"Escort mission under the royal crest?" he asked, stopping in front of them. His gaze swept the group, assessing, but polite. "That's a rare report to hear delivered in person."

Oliver shrugged. "We're old-fashioned like that."

The man's brow twitched — a faint smile ghosting his lips. "I see. I'm Deputy Master Varick. Follow me, please. We'll handle this in a private chamber."

The four followed him through the busy hall. Oliver couldn't help glancing around again — the chatter, the scent of smoke and drink, the sound of laughter echoing off high ceilings.

*****

They entered a quiet side room — walls lined with bookshelves, a circular table in the center. Varick motioned for them to sit, then pulled out a stack of parchment.

"I've already been informed by the Valtaine branch regarding your last assignment," he began. "But their report lacked certain details. I'd appreciate it if you could fill in the blanks."

Oliver nodded. "Sure. Where should I start?"

"The beginning would be helpful," Varick replied dryly.

So Oliver recounted the tale — the escort mission, the endless monster attacks, the drake battle, the collapse of the ruin, and finally, the discovery of the ancient construct. He kept things brief but clear, skipping unnecessary embellishments.

Varick didn't interrupt once. Only when Oliver finished did he exhale slowly.

"I see," he said at last. "That explains the royal notice we received yesterday."

"Royal notice?" Isolde asked.

Varick nodded. "Her Highness Elisha has already filed a statement recognizing your party's contribution. She's also requested your names to be placed under the royal protection registry."

Oliver blinked. "Royal… protection?"

"It means," Varick said, sliding a paper toward him, "you're considered assets of value to the crown. No noble or organization within Hestia's borders may harass or recruit you without direct royal approval."

"Sounds fancy," Oliver muttered.

Ariana smiled softly. "It's more than fancy. It's a huge honor."

Oliver scratched his cheek. "I don't know about honor. Just sounds like more paperwork to me."

Varick chuckled faintly. "Perhaps. Still, congratulations are in order. I'll also have your guild ranks updated. Based on the mission difficulty and report, you're being promoted — all of you."

"Promoted?"

Varick nodded. "From C-rank to A-rank, effective immediately."

Ariana gasped softly. "A-rank…?"

Oliver blinked. "That's… a big jump."

"Royal escort missions are the kind of assignments that take years off a normal adventurer's life," Varick said, signing a form. "You survived one. You earned it."

He handed them each a new adventurer card — smooth black metal with a glowing insignia.

"Welcome to the upper ranks," he said with a small smile. "Try not to die too soon."

Oliver smirked. "I'll do my best."

As they stepped out of the room, Ariana was still staring at her card in disbelief. Isolde, of course, looked unfazed — she'd already been S-class long ago.

Seraphine glanced curiously at the small metal card in Oliver's hand.

"Identification token?"

"Sort of," Oliver said, grinning. "Proof that we're officially badass."

"Bad…ass?"

Ariana covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. "Don't ask. Please."

They stepped back into the bustling hall.

The noise, the heat, the smell — it all hit them again.

But this time, they weren't just nameless wanderers walking through the crowd.

They were A-rank adventurers.

And though Oliver tried to play it cool, a small smile tugged at his lips.

"Alright," he said, stretching lazily. "Now that that's done—"

"Let me guess," Isolde cut in. "You're going to say food or drink again."

He grinned. "Both. And maybe a long nap after that."

*****

The tavern was warm, loud, and alive — the kind of place where laughter drowned out thought and the smell of alcohol hung thick in the air.

After filing their report and collecting their rewards, Oliver and his party had decided — unanimously — that it was time to celebrate.

And celebrate they did.

The table was a battlefield of empty mugs and overturned plates, littered with half-eaten food, splattered sauce, and spilled ale. The four of them sat there, surrounded by noise and song — adventurers singing bawdy tunes, dice clattering, laughter echoing off the rafters.

Oliver leaned back in his chair, grinning stupidly, one arm over the backrest. "You know… I don't even remember what victory tastes like anymore, but I think it's this."

Isolde giggled — actually giggled — cheeks flushed pink, silver hair falling loosely around her face. "You're… hic… sentimental when you drink."

"I'm honest when I drink," Oliver slurred, holding up his mug. "That's different."

Across the table, Ariana had both arms on the table, cheek pressed against them, smiling in a hazy daze. "I think… I think the room's spinning," she mumbled, giggling softly.

"It's not spinning," Oliver said solemnly, blinking slowly. "It's… celebrating with us."

Isolde snorted so hard she nearly fell off her chair. "Oh gods… you're drunker than I thought."

Oliver raised a lazy finger. "Correction: we're drunker than I thought."

And they all burst out laughing again — except for one.

Seraphine sat perfectly straight, hands folded neatly on the table, her expression calm and unchanging. Her untouched mug of ale sat in front of her.

Oliver glanced at her between hiccups. "You know, you're supposed to drink, right? That's… that's the whole point of being here."

Seraphine blinked. "Alcohol detected. Composition: ethanol, sugars, trace minerals. Ingestion: inefficient. Converts to energy in 0.6 seconds."

Ariana looked up, eyes half-lidded. "You mean… you can't get drunk?"

"Negative," Seraphine replied calmly. "Intoxication classified as system error. Automatic correction initiated."

Oliver groaned. "You're telling me you've got built-in hangover resistance?"

"Affirmative."

He slumped back in his chair. "Unfair. You're cheating at life."

"Incorrect," Seraphine said with perfect seriousness. "I am merely efficient. My body converts anything ingested into pure form of energy."

******

The laughter around them continued — until a different kind of voice cut through it.

"Well, what do we have here?"

Oliver's head lolled lazily toward the sound. A group of men — rough-looking, heavy build, scars and smirks — had approached their table. Drunk, swaggering, with the gleam of trouble in their eyes.

Five of them.

"Three pretty girls, one half-dead guy," one sneered, leaning against a post. "You ladies bored? How about we keep you company?"

Isolde lifted her mug with a lopsided smile. "Already… got company."

Another man grinned, eyes roaming where they shouldn't. "Yeah, but he looks about ready to pass out. Why don't you—"

The words never finished.

Seraphine stood. Slowly. Gracefully. Her chair scraped back across the floor with a faint screech.

She stepped between the men and the table, head tilting slightly — like a cat regarding an insect.

Oliver blinked drowsily. "Sera… don't… start trouble…"

"Correction: not starting. Preventing."

The first man snorted. "Oh, come on sweetheart—"

And then bang.

The sound was like a thunderclap.

Her fist connected with his jaw, and the man's entire body lifted off the ground, spinning once before crashing into a table three meters away. Wood splintered. Beer sprayed.

For a heartbeat, the tavern froze.

Then the others lunged — or tried to.

Seraphine moved faster than eyes could follow.

A single sidestep. A twist. A punch to the gut that sent one gasping for air and slamming against the wall. Another swung wildly — she caught his wrist, bent it backward, and drove her knee into his ribs. The crack was audible.

A fourth tried to grab her from behind — she spun, heel snapping upward, catching him clean under the chin. Teeth flew.

The last one hesitated — eyes wide — before she grabbed him by the collar and flung him across the table. He slid face-first into the floorboards, unmoving.

And just like that… silence.

Dead silence.

Every mug, every song, every whispered conversation in the tavern stopped cold.

Seraphine stood in the middle of it all — untouched, breathing steadily, her silver hair perfectly still. Her soft voice broke the silence.

"Threat neutralized."

Dozens of eyes watched her in stunned horror.

Oliver, meanwhile, was blinking through the haze. "...Remind me never to piss you off."

Isolde, still swaying slightly in her chair, giggled. "You'd… lose a tooth or two."

Ariana was face-down on the table, mumbling something that sounded like "go Seraaa…"

Seraphine blinked once, looking between them. Then she murmured to herself:

"Master appears unresponsive. Companions intoxicated. Best course of action: relocation."

She walked to the door, waved down a carriage waiting outside, then returned.

"Come," she said simply, helping Oliver to his feet with mechanical precision.

He mumbled, "You're… strong… really strong…"

"Affirmative."

Isolde leaned on her shoulder, half-conscious. "Get us… hic… to an inn."

"Command accepted."

She lifted Ariana with surprising gentleness, guiding the three of them outside while the entire tavern stared in open disbelief.

The driver of the carriage blinked as she loaded them in. "Uh… where to?"

Seraphine looked straight ahead.

"Nearest inn with clean bedding."

And with that, the carriage rolled off into the lamplit streets — leaving behind five broken men, a silent tavern, and one terrified bartender who decided then and there that he would never, ever flirt with quiet girls again.

********

Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.