The streets of Qence reek of fish guts and desperation, a pungent combination that almost reminds me of Boston. My fingers tug at the face covering for the fifth time in as many minutes, trying to create just a little more breathing room. The fabric sticks to my lips when I inhale, damp with condensation from my breath. "Hey, stop playing with that," Mirelle hisses, her electric blue hair crackling with annoyance as she swats my hand away from my face. "It's kind of annoying," I grumble, my voice muffled behind the cloth. "It's a little hot and it smells like my spit." Mirelle gives me a look that's halfway between pity and exasperation, the same expression Kayla used to give me when I complained about taking my meds. "Look, you need to get used to this, alright?" She adjusts her thunder staff on her back, scanning the crowded marketplace we're cutting through. "It's either this or people know you're a man. "I know, I know," I sigh, reluctantly dropping my hand to my side. A fish vendor shouts prices nearby, her voice carrying over the general noise of the market. "Keep your talking to a minimum," Mirelle continues, steering me around a cart piled high with questionable-looking vegetables. "And when you do speak, try to make it sound more womanly." "I get it, I get it." My hand instinctively reaches for the face covering again before I catch myself. Mirelle leans closer, lowering her voice. "I'll try to find a spell to help with your voice later, alright? Something that won't draw too much attention." "That would be helpful," I admit, genuinely relieved at the prospect. We turn down a narrower street, leaving the market's chaos behind. Ahead looms a three-story building constructed of dark timber and stone, its entrance flanked by massive banners depicting crossed swords over an open scroll. Even from here, I can hear the raucous laughter and animated conversations spilling from its open doors. The Adventurer's Guild. My wooden staff taps against my back with each step, a comforting reminder that I'm not completely defenseless. I straighten my shoulders, pulling the cloak tighter around my body. "Remember," Mirelle murmurs as we approach the entrance, "you're Ro from Forcray, a mysterious healer who values privacy. I’m going to be Rimmy. We don’t want anyone to find us. Let me do most of the talking." I nod silently, following Mirelle through the imposing doorway. The smell hits me immediately, sweat, ale, and something vaguely metallic that might be blood. The interior is packed with women of all shapes and sizes, some wearing elaborate armor while others sport simple leather and cloth. Their weapons range from practical to absurdly oversized, and I swear one woman has a sword taller than I am. We approach a long counter where a bored-looking woman with spectacles perched on her nose sorts through stacks of parchment. "New registrations?" she asks without looking up. "Yes," Mirelle replies, her voice shifting to something more casual than her usual commanding tone. "My friend and I are looking to join." The clerk finally glances up, her eyes lingering on my covered face for an uncomfortable moment before shifting to Mirelle’s distinctive blue hair. "Names?" she asks, dipping a quill into an inkwell. "I'm Rimmy Trent, battle mage. This is Ro Heath from Forcray, a healer." I keep my head slightly bowed, remembering to stay silent. The woman studies me again, her gaze calculating. "Forcray, huh? Don't see many of your kind around here," she comments, but doesn't press further. "Well, all are welcome at the Guild, so long as you can pull your weight." She pulls out two forms and begins filling them out with practiced efficiency. "Now, as new members, you'll start at D-rank, of course." "D-rank?" Mirelle asks, playing ignorant. The clerk sighs as if she's explained this a thousand times. "The Guild operates on a ranking system. D, C, B, A, and S. You start at D and work your way up by completing quests appropriate to your level." She gestures toward a board covered in parchments. "D-rank quests are simple, rat extermination, herb gathering, easy stuff really. Nothing too dangerous." I shift my weight, fighting the urge to scratch my nose under the face covering. This entire explanation feels painfully familiar, like I'm trapped in an anime. ‘Why couldn’t it have been Zelda. Or hell, why not Family Guy? Next, she'll probably explain how payment works and give us some kind of magical identification card. "As you complete quests successfully, you'll earn points toward promotion," the clerk continues, confirming my prediction. "Payment varies by quest difficulty, with the Guild taking a ten percent cut for administrative costs." She stamps both forms with surprising force, then slides two small wooden tablets across the counter. They're etched with our fake names and "D-RANK" in bold letters. "Just one more thing," the clerk adds, pulling out a small knife from under the counter. "I need a blood seal for your identification tokens." "A what now?" I mutter under my breath, forgetting Mirelle's instruction to stay quiet. The clerk doesn't seem to notice my slip-up. "Just a drop of blood on each token. Standard procedure, it binds it to your life force." Mirelle nudges me forward. I step up reluctantly as the clerk offers me the knife. The blade glints in the Guild's lamplight as I take it, carefully pricking my thumb. A bead of crimson wells up, and I press it against my wooden token. The moment my blood touches the wood, it glows with a soft golden light that quickly absorbs the red droplet. The token pulses once, twice, then settles back to normal, though now my fake name seems more deeply etched into the surface. Mirelle follows suit, her token flashing blue instead of gold when her blood makes contact. The clerk takes both tokens and places them into a strange contraption on her desk, something like a jewelry box covered in runes that hum with faint energy. After a few seconds, she retrieves them and hands them back. "Don't lose these," she warns, her tone suggesting we wouldn't be the first to do so. "Replacements cost three silver each, and that's coming out of your pocket, not the Guild's." "Understood," Mirelle replies, tucking her token into a pouch at her belt. I follow her example, slipping mine into the inner pocket of my cloak. We turn away from the counter, and Mirelle guides me toward a quieter corner of the hall. The noise of the Guild continues around us, laughter, boasting, the occasional shout as someone celebrates a completed quest. "Doesn't D-rank kind of suck?" I whisper once we're far enough from the clerk. Mirelle leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "If they knew who I really was, I'd probably have started at C-rank, maybe even B. But honestly, this is better." "Why not just use your real credentials?" I ask, keeping my voice low. "Wouldn't that make things easier?" She shakes her head, blue hair swaying with the motion. "The whole point is to stay under the radar, remember? The less attention we draw, the better." "Should we look for a party, then?" I glance around the crowded guild hall. "Safety in numbers and all that." "No," Mirelle says firmly. "This isn't a dungeon city. We're here specifically to keep a low profile. Joining a party means more people who could figure out what you are." I frown behind my face covering. "Dungeon City?" "You know, a city built around a dungeon with multiple levels and…" "Let me guess," I cut her off, "there are bosses on every floor, and when you kill them, you get cool shit?" Mirelle's eyes widen slightly. "Bosses every ten floors, actually, but... I'm surprised you knew that." I place my hands on my head, groaning softly. "This world is so fucking unoriginal." "What's that supposed to mean?" Mirelle asks, brow furrowing. "Nothing," I mutter, dropping my hands. "This world just fucking sucks." Mirelle looks like she wants to pursue the topic, but instead shakes her head and gestures toward the quest board. "Let's just find something simple for our first job, alright?”