A real Adventure.

Steven scanned the bounty board, his fingers itching to claim more glory. With four quests in mind—Gull Nest Sweep, Driftwood Haul, Lost Coin Purse, and Weed Pull—he set off, his Rabbit Fury Fur gloves snug and eager.

First, the beach. Dawn painted the Mistveil shore in muted gold as Steven combed the sands, the early hour ensuring solitude. Driftwood littered the tide line—twisted, salt-bleached branches perfect for the carpenter’s kindling. He gathered 40 pieces with ease, stashing them in his magic bag: two stacks of 20, filling three slots alongside his two remaining furs. Task done, he turned inland.

Next, the Gull Nest Sweep. He scaled a merchant’s rickety ladder to the rooftop, the air thick with the stench of gull droppings. Ten nests perched atop the shingles, woven from twigs and feathers. Steven ignited Radiant Armament, his fists blazing with golden flames—holy wrath given form. He touched the first nest, and it erupted in a brilliant flare, the fire licking upward in a divine inferno, scattering the gulls skyward with furious squawks. One by one, he torched them, each burst a radiant spectacle—golden tendrils curling into the morning sky, embers drifting like sacred sparks. He smothered the flames with sand from a nearby bucket, ensuring the roof stayed unscathed, the merchant’s wares safe below. The birds fled, silhouettes against the horizon, and the rooftop was cleansed.

On to the Weed Pull. The widow’s cottage sat nestled in a quiet lane, its garden overrun with tangleweeds. She offered a cloudy drink, but Steven, wary after the spiced water, declined with a polite smile. He yanked 40 weeds, their roots snapping free—until the last pull unearthed a Weeder, a squat creature with weed-like tendrils for hair, glaring up from its daytime burrow. It lunged, claws swiping. Steven sidestepped, slamming a gloved fist into its leafy skull. It squealed, flailing, but a second punch cracked its brittle frame, sending it limp. Easy prey—mission complete. The widow pointed him toward the tavern for his next mark.

The Lost Coin Purse awaited. Steven prowled the tavern alley, eyes sharp—until two bandits emerged from the shadows. “Oi, fresh fish, drop yer coin,” one sneered, dagger gleaming. Steven scoffed, fists flaring with Radiant Armament. The first lunged; Steven ducked, landing a glowing uppercut that singed the thug’s tunic, knocking him cold. The second slashed, nicking Steven’s arm and thigh—hot pain flared, but he countered with a fiery hook, holy flames searing the bandit’s chest as he crumpled. A guard rounded the corner, whistle in hand. “What’s this?” Steven explained—bandits, robbery, self-defense. “Goddamn pests,” the guard muttered, blowing his whistle. Three more arrived, binding the **** pair and hauling them off. At the jail, a search revealed a coin purse—red leather, silver clasp—matching the quest flyer. “Had a hunch,” Steven said, handing over the paper. The guard confirmed it. “Good eye, kid. Streets’re cleaner thanks to ye.” A pat on the shoulder, and Steven was off.

By midday, he strode back to the guild, four quests in his pocket. The entrance was eerily quiet, just him and the big-assed clerk—Sophy, he’d soon learn. He smirked, tempted to ask her to step out, imagining that jiggle, but buried the thought. “Four quests to turn in,” he announced. Her eyes widened. “Well, ain’t you a go-getter? Card, please.” He handed it over, and she slotted it into the rune-etched machine. It hummed, confirming his haul. “Driftwood, too—pull it out.” He summoned both stacks of 20, setting them on the counter. “Client wants 30, but we’ll take the extra 10—pay ye for it,” she said.

The tally came:

Gull Nest Sweep: 18 copper.

Driftwood Haul: 16 copper for 30, plus 5 copper for the extra 10.

Weed Pull: 17 copper—no bonus for the Weeder, but fair enough.

Lost Coin Purse: 50 copper inside—an heirloom jackpot, far beyond the flyer’s 10-20 estimate. Bandit loot, no doubt. Sweet, he thought, grinning inwardly.

Sophy returned with 1 silver and 6 copper—1 silver equaling 100 copper, a cleaner payout than a heap of coins. He pocketed it, then asked, “That cat quest—if I find it while out, do I need the flyer, or can I just bring it in?”

She smirked. “Ye could—most don’t. Pet quests are a gamble; they usually wander home, no pay. But sometimes they linger, and owners panic.”

“Makes sense,” he said, glancing around. The emptiness emboldened him. “Never got your name.”

She blushed. “Sophy.”

“Cute name,” he flirted.

“Don’t tease,” she chided, flashing a ringed hand. “Married.”

He eased back. “Sorry—didn’t see it.” “It’s fine,” she said, shuddering. “Some push harder. Ick.”

He nodded. “Yeah, that’d suck. Think I’ll grab more quests.” She smiled as he turned back to the board.

Before he could choose, Franz’s bellow cut through. “Steve, got time?” Steven nodded, and Franz grinned. “Group needs an extra—E-rank quest, but they’ve got a D-rank leader, so ye’re cleared.” He introduced The Wild Cats:

Brad, the D-rank tank—6’3”, a wall of muscle in dented plate armor, blonde hair cropped short, a scar slashing his cheek. Gruff but steady.

Crissy, the healer—petite, with wild brown curls and a green robe, a staff topped with a glowing crystal clutched in her hands. Soft-spoken, sharp-eyed.

Rick, the mage—lanky, pale, with greasy black hair and a tattered red cloak, muttering under his breath, arcane sparks flickering at his fingertips.

Alfred, the archer—wiry, sun-browned, in leather gear, a longbow slung across his back, quiver bristling with arrows, a cocky grin on his lips.

“Nice to meet ye all—I’m Steve,” he said. Brad stepped up. “Heard ‘bout ye from Franz—decent martial artist, green but growin’. I’m Brad Stonefury, D-rank tank, party leader. I’ll keep ye safe, I swear on the Stonefury name.”

“What’s the quest?” Steven asked.

Brad smirked. “Straight to it—love that. We’re huntin’ goblins at the Cave of Sorrow.”

“AWESOME!” Steven blurted, his isekai dream igniting. Franz wished them luck, and they set out.

After hours of travel—forest paths twisting into dusk—they camped under a canopy of stars. “We hit ‘em mornin’,” Brad said, stoking the fire. “Goblins ain’t mornin’ folk—groggy, slow.” Steven nodded, settling in as Crissy stirred a pot. The soup was wild—gamey venison broth, spiked with bitter herbs and a tang of sour berries, chunks of root veggies adding heft. A rugged, untamed flavor that burned the tongue and warmed the gut, perfect for the night ahead.