It was now the year 9990 of the Yulan Calendar. Spring morning light filtered through the attic's narrow window and fell across Loa's face.
He opened his eyes but did not get up immediately. Instead, he lay quietly, listening to the bustle outside as Fenlai City gradually woke. Wheels rumbled over stone paving, faint vendors' cries drifted from afar, and somewhere, a shop clattered as its door boards were taken down... These sounds mingled, reminding him that this was no longer peaceful Wushan Town, but the heart of a kingdom where he had to struggle hard to survive.
Yesterday's aimless wandering through the city and repeated rejections grated against his heart like fine grains of sand. Yet now, there was no confusion in his eyes, only the cool clarity of resolve. Becoming a mercenary, taking that path where freedom and danger were said to coexist, was the only choice he could see before him, and one that seemed within reach.
He got up, washed his face with cold water, and carefully checked his belongings: his self-forged iron sword, wrapped in old cloth, was secured on his back; the damaged hide painting and his meager coins were tucked close to his body; his Rockskin Boar hide armor was worn beneath his most inconspicuous old clothes. He took one last look at the cheap little attic room that could shelter him from the wind and rain for now, closed the door, and went down the creaking stairs.
Following the directions the old mercenary had given him yesterday, and checking with passersby several more times, Loa arrived at the Mercenary Guild on the edge of the western district that morning.
The building before him was more... ordinary than he had imagined. It was neither particularly grand nor luxurious, but a sturdy-looking, sprawling three-story stone building, its walls covered with traces of weathering and the illegible remnants of old notices. Its doors stood open, with people constantly coming and going. Most moved briskly with solemn expressions, carrying weapons of one kind or another. They exuded a rugged air, mingled with sweat, dust, and a faint smell of blood, utterly unlike that of the ordinary residential districts.
There were none of the appraising or mocking looks from burly gatekeepers so common in novels. Loa followed the flow of people into the hall, like a drop of water joining a stream, without causing the slightest ripple.
The hall was quite spacious inside, though somewhat dim. Several enormous oil lamps hung from the high ceiling, lit even during the day, casting shifting light and shadows. Most striking was the entire wall opposite him, densely covered with sheets of parchment and hardwood boards bearing writing of different sizes and hands-the mission noticeboard. Many people gathered before it, discussing things in low voices, copying notices, or simply reaching out to take them down.
Long rows of counter-like windows lined both sides of the hall. Guild staff sat behind them, men and women alike, most expressionless, handling business with astonishing speed. At one window, a mercenary with a face full of scars handed over a small bag dripping dark red liquid and part of a claw. The clerk inside swiftly inspected them, made a record, worked an abacus, and pushed out several silver coins. The entire process took less than two minutes, with only a few words exchanged. At another window, a travel-worn team turned in the roots and stems of some plant, collected their payment, and turned to leave without any delay.
Efficient, impersonal, direct. That was Loa's first impression of the Mercenary Guild. There seemed to be no room here for unnecessary sympathy or contempt; everything revolved around "missions" and "payment." If you completed the job, you took your money and left; if you failed, whether dead or wounded, someone else would fill the vacancy.
This atmosphere actually made Loa relax a little. He was not afraid of challenges and danger, but of pointless obstruction and complicated personal dealings. Here, strength and action seemed to speak louder.
He looked around and found a relatively quiet window near the hall entrance. A simple wooden sign above it read "Registration and inquiries." Behind the window sat a young, brown-haired woman who looked to be in her twenties, sorting through a stack of forms with her head lowered and an impassive expression.
Loa steadied himself and stepped forward.
"Excuse me, is this where I register as a mercenary?" he asked, keeping his voice steady and trying not to sound childish.
The brown-haired woman looked up, her gaze lingering on his face for a moment. Loa could feel her eyes quickly sweep over his rather slight frame and the cloth-wrapped longsword on his back, but there was none of the surprise, disdain, or doubt he had expected. There was only a businesslike calm, as though she were looking at an ordinary object.
"Yes." Her voice betrayed no particular emotion either. She took a blank form and a quill from beside her and pushed them toward him. "Fill this out. Name, age, place of origin. Sign or leave a handprint at the end."
Loa took the form and quill. The quill was rather old, its nib slightly split, but he wrote carefully. Name: Loa. Age: ten (after a moment's thought, he put down his actual age). Place of origin: Wushan Town, Fenlai Kingdom.
Once he had finished, he handed the form back.
The woman took it and scanned it quickly. "Wushan Town..." she murmured, seeming to have some impression of the place name, but asked no further questions. She took a thick, hardbound ledger from a drawer, turned to a certain page, and began copying things down while checking against something.
"Registration fee, ten copper coins," she said without looking up.
Loa carefully counted out ten copper coins from inside his clothes and passed them through the window. They landed on the wooden counter with a faint clink.
The woman collected the money, then took a small, cold metal badge and a thin piece of stiff card bearing the guild's seal from another drawer, pushing them both toward him.
The badge was iron-gray and simply made: a round piece of iron with somewhat rough edges, bearing a raised design of a crossed sword and shield in the center, with a tiny, almost illegible "Ⅰ" beneath it. The card bore his registration number, name, rank (Gray Iron Rank I), and the guild's simple emblem.
"This is your Mercenary Insignia and identity card. Gray Iron Rank, the lowest rank. The insignia must be worn somewhere visible. You'll need it when carrying out missions and turning them in. Keep your identity card safe; there's a replacement fee if you lose it." The woman spoke quickly, but explained everything clearly. "Check the noticeboard over there for missions yourself. Gray Iron Rank missions have their own section." (She pointed at the bottom few rows of paler parchment on the noticeboard.) "No additional formalities are needed to accept a mission. Simply take down the corresponding mission sheet. Once you've completed it, bring the sheet and the required proof, such as magical beast parts or an employer's signed receipt, to any handover window to collect your payment. The guild takes ten percent."
She paused, finally raising her eyes to look directly at Loa, her gaze still impassive. "Remember, the guild is only responsible for posting missions, verifying completion, and issuing payment. All risks during a mission, including injury, death, and compensation disputes arising from failure, are borne by the mercenaries themselves. We advise you to stay within your abilities. Any other questions?"
There was a great deal of information, but Loa listened carefully and shook his head. "No, thank you."
"Next." The woman had already turned her gaze to the person behind him.
Loa picked up the Gray Iron Insignia, still cold with the chill of metal, and his identity card, then stepped aside. He carefully pinned the badge to the most conspicuous spot on the left breast of his clothes, its cold touch reaching him through the fabric. He stowed the identity card carefully with his remaining coins.
That was it... he was registered? It had been far simpler and more uneventful than he had imagined. No obstruction, no tests, none of those dramatic conflicts. Just a procedure of filling out a form, paying, and receiving a badge. The young clerk's attitude had not come from respect or confidence in him, but seemed more like utter indifference-as long as the most basic rules were met (there was probably a minimum age, and at ten he might have just qualified or fallen slightly below the usual standard, but his place of origin was clear and he could pay), it made no difference who came to register. Mercenaries were expendable, especially those of the lowest Gray Iron Rank.
He lowered his head to look at the rough, iron-gray insignia on his chest. Gray Iron Rank I.
This was his new starting point in Fenlai City, in this vast and cruel world. An insignificant starting point, noticed by no one, that he would have to fill with sweat and blood.
Clenching his fists, Loa turned and walked toward the wall covered with missions. First, he needed to take a careful look at just what those "Gray Iron Rank" missions were like, and how he should use the sword in his hand to carve out his first opening for survival.
The hall remained noisy and efficient, and no one noticed the thin boy who had just received his insignia. Amid that indifferent clamor, his life as a mercenary quietly began.
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