The guild master stood still.
Silent.
One hand rested on the counter. Eyes lowered. Face unreadable. The air around him seemed to slow—thicker, heavier.
Then he sighed.
Long. Tired.
Without lifting his head, he turned his gaze toward the emperor.
Charles rose quietly from his seat.
He stepped forward, calm but deliberate, until he stood across the counter.
"Guild Master," Charles said, voice steady. "May I handle this… personally?"
The room tensed.
Even Lao, eternal and unmoved, tilted his head. Just slightly.
Charles met the guild master's gaze. "I believe I'm the best one for the job. Let me take the quest."
For a moment, nothing.
Then the guild master reached beneath the counter and placed a silver form between them. Thin. Formal. Glowing faintly at the edges.
"Fill it out," he said. "You'll need three active members to refer you."
Charles nodded. "Understood."
The guild master turned slightly. "Raka."
The hobgoblin stepped forward.
"Take the girl to recovery. Make sure she has whatever she needs."
"Yes, boss."
Raka lifted Lina gently, cradling her with practiced care, and disappeared up the stairs.
The tavern settled again into its strange, respectful quiet.
Charles took the form and turned to the bishop beside him. "Bishop Rafayel. Will you refer me?"
Rafayel was already smiling. "Done." He tapped the form—his name already scribbled at the bottom in graceful loops.
Charles gave a brief nod of thanks.
Heavy boots thudded across the floor. A dwarf approached from the back, vest covered in etched runes, beard braided thickly down the middle. A war axe hung across his back like an afterthought.
"Morlas," Rafayel greeted him. "Still making bombs in the basement?"
"Only ones that scare dragons," the dwarf grinned. Then to Charles: "Emperor. Saw what you did earlier. If you're serious…"
He took the form and stamped his signature with a thumbprint rune that glowed for a beat.
"You've got me."
Charles nodded again. "Thank you."
Then came the soft click of heels. The red-haired woman stood from her booth, flipping her pipe in one hand, smoke coiling around her like it obeyed her mood.
She strolled over. No rush.
Wordlessly, she picked up the form and signed it.
Charles raised an eyebrow. "Elizabeth III?"
She gave a half-smile. "Some days."
Then, with a wink: "But yes. I sign."
Three names.
Charles set the form on the counter.
The guild master took it, read it once, then reached into his robe and pulled out a small silver plate engraved with a rune older than kingdoms.
He pressed it between his fingers.
"Quest accepted. Authorization granted."
A soft flash lit the space between them.
Charles tucked the plate into his cloak.
Then turned.
No one said a word as he crossed the tavern.
He opened the door.
And stepped out into the night.
The heavy wood closed behind him with a soft click.
And the moment it did—his eyes hardened. His steps sharpened.
No ceremony. No fanfare.
But a storm had been declared.
And this time…
It walked on two legs.