"Yo, I want to become an S-Rank adventurer."

BOOM.

A young man dropped a carcass at the entrance of the building.

Everyone inside stopped. Conversations died mid-word. Heads turned toward the newcomer with the particular stillness of people who had just watched something impossible and were waiting for their brains to catch up.

"Or whatever equates to a high-ranking adventurer here."

Anton’s smile was relaxed. Easy. The smile of someone who had done exactly what he intended and was not surprised by the reaction.

"Hey." A bulky man walked toward him, boots heavy on the wooden floor. "This is the Adventurer’s Guild building, not an abattoir. Pick up the carcass and get out."

"Really?" Anton tilted his head, the smile not shifting. "Extras are speaking with this much confidence?"

A beat.

"Hmm."

"You refuse a toast, only to be forced to drink a forfeit."

"Ah." Anton’s expression flickered—mock realization. "Where’s the toast?"

He appeared before the man. One hand closed around the back of his head. The floor rushed up.

CRACK.

The man’s face met wood. Anton straightened, brushing his palms together with the casual efficiency of someone who had just completed a minor chore.

"Did you mean your blood?" He looked down at the man, still smiling. "Sorry, I’m not a vampire. And your blood would make me dumber."

His gaze swept the room. Adventurers stared back—some frozen, some calculating, some having hushed conversations that stopped the moment his attention passed over them.

"Are you going to stay there?" Anton’s voice was light, almost conversational. "Or do I have to beat a couple more weaklings?"

He released his aura.

The pressure was immediate—dense, suffocating, the weight of something that had no business existing at this rank. Most of the adventurers dropped to their knees. Those who stayed standing did so with the particular tension of men holding a door against a hurricane.

"Gentleman." A voice cut through the silence—calm, unhurried, carrying the particular authority of someone who had never needed to raise it. "That’s not how we become adventurers here."

A beautiful black-haired woman descended the stairs, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. A younger woman walked beside her, her posture deferential, her eyes fixed on the older woman’s back.

At the bottom of the stairs, the woman waved her hand. The pressure vanished. Kneeling adventurers exhaled, some audibly, some with the particular shakiness of men who had not realized they were holding their breath. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

"My apologies." Anton’s smile returned, sheepish now, almost boyish. "Someone rubbed off on me. The way to get attention is to be the mad one."

He walked toward them. Stopped before the younger woman. Extended his hand, took hers, and kissed the back of it.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Catherine. My name is Anton Vega."

The woman he kissed—the younger one, the deferential one—covered her mouth with her free hand. A soft sound escaped her.

"Fufufu." She turned to the older woman. "I told you it wouldn’t work."

Her smile widened.

"It seems I owe you a hundred million gold coins."

The older woman—the one who had spoken, the one who had descended with the authority of someone who belonged at the top of these stairs—folded her arms. Her expression did not change, but something in it warmed, almost imperceptibly.

"Fufufu." The younger woman—Catherine, the one Anton had kissed—finally released his hand. "Come upstairs. You just netted me a hundred million." A glance at the carcass, still lying at the entrance. "Not to mention the SSS-Ranked monster you brought."

She turned and walked back toward the office, her steps unhurried, her posture carrying the particular ease of someone who had won an argument and was not required to pretend otherwise.

"Oh, Annabelle." She did not look back. "Wipe their memories of my face."

"Yes, ma."

Annabelle bowed. Then she turned to the room, her smile still in place—pleasant, patient, utterly unreadable.

The adventurers gasped. The words "SSS-Ranked" rippled through the room like a stone dropped in still water. They did not seem surprised by the memory wipe. It was surprising, yes, but logical—the face of the guild master, or guild mistress, was unknown. Now they knew why. Though they might have known why for a while, and simply had that memory wiped by the smiling woman.

The discussion continued regardless.

"An SSS-Ranked corpse. It’s not releasing any aura. Isn’t it said that after death, their corpses still release aura on the level that could kill weaker adventurers?"

"Indeed. But big foot over here is still standing."

"Hey—"

"Idiot." The first speaker’s voice dropped, conspiratorial. "Do you think the guild master would lie? Someone who can kill an SSS-Ranked monster? They’d have means to ensure we weaklings don’t die as a result of their showing off."

"Ah. You’re right?"

"But you went ahead and mentioned showing off." Another voice joined in, dry and amused. "Tsk, tsk. You must have balls of steel."

"Ah. Hehe."

Annabelle watched them. Her smile remained. Patient. Pleasant. Unreadable.

She waved her hand. A pulse of mana radiated outward—gentle, diffuse, carrying the particular quality of a wave erasing footsteps from sand.

Then she turned and walked back to the stairs.

---

In the office—the guild mistress’s office, by the weight of its furniture and the placement of its windows and the particular quality of light that suggested someone had spent time arranging it—Anton sat across from Catherine.

"You chose to cause trouble just to avoid the trouble of climbing the ranks slowly?"

Catherine smiled as she looked at him. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes were not.

"Well." Anton spread his hands. "I had to do it. I’m too impatient for the nitty-gritty of adventuring. And I knew you would accommodate me, Catherine."

"You’ve been using my name as though we’re friends."

"We’re not?"

She did not answer. Her smile remained.

"How do you even know my name?"

"I’m an adventurer." Anton’s tone was light, almost teasing. "It’s my job to know the names of high-ranking persons in my field."

"Where did you come from?" Catherine leaned back, her eyes narrowing—not with suspicion, but with the particular focus of someone assessing an asset. "You’re a saint. What’s a saint doing in my guild?"

"It’s for the Tower’s trial."

"Ah." A pause. "You’re from outside?"

"Are you a geographist?"

"I might not be a studious person, but that’s not a word."

"Ah." Anton’s smile widened, just slightly. "I miss those fools already." He waved a hand. "It’s a pun for racist. Only this time, you’re attacking my place of origin."

Catherine’s expression did not shift. "I understood." Her voice was dry. "But I don’t care for your place of origin. I just didn’t think you could reach peak first-tier saint in a world outside the Tower and still want to take the Tower’s trial."

"The Tower is all-absorbing." Anton’s voice dropped, quieter now. "It doesn’t care for talent that much. There are ways to increase talent. And a first-tier saint is not that impressive to the Tower."

"Surely you jest." Catherine leaned forward, her elbows finding the desk. "You’d be an important asset to my guild. My guild is in the Tower, so you’re important to the Tower."

"That means you’ve accepted my proposal."

"Proposal?" Catherine’s eyebrow rose. "You simply told me to let you skip ranks. What’s in it for me?"

"Two kills." Anton held up two fingers. "I’ll kill two people for you."

"Oh." A pause. "Now?"

"One now. The other—" His fingers lowered. "—I’ll kill later. I’ll use him as a whetstone for someone."

"Fufu." Catherine stood, stretching her arms above her head with the particular ease of someone who had just concluded a negotiation in her favor. "You know a lot."

She extended her hand across the desk.

"Deal. I’ll enjoy working with you." Her smile widened. "Welcome to the guild, SS-Ranked adventurer Anton Vega."

"Me too, Guild Mistress."

Anton did not comment on the rank. SS, not SSS. Of course. He could not simply walk in and claim the highest rank, regardless of his power level. The world had its logics, and those logics did not bend for convenience.

He observed the trial completion notification that appeared before him—glowing text, ephemeral, there and gone. He would not receive any rewards until they cleared this world. He knew this. He simply waited for his next trial.

And there it was.

Clear seven SSS-Ranked dungeons in two years.

Doable.

At that moment, Annabelle entered the office. She bowed to Catherine—precise, deferential, the bow of someone who had done this thousands of times and would do it thousands more.

"Annabelle will hand you your adventurer’s ID."

"Oh." Anton’s hand paused mid-reach. "Before I forget." He looked at Annabelle, his smile shifting—sharper now, testing. "Next time you’re impersonating the guild mistress, you should watch your behavior. You might piss off someone you shouldn’t."

Annabelle’s expression did not change. Neither did Catherine’s.

"I know someone." Anton’s voice was light, almost conversational. "He wouldn’t play along with your theatrics. Waving your hand as though you dispersed my aura." A pause. "He might just up and kill everyone to see what your hand-waving actually amounts to."

He smiled.

"Ciao."

A wooden stick figure appeared in his place. He was gone.

The stick figure looked very much like Annabelle.

"That bastard."

"Language, Annabelle."

Catherine was still smiling.

---

"You want to learn from me?"

The round-bellied man’s voice carried the particular weight of someone who was asked this question often and had long since developed a standard response.

The young man before him was bowing. Deep. Formal. The bow of someone who had researched exactly how deep to bow and was now executing the research.

Maxwell Lord. Renowned merchant. One of the top ten in the kingdom. The name was not a title, though he had chosen it specifically because it sounded like one. As a child, he had wanted to be addressed as "Lord" so badly he had changed his last name. Now he had the title, the renown, and the particular confidence of someone who had engineered his own success and knew exactly how much of it was earned.

The young man raised his head. His features were striking—long, flowing white hair, heterochromatic eyes of amber and blue, a face so symmetrical it seemed almost designed.

He was Michael.

"Yes, sir." His voice was measured, respectful. "I have no talent for combat or adventuring. But I have been told I have business acumen. So I have come to learn from one of your caliber."

He bowed his head again.

Maxwell’s eyes swept over him—assessing, cataloging, weighing. "My guard here tells me you’re B-Rank. Not a bad rank." A pause. "But it seems to be your peak."

He leaned back in his chair, which groaned under the shift.

"It’s a valid rank to be a mid-tier merchant. Like me—I’m S-Ranked. But with money, I can hire stronger guards." He spread his hands, as if presenting the logic of the universe. "I always say: money is the most important talent."

He laughed. The sound was round, like the rest of him.

"I would not have accepted you, but you were recommended by someone I owe a favor." His smile sharpened, just slightly. "So yes. Prove your ’acumen,’ and I’ll personally teach you more."

He reached into his desk, withdrew a document, and slid it across the polished wood.

"But first, you have to sign this contract." His pen hovered. "What did you say your name was again?"

"My name is Aaron."

Michael raised his head. His smile was pleasant. Polite. Utterly unreadable.

"Aaron." Maxwell nodded, as if testing the weight of the name. "A good name." He handed the contract to a guard—broad-shouldered, silent, the kind of man who had learned that silence was its own form of authority. "Thadeeus, take him to meet Leon. When he makes progress, bring him to me."

He waved a hand. The dismissal was final.

Michael rose. Followed the guard. Did not look back.

---

Michael had used his trait—Sovereign Rewrite—to change his stats, his identity, his entire presence. He had taken refuge in a noble’s house, studied the noble’s face, his mannerisms, his relationships. Within days, he had become the person the noble valued most.

It was tedious. He knew this.

But he had adapted a philosophy: drama. The performance mattered. The path mattered. The story mattered.

He had met with the noble. He had extracted the full scope of the kingdom’s merchant politics. He had identified his target: Maxwell Lord.

Conveniently, the noble had ties to him. So Michael had infiltrated the merchant’s company.

Now, he would learn—which he did, quickly, the way he did everything quickly. Then he would use Maxwell as a hook to develop his own reputation as a merchant.

It was mildly more difficult than simply going to the library, learning, and brute-forcing his way to the top. Or less dramatic than simply causing chaos with his abilities, making his opponents fight among themselves while he switched faces.

He might still do that. Eventually.

But not on this trial. This trial only required him to be a high-ranking merchant.

Let’s keep the fun for the remaining trials.

He smiled. Followed the guard. Did not look back.

---

"Captain, we’ve gathered the loot."

The woman in adventurer gear addressed another woman. The other woman wore the same gear, but something in her posture—the set of her shoulders, the angle of her chin—marked her as the one in charge.

The captain.

"Good job, everyone." Yeon’s voice carried across the clearing, unhurried, unimpressed. "Let’s go back to the city and enjoy ourselves. We have a week to rest. Then we’ll be dungeon diving again." A pause. "Remember, we have a quota."

She turned to the woman beside her.

"Rose. Tell me. How many dungeons have we cleared, and how many remain?"

"Out of the fifty dungeons we have to clear, we’ve cleared twenty-three." Rose’s voice was efficient, professional. "Excluding F- and E-Rank dungeons that we’ve cleared to farm resources and for training."

"Phew." Yeon’s sigh was long, theatrical. "You guys are still too weak. Too sheltered." Her eyes swept the group—assessing, unimpressed. "My little brothers did this and more in a year. But you all want rest."

"Captain." Rose’s voice carried the particular strain of someone who had heard this comparison before and was running out of patience for it.

Yeon pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Tsk."

She walked away, rolling the sword in her hands, testing its weight. She sheathed it in a single, fluid motion.

She had begun training with a sword recently. She had been clearing a B-Rank dungeon—nothing challenging, nothing that required her full attention—so she had used the time to pick up a new hobby.

A Zoro-chan-induced hobby.

Her trial was to carry her group. A "mini" group within a "medium" group within a larger group.

The "mini" group was the squad she had been tasked to lead. The "medium" group was White Fang—however many members of the guild had climbed the Tower. The larger group was Aethelgard.

This was how guilds from Earth worked. All small guilds merged with the SSS-Ranked guild of their continent, operating as a medium group within the greater organization. Each mini group—the squad she led—contained members from across the continent.

Her group cleared floors together, operating under the same mechanics as Zeke and the boys. Until the floor was cleared, they would not receive their rewards. Only this time, there was no chance of choosing a unified reward. Well, there were exceptions. But the nominal situation was individual choice.

They did not have individual trials. They had a group trial.

Yeon’s group trial: clear fifty dungeons. From D-Rank to SSS-Rank.

Her group was obviously not strong enough to clear SSS-Ranked dungeons. It was optimal to stat-pad with lower-ranked guilds. But on special occasions—to facilitate growth—Yeon had her group challenge higher-ranked dungeons.

A-Rank was the limit. Any higher, and the weaklings could not keep up.

"I’m going to laze around and watch anime for the next few days." Yeon’s voice was flat, carrying the particular weight of someone who had made a decision and was not required to justify it. "These people are so frustrating."

She was talking to herself, not to her vice-captain.

Rose, walking beside her, did not respond. She had learned, over time, when a question was not a question.

—