The town of Wyrm's End didn't have an ordinary gate. Instead it had a toll booth made of piled ogre skulls.

The Iron-Horse Mark II rumbled to a halt in front of the barrier. A group of desert bandits, wearing mismatched armor made from giant scorpion chitin, blocked the path.

"Halt!" the leader shouted, spitting a wad of chewing tobacco onto the dry ground. He eyed the sleek, black metal of the carriage with naked greed.

"Entrance fee. Five hundred gold coins. And... we need to inspect the cargo. Safety regulations, you understand."

Inside the carriage, Leona growled, her hand reaching for the door handle. "Damn bandit! He wants to rob us.."

"Relax, Leona," Damien said, adjusting his collar.

He smoothed out his expensive black coat and put on a pair of sunglasses he had commissioned Brokk to make.

"We aren't warriors today. We are tourists."

Damien kicked the door open.

He stepped out into the heat, not looking at the bandits, but looking past them at the dusty, sprawling shantytown.

"My, my," Damien drawled, his voice pitched slightly higher, carrying the haughty arrogance of a capital noble.

"What a... rustic establishment. Is this really the famous Wyrm's End? It smells like wet dog."

The bandit leader frowned, stepping forward.

"Hey, pretty boy. I said five hundred—"

Damien snapped his fingers.

"Isabelle. Pay the man. And give him an extra hundred to wash his face. It's distracting."

Isabelle, playing the part of the dutiful maid perfectly, stepped out. She didn't use fire.

She didn't show her horns despite her anger. She simply pulled a heavy sack from the Void Gem and tossed it.

CLINK.

The bandit leader caught it. It was heavy. He opened it, and the golden glint of royal-minted coins reflected in his eyes.

"Six... six hundred?" The bandit stammered. He had expected a fight, or maybe a negotiation. He hadn't expected to be tipped.

"Keep the change," Damien waved a hand dismissively, climbing back into the carriage.

"Now, move this trash. We have a reservation at the finest inn. Assuming you have a finest inn."

The bandits scrambled to move the barricade, bowing and scraping like servants.

"Right this way, Young Master! Welcome to Wyrm's End!"

As the carriage rolled past, Leona looked at Damien, confused.

"Young Lord... why pay them? I could have snapped their necks for free."

"Because," Damien smirked, lowering his sunglasses. "Dead bandits attract guards. Instead we'll play as rich idiots attract guides."

"And where we're going... we're going to need people to walk in front of us."

Thinking of something, a sly smile appeared on Damien's face

........

[The Gilded Tusk Tavern]

Wyrm's End was a hive of scum and villainy, but even scum liked a drink.

The Gilded Tusk was the largest structure in town, a massive tent pavilion built around the ribcage of a long-dead Earth Dragon.

Inside, hundreds of mercenaries were drinking, gambling, and shouting. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of cheap ale.

When Damien's group walked in, the noise died down.

It wasn't just because they were new. It was because they looked expensive.

Damien, in his spider-silk coat. Isabelle, in her pristine maid uniform.

Lyra, hooded and mysterious. And Leona, carrying a massive greatsword on her back like it was a twig.

They looked like walking loot drops.

Damien ignored the stares. He walked straight to the bar, where a scarred Orc was wiping a glass with a dirty rag.

"I'm looking for information," Damien said, placing a single, large mana crystal on the counter.

The Orc stopped wiping. He looked at the crystal. It was worth more than the bar itself.

"What kind of info, Little Lord?" the Orc grunted.

"Dragons," Damien said loudly enough for the nearby tables to hear. "I want to see a Dragon. A big one. Red, preferably."

Laughter erupted from a table in the corner.

"He wants to see a dragon!" a man shouted. "Go look in a mirror, princess! Maybe you'll find a lizard!"

The man stood up. He was tall, handsome in a rugged way, clad in shining silver plate armor that looked far too clean for this desert. On his chest was the emblem of a lance piercing a moon.

The Silver Lance.

Damien's eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

'Silver Lance Party. A-Rank Adventurers. Specialized in Monster Hunting.'

'Leader: Kaelen. Peak 5th Order Knight. Arrogant, greedy, and skilled enough to survive the outer rim.'

In the power scaling of Elias, S-Class Adventurers (like Theron or Garrick) were 6th Order and above, they were literal walking catastrophes.

A-Rankers like Kaelen were the elite of the mortal world, strong enough to lead armies but weak enough to still care about gold.

'Perfect.'

Kaelen walked over, his boots clinking on the wooden floor. His team, 5th Order Mage, a Rogue, and a Priest followed him, smirking.

"You're a long way from the nursery, kid," Kaelen sneered, looming over Damien.

His Intent leaked out, a sharp, piercing pressure meant to terrify weaker beings.

"The Canyon isn't a petting zoo. You go in there looking like that, and the Wyverns will eat you alive. They might even use your little maid over there as a toothpick."

Isabelle's eyes flashed red for a microsecond, her hand twitching toward her skirt where she kept her daggers, but Damien placed a calming hand on her shoulder.

"Is that so?" Damien asked, feigning innocence. His Will Armament flared invisibly, effortlessly neutralizing Kaelen's pressure.

"But I heard there was a Dragon Nest. I have the money. I thought I could just... buy a tour."

"Buy a tour?" Kaelen laughed, slapping his knee.

"You hear that, boys? He thinks he can buy a dragon run!"

He leaned in close to Damien.

"Listen, rich boy. The Silver Lance is the only A-Rank team in this dump that has actually survived the Outer Rim. We charge five thousand gold just to step out the door. You couldn't afford us."

Damien smiled.

He reached into his Void Gem.

He didn't pull out a sack. He pulled out a chest.

THUD.

He dropped a heavy, iron-bound chest onto the bar counter. The wood groaned under the weight.

Damien flicked the lid open.

Golden light flooded the dim tavern. It was filled to the brim with gold bars, jewels, and artifacts looted from the Slaver Fortress.

The tavern went dead silent. Even the Orc bartender stopped breathing.

Kaelen's eyes bulged. The arrogance vanished, replaced by raw, unadulterated greed.

"Ten thousand," Damien said casually. "Up front."

He looked at Kaelen.

"I need bodyguards. Strong ones. Ones who aren't afraid to... go first."

"Are you interested, Sir Knight? Or are you too scared of the petting zoo?"

Kaelen swallowed hard. He looked at his team. They were practically drooling.

Ten thousand gold was enough to buy a lordship in the Human Empire. It was a retirement fund.

"We..." Kaelen cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "The Silver Lance is not afraid of anything."

He puffed out his chest, his eyes locked on the gold.

"For ten thousand... we will get you to the Nest. We will kill every beast in your way. We will even roast a dragon steak for you."

"Excellent," Damien snapped the chest shut. "We leave at dawn."

He turned to walk away, his team falling in step behind him.

As they exited the tavern, Lyra leaned in, whispering.

"You know they're going to rob us, right? An A-Rank party isn't going to be loyal for gold. Once we get into the canyon, they'll kill us and take the chest."

"I know," Damien whispered back, a cold smile playing on his lips.

"But the Canyon is full of traps. Rock Golems. Wyvern ambushes. Magma Pits."

"I don't want to waste my mana clearing the path."

He glanced back at the Silver Lance, who were already celebrating their 'luck' with rounds of expensive ale.

"Let them rob us. By the time they realize who the real predator is... they'll have served their purpose."

Damien adjusted his sunglasses.

"After all, I'm a generous employer. I'm paying them with their lives."

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