"...He looked like a monster, he was treated like a monster—what did you expect would happen."
Guiania – Guardian of the Tundra
Malaca had the peculiar habit of always buying the books that new adventurers brought from other regions. Historical data and fantasy were often mixed, making it hard to tell if what was written was real or simply fiction. It didn't help that in this world, the fantastical was always a constant possibility.
– They'll probably arrive in the afternoon.
The book in my hands was a sad story about an adventurer who became a possible wendigo due to some dungeon curse. In the end, he was killed before he could harm anyone, solely out of fear and suspicion over his transformation. It didn't seem like a historical account, and if I had to guess, it felt more like a well-written diary.
– Thank you, Malaca. I'll get ready.
Unfortunately, I still hadn't had enough time to craft my own instrument with the quality and style I wanted. But, as always, it would have to do. I closed the book and carried it to Malaca's room, placing it on one of the five shelves. I put it back exactly where I'd taken it from—it seemed to be the newest and best-made shelf, and I knew it had been built and finished by Arnald himself, a rare thing around here. – He was probably paying off some kind of debt to her, who knows.
There was still plenty of space to fill, which meant Malaca's greed was still alive. I had already asked if she had read all the books and, to my surprise, she had read barely any. Everyone in this world seemed to have a vice, and I understood that feeling. After all, nothing here was easy, and the wealthy almost always got there through sheer sweat and risk. A world in constant conflict between monsters and humans is always an anxious and disturbed one—in the end, I just understood Malaca. Maybe this need to always build a new musical instrument is my vice, my refuge, my opium. For today, I simply left the book and walked away without looking back.
– Malaca, do you have any news about our unknown guest?
I took advantage of a moment when we were clearly alone to ask, at least before I wouldn't be able to anymore. I must admit I was more anxious than I expected to be—after all, there was a new piece on the board, and I had no idea how it got there, its intentions, or its goal.
– Sorry, honestly everyone I asked seems just as lost as we are. However, since the meeting will be held here at the guild, I'll request Zomeia's presence. You might not know, but she has a deep understanding of this kingdom's laws—maybe she can help us avoid making a mistake.
I could tell from Malaca's tone that she was also anxious, and using her granddaughter to assist us was a form of reassurance she felt obliged to rely on. In this world, just like in mine, there are laws and rules, and to work in a guild—especially as an item and status appraiser—one had to study in the capital. Malaca couldn't explain it well, but I guessed Zomeia was the equivalent of a lawyer. Always alert to the rules and responsibilities of her role.
– Alright. Thanks anyway for trying.
– Don't worry, kid. Let's try to get this over with quickly.
Time didn't pass the way I'd hoped, and honestly, I felt like we waited longer than what had been agreed upon—dinner time was approaching when the nobles finally arrived.
– Okay… same kid and same elders. Nothing surprising. But where's the new guy?
The evening outside was rainy and dark, perhaps more than I expected. I usually looked up at the sky every day, but today I was too nervous. A gloomy day for a gloomy occasion.
– They're here. But where's the Platinum?
Zomeia's question was likely the one on everyone's mind. However, it didn't take long for the answer to come through the door—or try to. He wore a hood, and despite the room being well-lit, it was impossible to see his face. On his robe, at chest height, was a brooch I recognized—platinum, flawless, and distinct. – So that's what the Platinum emblem looks like.
The stranger was unusually tall, but since Malaca was also of the giant race, I wasn't shocked. What did strike me were his shoulders—too broad. So broad that he had to enter sideways, which he did with the ease of someone long used to not fitting through doors. But the most shocking of all was the sword strapped to his back: it was massive, almost dragging on the ground. Its blade was too thick to be for slicing—its width nearly 45 centimeters. My first thought was that he probably used it to crush and smash rather than cut.
— What the hell is that… — Zomeia muttered under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear.
There was fear in her voice—and Zomeia wasn't one to scare easily. As a certified appraiser trained in the capital, she saw things differently than we did. She could read mana flows, physical structures, magical signatures, and even anomalies. Whatever she saw in that man… unbalanced her.
Her expression hardened, and for a moment, her eyes turned to Malaca. Maybe she was comparing the two presences, gauging levels, or simply trying to convince herself she was mistaken. But her face said otherwise. She already knew who would win—and it wasn't Malaca.
The silence was broken by a strangely cheerful voice, completely at odds with the heavy atmosphere.
— Guild leader… Bard…! We've arrived! Where can we talk?
The bourgeois boy, grinning widely and dressed in fine clothes that clearly didn't suit the rain outside, walked in like he was entering a ballroom. The contrast with the tension in the room was so stark that his presence felt almost offensive.
Malaca took a deep breath and answered with forced courtesy.
— We can use the same room as last time. However… I see there's one more person with you. Could you introduce him to us?
Her tone was polite, but there was something in her eyes that warned me: caution. Even Malaca—who had dealt with figures from all castes and races—was choosing her words with the precision of someone walking on broken glass. She had felt it too. Him.
The bourgeois boy huffed, visibly irritated that things weren't going his way. But he seized the moment to puff up his ego with an introduction.
— Well… you're right, he wasn't with me last time. — He smiled, clearly pleased to have something new to show off. — Marcoriel… would you like to introduce yourself?
The name came out with an almost theatrical flair. And in that instant… something broke.
Malaca turned pale.
It wasn't just shock. It was as if all the blood had drained from her face. Lips parted, eyes wide — she knew that name. And from the surprised look on Zomeia's face, she didn't. Neither did I. But something about that name echoed in the air, like an ancestral bell ringing in our memories without us knowing why.
Then, the man moved.
With a slow, heavy motion, he raised his hands to the collar of his robe. As he lifted his arms, the muffled sound of metal plates scraping against one another spread through the hall — deep, drawn out, like the distant growl of a caged beast. The robe, held in place by the platinum brooch, fell with a soft snap, revealing the muted gleam of enchanted metal beneath the fabric. Then, with deliberate movements, he unbuttoned the mantle. Finally, he pulled back the hood.
And the world seemed to stop for a second.
He was… an angel.
Not an ethereal, glowing figure from holy scriptures — but a living entity of flesh, bone, and majesty. His hair fell in silver waves to his shoulders, catching the light like liquid silk. His skin was far too pale to be human. His pupils? Golden. Not amber, not honey — but true metallic gold, as if forged in a divine furnace. And behind him…
The wings.
Enormous, folded with effort to fit beneath the robe, they unfurled partially, revealing white feathers tipped in gold — some smudged with soot, as if they'd been scorched by the sky itself. The presence that once felt overwhelming was now nearly incomprehensible. It wasn't magic. It was… divinity compressed into mortal form.
Zomeia took a step back without realizing it.
I couldn't move. My fingers trembled.
Malaca? She was still silent, motionless, eyes fixed on Marcoriel like someone facing an impossible return.
He looked at us — not with arrogance, but with a calm so heavy it outweighed any threat. As if he didn't need to threaten. He simply was.
— Marcoriel, Guild Leader of Vex — he said, his voice deep, smooth, and yet capable of commanding the entire room.
My surprise only grew when I saw Malaca move — fast, precise. In a blink, she stood in front of Zomeia and me, a living wall, arms slightly raised in a combat stance. Her mana flared like an invisible veil, dense and vibrating, pressing the air around us.
— What the fuck is a Molok doing here? — she growled, voice taut like a bowstring ready to snap.
Molok.
The word hit hard. I finally understood. That being before us — that "angel" — was, in truth, a demon.
The space we were in, once filled with murmurs and the scent of cheap tobacco, sank into a silence that felt almost choreographed. There were no screams. No panic. Only an ancient, wordless reaction: flee.
Chairs creaked, coins clattered to the ground, unsteady footsteps echoed. Men and women who moments ago were drinking or playing cards simply stood and left, as if something primal had whispered in their ears: Don't stay. Run.
I wasn't sure what they were sensing.
Perhaps it was Malaca's battle stance, rigid like steel about to be forged in the heat of conflict.
Or maybe… it was something more subtle.
Maybe they saw in the Molok a fantastic enemy — feared, yet not understood — like the one from the book I'd read just hours earlier.
A being condemned by appearance and power, not by choice or deed.
But what stood before us… didn't feel like fiction.
Zomeia grabbed my arm.
Tightly.
With fear.
And that scared me more than anything else.
Because Zomeia was never afraid.
In my mind, the Molok had always been portrayed as vile, cruel abominations.
Child-devouring beasts, corrupted by their very existence. But now that I thought about it…
I couldn't recall a single physical description.
The stories always wrapped them in hate, in slurs and absolute sentences — "filth," "vermin," "mana-less scum"…
But no one ever said what they looked like.
And now… there he was.
My confusion, however, did not go unnoticed by the elders accompanying the young noble. One of them — a man with a long beard and half-lidded eyes — stepped forward with a calm that felt deliberately measured.
— Malaca, before doing something reckless, I suggest you… simply listen. — His voice was calm, but carried undeniable conviction. — We didn't come here to fight. And, with all due respect, you know you don't want to die today.
— Is that a threat, old man? — Malaca shot back with a growl, fists clenched, her mana pulsing like heat in the dead of winter.
The tension hit its peak. For a moment, the room felt far too small to contain so many clashing wills. Zomeia remained in complete silence, her eyes scanning everything in a frenzy. Me? I was paralyzed — caught between fear and curiosity.
That was when Marcoriel slowly raised his arms.
The metallic sound that echoed through the hall was pure weight.
Plates groaning, fastenings clinking, overlapping armor pressing against itself.
It was the sound of war folding in on itself… or holding back by a thread.
— I ask your forgiveness, young warrior. — His voice was firm, not arrogant, but with the solemnity of someone used to leading — and being obeyed. — It was never my intention to reveal myself this way. Honestly, I hadn't even planned to show myself. But here we are… ready to die for nothing.
There was a moment of hesitation. The kind of silence that isn't empty, but filled with swords waiting to leap from their sheaths. Malaca didn't reply — but she didn't attack either. That was enough.
— At the very least, allow me to introduce myself properly — he said, lowering his arms slowly, with restrained respect. — My name is Marcoriel, and I come from the kingdom of Versfar. I have no interest in battle. I didn't come here to kill. And, truthfully, I see no glory in taking lives over prejudice or misunderstanding.
Then he extended his hand — and in it, a scroll.
But not just any scroll. Its structure, its seals, the aura surrounding it… everything about it marked it as a status scroll.
— I'm here because of this.