They returned to their seats in the waiting area while the receptionist took some time to briefly record the details she had witnessed during the duel. After a few moments, she asked Ace to accompany her upstairs. As the young girl stood to follow them, the receptionist halted her with a neutral expression. Yet, she spoke with a voice that blended politeness with firmness:
"Apologies, miss. According to guild policy, companions are not permitted to attend interviews with new applicants."
Emilia was surprised, but she held back her urge to object. A soft smile, both understanding and respectful, appeared on her face. Then she leaned toward Ace and whispered, as if to give him confidence and reassurance:
"Good luck."
Ace nodded with a smile. Emilia then returned to her seat, though she couldn't stop herself from watching his back as he walked away, silently wishing him strength in facing the imposing man upstairs.
Ace followed the receptionist up a wide staircase until they stood before a massive wooden door, its surface adorned with deep carvings. Its sheer size suggested it hadn't been built for an ordinary man to pass through. Ace stared at the door for a moment, feeling its weight even without touching it—crossing to the other side seemed more than just an interview.
The receptionist knocked three times in steady rhythm. Silence followed briefly, then a deep, gravelly voice echoed from within:
"Come in."
With a single touch, the receptionist opened the door smoothly, despite its size, as if it had been crafted to respond only to those with permission to enter. She walked in first, while Ace trailed one step behind, allowing himself a moment to prepare before facing the man who ruled this place.
Upon entering, the scene was both expected and unexpected. At the center stood a massive desk made of black polished wood, and behind it sat a man no less formidable than the room itself.
He was enormous—four times the size of an average man. Even while seated, he appeared as tall as a standing person, if not taller. His face was square-jawed, with a broad chin and piercing eyes devoid of any warmth. He had no beard, but his mustache was a terrifying spectacle—wide and curved at the ends like the horns of a massive bull, lending him an air of stern dignity.
He wore dark olive clothing that did nothing to hide his muscular build. His hardened features bore the marks of years of strife, as if time itself had carved furrows into his face. A tightly wrapped olive cloth sat on his head like a fabric crown, and at its center gleamed a red gem—shaped like a frozen teardrop—that caught the light from the large window behind him, flickering faintly.
His chair was a singular masterpiece, upholstered in what seemed to be crocodile leather. It was large enough to bear his weight but looked far from comfortable. Yet the man needed no comfort—he was the embodiment of discipline and decisiveness.
The room's ceiling was layered with white smoke. As the two entered, the man slowly extinguished his massive cigar, letting its smoke curl and dance into the air before gathering near the ceiling.
The receptionist stepped forward with a smile that resembled a child greeting her father. She handed him the application form with great care, as if afraid she might drop it. Then she leaned toward him and whispered something into his ear—an ear nearly the size of her head—before gracefully retreating with a respectful bow, leaving the man and the young applicant alone in an uneven confrontation.
The man's voice then rumbled with a weight carried by years of authority and experience:
"Have a seat."
Ace stepped forward and sat across from the desk, never taking his eyes off the man. The latter read the paper, holding it with scarred fingers. Only his eyes moved, scanning the lines and absorbing every hidden detail between the words. His brows rose slightly, as if something unexpected had caught his attention. Then he asked, with a voice tinged with curiosity:
"Ace Farland? May I ask which country you're from?"
Ace offered a faint smile—not defiant, but tinged with measured caution—and replied with quiet confidence:
"Forgive me, sir. Even if I told you, you wouldn't know it. It's a land very far from here."
The man leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, eyes narrowing as if trying to pierce through Ace's thoughts. Then he asked, in a deeper tone, like someone seeking an indisputable truth:
"Far like the sky, or far like the earth?"
Ace hesitated for a moment. The question wasn't ordinary—it was as if the man had carefully selected his words to extract a particular truth. Still, Ace answered, his voice unwavering and free of deceit:
"Farther than the stars."
The man leaned back, briefly closed his eyes as if weighing the echo of that response, then muttered to himself more than to the young man before him:
"Seems you're one of them…"
A heavy silence followed—not one of comfort, but of anticipation. Then the man broke it with a sudden question, a key that seemed to unlock a door Ace hadn't expected:
"Farland, were you ever a soldier?"
Ace's eyes widened in surprise. On the surface, the question was simple, but it struck like a precise blow, touching a part of his past he hadn't expected to revisit. He tried to remain composed, knowing the man before him wasn't someone easily deceived. Yet he steadied himself and replied with calm curiosity:
"May I ask, sir, what led you to think that?"
A sly smile crept across the man's lips—one that carried respect rather than mockery. His gaze revealed something deeper, like that of a seasoned hunter reading human faces as if they were old maps. He leaned forward once more, clasping his massive hands before his mouth, and said:
"When I meet someone for the first time—especially one aiming to become a rookie adventurer—I read more than what they say. Most people show involuntary signs under pressure: stammering, sweating, avoiding eye contact. But you, Farland… you're entirely different."
Ace's breath caught for a second, but he didn't let it disrupt his composure. He continued to meet the man's gaze with unwavering steadiness. The guild master continued:
"From the moment you entered, all I saw was caution and readiness. Your steps were measured, your shoulders tense, even your breathing… was precisely controlled. Those aren't casual habits. They're the result of rigorous training."
The weight of those words stirred echoes of a past not entirely forgotten. For a moment, images of ranks of soldiers, roaring cannons, the scent of scorched metal, and blood-soaked fields flashed before Ace's eyes. The man had struck true. With a sigh tinged with bitterness, Ace said:
"You're right, sir. I served in the army for about a year—maybe a bit more. I can't recall exactly. It was mandatory, actually."
The man raised his eyebrows, lips curling into a smile that was neither mocking nor warm—more a recognition of shared experience. He drummed his fingers on the desk before lighting another cigar, igniting it with a swift strike against his rough wrist. Taking a deep drag, he exhaled slowly, watching the smoke rise as he said:
"Then that makes us alike." He paused briefly, then continued with a more serious tone:
"Alright, Farland. Let's get to the heart of the matter. You possess decent magical energy, though you don't know how to use it. You performed well in your duel against that drunkard. With these results, you would be a valuable addition to the guild."
Relief began to seep into Ace's chest, only to vanish when the man spoke a single word—one that carried a heavy weight:
"But…"
Silence hung in the air. Then the guild master's tone sharpened:
"Many people enter this path to chase wealth. But from what I've heard, you're not after riches. You just want to gather a certain sum and then quit. Don't you think that disrespects the profession, the guild, and every person who risks their life out there?"
His words were like cold knives, slowly sinking into Ace's thoughts. How had he figured out his intentions so precisely? Ace hadn't hidden his desire to earn money, but he had never explicitly stated that he planned to stop after reaching a specific amount. Doubts filled his mind, yet he couldn't help but admire the man before him—a man who seemed to know everything about those knocking on his guild's door.
They stared at each other for moments until Ace finally spoke, his voice calm and firm:
"From what I understand, sir, adventuring is a profession one chooses freely—a means to fulfill personal goals, whether short-term or long-term. Whether someone continues or quits at some point, for any reason, it remains within the bounds of the freedom this path offers."
Silence followed. The man's face showed no clear reaction. He simply stared, studying Ace, measuring his confidence, searching for any sign of doubt or fear. Under such scrutiny, Ace remained still—his expression one of clarity and conviction. It wasn't a test for him, nor did he feel the need to prove anything.
Then, without warning, a deep laugh echoed through the room—thunderous, shaking the very walls and reaching every corner of the guild. Ace was momentarily stunned, his usual composure shaken by the sudden outburst. The contrast between the stern man from moments earlier and the one laughing heartily now was striking.
With a wide smile that revealed another side of him, the man said enthusiastically:
"What you said is true! Absolutely true! It's not about the correct or convincing answer—but the confidence with which it's delivered. Ace Farland, you're an intriguing person!"
He then opened a wooden drawer beneath his desk and pulled out a massive metal stamp—it looked more like a weapon than an administrative tool. Gripping it with his strong hand, he raised it high and said:
"You shall have what you seek!"
Then he slammed the stamp down on the paper in front of him with such force that the desk trembled. Even Ace felt the vibration reach his feet. The sound echoed in the room like an official proclamation: the moment of acceptance had arrived.
Only then did Ace understand why the paper was of such high quality, and why a man like the guild master needed a desk of such strength. A regular sheet would have torn. A normal desk would have shattered under that crushing blow.
The man then lifted the stamped paper, now small in his large fingers, and passed it to Ace, declaring clearly:
"Ace Farland, from this moment, you are an Iron-Ranked Adventurer."
Ace accepted the paper with respect, gazing down at it in his hands, feeling the weight of the decision, he had made. He rose from his seat, bowed slightly, and said:
"Thank you for granting me this opportunity, sir."
The man responded with only a nod, signaling the end of the interview. Ace turned and headed for the door. Upon opening it, he found the receptionist waiting nearby. Her eyes radiated pride—she didn't need to ask or even glance at the paper. The sound of the stamp had told her everything.
That sound was more than metal hitting paper. It was an announcement—the welcoming of a new adventurer.
She gently reached out and accepted the paper from him, giving it a quick glance before looking up at him with a soft smile. She said nothing, but her eyes held something else—a mix of respect and professional admiration.
Her feelings toward him, in that moment, were unlike those she had for other adventurers. None of them had ever passed all three tests so flawlessly. It was clear: this young man was no ordinary applicant. He had a bright future ahead—as a true adventurer. That's what the employee thought anyway.
After that, the two of them descended to the administrative floor. The moment Ace's feet touched the ground, Emilia leapt from her seat and hurried toward him, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. Her gaze alone could have said everything, but even so, she asked with burning eagerness:
"How did it go?"
Ace smiled faintly and simply nodded without uttering a word. That was enough to dispel all the anxiety in her heart at once. In that moment, her features lit up with joy, her smile widened until it seemed to radiate pure pride and happiness, and her heart danced with delight over this awaited success.
At that moment, a staff member opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a small, rectangular metallic piece, no larger than the palm of a hand. Its surface was smooth and slightly reflective. She gently placed it on the desk, then raised both her palms slightly above it.
She closed her eyes, as if diving into a deep state of concentration. Her features tensed slightly, as though summoning some hidden force. The scene resembled the beginning of a ritual. Ace couldn't help but stare with fascination, his eyes flicking between the metallic piece and the staff member's lips as she muttered unintelligible words. Then, Emilia whispered with excitement, explaining:
"She's preparing your adventurer identification card."
Hearing that, Ace stepped closer, eager to witness how this blank metal piece would transform into a personal ID without the use of any tools.
Soon, a warm glow began to emanate from between the woman's palms, accompanied by a faint white steam rising from the metal surface, carrying the scent of heated iron. Ace realized that what he was witnessing wasn't ordinary—it was magic, something new to him, made visible in its most captivating form. On the metal's surface, strange inscriptions and symbols began to form slowly, as if being etched from nothingness, in the same script used in this civilization. Ace couldn't look away, his eyes wide with the wonder of a child seeing magic for the first time, mesmerized by every detail, every flicker, and every wisp of steam.
For him, this was his first real encounter with magic. It wasn't a lesson or a combat technique—it was something visual, unfolding before his eyes. Meanwhile, Emilia watched him with a joyful look. She wanted to tell him that the magic used in the process was earth-elemental, a rare skill known as metal inscription, mastered by few and required for staff on this floor. Still, she chose silence, letting him savor the moment in quiet admiration of this mysterious power. She simply covered her mouth with her hand to contain her overflowing joy as she watched the expressions on his face—expressions rarely seen on any grown man.
Moments later, the staff member finished the inscription process. She exhaled deeply, as if shedding the burden of hard work. She gently dabbed her forehead with a silk handkerchief, leaving behind a trace of warm floral perfume mingled with the scent of hot metal. Then, with delicate hands, she picked up the metallic piece she had crafted, held it up to her eyes, and examined it closely—her gaze gliding over every detail like an artist evaluating her masterpiece before presenting it.
A few moments of silence passed before her features finally softened. A smile of relief formed on her face, blending pride with satisfied weariness. Then, with a composed and respectful gesture, she extended both hands and offered the metallic piece with a proud smile, her voice formal yet warm:
"Here you go, Mr. Ace. This is your identification card. From this moment on, you are officially an Iron-rank adventurer. Welcome to the Trust Guild!"
Upon receiving the card, Ace turned it over slowly in his hands, inspecting the fine edges and its smooth surface that reflected the room's light in silence. It radiated a sense of formality, as though it hadn't merely been crafted, but sculpted with great care. The engravings on it were not random—they followed an artistic pattern that hinted at a long tradition in adventurer ID card crafting.
But what astonished him more than the card's quality was something he hadn't anticipated—his own image. His features, the details of his face, were etched onto the card with stunning precision. It wasn't just his name or an identification number—it was a near-lifelike portrait, as if someone had spent hours painting him with the brush of a master artist. He knew well that capturing human features required far more effort than writing or ornamentation. How could it be done with such detail? With such technique?
The staff member then pulled out a thin metal chain, dark gray in color, and attached it to a small medallion bearing the guild's emblem. She handed it to Ace with a smile, giving him his adventurer's badge.
Emilia had been watching the whole scene in silence, but her eyes gleamed with a mix of emotions. When she saw the ID card in his hands and the adventurer's badge resting on his chest, a warm wave of pride surged through her, flowing like a current of memories. She hadn't expected that bringing him to the guild would stir such feelings in her. Yet, in that moment, as she watched him standing before her, she felt as though she had returned to something she had always belonged to.
For a brief moment, it felt like she had never left the adventurers' circle, despite the many years that had passed since her small feet last stepped into the guild. She wondered what the true reason was behind this sudden nostalgia. Was it her constant interaction with adventurers visiting her shop? Or was there something special—something inexplicable—about the young man himself? She found no clear answer, but she felt that knowing him had changed something inside her—something she couldn't quite define.
After a moment, Ace looked up at the staff member and asked in a soft voice, tinged with curiosity:
"Does the ID card grant any special privileges?"
The staff member smiled and nodded before beginning a detailed explanation. She told him that the cards weren't just identification—they could open city gates, grant entry into other kingdoms and regions without the usual travel tolls. In essence, despite their simple appearance, they served as a passport of sorts for adventurers—a formal recognition by the guilds of their status and role in society.
After her explanation, Emilia raised a finger to add something that hadn't yet been mentioned:
"It's true they don't pay entry fees, but foreign adventurers are taxed on the rewards they earn."
She said it in a seasoned tone, then continued:
"Guilds deduct taxes directly from the adventurers' earnings and forward them to local governments. That way, adventurers aren't burdened with accounting—they're terrible at it anyway—and it keeps the relationship between guilds and the countries in steady balance."
Ace listened attentively. He hadn't realized that a simple card carried behind it such a complex system of international agreements and responsibilities. It became clear to him that the adventurers' world was much deeper than he had imagined.
The staff member then continued enriching the new adventurer's understanding, explaining in detail:
"It's worth mentioning that the volume of requests and their corresponding rewards vary from one country to another, based on local and societal conditions. In countries plagued—unfortunately—by numerous problems, requests are constantly increasing. People flock to submit complaints and summon brave adventurers capable of intervening. Yet, despite this rise in demand, the rewards tend to be limited, sometimes even modest. That's simply because so many adventurers are willing to accept requests, even when the pay doesn't match the effort. This competition drives them to accept anything just to stay active. On the other hand, the situation is completely different in countries that enjoy relative peace or where unusual incidents are rare. In such places, request boards are rarely updated and may remain empty for days. Adventurers are few because there's little need for them. However, despite the scarcity of requests, those that do appear carry significant value—generous rewards, not just in money, but sometimes fame, influence, or even special privileges. Still, due to the small number of adventurers, these requests are more selective and demand high competence and notable experience."
After all this information, Ace realized he now held a ticket that allowed him to travel to distant lands. The card he received during his registration had become an unexpected advantage—not something he had actively sought, but a direct result of embarking on this path full of surprises.
When he asked whether he could begin accepting requests right away, the staff member's eyes widened. Though surprised, she stayed silent, but Emilia's swift outcry came first. Her face showed genuine concern and frustration as she shouted, her voice sharp and emotional:
"What are you saying?! Haven't you used up all your magical energy?! You took a serious hit from that man, and you're barely standing! Are you really thinking of taking on a request in this state?! Please, Mr. Ace, take care of yourself—don't be so reckless!"
Her words came straight from the heart, filled with sincere, almost childlike worry, as if she saw in him someone dear, she couldn't bear to see harmed. Ace remained silent, eyes lowered to the floor, his face marked by regret and embarrassment, as though her words had awakened a sense of responsibility, he had nearly neglected.
Emilia sighed deeply, then added after a brief pause:
"Besides, adventurers aren't allowed to take on requests on the same day they register."
Upon hearing this, Ace turned toward the staff member, who confirmed Emilia's words in a firm, official tone:
"That's correct. New adventurers may begin accepting requests starting the morning after their registration date. The first day is reserved for rest and familiarization with the systems and guidelines."
Her words were final, leaving no room for argument. Ace understood he had to wait—just one day. Still, he couldn't ignore the sense of urgency weighing on him, reminding him to resume his journey quickly. Yet, he didn't allow himself to sink into negativity or stagnation. He smiled lightly—a smile more of gratitude than joy—and offered sincere thanks to the staff member who had helped him.
Then, he turned and walked with steady steps, heading toward the stairs to leave the guild. But just before he reached the stairwell, Emilia called out to him in a low, firm voice, asking him to accompany her through the visitors' exit instead, hoping to avoid passing through the main hall below, where tensions were still high and the atmosphere charged.
Ace understood her intention and nodded in agreement. Once they stepped outside into the fresh air, he turned to Emilia and told her in a casual tone, though with a hint of hidden seriousness, that he intended to browse some shops—tool shops, crafting workshops, and even those dealing in exotic item exchanges.
Emilia inquired not out of curiosity or intrusion, but from a sincere desire to help. She gently asked what kind of items he was looking for. In response, Ace remained silent—not because he was unwilling to answer, but because he genuinely didn't know how to explain what he was searching for. He lacked the precise technical vocabulary and couldn't describe the issues using specific terms. All he knew was that some of the wires had melted under extreme heat, causing a partial failure in the engines. This malfunction led to an additional load on the remaining engines, which had likely sustained damage as well—perhaps more than he could even repair.
He stood there, caught between confusion and resolve, feeling as though the ground beneath him was shifting slowly. Deep down, he believed he would find a way to fix his ship, that there was still hope—no matter how faint—that he could fly again. Yet now, standing in that moment, he found himself steeped in doubt. Did he truly know what he needed? Even if he suddenly had all the resources, could he repair it? Did he have enough knowledge? These questions echoed in his mind like a voice in a barren canyon, with no clear answers in sight. And yet, he was not ready to give up.
Then, amid the darkness veiling his spirit, he felt something faint… a small flicker of light. Perhaps it was hope—fragile as a candle resisting a stormy night—but it was enough to awaken something dormant within him. That feeling was tied to the mysterious force, the alluring concept he had yet to fully comprehend: magic energy. It seemed to hold within it possibilities beyond his imagination.
With eyes gleaming from deep contemplation, he wondered whether that person had traveled among the stars using this energy. If that were true—and if he himself possessed the same power—then maybe, just maybe, he could learn to harness it, to control it, to direct it as he wished. To travel. To cross planetary barriers. To find her.
After all this reflection, he returned to the moment where a response was owed to the young girl, who was still waiting for his words. He thanked her with sincerity that came from his heart, not just his tongue. With a warm, gentle voice free of pretense, he explained that he wasn't sure—not about what he wanted, nor about what he might find. Then, trying to inject a hint of hope into his tone, he added that for now, he simply wished to spend his time in town gathering as much knowledge and information as he could.
Emilia understood, her lips curving into a small smile that bloomed like a flower challenging the morning chill. She nodded quietly and told him, with a voice filled with warmth and reassurance, that she would await his return. He smiled back and asked her not to worry if he was late, as he intended to visit as many places as possible—to search, to inquire, to investigate. She told him not to overexert himself and mentioned that she would head to the market to buy ingredients for a delicious dinner—to restore his energy and prepare him for his first mission the next day.
And so, they both set out together toward the market. At a fork in the road, they parted ways. Emilia walked confidently toward the vegetable and meat section, moving among the vendors, selecting only the finest produce, their leaves still glistening with droplets of water, and choosing the tenderest cuts of meat with an experienced eye. She knew how to bargain—gently when the seller was honest and offered quality worth the price, and firmly when she sensed deceit.
As for Ace, he headed toward shops that sold tools and peculiar items with unknown names and purposes. Some were crowded with oddly shaped objects, others filled with tools that looked centuries old. He wandered for hours, entering and exiting shops, asking questions, examining every detail with sharp eyes.
He continued his search well into the night. The sky darkened, the air grew colder, and the streets became quieter. When his body could no longer bear the weight of his steps, he decided to return. Upon arriving home, he was greeted at the door by Emilia, wearing a simple cotton apron damp with steam rising from the dishes she had just finished preparing. Her hair was hastily tied back, with rebellious strands casting shadows over her flushed cheeks, warmed by the kitchen heat.
In that moment, her figure seemed to emit a soft light—not from the flickering candles, but from something within her, something difficult to explain or define.
Ace paused, his expression clouded with confusion. He wondered silently—was fatigue distorting his perception? Was his vision so blurred that he imagined such a strange glow? Or did the girl truly possess a special aura, a radiance that didn't belong to this place or time? He blinked several times, and with each blink, the glow faded gradually, as if it had never been there. Still, whether real or imagined, it felt as though that light was made just for her—as if she had been born to wear it.
He climbed the stairs slowly, and upon entering the upper level, he was met with an unexpected sight. The wooden table was covered from edge to edge with plates and bowls, each dish brimming with vibrant food, their aromas invading the senses and reviving the appetite.
Colors danced before his eyes—from the lively green of vegetables to the golden crisp of meat, to the warm soup still sending up waves of steam like gentle tides.
Emilia stood proudly beside the table, chin slightly raised, hands on her slender hips. In that pose, she looked like a seasoned chef presenting her masterpiece to a panel of judges. Her features radiated confidence, and her smile carried a spark of challenge as she said with spirited enthusiasm:
"I prepared this meal with great care—a balance between restoring energy and accelerating physical recovery."
Ace could only thank her shyly; his tone filled with gratitude and hesitation. Then, gazing at the sheer amount of food, he added:
"You must've spent a lot of money on all this…"
Emilia waved her hand as if to dismiss the thought itself and replied firmly yet kindly:
"Forget the money. Health is priceless, and the body cannot be replaced with gold."
They sat together at the table and began eating in a comfortable silence. Only the sound of utensils and dishes filled the room. Then Emilia broke the quiet with a simple question:
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
A moment of hesitation passed before he answered. A trace of quiet sorrow appeared on his face, as if concealing a deep disappointment. He replied softly:
"No… I didn't find anything close to what I needed."
As he swallowed another bite, he suddenly looked at her and asked a question that seemed unrelated—yet it had emerged from long hours of reflection:
"Do you think adventurers—or those they call sorcerers—have the ability to fly? I mean… using magical energy?"
Emilia raised her eyebrows in mild surprise, but she didn't laugh or mock him. Instead, she gently placed her hands on the table and replied thoughtfully:
"Actually… I think so. I haven't seen it with my own eyes, but I've heard that some sorcerers can fly. But it's not quite how you imagine. Most of them use the wind element, which allows them to lift their bodies using air currents. But that's not real flight in the strictest sense—it's more of external assistance from the element itself."
She paused briefly, then continued with a more focused tone:
"As for those who fly using their staffs, that's something different. Somehow, they channel their magical energy into the staff, making it float off the ground. Of course, they ride it to fly. I can imagine that some of them have mastered lifting their own bodies directly using the same principle, without any tools. But I don't understand why this isn't more common. Most likely, flying is an extremely rare skill, learned only by a few sorcerers—those who have dedicated their lives to understanding this level of energy control. As for adventurers, they usually lack that kind of specialization—their energies are mostly geared toward combat, not soaring through the air."
Her answer, though imaginative, was grounded in logic. It didn't offer a direct solution to the confusion burning in his mind, but it served a greater purpose in that moment. It opened new doors of possibility and pushed his thoughts toward paths he had never considered.
It awakened in him a strange sense of what might be possible—of finding a way out of his crisis, somehow, even if the path wasn't yet clear. Her words were like a faint light in a long tunnel, suggesting that a way existed, and that he needed only to run toward it with all his strength—because time was not on his side. Every moment that passed seemed to subtract from his chances of success.
When they finished eating and cleaned the dishes, Emilia began gently extinguishing the candles one by one. There was no need for questions, and Ace felt no urge to ask why she was ending the night so early. Her hand moved softly over each flame, quieting them as if she were silencing the noise of the entire day.
Although her face showed no signs of weariness, Ace understood without being told—she wanted to end this day so he could rest early. She knew that tomorrow would mark the beginning of a new chapter in his journey.
Later, Ace took a warm bath that seemed to wash away all the exhaustion of the day. As he emerged, Emilia, holding a candle, reminded him in a warm yet firm tone to get deep, restful sleep if he truly intended to embark on his first mission the next morning.
She also told him that she had prepared new clothes for him—different from what he had worn before. They were adventurer's garments, fit for someone about to begin his first quest. Clothes that would present him in a more respectable and compelling light. She believed, as her words made clear, that appearance mattered as much as spirit. He had to look like a real adventurer—not just someone pretending. He had to convince others that he had what it took, even if he didn't yet. A strong impression could make all the difference—it could open doors or close them.
After that, they exchanged simple words—words that carried more meaning than they appeared to. They wished each other a peaceful night, and then the doors closed.