Information Overload

Steven lingered on the bench, the echo of Melissa’s footsteps fading up the stairs. Her parting word—“report”—hung in the air, a double-edged blade. Did she mean his bold advance or her magical discovery? A flicker of worry gnawed at him, but he steadied his breath, muttering under his breath, “Probably the Magical Society. Yeah, that’s it.” The tension eased, and he rose, drawn by the promise of his final free meal.

In the dining hall, the aroma hit him—a rich, hearty potato soup, thick with savory seasoning that warmed his bones. Instead of the usual stale bread, a stick of dried meat lay beside it—tough, salty jerky that snapped between his teeth. He devoured it, the flavors a small triumph after a week of grueling training.

Sated, he made his way to the front desk, where the woman with the colossal hips presided like a gatekeeper of fate. Her presence loomed as he approached, scratching his head. “Uh, my training’s done, but I’ve got some questions—I’m not sure what’s next.” She cut him off with a knowing nod. “You’re free to keep using the barracks ‘til you rank up in the guild. Speaking of which—card, please.” He handed over his ID, and she slotted it into a rune-etched socket. A hum filled the air, the card glowing briefly before she plucked it out and scanned it. “Rank F now. Bottom rung of the adventurer ladder. Ranks climb from there: E, D, C, B, A, S, SS, SSS, and L. Lowest to highest.”

She leaned forward, her voice dropping with a hint of reverence. “Only one ever hit L—Legendary. Torvald Ironfist. A name carved in stone and blood. Built this nation, this continent’s backbone, and damn near saved the world. Long dead now, though.” She caught herself rambling, waving a hand. “Point is, at F, you’ve got the low-rank barracks. Some linger there on purpose—free bed, free grub. Take Melissa, your tutor. Rank F, twenty years here. Gnomes age slow, like elves—she’s older than she looks, but she sticks around for the perks.”

Steven nodded, soaking it in. “Better digs cost coin,” she continued. “Fancier meals, too. Earn enough, and you could rent a place in the city or stake a claim in the wilds. Your call.” She rattled off more—guild rules, coin exchange—then pointed him to the bounty board. “Start there. F-rank quests’ll get you moving.”

He ambled over, eyes scanning the weathered parchment pinned to the board. Five F-rank quests caught his eye:

Lost Pup - Find a merchant’s missing pet dog, last seen near the docks.

Fish Haul - Catch 30 fish from the Mistveil coast for a tavern’s stock.

Horned Rabbit Cull - Slay 10 horned rabbits plaguing a farmer’s field, their stubby horns no real threat.

Herb Gather - Collect 20 sprigs of mistbloom from the shore cliffs for an apothecary.

Crab Cleanup - Clear 15 scuttling shore crabs from a fisherman’s nets, pesky but weak.

The Horned Rabbit Cull called to him—a chance to test his fists. He scratched his name onto the ledger, claimed the quest, and trudged to the barracks. Melissa’s bunk sat empty, her absence a faint pang he shrugged off as he collapsed into sleep.

Morning broke, and Steven strode toward the guild’s exit, the salty Mistveil air sharp in his lungs. A blur of silver darted past—Melissa, scurrying inside. She skidded to a halt, eyes lighting up. “Oh, hey, Steven!” she chirped, beaming. “Glad I caught you—the Magical Society wants to meet you!” Before he could protest, her tiny hand seized his, her grip surprisingly firm, and she tugged him out into the city’s fog-choked streets, her excitement a palpable hum.