They returned to their seats in the waiting area while the receptionist took some time to briefly record the details she had witnessed during the duel. After a few moments, she asked Ace to accompany her upstairs. As the young girl stood to follow them, the receptionist halted her with a neutral expression. Yet, she spoke with a voice that blended politeness with firmness:
"Apologies, miss. According to guild policy, companions are not permitted to attend interviews with new applicants."
Emilia was surprised, but she held back her urge to object. A soft smile, both understanding and respectful, appeared on her face. Then she leaned toward Ace and whispered, as if to give him confidence and reassurance:
"Good luck."
Ace nodded with a smile. Emilia then returned to her seat, though she couldn't stop herself from watching his back as he walked away, silently wishing him strength in facing the imposing man upstairs.
Ace followed the receptionist up a wide staircase until they stood before a massive wooden door, its surface adorned with deep carvings. Its sheer size suggested it hadn't been built for an ordinary man to pass through. Ace stared at the door for a moment, feeling its weight even without touching it—crossing to the other side seemed more than just an interview.
The receptionist knocked three times in steady rhythm. Silence followed briefly, then a deep, gravelly voice echoed from within:
"Come in."
With a single touch, the receptionist opened the door smoothly, despite its size, as if it had been crafted to respond only to those with permission to enter. She walked in first, while Ace trailed one step behind, allowing himself a moment to prepare before facing the man who ruled this place.
Upon entering, the scene was both expected and unexpected. At the center stood a massive desk made of black polished wood, and behind it sat a man no less formidable than the room itself.
He was enormous—four times the size of an average man. Even while seated, he appeared as tall as a standing person, if not taller. His face was square-jawed, with a broad chin and piercing eyes devoid of any warmth. He had no beard, but his mustache was a terrifying spectacle—wide and curved at the ends like the horns of a massive bull, lending him an air of stern dignity.
He wore dark olive clothing that did nothing to hide his muscular build. His hardened features bore the marks of years of strife, as if time itself had carved furrows into his face. A tightly wrapped olive cloth sat on his head like a fabric crown, and at its center gleamed a red gem—shaped like a frozen teardrop—that caught the light from the large window behind him, flickering faintly.
His chair was a singular masterpiece, upholstered in what seemed to be crocodile leather. It was large enough to bear his weight but looked far from comfortable. Yet the man needed no comfort—he was the embodiment of discipline and decisiveness.
The room's ceiling was layered with white smoke. As the two entered, the man slowly extinguished his massive cigar, letting its smoke curl and dance into the air before gathering near the ceiling.
The receptionist stepped forward with a smile that resembled a child greeting her father. She handed him the application form with great care, as if afraid she might drop it. Then she leaned toward him and whispered something into his ear—an ear nearly the size of her head—before gracefully retreating with a respectful bow, leaving the man and the young applicant alone in an uneven confrontation.
The man's voice then rumbled with a weight carried by years of authority and experience:
"Have a seat."
Ace stepped forward and sat across from the desk, never taking his eyes off the man. The latter read the paper, holding it with scarred fingers. Only his eyes moved, scanning the lines and absorbing every hidden detail between the words. His brows rose slightly, as if something unexpected had caught his attention. Then he asked, with a voice tinged with curiosity:
"Ace Farland? May I ask which country you're from?"
Ace offered a faint smile—not defiant, but tinged with measured caution—and replied with quiet confidence:
"Forgive me, sir. Even if I told you, you wouldn't know it. It's a land very far from here."
The man leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, eyes narrowing as if trying to pierce through Ace's thoughts. Then he asked, in a deeper tone, like someone seeking an indisputable truth:
"Far like the sky, or far like the earth?"
Ace hesitated for a moment. The question wasn't ordinary—it was as if the man had carefully selected his words to extract a particular truth. Still, Ace answered, his voice unwavering and free of deceit:
"Farther than the stars."
The man leaned back, briefly closed his eyes as if weighing the echo of that response, then muttered to himself more than to the young man before him:
"Seems you're one of them…"
A heavy silence followed—not one of comfort, but of anticipation. Then the man broke it with a sudden question, a key that seemed to unlock a door Ace hadn't expected:
"Farland, were you ever a soldier?"
Ace's eyes widened in surprise. On the surface, the question was simple, but it struck like a precise blow, touching a part of his past he hadn't expected to revisit. He tried to remain composed, knowing the man before him wasn't someone easily deceived. Yet he steadied himself and replied with calm curiosity:
"May I ask, sir, what led you to think that?"
A sly smile crept across the man's lips—one that carried respect rather than mockery. His gaze revealed something deeper, like that of a seasoned hunter reading human faces as if they were old maps. He leaned forward once more, clasping his massive hands before his mouth, and said:
"When I meet someone for the first time—especially one aiming to become a rookie adventurer—I read more than what they say. Most people show involuntary signs under pressure: stammering, sweating, avoiding eye contact. But you, Farland… you're entirely different."
Ace's breath caught for a second, but he didn't let it disrupt his composure. He continued to meet the man's gaze with unwavering steadiness. The guild master continued:
"From the moment you entered, all I saw was caution and readiness. Your steps were measured, your shoulders tense, even your breathing… was precisely controlled. Those aren't casual habits. They're the result of rigorous training."
The weight of those words stirred echoes of a past not entirely forgotten. For a moment, images of ranks of soldiers, roaring cannons, the scent of scorched metal, and blood-soaked fields flashed before Ace's eyes. The man had struck true. With a sigh tinged with bitterness, Ace said:
"You're right, sir. I served in the army for about a year—maybe a bit more. I can't recall exactly. It was mandatory, actually."
The man raised his eyebrows, lips curling into a smile that was neither mocking nor warm—more a recognition of shared experience. He drummed his fingers on the desk before lighting another cigar, igniting it with a swift strike against his rough wrist. Taking a deep drag, he exhaled slowly, watching the smoke rise as he said:
"Then that makes us alike." He paused briefly, then continued with a more serious tone:
"Alright, Farland. Let's get to the heart of the matter. You possess decent magical energy, though you don't know how to use it. You performed well in your duel against that drunkard. With these results, you would be a valuable addition to the guild."
Relief began to seep into Ace's chest, only to vanish when the man spoke a single word—one that carried a heavy weight:
"But…"
Silence hung in the air. Then the guild master's tone sharpened:
"Many people enter this path to chase wealth. But from what I've heard, you're not after riches. You just want to gather a certain sum and then quit. Don't you think that disrespects the profession, the guild, and every person who risks their life out there?"
His words were like cold knives, slowly sinking into Ace's thoughts. How had he figured out his intentions so precisely? Ace hadn't hidden his desire to earn money, but he had never explicitly stated that he planned to stop after reaching a specific amount. Doubts filled his mind, yet he couldn't help but admire the man before him—a man who seemed to know everything about those knocking on his guild's door.
They stared at each other for moments until Ace finally spoke, his voice calm and firm:
"From what I understand, sir, adventuring is a profession one chooses freely—a means to fulfill personal goals, whether short-term or long-term. Whether someone continues or quits at some point, for any reason, it remains within the bounds of the freedom this path offers."
Silence followed. The man's face showed no clear reaction. He simply stared, studying Ace, measuring his confidence, searching for any sign of doubt or fear. Under such scrutiny, Ace remained still—his expression one of clarity and conviction. It wasn't a test for him, nor did he feel the need to prove anything.
Then, without warning, a deep laugh echoed through the room—thunderous, shaking the very walls and reaching every corner of the guild. Ace was momentarily stunned, his usual composure shaken by the sudden outburst. The contrast between the stern man from moments earlier and the one laughing heartily now was striking.
With a wide smile that revealed another side of him, the man said enthusiastically:
"What you said is true! Absolutely true! It's not about the correct or convincing answer—but the confidence with which it's delivered. Ace Farland, you're an intriguing person!"
He then opened a wooden drawer beneath his desk and pulled out a massive metal stamp—it looked more like a weapon than an administrative tool. Gripping it with his strong hand, he raised it high and said:
"You shall have what you seek!"
Then he slammed the stamp down on the paper in front of him with such force that the desk trembled. Even Ace felt the vibration reach his feet. The sound echoed in the room like an official proclamation: the moment of acceptance had arrived.
Only then did Ace understand why the paper was of such high quality, and why a man like the guild master needed a desk of such strength. A regular sheet would have torn. A normal desk would have shattered under that crushing blow.
The man then lifted the stamped paper, now small in his large fingers, and passed it to Ace, declaring clearly:
"Ace Farland, from this moment, you are an Iron-Ranked Adventurer."
Ace accepted the paper with respect, gazing down at it in his hands, feeling the weight of the decision, he had made. He rose from his seat, bowed slightly, and said:
"Thank you for granting me this opportunity, sir."
The man responded with only a nod, signaling the end of the interview.