The air in the Averian Capital was thick enough to chew, a miasma of anxiety clinging tighter than the late summer humidity. War wasn't just impending. It felt like it had already seeped into the cobblestones, muting the usual market clamour. Conversations huddled in doorways, voices low, gazes skittish. People moved with a grim purpose, their paths tracing sharp, efficient lines from task to home, minimizing exposure to the city's frayed nerves. William absorbed the tension like a sponge, adding it to the already considerable weight settling in his chest. Survival. Understanding EMMA, specifically, its baffling energy consumption model. And figuring out how to contribute something beyond 'breathing opportunistically' to Julia and the others who kept pulling his technologically-inclined backside out of the fire. The project scope creep was getting ridiculous. Critical objectives, he thought, the term feeling both alien and familiar in this new context.

  First on the Gantt chart: legitimacy. Or, failing that, access. The Adventurers Guild.

  Julia shadowed him, her borrowed cloak pulled low, obscuring the fiery cascade of her hair, a beacon he usually found reassuring, now a potential liability. They kept to the less crowded side streets, her steps light but deliberate as they approached the Guild Hall, a solid, slightly intimidating timber-framed building marked by a shield bearing a crossed sword and staff. “Try to look like you belong,” she murmured, her voice barely disturbing the air. “Or at least, like you're not completely lost. The less attention, the better. Especially...” She didn't need to finish. The Blackcombes. Even unspoken, the name felt like a drop in barometric pressure.

  Right, William mentally added another bullet point to his internal 'Surviving Isekai 101' presentation slide. Task 35a: Navigate potentially lethal inter-family corporate politics disguised as medieval drama. Prerequisite: Don't spontaneously combust from stress. He shoved the heavy oak door open, bracing himself.

  The Guild Hall's common room hit him like a wave, as noisy and rowdy as it was the last time he was here. “Looking for Max,” William stated, pitching his voice to carry over the din towards the nearest occupied stool. A burly man, nursing an ale with a stained bandage tight around his forearm, gave him a brief, uninterested glance before jerking a meaty thumb towards the back counter without a word. Helpful.

  They navigated the human obstacles, earning a few curious looks but mostly ignored, and found Max behind a counter that looked like it could withstand a siege engine. He was exactly as William remembered: broad shouldered, red flushed faced, with arms like tree trunks straining the seams of his tunic. He was currently locked in a jovial argument with a lean, sharp-eyed woman clutching a small sack, jabbing a finger at a ledger. Spotting William and Julia approaching, Max's face split into a wide grin, his voice effortlessly cutting through the room's ambient noise.

  “Ha! The newcomer! Back for more, eh? Decided to make it official?” He waved them forward as the woman snatched her coin pouch with a satisfied sniff and melted back into the crowd. “Good timing! War drums are beating louder every day. Plenty of work for anyone not afraid to get their hands dirty... or bloody.”

  The registration process, William was morbidly pleased to note, lacked the soul crushing inefficiency of Earthly bureaucracy. No triplicate forms, no demand for his mother's maiden name or his blood type (though the latter might actually be relevant here), no soul destroying hold music. Positive process variance observed, he thought dryly. Estimated time saving versus Department of Motor Vehicles: 3-5 business days. Potential downside: Higher risk of workplace impalement.

  Max asked the basics: Name (“William”). Skills (“Uh... quick study? Good with... analysis?” William offered, feeling foolish. Max grunted, clearly unimpressed). Combat experience (“Minimal,” he admitted, figuring honesty was less likely to get him killed than fabricated bravado). Julia stood silently beside him, her gaze constantly sweeping the room, her shoulders tight with a tension that had nothing to do with the Guild itself.

  Finally, Max slapped a small, metallic disc onto the counter. It was about the size of an old silver dollar, cool to the touch. He muttered something guttural under his breath – verbal command, probably system initiation, and faint runes etched around the Guild's sword-staff-shield emblem pulsed with a soft, blue light. “Thumb. Right there.”

  William pressed his thumb onto the indicated spot. A faint warmth bloomed under his skin, followed by a peculiar tingling that zipped up his arm like static electricity. The runes flared brighter for a second, the blue deepening, before settling back into dormancy. Biometric authentication? Mana signature registration? Need more data.

  “Right then, William,” Max declared, his voice resonating with official finality. He picked up the disc and tossed it to William, who fumbled the catch slightly. “Welcome to the Adventurers Guild. Rank F.”

  The last two words seemed to echo disproportionately in the sudden lull that followed. A few nearby adventurers chuckled openly. Others shot him glances ranging from pitying amusement to utter indifference. Someone near the notice board definitely snickered.

  Heat flooded William's face. F-Rank. The absolute baseline. The null hypothesis of adventuring. Excellent. My initial performance indicator is officially 'Present and Accounted For'. Basically, a participation trophy in a world actively trying to dismember you. He could already picture the quarterly review: “William has successfully maintained vital signs throughout the reporting period. Key areas for development: Everything.” Statistically speaking, he wasn't even an outlier, he was the baseline measurement against which competence might eventually be gauged. Nowhere to go but up... or, statistically more likely given his current skill set, sideways into a shallow grave after miscalculating the threat assessment of a Goblin C-level executive.

  “Everyone starts somewhere, lad,” Max boomed, clapping William heartily on the shoulder. The impact sent a jolt down William's spine, and he staggered, catching the edge of the counter to stay upright. He heard Julia inhale sharply beside him. Max, oblivious, grinned. “Don't let the letter bother ya. War's coming, like I said. Dangerous times, but full of opportunity. Take jobs”, he gestured towards the chaotic notice board, “earn coin, get experience, get stronger. Pass the promotion exams when you feel ready. Simple.”

  “Simple,” William echoed faintly, rubbing his shoulder where the friendly blow had landed. It felt like being rear-ended by a small car. He slipped the cool metal disc, his official adventurer tag, his F-rank badge of minimal competence, into his pocket. It felt surprisingly heavy, a tangible anchor, however flimsy, in this swirling vortex of a new reality. “Thanks, Max.”

  As they stepped away from the counter, moving towards the relative anonymity of the hall's edge, Julia finally let out a slow, controlled breath. The tension in her shoulders eased fractionally. “Well,” she said, a tiny, wry smile playing on her lips as she glanced at him, her eyes still scanning their surroundings. “Rank F. Congratulations, you're officially one of us now.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  William managed a weak smile in return. “Technically true, though I suspect the operational capabilities between Rank A and Rank F involve slightly different standard deviations.” He tapped the pocket holding his new tag. “But yes. Step one: logged into the system.”

  They spent the remainder of that day and the next cautiously familiarizing themselves with more of the capital, Julia remaining hyper-vigilant, sticking primarily to the less ostentatious districts and keeping her hood firmly in place. The Commons District was a sensory overload, a vibrant, chaotic tapestry of sights, sounds, and smells. Merchants bellowed prices for everything from bruised apples to vials of suspiciously iridescent liquids ('Guaranteed Wart Removal!* (*Guarantee not legally binding)') while craftsmen hammered, sawed, and planed in open-fronted workshops. The air itself thrummed, a baseline frequency of anxiety overlaid with the stubborn, noisy resilience of people determined to live their lives even under the shadow of war. William found himself automatically scanning, observing. Worry lines etched deep around eyes, but shoulders squared with defiance. He caught snippets of conversation, inflated grain prices attributed to 'Blackcombe greed', whispers about scarce healing herbs, frustrated curses aimed squarely at Julia's family name. Their reputation for ruthless opportunism seemed universally accepted. Interesting, William noted mentally. Consistent negative sentiment towards a major economic power bloc. Potential indicator of instability or future conflict, independent of the external war. Whispers also hinted at friction within the Blackcombe ranks, disagreements over strategy or perhaps the division of spoils. Internal stakeholder conflict. Adds complexity, potential for unpredictable variables. Monitor.

  They skirted the imposing walls of the Military District. Here, the atmosphere shifted dramatically, disciplined, orderly, the air tasting of coal smoke and oiled steel. The rhythmic clang of hammers shaping metal in the armouries, the steady tramp of boots as drilled soldiers marched in formation, it all spoke of focused, lethal preparation. From a distance, they glimpsed the Royal District, all high, pale stone walls and opulent, turreted rooftops gleaming in the sun, a world utterly detached from the common struggle. Classic wealth distribution, William mused darkly. Some principles appear universal. Wonder if they've discovered trickle-down economics here too, or if they're still stuck on the 'hoard-it-all-like-a-dragon' model.

  Everywhere, the name Neverus, the Dark Lord, was a nauseating presence, spoken in hushed tones, a figure less of history and more of immediate, visceral dread. But why now? The question gnawed at William. After centuries of relative quiet, what catalyst had sparked this sudden, brutal offensive? No one seemed to have a coherent theory, just fear and speculation. The critical 'Why' is missing, he thought, frustration prickling. Without understanding the root cause, predicting strategic movement is just glorified guesswork. We're operating purely on effect-based data points with no established causal link. Compounding the external threat were anxious murmurs about King Bartam's failing health. A potential succession crisis loomed just as unity was most needed. Yet, despite the strain on resources, the visibly dwindling royal coffers mentioned in worried tones, loyalty to the ailing King himself seemed, paradoxically, strong among the populace.

  His own deficiencies felt glaringly obvious in the face of these large-scale problems. F-rank. Minimal combat skills. And the EMMA conundrum. Its analytical power was undeniable, game-changing even, but activating it left him feeling... drained. Not tired like after physical exertion, but hollowed out, like a battery run flat. The working hypothesis, EMMA consumed mana and lots of it. Therefore, the logical imperative was clear, Increase mana capacity and/or mana recovery regeneration rate.

  This conclusion led them, inevitably, to the Guild's library on the second floor. Quieter here, the air thick with the scent of aged parchment, dry dust, and beeswax polish. Tall shelves crammed with scrolls and hefty, leather-bound tomes lined the walls, forming narrow, shadowed aisles. An elderly librarian with a stern expression peered at them over half-moon spectacles, made a silent notation in a large ledger, and pointedly ignored them. Perfect.

  With Julia occasionally deciphering an archaic script or pointing out symbols related to magic, William began his research, explaining his objective in low tones. Based on the texts they managed to decipher, a frustrating mix of arcane theory, anecdotal evidence, and outright myth, the available paths to increasing one's mana pool seemed universally problematic.

  “Okay, Option One,” William summarized quietly, squinting at a brittle scroll depicting swirling, unstable-looking magical energies. “Constant Practice Method. Essentially, cast spells repeatedly until you approach system failure. In other words, pass out, recover, repeat. Push the operational limits to expand capacity.” He frowned, tracing a diagram showing a mage engulfed in crackling, uncontrolled energy. “High-risk, high-reward. Analogous to day-trading highly volatile crypto, except the potential downside isn't just financial ruin, it's potentially 'catastrophic mana backlash leading to spontaneous psychic disassembly'. Risk assessment: Sub-optimal.”

  Julia nodded, carefully turning the page of a thick book detailing magical anatomy. “It's the most common method for self-taught mages, but incredibly dangerous without proper guidance. Knowing your limits is... difficult, especially when you're actively trying to exceed them.”

  “Option Two,” William continued, flipping through a heavy, illustrated bestiary that, bizarrely, included a section on magically significant flora. “Magebloom.” He tapped a faded, colour-washed illustration of a delicate, glowing, almost ethereal flower. “The mythical performance-enhancing supplement. Supposedly supercharges mana reserves and regeneration.” He scanned the accompanying text. “Sounds promising. Single point of failure: Availability. Text notes: 'Considered functionally extinct,' 'Grows only in areas of extreme magical saturation, often guarded by apex-predator-level fauna,' 'Precise alchemical extraction and utilization methods lost to antiquity.'“ He sighed. “So, the project plan requires locating a resource with near-zero confirmed sightings, bypassing security measures likely capable of leveling a small town, and then reverse-engineering the operating instructions from fragmented, possibly mythical, ancient texts. Feasibility score: Approaching absolute zero.”

  “Magebloom is more legend than reality now,” Julia confirmed softly, her gaze distant, as if recalling an old story. “Something mages can only dream about.”

  “Right.” William leaned back against a dusty bookshelf, the smell of old paper filling his nostrils. “Option Three: Magical Artifacts.” He indicated a section detailing enchanted rings, amulets, staves, and other paraphernalia. “External power sources, essentially. Mana capacitors or channeling enhancers.” He skimmed the descriptions, noting the recurring phrases: 'Exceedingly Rare,' 'Of Ancient Make,' 'Commanding prices equivalent to a royal ransom.' “Ah, the enterprise-level hardware solution. Requires significant capital investment, likely exceeding the GDP of several small kingdoms, probably involves proprietary Elven tech with zero documentation or customer support, and is undoubtedly secured by individuals or entities capable of turning Rank-F me into a thin paste without breaking a sweat.” He rubbed his temples.

  “So, to summarize,” he muttered, mostly to himself, “the documented paths for mana enhancement are: potentially lethal repetitive stress injury for the soul, a scavenger hunt for a mythical flower using lost instructions, or acquiring unobtanium powered by plot magic.” He looked down at his F-rank adventurer tag, then back at the dense, frustratingly unhelpful texts surrounding them. “This requires lateral thinking. Or perhaps a radical acceptance of my current, abysmal power level.”

  Julia offered a sympathetic glance. “There might be other ways, William. Less... formal ones. Folk remedies, unique personal disciplines... but those three are the foundations most recognized mages build upon.”

  He felt the smooth metal of the Guild badge through his pocket lining. F-Rank. Limited mana. A baffling, energy-hungry system unique to him. A looming war threatening everyone. It wasn't much of a starting dataset. But it was his dataset. For an analyst unexpectedly rebooted into a world of swords and sorcery, even poor data was better than no data at all. The challenge, as always, was identifying the exploitable variables and figuring out the optimal strategy within the given constraints. He just hoped the learning curve wasn't literally fatal.