The dust from the disintegrated token settled on the floorboards.
For a full ten seconds after I left, the Adventurer's Guild was a tomb. The only sound was the pained, pathetic whimpering of Korgan, who was now on his knees, clutching the mangled gauntlet that contained what was left of his hand.
Then, chaos erupted.
It wasn't laughter. It was a cacophony of panicked, incredulous shouts.
"Did you see that? He turned it to dust!"
"His hand… Korgan's hand is ruined! Just by grabbing it!"
"What in the blazes is he? A demon? A god in disguise?"
Elara, the receptionist, was pale as a ghost, her freckles standing out like flecks of blood on snow. Her hands trembled so violently she had to grip the edge of her counter to stay upright. She stared at the spot where the S-Rank quest had been, then at the empty space where the F-Rank token had vanished.
Her mind was screaming one word: Impossible.
The crystal never failed. It was a divine relic, a perfect arbiter of power. For it to show nothing… it wasn't a failure of the crystal. It was a failure of reality itself. The man known as Shera was an existence that defied the fundamental laws of their world. He wasn't just unranked; he was unrankable.
A heavy door at the back of the hall slammed open. An old man with a long, white beard and the weary eyes of a lifelong warrior strode out. This was Guild Master Varrick. He took in the scene—Korgan weeping on the floor, the terrified faces of his adventurers, the look of pure shock on Elara's face—and his expression hardened.
"Elara. Report," he commanded, his voice a low gravelly rumble that silenced the room.
"He… he took it, Master Varrick," she stammered. "The S-Rank quest. The Grave-Wyrm."
Varrick's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "Alone?"
"He crushed his F-Rank token with his fingers," she added, her voice a squeak. "And he… he broke Korgan's hand without even trying."
The Guild Master walked over to Korgan, knelt down, and pried the ruined gauntlet off. The adventurers who saw it gasped and turned away, sickened. Varrick's face was grim.
"He didn't break it," the old man murmured, his voice filled with a chilling gravity. "He pulverized it. Every bone, every joint… it's like they were ground into powder."
He stood up, his gaze sweeping over every adventurer in the room.
"Listen to me, and listen well," he commanded. "Find him. Track him. But under no circumstances are you to engage him. Do you understand me? You do not fight him. You do not provoke him. You observe from a distance and report back. This is no longer an adventurer; this is a national-level event."
While the Guild was descending into organized panic, Devika was running.
She pushed past the stunned adventurers, her heart hammering against her ribs. She burst out of the Guild Hall and onto the crowded street. Her eyes scanned frantically, searching for the impossible figure in the loincloth.
She saw him.
He was standing calmly on a street corner, away from the flow of the crowd, examining the crimson-lettered parchment as if it were a simple grocery list. The world bustled around him, but he existed in his own pocket of serene, terrifying silence.
She ran to his side, breathless.
"Shera!" she panted, clutching the heavy cloak he'd given her.
He looked up from the quest, his dark eyes calm. "Yes?"
"You can't be serious!" she exclaimed, her voice a mix of terror and awe. "The Grave-Wyrm… it's a legendary beast! They say its breath melts stone and its gaze can turn a man's blood to poison! A team of A-Ranks was wiped out just trying to get close to its lair last year!"
He blinked, processing the information. "So its breath is hot, and it has a poison-based visual attack. Good to know."
Devika stared at him, dumbfounded. He hadn't heard the warning; he'd heard a tactical summary. He wasn't afraid; he was preparing.
"You're really going to fight it?" she asked, her voice small.
"It's a monster. It needs to be killed," he replied, his logic as simple and unshakable as a mountain. "And the reward is fifty thousand gold. You said I needed coin for clothes." He looked down at his loincloth. "This is starting to chafe."
Devika felt a hysterical laugh bubble up in her chest. Here was a man who was about to challenge a myth, a walking apocalypse, and his primary motivation was a more comfortable pair of pants. The sheer, overwhelming absurdity of it all was… breathtaking.
She took a deep, steadying breath, her resolve hardening. She couldn't stop him. Trying to would be like trying to stop the tide. But she could help.
Her role in this story was becoming clear.
"The Black Quarry is a day's walk east of here," she said, her voice now firm and clear. "It's a treacherous area, filled with ravines and unstable ground. The local maps are unreliable. But I've been there before, gathering rare minerals for potions."
Shera looked at her, a flicker of something new in his eyes. It wasn't quite surprise. It was… appreciation.
"Then," she continued, a determined light in her emerald eyes, "what do you need from me?"
He folded the quest paper and tucked it into the waistband of his loincloth.
"Information," he said. "Tell me everything you know about this Wyrm." He paused, his stomach rumbling again. "And after that, maybe where I can find something to eat."
A small, genuine smile finally bloomed on Devika's face. The calamity was manageable. The god was hungry. Her purpose was set.
"Follow me," she said, her voice filled with a newfound confidence. "I know just the place."
Her god needed a guide. And she would be the best one this world had ever seen.