The Democratic Republic of Astartes sprawled south of Eldoria; the secretive Elven nation shrouded in dense, untamed forests familiar only to the Elves.
Astartes was a different beast; vast valleys and endless farmlands stretching under an open sky, a land of plenty carved from soil and sweat.
Loran stood as its southern outpost, a trade city buzzing with life, tasked with guarding the kingdom's richest agricultural heartland.
Unlike Eldoria's mystique, Astartes thrived on order and grit, ruled by the Adventurer Guild and its enigmatic Guild Master.
Every city had its own Guild Representative, here, that was someone a rung above Vanessa, the knight chief; overseeing the chaos of commerce and defense.
Lysa, the knight assigned to shadow Satoru and Marcille, walked a step behind them, her dark-blue hair catching the midday sun as it spilled from beneath her helm, now tucked under her arm.
Her voice carried a clipped, practiced tone as she laid out the basics, her longsword clinking faintly at her waist. "Astartes isn't like Eldoria," she continued, glancing at the pair ahead.
"The elves keep to their woods; secretive, half their lands is still unmapped to outsiders. We're the breadbasket, if that's a term. Farms as far as you can see, valleys that feed half the continent.
Loran is the hub for it all, trade and protection rolled into one. The Guild runs everything, top-down. Guild Master calls the shots, and each city has got a Representative to keep things operating.
Vanessa answers to ours here."
She paused, expecting some nod of interest, but Satoru and Marcille were already distracted, veering toward a food stall like moths to a flame.
The market street buzzed around them; vendors hawking wares, carts rattling over cobblestones, the air brimming with spices and smoke.
The stall was a riot of color: baskets of fresh bread, jars of honey, skewers sizzling over an open flame. Satoru's eyes lit up, zeroing in on a tray of sticky, glistening sweets.
Local-made, dusted with sugar and dripping with syrup. "Oh, hell yes," he muttered, reaching out, while Marcille hovered beside him, eyeing a stack of meat skewers, their juices spitting onto the coals.
Lysa's explanation trailed off, her gaze flattening as she watched them browse like kids in a candy shop. Satoru grabbed a handful of sweets, stacking them in his arms, then froze, a rare flicker of realization crossing his face.
He patted his pockets; empty. Not a single coin from this world, just lint and a whole lot of nothing. "Well, shit," he said, grinning sheepishly at Marcille.
"Guess I'm broke." Before he could sulk, Marcille stepped up, digging into her bag with a triumphant smile. "I've got it!" she chirped, pulling out a small pouch of clinking coins.
Village savings, maybe, or spoils from her house. She handed them over to the vendor, buying Satoru's pile of sweets and snagging two skewers for herself, their smoky scent wafting up as she balanced them with her staff.
Lysa stared, dumbfounded, her left eye twitching faintly. They'd tuned her out completely, more engrossed in haggling over food than the geopolitics she'd just laid out.
She cleared her throat, keeping her tone even; professional, not rude. "Did… either of you hear a word I said?" she asked, arms crossing over her steel-plated chest.
Satoru turned, mid-bite into a syrup-soaked bun, sugar dusting his lips. "Oh, yeah," he said, voice monotone, flat as a board.
"Astartes, south of Eldoria. Farmlands, valleys, not all spooky elf forest. Loran's your trade pit, Guild runs the show. And there's a Rep above Vanessa. That about it?" He rattled it off like a bored clerk reading a list, then popped the rest of the bun in his mouth, chewing with a smug grin.
Lysa blinked, her jaw tightening. Marcille giggled, skewer in hand, and hopped after Satoru as he sauntered off toward a juggler tossing flaming torches a few stalls down.
"Wait up!" Marcille called, her voice bright, oblivious to Lysa's growing exasperation. The knight exhaled hard through her nose, dark-blue strands swaying as she shook her head.
'Defeated by a sugar-fiend and a kid,' she thought, resigning herself to the babysitting gig. Vanessa's orders were clear; watch them until the village story checked out.
But Lysa couldn't shake the nagging disbelief. That tale of cultist village, child sacrifices, a god crushed single-handedly?
And this guy; goofing off with no trace of Mana, did it all? It sounded like a bard's fever dream.
She'd tested him earlier, subtle but deliberate. Walking behind them, her hand had brushed her sword's hilt, a flicker of killing intent slipping out; just a heartbeat, a probe.
What she'd seen in that split second chilled her to the bone: a flash of her own head rolling, her body torn to ribbons, the world draining to gray. No sound, no warning; just death, instant and absolute.
Her breath had hitched, fingers jerking off the hilt like it burned. She couldn't read his power, couldn't feel a speck of Mana, but her instincts screamed danger.
This man wasn't a normal human. Whatever he was, he'd caught her intent and flipped it back without blinking, like swatting a fly.
She'd masked the flinch, kept walking, but the memory gnawed at her now, her guarded eyes tracking him through the crowd.
Lost in that thought; half awe, half dread; she didn't notice Satoru stop until his voice cut through, dripping with sarcasm.
"Hey, Lysa! Some bodyguard you are; gonna let us wander off and get snatched?" He stood by a stall selling carved trinkets, one hand waving a sticky bun, the other ruffling Marcille's hair as she marveled at a wooden bird.
Lysa's pride stung, a flush creeping up her neck, but she swallowed it down, striding over with a tight-lipped glare. "I'm here," she said, voice clipped, her hand resting near her sword; not a threat, just habit.
Satoru grinned wider, popping the bun in his mouth, while Marcille beamed up at her, oblivious to the tension. "Look, it's so pretty!" she said, holding up the bird. Lysa forced a nod, her gaze flicking back to Satoru.
He met her eyes, chewing lazily, that grin never fading. She couldn't read him; couldn't tell if he knew she'd tested him, or if he just didn't care.
Either way, he was a puzzle she wasn't ready to solve. The village story? If it was true; and gods, she hoped it wasn't.
For now, she'd watch, wait, and keep her sword close. Satoru turned, already distracted by a street performer juggling knives.
Marcille skipping after him with her skewers. Lysa sighed, falling into step behind them, her dark-blue hair swaying as she steeled herself for whatever came next.
Dangerous or not, they were her charge; and she'd be damned if she let them slip away.
Evening settled over Loran like a heavy shroud, the sky bruising purple as the last light bled from the horizon. Inside the Guild Hall, a towering stone structure at the city's heart, the air was thick with dread.
The soldiers and adventurers had sent their reports, their faces ashen, their reports relayed through a humming magical communicator; a crystal orb pulsing faintly on the table.
Counting the dead bandits, bounty hunters and the villagers aside. The real horror lay beneath the village. A catacomb; pit of children's skeletons, bones stacked like firewood.
They'd counted-1013 intact skulls, with fragments hinting at even more, lives snuffed out and discarded over decades.
A truth so vile it turned stomachs and shattered hopes that Satoru and Marcille's tale had been some twisted lie to slip into the city. Wishful thinking, dead and buried.
Vanessa, the Chief of Knights, stood rigid near the table, her dark-red hair pulled tight, her tanned, battle-scarred skin taut with suppressed fury.
Across from her, Loran's Guild Representative, sat by a wide window overlooking the city's flickering lights.
Young; mid-twenties, maybe. With shoulder-length scarlet hair framing a face of striking beauty, her golden eyes sharp and unyielding.
Her fair skin gleamed under the lantern glow, offset by her official attire. Golden-gray and brown robes, layered with dark-platinum plating across her shoulders, chest, and abdomen, paired with dark-gray pants tucked into knee-high boots of the same metal.
She perched in her chair, hands folded, gazing out at Loran's bustle as if it could anchor her against the storm brewing within herself.
Both women wore grim masks, their expressions carved from stone, but the air between them crackled with the weight of what they'd just heard.
The communicator sat silent now, its grim tale delivered, but the room buzzed with the aftermath. The guards who'd lingered earlier had fled after the first details.
Stomachs turning at the bone count, the sheer scale of the atrocity. One had heaved into a bucket outside; another had cursed under his breath, fists clenched until his gauntlets creaked.
Vanessa had stayed, her warrior's resolve holding, but even she felt the bile rise at "1013 skulls." Not at the number itself, but who those skulls belonged to.
The guild rep, younger, newer to this game, kept her mask tighter, but her hands betrayed her; nails digging into her palms, leaving crescent marks she didn't notice.
The village had been a cancer, festering unnoticed, and they'd all slept through it; knights, Guild, travelers, all blind.
Vanessa broke the silence first, her voice low, edged with gravel. " Ms. Millicent. The girl's story checks out; every damn word. We've got records of her mother, an elf, and her father, human, from years back. Filed away, forgotten. But this…"
She gestured to the communicator, its glow dimming after the report had ended. "This scale, this atrocity, happening right under our noses?
It's a knife to the gut. Against everything we've stood for." Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the table's edge, the steel of her armor glinting faintly.
She'd seen war, spilled blood, but this; a village feeding its children to a god for decades; hit differently, truly, it was a betrayal of everything they stood for.
Millicent didn't flinch, her stoic facade holding firm, though her golden eyes darkened with a quiet storm. She turned from the window, voice formal, measured, betraying the anger coiling inside.
"The merchants, the adventurers; those who passed through or stayed in that place. Did none of them ever notice anything?
The white-haired man, Satoru, was it? He said it himself; the lack of children piqued his curiosity. How did we miss it?"
Vanessa shook her head, jaw tight. "No reports, no whispers. Nothing solid. Maybe they saw and didn't care; or didn't live to tell.
Millicent's lips thinned, but she didn't point fingers. Playing the blame game wasn't her style. "It could've been decades; generations, even.
I've been in charge here for a few years now, but this stain's on me too. I failed them; those kids, that girl." Marcille's face flashed in her head.
She leaned back, fingers drumming once on the armrest; a rare crack in her composure, before steepling them again.
"No time for self-pity," she said, voice hardening. "We act. Vanessa, draft a report for Litsen, the Eldorian capital.
This happened near their border; they need to know. The girl's mother was one of theirs, and Marcille's half-elf blood ties her to them, whether they like it or not."
Vanessa nodded, but her eyes narrowed. "You think they'll care? A half-blood's nothing to them; less than nothing.
I suspect that they have a hand behind those hunters, take her then silence her. Clean up a 'blemish' they despise."
Millicent's gaze flicked to her, sharp and cold. "I don't like it either, but it's possible. They won't take her back, that's a given. If they're involved, they'll deny it to the end. Beyond my reach, for now."
She shifted, her plating clinking softly. "Second report goes East; to Astartes City, the Guild Headquarters. I'll handle that myself.
The Guild Master needs this on his desk, fast. He'll decide who in Astartes needs to know this. And finally…" She paused, exhaling a sigh that carried the weight of a thousand forms.
"We owe thanks to those two; or the man, at least. He ended it, whoever he is. Paperwork's going to be a nightmare, but it's the least of our worries."
Vanessa grunted, a faint smirk tugging her lips despite the grimness. "You're telling me. I'd rather face a wyrm than a week of scribes."
Millicent stood, her chair scraping the stone floor, and crossed to the window. Loran sprawled below; merchants haggling, lanterns flickering, life churning on, oblivious to the rot they'd uncovered.
"If worst comes about," she said, almost to herself, "Eldoria might close their borders; Astartes will demand answers, from us or from someone else.
And that man…" She trailed off, picturing Satoru; white hair, cocky grin, no Mana yet a force that crushed a god.
"He's a Wildhorse. Dangerous, maybe more than that cultist village ever was."
Vanessa joined her, arms crossed. "Dangerous, sure. But he saved the girl, stopped the madness. That counts to something."
"Counts for now," Millicent replied, turning back.
She sighed again, rubbing her temple. "Gods, the paperwork…"
Vanessa snorted, a rare flicker of humor in the dark. "Better you than me, Representative."
The sun had dipped low, painting Loran's streets in hues of amber and shadow as Satoru and Marcille were summoned to the Guild Hall.
Lysa led the way, her sharp eyes flicked back occasionally to ensure the pair didn't wander off; again.
Satoru sauntered behind, hands in his pockets, whistling some off-key tune, while Marcille clung close, her staff tapping the ground, a mix of curiosity and nerves in her green eyes.
The Guild Hall loomed ahead; a sturdy bastion of stone and timber, its arched windows glowing with lantern light, a beacon of order in the bustling trade city.
They stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of ink and leather and were ushered up a creaking staircase to the Guild Representative's office.
A bellowing voice; Vanessa's, no doubt; called them in, and Lysa pushed the door open, gesturing them forward with a curt nod.
Inside, Vanessa stood by the wall; her battle-hardened face set in a familiar scowl. Beside her, behind a wide desk, sat Millicent; Loran's Guild Rep.
She exuded authority, stoic and unshaken, even as the weight of the day's revelations lingered in the room.
As Satoru strode in, his gaze flicked around and landed on Millicent, perched behind her desk, and his Six Eyes kicked into overdrive. Slightly surprised, his sunglasses slipped an inch down his nose as he took her in.
Her aura blazed; golden, bright, like staring into the goddamn sun if it decided to flex. Scarlet hair framed her, golden eyes sharp as knives, but it was that energy pouring off her that hit different.
It wasn't just power; though she had plenty, hovering above any special-grade territory; it was the shine. Biggest, brightest thing he'd seen in this world, a beacon cutting through the dim Mana haze of everyone else he'd crossed here.
It wasn't Adramalekh-tier; nothing here was, 'It'd be R.I.P otherwise.' But it stood out, a flare in a sea of flickering candles. Her stoic vibe only made it funnier; like she didn't even know she was glowing that loud.
Satoru didn't waste a second. "Well, damn," he said, strolling in like he owned the place, "this is fancy. You ladies throw a party just for us?"
He flashed a grin, plopping into a chair uninvited and kicking his feet up on the desk. Millicent's brow twitched, but her expression didn't budge.
Vanessa's eyes, though, narrowed to slits, a vein pulsing at her temple. Marcille scurried in after him, bowing slightly. "Sorry..." she muttered, shooting Vanessa an apologetic glance.
The knight chief just looked away, a faint grimace tugging her lips; she'd forgotten to warn Millicent about this clown, and now they were all paying for it.
Undeterred, Satoru leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, and fixed Millicent with a playful stare. "So, Red, gotta say, the whole 'stoic warrior' thing's working for me.
We could grab some sweets, talk about how I saved the day; hero's privilege, right?" He winked, his grin widening.
Millicent blinked, her golden eyes flat, the flirt sailing so far over her head it might've hit the ceiling. "Your… efforts are noted," she said, voice dry as dust, clearly missing the vibe.
Vanessa's eye twitched harder, a low growl rumbling in her throat, while Marcille buried her face in her hands, whispering, "Satoru… Please…"
The room hung in awkward silence, Satoru's charm crashing and burning spectacularly. He glanced at Marcille, catching her pleading eyes; big, green, and practically begging him to quit while he was ahead.
With a dramatic sigh, he dropped his feet off the desk and slumped back. "Alright, alright, tough crowd. Guess I'll save the stand-up for later."
Vanessa exhaled through her nose, a sound halfway between relief and murder, while Millicent folded her hands, unfazed.
She cleared her throat, voice steady. "Your account of the village has been confirmed; every detail. The bandits, the destruction, the… remains.
We owe you a thanks, both of you, for ending it." She slid a small leather pouch across the desk. "A reward; 1000 seros."
Ten large golden coins spilled out, each stamped with the Guild's roaring lion against a rising sun, glinting under the lantern light.
Each coin was worth 100 seros, hefty and solid. Satoru picked one up, flipping it between his fingers with a shrug. "Cool, shiny stuff. No clue what it's worth, but sure, I'll take it."
Marcille, though, gaped; her jaw dropped, eyes widening like she'd seen a dragon's hoard. That reaction told him everything; this was big.
"Keep it safe, kid," he said, tossing the pouch to her with a grin. She caught it, surprisingly unfazed by the weight, and tucked it into her waist satchel with a glee that bordered on greedy.
Her eyes practically glowed gold, a spark Satoru hadn't clocked before. 'Well, damn,' he thought, 'she's got a thing for money.'
He filed that away; another layer to the kid who'd already surprised him plenty.
Millicent leaned forward, curiosity flickering behind her stoic mask. "What do you plan to do now? If I may ask." she asked, her tone neutral but probing.
Satoru stretched, cracking his neck. "Dunno, kinda digging this adventurer gig. Sounds like a solid way to stack some coin; beat up monsters, cash checks, live large.
You know, the dream." He smirked, and Vanessa's eye twitched again, while Millicent's lips thinned. It was a double-edged sword.
Good news, a powerhouse like him joining the Guild; bad news, a loose cannon like him running wild. With their story proven, chaining them under direct watch wasn't an option anymore, but letting him loose?
A headache waiting to happen.
Millicent didn't dwell on it. "Very well," she said, pulling two cards from a drawer; etched metals, official as hell.
"Under my authority, I'm issuing you Guild membership and identifications. Satoru Gojo, B-Class. It's the highest I am allowed to grant at entry.
Marcille Donato, D-Class; standard for novice mages, though your mana reserves are… unusual for your age." She slid them over.
Satoru's card gleamed silver, Marcille's was a dull bronze, both stamped with their names and ranks. Marcille's magic was raw, unpolished, but potent; elf blood, human grit, a combo that made sense in hindsight.
She clutched hers, beaming, while Satoru flicked his into the air and caught it. "B-Class, huh? Guess I'm starting out low this time."
Dismissed, they headed to the inn they'd booked earlier, Lysa trailing them to the door before being pulled back by Vanessa.
Dinner was a feast. Marcille tore into a pile of roasted meat, skewers stacked high, while Satoru demolished a mountain of sweets, syrup dripping down his chin.
After freshening up, they settled into their room; a cozy space with two beds, a small table between them, and a lantern casting a warm glow.
Marcille plopped down, pulling out the pouch of seros, and Satoru sprawled across his bed, watching her with lazy curiosity.
"Alright, kid, school me," he said, propping his head on his hand. "What's the deal with this money?" Marcille's eyes lit up, teacher mode activated.
"Astartes has three coins: seros, silveros, coppernikum. Seros are gold alloy; small, but one's worth 10 silveros.
One silveros is 20 coppernikum. These-" she held up the pouch, "1000 seros, ten 100-sero coins… These are… a lot." Satoru tilted his head, still lost.
She grinned, leaning in. "It'd buy you a kilogram of pure alchemical purple gold; one of the top ten priciest things in Delmar. Rare, magical and very, very expensive."
His eyes slightly widened, gears clicking. Back home, a kilo of regular gold ran about $100,000. Toss in "alchemical and purple" or whatever, and this was a fortune.
"Holy shit," he muttered, sitting up. "We're Rich?"
Marcille nodded, practically vibrating. No wonder she'd gawked; 1000 seros was a jackpot. He smirked, already plotting.
"Guess I'm gonna get rich adventuring. Buy a castle, drown in sweets; kid, watch me." She giggled, tucking the pouch away, and for a moment, they just sat there, time fading into a quiet, shared victory.
Morning crept into Loran, sunlight spilling through the inn's cracked shutters, casting stripes across the room. Satoru sprawled across his bed like a broken marionette.
Legs twisted over the headboard, one arm dangling off the edge, head half-buried in a pillow. It was a position no sane human could sleep in, yet there he was, dead to the world, snoring faintly.
A clatter jolted him awake; something wooden, something annoying; and he groaned, peeling himself upright with all the grace of a hungover cat.
Every muscle popped as he stretched, joints cracking like gunfire, his white hair a wild mess. "What the hell's with the noise?" he grumbled, voice thick with sleep, squinting across the room.
Marcille sat at the small table, her golden hair catching the light, fiddling with her staff. The wood gleamed; runes etched along its length pulsing faintly as she worked.
She glanced up, unbothered by his grouchiness. "Oh, you're awake! I slept-… Really well, actually, and woke up early. Been tinkering with a spell I started before… you know, the merchant trip."
Her voice dipped, a shadow crossing her face, but Satoru caught it and swerved hard. "Yeah? Did you crack it then?" he asked, swinging his legs off the bed and leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
Her gloom vanished, eyes lighting up like a kid with a new toy. "Watch this!"
She gripped her staff, and with a flick of her wrist, it vanished. No smoke, no flash, just gone. Satoru blinked, Six Eyes sparking as he tracked the shift.
Before he could comment, she clapped her hands together, then pulled them apart, and the staff reappeared, solid and real, like she'd plucked it from thin air.
"Ta-da!" she chirped, beaming. Satoru's jaw dropped, not from shock but from the gears grinding in his head. That distortion; the way space bent around the spell, itched at something familiar.
Megumi's shadow storage, yeah, but this was different, cleaner, tied to Mana instead of cursed energy. He zeroed in, analyzing the flow as it happened, and; click! A piece snapped into place.
Mana wasn't just some floaty magic juice; it had structure, rules. Her spell had tapped into a dimensional subspace; a pocket she'd carved out, small but real.
He could see it with his Eyes, a shimmering void no bigger than a travel trunk, hovering in her orbit. Staff, coins, maybe a few odds and ends; that's what it could hold for now.
"Kid," he said, leaning back with a grin, "you're a goddamn genius." Marcille flushed, waving her hands. "No, no-… It's all from my mom's grimoire! She figured this out, not me!"
Satoru shook his head, smirking wider. 'Bullshit.' Sure, the book helped, but this? This was raw talent, elven blood singing through her veins, a spark that would probably make most mages weep. He didn't know, yet was willing to bet on it.
Or maybe she was the MC that the world didn't know it needed, who knows. He could be way over his head right now too.
"It's just the staff, the money, and some clothes for now," she added, still glowing. "Small stuff."
He chuckled, ruffling her hair as he stood. "Guess you don't need to hobble around like an old hag anymore; no more walking stick for Granny Marcille."
Her cheeks puffed out, a cute little scowl that was more adorable than mad. "I'm not that old!" she huffed, swatting his hand away.
He laughed, dodging her flail, and headed to freshen up, already plotting his day.
After a quick wash, Satoru emerged in new threads; dark pants and a high-collared jacket, echoes of his Jujutsu fit, topped with opaque sunglasses that hid his piercing blue eyes.
He looked sharp, effortless, like trouble waiting to unleash. Marcille had swapped her plating for something sturdier; but still in green, her signature.
Though, the steel gleamed new and expensive, a step up from the village scraps. No staff in hand now; it was tucked in her subspace.
They hit the streets, aiming for the Adventurer's Guild; a separate building from the Guild Hall, a squat, lively hub buzzing with energy.
Adventurers milled about; humans, demi-humans, some with horns or tails, others scarred and grizzled, all weaving through the chaos of shouts and clinking gear.
Battle-hardened vets swapped stories by the door; eager newbies clutched crumpled quest slips, eyes wide with dreams.
Satoru and Marcille waded in, dodging a burly orc hauling a sack of monster hides, and made for the reception desk.
A young man stood there, mid-twenties, with fox-ears twitching atop his head. His hair was white but a bit grayer than Satoru's. Framing a sly, handsome face.
"Cards," he said, voice smooth, leaning on the counter. Satoru flicked his B-Class card over with a lazy toss; Marcille slid her D-Class forward, still beaming from her spell flex.
The fox-eared guy; Kael, his badge read; glanced at them, then smirked. "New blood, huh? Alright, what're you after?"
Satoru stretched, hands behind his head. "Something chill. It's our first gig so, don't wanna overdo it. What's easy?"
Kael rifled through a stack of papers, pulling one out. "Herb collection, outskirts of the farmland. Basic stuff. Find some rare plants, bring 'em back.
Pays 5 silveros, 10 coppernikum after tax. Good for starters." Marcille perked up, nodding fast. "I'm good with herbs! Detection too; I can spot them quick!"
Satoru shrugged, chill as ever. "Works for me. Let's roll." Kael stamped the slip, handing it over. "Due by sundown tomorrow. Don't slack off. Guild hates late returns, you know?"
Satoru smirked, pocketing it. "No sweat." He replied.
They stepped out, the morning sun climbing higher, casting long shadows over Loran's bustle. Marcille practically bounced, clutching the quest slip like a trophy. "Our first job! This is so exciting!"
Satoru grinned, hands in his pockets, sunglasses glinting. "Yeah, picking flowers; real heroic stuff. Guess we'll save the world one weed at a time."
She giggled, skipping a step ahead, and he followed, letting her lead. The farmland wasn't far; just beyond the city's edge, a sprawl of green dotted with workers and carts.
Easy money, easy day.
Perfect for dipping their toes in this adventurer life.
... To be continued!!!