Morning barely settled over the Heartwood Adventurer Guild. Sunlight slanted through eastern windows, cutting shafts of gold across dust motes and weapon racks. Tables lay askew. Chairs leaned at improbable angles. Some adventurers slumped, caught between sleep and hangover.

  A veteran rubbed his temples, muttering about throbbing heads and bitter morning brew. Another whispered, “Twisting roots….”

  A few others, laced into boots and sheathed blades, leaned against walls, arms crossed, eyes half-closed, radiating quiet authority. Movements were minimal, but each carried weight. The hall lived in a half-rehearsed chaos, conducted only by those accustomed to it.

  Heads turned. Conversations stalled. Even veterans shifted. Mana lines stirred—then settled. Chaos seemed to hold its breath. The Guildmaster had arrived.

  Boots struck stone like deliberate drums. Coat swished, vest catching the morning light. EarthRend hummed faintly across his broad back.

  Mid-stretch apprentices froze. Half-asleep veterans straightened. Tables, walls, and racks seemed to lean in. A faint shimmer traced the mana lattice from Jacob’s Aura—subtle, unmistakable.

  Guildmaster Jacob’s grin spread—infectious, dangerous. His gaze swept the hall, cataloguing bleary eyes, half-laced boots, and the thin line between readiness and recovery.

  He clapped once. The sound cracked through stone and timber, snapping focus into place. The room bent to him—not because it was ready, but because it recognized the rhythm of command when it heard it.

  Fingers found hilts. Heels shifted. Breaths steadied. The Guild stood on the edge of motion.

  Then the Tri-Faction advisory blinked on the communication panel:

  TRI-FACTION ADVISORY — HAZARD UPDATE:

  Sprigroot Fringe. Elevated monster density. Grandmaster-level threat. Minimum Class B adventurers required for primary engagement. Class C adventurers may join under Guildmaster guidance; Culling operations only. Contract fee reduced by 20%.

  The hall went quiet. Eyes flicked from panel to Jacob.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Jacob laughed, long and sharp.

  “Ashes be damned, we’re still walking in with teeth bared!”

  Apprentices flinched. Veterans leaned back, smirks tugging at their mouths. He clapped once more, sharp and ringing.

  “Reduced payment? What’s that? As if the Tri-Faction’s broke now! Who cares about silver when we can loot cores, eh? Adventurer Class B—a proper challenge before breakfast? Suits me splendidly.”

  A handful of Class A, B adventurers—veterans, masters, teeth sharpened on dungeons and monster spawns—stood ready. Class C clustered behind, younger, eager, wide-eyed. Survival first. Learning second. Chaos tamed only by oversight.

  A Level 38 Sword Adept stepped forward, sword sheathed, eyes bright with determination.

  “Guildmaster… can I join? I just need three more levels. I could hit Level 41, Breakthrough into Class C.”

  Jacob tilted his head, grin patient but firm.

  “Three levels? Easy enough in the Fringe, yeah. But your Core is still Adept. Mana capacity isn’t enough yet to sustain your skills against higher-ranked species. Damage output? Minimal.”

  “I could… maybe earn my Expert rank if I reach 41?”

  “You’d gain experience tagging along, sure. But not worth the risk. Your Core can’t handle prolonged fighting yet. The reward wouldn’t match the danger.”

  The Adept’s shoulders slumped.

  “So… I just watch?”

  Jacob clapped him on the shoulder, a spark of encouragement in the gesture.

  “For now. Watch, learn, prepare. Those three levels will come easily in a Class C zone—not in the Fringe; your Core can’t handle that yet. Patience, my boy. Timing matters as much as swing speed. Your Breakthrough will come—and when it does, you’ll carry the Expert Class C far beyond today.”

  Jacob raised his voice, projecting authority:

  “Everyone listen! Class A and B—drop ongoing contracts immediately. Tri-Faction wants Sprigroot Fringe culled, and that takes priority. No distractions, no side jobs.

  “Class C—you’re not front line. Stay back: observe, support, learn. Take this as your chance to level, gain experience, and maybe Breakthrough.”

  A few apprentices whispered, wide-eyed, while veterans shifted, arms crossed, silently acknowledging the order. Jacob’s grin twinkled with mischief.

  Jacob swept the hall one last time.

  “Ah! Breakfast, chaos, sleep, and hangovers—all accounted for? Good. Today’s wakefulness is profitable and risky.”

  Heads lifted. Chatter stuttered. Weapons jingled, boots scraped. A few apprentices muttered under their breath, “Spirals take me…” as they adjusted straps and potions.

  He counted numbers, checked gear, noted readiness. A veteran with a scar down one cheek yawned and leaned back against a table, arms folded, exuding quiet confidence—Bram. Enchanted armor glinted; his battle axe hummed faintly, a weapon tempered by decades and Grandmaster skill. Fingers tapped hilts; heels shifted; breaths steadied.

  Jacob cleared his throat. “Silvers to earn. Levels to snag. And who’s taking you there? Yours truly. Opportunities like this don’t knock twice, lads.”

  Cheers faded into the shuffle of boots and clink of gear. Outside, dew caught the morning light, and the forest edge of Sprigroot Fringe loomed—dense, hungry, unpredictable. Every root, every pulse of mana, every shifting shadow promised a test. Jacob’s grin lingered, sharp and knowing.