The next day, just as Ace stepped onto the ground floor, a new scent slipped into his nostrils—a layered blend of cotton threads and hints of aged wood. He peeked in and found the young girl seated, immersed in her work, surrounded by a halo of golden rays. The scene closely resembled the previous day, yet this time, he noticed a few distinct details.
Despite her evident skill in sewing, her fingers bore multiple scars—like remnants of a silent battle fought against needle and thread. It looked as though she'd been trying to recreate a different design, one similar to the young man's attire. While she worked, her eyes danced along the fabric, carefully tracing the needle's path, wary of it losing its way in the cloth's maze. Yet, despite her intense focus, she sensed his presence. A glance from the corner of her eye was enough to freeze her fingers mid-stitch.
She set the needle aside and stood, causing fine cotton threads to scatter around her. She walked toward Ace and stopped before him. Before either of them could speak, she ran her fingers over his clothing, feeling the stitches as if searching for any detail that might hinder his movement during his first mission.
Finding nothing wrong, she stepped back and looked up at him, her gaze lingering on the adventurer's pendant hanging from his chest. For the first time, she felt as though she played a role in preparing an adventurer. Despite the quiet joy in that realization, she couldn't stop herself from offering a warning. She said,
"Don't forget, Mr. Ace. You need to bring me the mission request before you leave so I can read it for you. Understood?"
He nodded in acknowledgment. Just then, the bell above the door chimed, and the first morning footsteps entered the shop, signaling the start of a new workday. Ace told her he was leaving, but she stopped him and asked if he had eaten breakfast. He replied that he wasn't hungry, especially after the large dinner he'd had the night before. She understood, though a part of her wished he had eaten something light before leaving. Then, she wished him good luck on his first mission and reminded him once again to return with the request.
He nodded and turned to leave. On his way out, he offered a polite greeting to an elderly woman entering the shop, delivered with such courtesy that it brought a blush to her cheeks. Meanwhile, Emilia continued to watch him silently, her eyes carrying an unspoken plea—a wish that he would be assigned an easy mission.
After leaving, Ace headed straight for the Adventurers' Guild. Inside, the noise of laughter and chatter mingled with the clinking of glasses being raised and slammed down on tables, causing strong vibrations that sent some liquid splashing onto the floor. Bottles of drink were being opened with loud pops, their corks flying through the air before bouncing off the tables or floor.
Tables were overturned in moments of excitement, chairs scraped harshly against the floor, producing sharp screeches. It was a scene one wouldn't expect at such an early hour, yet much of the commotion began to subside the moment the strange young man stepped into the room.
This time, the gazes that met him weren't mocking. Instead, they were filled with skepticism—and even a hint of jealousy. They realized he was the source of the mysterious surge of magical energy the day before. They had also heard of his performance against the drunken man, confirming he wasn't just some ordinary fellow as his appearance might suggest. Still, respect was not offered.
Ace made his way past their stares toward the request board. Once there, he closely examined the various postings. Some were scrawled in rough handwriting on worn-out paper, as if written in haste and urgency. Others were far more ornate, with golden or silver patterns along the edges and finely detailed symbols and illustrations, seemingly crafted to tempt the most ambitious of eyes. Some posters were vivid and eye-catching, while others remained dull, as though no one had cared much about their presentation.
As his eyes moved between the flyers, he noticed that some were written in the local language, of which he only understood fragments. Others were adorned with mysterious symbols he couldn't decipher. Certain recurring words caught his attention, possibly indicators of mission rankings.
Amid his search, one particular flyer stood out—an old, tattered sheet barely clinging to life. Despite its poor condition, its contents fascinated him. The image depicted a creature resembling a rabbit, but with features far more sinister. Its tiny eyes glinted with malevolence, and its jagged, tightly packed fangs looked engineered for tearing.
The drawing was unsettlingly detailed, suggesting the artist hadn't relied on imagination but had likely seen the creature—or even encountered it. Acting on instinct, Ace reached for the flyer. The moment he touched it, he realized it wasn't made of ordinary paper, but rather a thin piece of hide. The surface felt coarse beneath his fingertips. He tried to read the words beneath the image, but time had rendered them partially illegible.
Still, he turned and walked over to the reception desk, where several staff members were busy recording notes in thick ledgers. The sound of pages turning and pens scratching against paper filled the air.
He approached the same receptionist from the previous day. She looked up at him with a warm smile, welcoming him to his first mission. He placed the flyer on the desk. The moment her eyes scanned the request, her face paled and her eyes sparkled with an odd gleam—like a flash of lightning quickly extinguished. It was as if she had seen something she hadn't expected. Her fingers froze on the desk. But within seconds, she composed herself, her features returning to calm, though something stormy still lingered beneath.
She raised her eyes to Ace again, this time examining him as though trying to read his thoughts—trying to understand why he had chosen that particular request.
Before she could ask, Ace explained his issue—that he couldn't fully read the writing on the flyer. As soon as he said it, her expression changed again. Her eyes widened slightly, her lips quivered for a moment, as if struggling to process what she had just heard.
Disbelief briefly crossed her face before her brows furrowed in a mix of hope and bitterness. She appeared to stand on the precipice of a new realization. Then, the silence between them was broken by a coarse voice from behind, dripping with sharp sarcasm.
Ace turned to see a large man carrying massive barrels on his broad shoulders, as though they weighed nothing. Ace recognized him from the day before—his thick black beard, wide jaw, and bald head flanked by tufts of tangled hair made him unmistakable.
The man's narrow eyes, carved into a face that resembled a brute more than a thinker, gleamed with disdain. He examined the young man before curling his lips into a crooked grin—one steeped more in mockery than amusement. Then he said:
"Well, isn't that something!" he sneered. "An adventurer who can't even read the job postings! How do you expect to survive in this line of work if you can't grasp the basics?"
He let out a loud, grating laugh that made the liquid inside his barrels slosh violently, as though joining in his ridicule. Yet none of the other adventurers paid him any mind, lost in their own laughter and conversations. Ace's expression didn't change. His eyes remained steady as he looked up slightly, replying in a calm voice:
"It's only natural."
His tone was neutral, devoid of anger or shame. He continued:
"It's true—I'm not good at reading the writing here. But that's normal. I'm from faraway lands, and the characters here are unfamiliar. I don't see any reason for surprise or laughter."
His words were wise and rational, expressing a simple truth. But the man, unused to receiving logical rebuttals to his mockery, grew visibly irritated. His narrow eyes became even tighter, their gleam sharper.
"But you speak our language—why can't you read it, then?" he demanded.
Ace's demeanor remained unchanged. He answered evenly:
"As I said, the characters here differ from those in my homeland. Sometimes, the same language uses different scripts across regions. Even within a single country, dialects can vary. That's well-known."
His voice was steady, free of arrogance. It softened the tension in the air, as though his words were not just a response but a quiet lesson—one the man wasn't prepared to learn. The man's face twisted; his brows knitted in a scowl. He stood motionless for a moment, as if trying to process what he'd just heard. He hadn't expected a simple answer to dismantle his insult—or his stance. His expression wavered between doubt and disbelief, his eyes flickering with unease, searching for a flaw, a comeback—but finding none.
A moment passed in silence. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose, causing his thick mustache to flutter with the air's force. He looked around, checking to see if anyone had noticed his failed attempt at ridicule. It seemed he wanted to salvage whatever pride remained. Fortunately for him, no one had paid attention. Without another word, he turned and stomped away, each step heavy with disappointment. He muttered something unintelligible—perhaps curses, or simply complaints too bitter to voice aloud.
His footsteps faded into the noisy atmosphere, but the pungent smell from his barrels lingered, reaching the noses of nearby adventurers who began to circle him, curious about his cargo. This seemed to revive him a little. A crooked smile crept across his face, tinged with concealed pride. He raised his chin and declared loudly:
"These aren't your average barrels, fellas! They're filled with the finest aged cranberry juice you can get your hands on. Bought them from the guild—planning to sell them off for a nice profit."
The adventurers exchanged puzzled glances. One of them crossed his arms and asked skeptically:
"Why didn't the buyer get them himself? Wouldn't that be cheaper?"
The man's eyes gleamed, as if the question had given him the perfect opportunity to boast. He leaned in and lowered his voice, as though sharing a secret:
"Let's just say… he can't buy them himself."
He burst into laughter again, sending another wave through the barrels. Then he strode away, leaving behind a trail of fermented aroma and a group of adventurers exchanging baffled looks.