The Guild wasn't a monument. It was a bunker. Oak logs blackened by the elements supported a roof of rough-hewn slate, and above the swinging double doors, a rusted iron crest screeched in the wind: a broken sword crossing a shield. A symbol of hope for some. A warning for others.

  He stopped twenty meters from the entrance. He didn't rush in headfirst. It was a matter of basic survival: you don't dive into a jar without knowing if it's filled with water or acid.

  He leaned against the corner of a shuttered shop, blending into the shadows. His eyes swept the flow of people entering and leaving.

  [SCAN IN PROGRESS...]

  A group of three men exited, laughing. Partial plate armor, longswords at their hips, heavy and assured gaits. The interface overlaid data onto their silhouettes.

  [MALE A] — [GRADE 2.8]

  [MALE B] — [GRADE 2.2]

  They shoved a frailer man attempting to enter. The poor wretch, clad in soft leather, hastily stepped aside, bowing his head.

  [MALE C] — [GRADE 1.2]

  Adrian observed the dynamic. This wasn't an administration. It was a pack. The big eat the small. The strong take up space; the weak apologize for existing. If he walked in puffing out his chest, he would be crushed. He was a Grade 0.001. A statistical anomaly. To survive this ecosystem, he couldn't be a predator. He had to be an insect. Insignificant. Invisible.

  He adjusted the hare skin around his waist, deliberately ruffled his already dirty hair, and slightly hunched his shoulders. He composed his face: shifty eyes, mouth slightly agape—He slouched. Jaw slack. Eyes wide and vacuous. A social camouflage strategy.

  He moved forward.

  The smell hit him at the threshold. A dense, almost solid mix of stale beer, sour sweat, and poorly tanned leather. The roar of conversations struck his eardrums like a physical wall. The common room was vast, saturated with pipe smoke. Massive tables occupied the center, where adventurers played dice and shouted. At the back, a long dark wooden counter served as a barrier between the rabble and the administration.

  No one looked at him. He crossed the room hugging the walls, avoiding eye contact, skirting the noisy groups.

  He reached the queue reserved for "General Requests." In front of him, two nervous teenagers waited, clutching wooden spears. Adrian waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. He used the downtime to listen.

  “...the eastern swamp is impassable, the mud ate my boot...” — “...heard Black Iron is recruiting for an expedition to the north...” — “...pay is shit for giant rats, it’s a scam...”

  Data. Fragments of geography, economy, hierarchy. The AI recorded, classified, mapped.

  His turn came. The receptionist was a woman in her faded thirties whose main characteristic seemed to be boredom. She didn't look up from her ledger. Her quill scratched the parchment with an irritating sound.

  “Name?” she asked.

  “Adrian.”

  “Level?”

  “1.”

  He lied, but saying he had no system would be worse.

  The quill stopped. She finally looked up. Her gaze swept over Adrian, from his bare feet to his beast skin, lingering on the total absence of magical pressure. A weary sigh escaped her lips.

  “The charity bureau is at the temple, across the square. Here, we work.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “I'm looking for work,” Adrian replied.

  He kept his voice low, respectful, but firm. He wasn't begging.

  “I want a mission.”

  The woman set down her quill and crossed her arms. Her eyes were rimmed with dark circles. Chronic sleep deprivation.

  "Listen, new guy. Look around you.” She gestured vaguely toward the room where two-meter-tall brutes were throwing tankards at each other.

  “Guys like you don’t take missions. It’s the rules. Don’t feel like filling out paperwork for a corpse."

  Adrian didn't blink. He had anticipated this blockage. It was logical. Why send a civilian to get killed? It looked bad for the Guild.

  “I understand,” Adrian replied. “Which missions don’t require dying?”

  The receptionist stopped again. The question, formulated with such cold pragmatism, surprised her. She stared at him, searching for a trace of irony. She found none. She dug through a pile of crumpled parchments relegated to the corner of her desk. The “undesirables” pile.

  “No combat...” she mumbled. “Cleaning the inn’s latrines? Three coppers.”

  “No.”

  “Storehouse helper at the mill? Five coppers a day.”

  “No. I want something outdoors. Harvesting. Gathering.”

  A greasy laugh erupted behind him. A heavy hand slammed onto his shoulder, making him stagger. The interface lit up red.

  [PROXIMITY ALERT] — [MALE GRADE 1.9] — [PHYSICAL STRENGTH: SUPERIOR]

  Adrian didn't pull away. He turned his head. A man with a scarred face, smelling of cheap wine, towered over him.

  “Did you hear that? The bum wants to go pick flowers!” The man leaned toward Adrian, his fetid breath whipping across his face.

  “You think the forest is a garden, runt? The rabbits will eat your toes before you find the first daisy. Go back to scrubbing shitters; that’s more your speed. Even a level 19 like me isn't safe in the forest!”

  Adrian understood. Grade 1.9 = Level 19? A Grade represented 10 levels of their System in this world? A theory to confirm.

  Adrian felt the pressure of fingers on his shoulder. The man was looking for a reaction. Fear. Anger. Submission. Adrian's heart rate didn't change.

  [BPM: 62 — STABLE]

  He analyzed the man's posture. Drunk. Weight on left leg. Guard non-existent. Adrian visualized the exact spot, right under the ear. A sharp, well-placed shock, and the guy would drop. It was tempting. Easy, even. But it would be a strategic error. Victory cost: Anonymity. The price was too high.

  Adrian lowered his eyes. He let his shoulders slump further. He didn't answer. He took a step sideways, gently disengaging from the grip like a fearful animal refusing confrontation.

  The man snickered, satisfied with his dominance, and returned to his friends, nudging them. “See? A dishrag.”

  Adrian turned his attention back to the receptionist. She was watching him. There was a new glint in her eyes. Not respect, no. But appreciation for the calm. She hated brawls in her hall.

  “Harvesting...” she said, pulling a yellowed parchment from the bottom of the pile. She slapped it onto the counter.

  “No one wants this one. It’s been lying around for two weeks.”

  Adrian read the title. IRIS recorded.

  [MISSION: HARVEST] [TARGET: SYLVA ROOTS (SUPERIOR QUALITY)] [QUANTITY: 3 BUNDLES] [REWARD: 40 COPPERS] [ZONE: NORTHERN EDGE - GREY SECTOR]

  “Why does no one want it?” Adrian asked.

  “Because Sylva Roots grow underground,” she explained impatiently. “They have no visible leaves. You have to dig at random or have a hunting dog’s nose. Adventurers hate it. They spend three days turning over dirt for nothing.” She tapped the parchment. “And the Grey Sector... isn't the most welcoming spot. No big monsters, but the terrain is treacherous. And there are Wolf-Dogs.”

  Adrian calculated. Plants invisible to the naked eye? He understood why no one wanted it. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, blindfolded. Except he had a magnet. With the IRIS scanner, what was impossible for others became a simple formality for him. The Wolf-Dogs? He would avoid combat.

  “I'll take it.”

  The receptionist raised an eyebrow.

  “There’s a condition. The apothecary who placed the order needs this fast. You have three days. If you aren't back before sunset on the third day, the contract is void.”

  Three days. That was plenty. But there was a detail. The apothecary. Klara had told him it was adventurer hunting ground. She had omitted to mention that it was her order no one wanted to fill. The old vixen had sent him here to do the dirty work she couldn’t pay enough to interest real professionals. A cold smirk. Fair play.

  “Three days,” Adrian repeated. “Where do I sign?”

  She handed him a quill and a grimy ledger. Adrian signed with a rough cross. No point showing he knew how to write. She stamped the parchment and handed it to him.

  Adrian folded the parchment and tucked it into his belt. He stepped out of the Guild, returning to the fresh, grey air of the street.

  Once outside, he straightened his shoulders. The idiot mask fell away. His face became smooth, cold, calculating again.

  He had the mission. He had the ingredient location for his potion. And he had forty promised coppers, enough to rent the laboratory and buy the alcohol.

  He looked north, toward the dark line of trees marking the beginning of the Grey Sector. Adventurers saw a dangerous, thankless zone. Adrian saw a self-service supermarket.

  “IRIS, prepare mapping protocol,” he ordered silently.

  [SCAN PROTOCOL: READY] [ACTION RADIUS: 50 METERS]

  He began to walk. He didn't need a sword. He had eyes no one else possessed. The ingredient hunt had begun.

  Quick poll: How long do you give him before he snaps and corrects someone on their math? ??

  Next: The Grey Sector. Time to get muddy.