned at once.

  Slit-pupil eyes reflected the golden halo like a thousand tiny suns.

  Gorzod froze, axes half-raised.

  “Oh fu… for the love of Goddess. Now I know why it was S-rank.”

  Liora nocked another arrow onto her bow.

  “Minimum effort just became maximum.”

  Erian whimpered.

  “We’re going to die?”

  But Faná stepped to the ledge’s edge, maul resting on her shoulder.

  She smiled - sweet, serene, utterly unafraid.

  “O Goddess of Sanctified Skies and the Cleansing of Nests of Tyranny,” she intoned, her voice carrying through the cavern like a thunder, “look upon these winged oppressors who prey upon the faithful! Grant Your child strength to protect the innocent and to scatter the wicked with Your perfect justice!”

  Her halo flared like a supernova.

  Golden light erupted outward in a perfect sphere.

  Somewhere far below the mountain, a lone hunter paused on a ridge trail, pipe halfway to his lips.

  A ray of blinding white-gold shot from Blackridge’s peak straight into the sky - clean, vertical and impossibly bright.

  The mountain shuddered.

  A good third of the upper ridge simply… vanished.

  Rock cracked and tumbled, leaving stone terraces that looked almost like an amphitheater carved by angels.

  The shockwave rolled across the foothills, flattening grass in widening circles.

  The hunter dropped his pipe.

  “IT’S HOLY!” he yelled, already running. “IT’S HOLY AGAIN!”

  Two days later, back in the guild hall, Delira and Harlan stared blankly at the new S-rank completion notice.

  Reward claimed.

  Wyvern mother: neutralized.

  Roost: cleansed.

  Mountain: redecorated.

  Harlan rubbed his temples.

  “We’re going to run out of mountain ranges at this rate.”