Pell wasn’t exactly what you’d call an average adventurer. Yet, here he was, about to walk into the Adventurer’s Guild. Officially, he was a commissioner—the kind of person who paid others to take on quests he didn’t want to handle himself. Aside from the guild itself, only people like him could make commissions, which first involved going through a rigorous verification process.

  Four years had passed since he stepped into the hall. Four long, lonely years. All the while, he could only think about two things: escape, and the woman he had left behind, the daughter of his former caretaker.

  Back on the first layer, Elara was still occupied with the arrogant, snobbish noble who had constantly harassed her and the orphanage. Pell could still picture the man’s smirk, the way he looked at Elara, with something between lust and entitlement. How Pell wished he’d plucked the man’s eyes out while he had the chance.

  Pell had become a merchant for Elara’s sake, working his way up the layers in search of wealth to make life easier for her. But those years of being locked in a dungeon had left her fate, along with his old life, uncertain.

  Was she alive?

  That question bothered him daily.

  Then there was Enya. She had come along when he’d least expected it, a young girl from a noble house—A high-noble house. She was naive, wide-eyed, and sometimes exasperating, but in the end, she had saved him, giving him something he’d thought he had lost for good: a purpose—and another chance—his third chance.

  Now, with the two of them aboveground in Talo, he found himself temporarily free from his duties as Enya’s teacher, chaperone, and occasional voice of reason. She was off with her new acquaintances, Berry and Manny, getting ready for some overblown tournament, which left him with time to settle some matters he had neglected for far too long.

  The main thing he needed to do, was to send a message, to either contact, or at least verify whether Elara was still safe or not. But before that, he had a more pressing issue to take care of—an update on his previous commission, one that left four adventurers dead, and buried hundreds of feet underground. And his first stop was here, at the guild.

  Before arriving, he took a quick visit to the merchant’s guild. Unfortunately, the appraiser there was busy, so he had to get in queue, which would probably be several hours long. Pell could appraise the items himself, but it was always safer to use the guild’s services. He kept all his gear, including his cloak and backpack full of artifacts, safely locked away in his personal locker there. Carrying them around town made him an easy target for thieves. The only things left to do were to visit the adventurers and information guilds and wait for the commissioner to be available.

  The plain, large stone building before him symbolized a vast network of people and resources. He’d come to this specific guild before, back when he was alive, to commission four adventurers for a private request of his own. But before they could complete it, they had all gone and died, leaving his business and his request all in limbo. Now, four years later and in a rather unfortunate skeletal state, he was back to settle his accounts.

  The moment Pell entered the Adventurer’s guildhall, the noise of chatter ceased, and was replaced with an awkward stillness. Conversations faltered as heads turned, and more than a few hands went reflexively to weapons. Pell raised his left arm, letting the metal lock glint in the lamplight—a shiny seal issued by the city guards to show he wasn’t a threat. Still, the crowd didn’t relax fully, and their stares clung to him like spider silk.

  Pell wore a cloak, hadn’t attacked a single adventurer, and was given a metal lock by the city guards. And yet, the wary gazes within the hall made it clear to him: he was still just a monster in their eyes.

  “Seriously?” Pell asked, incredulous.

  “Sorry, Mr. Pell, but that is guild policy,” replied the clerk, her tone flat and unbending. She was neatly dressed in a dark purple, her hair swept elegantly behind her long, pointed ears. Her expression didn’t soften in the slightest as she added, “Although your commission was acknowledged, the duration exceeded the one-year deadline you originally specified.”

  Pell sighed, realizing he’d been right about one thing: coming here was a mistake.

  The Adventurer’s Guild hall was buzzing with a steady clamor of voices and activity. Dozens of adventurers, from grass-green rookies to hardened veterans, crowded the hall. Some lingered near the quest board, passing around requests, debating their odds of survival. Others sat at tables, waiting for their party members or recruiting fresh hands to join their merry bands.

  “Anyone here a mage that specializes in long-range magic? ‘The Feral Lions’ need a plus-one, at least C-rank!” a young man called out.

  “We need someone with tracking skills! Rank doesn’t matter, just need someone with a good nose!” came a shout from the opposite side.

  For most, this was the start of another routine quest. For Pell, it was just a bureaucratic nightmare.

  “But I’m also dead! It makes no sense that I have to pay their insurance premiums,” Pell argued, his voice growing more strained. “That’s a scam if I ever heard one. I died the same as them!”

  “Yes, I understand that, Mr. Pell. However, as the original commissioner, the deadline has long since passed. Because the adventurers died—and you failed to update the guild or report their deaths—you’re still liable for the fine, along with a portion of their insurance due to the… negligence clause. Many adventurers die during requests, and we do not expect the commissioner to be held responsible for their deaths. However, it is their responsibility to update the commission and the status of the adventurers, whether they completed the quest, abandoned it, or died.”

  Pell’s soul flames flared brighter in his sockets. “You’re kidding me,” he seethed. “How in the nine hells am I supposed to pay for—”

  “Please, Mr. Pell, try to be civil,” the clerk cut in, her expression stony.

  “Civil?” Pell leaned forward, bony fingers tapping the counter. “Listen here, pretty long-ears, I went on that job with them, and I died too! There should be a ‘debt clearance by death’ policy for crap like this! Who’s going to pay—” he paused, staring down at the document, “47 gold coins?! Those adventurers weren't worth more than a single gold! This is extortion! Even B-rank adventurer salaries don’t get that high!”

  The clerk didn’t even blink. She remained completely unfazed by his outburst. “The total is 47 gold because of interest accrued over four years. Your original request duration was one year, and with two adventurers holding insurance, the total combines to 47: nineteen for one, twenty-eight for the other.”

  Pell clenched the pen, his teeth—or what was mostly left of them, and ground them together. He wanted to toss everything and storm out, but he knew the debt wouldn’t disappear. With a final growl, he signed his name.

  “Tch. Goddamn greedy guild,” he muttered, sliding the paper back.

  The clerk flashed him a smile—one of those perfectly innocent, yet deadly, elven smiles that could break a man’s heart with a single glance. Her youthful appearance and blemish-free skin that would have entranced anyone and enthralled them. But Pell wasn’t fooled. All he saw was the smug satisfaction of someone who’d just gotten away with something underhanded. After all, he would make the same smile after swindling others. Just… with a less attractive face.

  Pell turned, his bones rattling with irritation, and stomped his way out of the hall. His focus was already drifting elsewhere as he left, his mind fixed on the weight of the debt and how it would affect his plans. How the hell am I supposed to save Elara with a 47-gold debt hanging over me?

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  He was so preoccupied he didn’t notice the stares tracking his every step, nor did he see the man in leather-chain armor who rose the moment Pell left. The man’s eyes followed the skeleton’s exit with a fierce intensity. With a subtle nod, he motioned for the two younger boys beside him to follow, and soon, the three of them slipped out, trailing Pell as he left.

  Pell walked down the sidewalk, passing the steady flow of adventurers coming and going from the guild. The hustle and bustle of the city felt distant as he made his way toward the information guild. It was located on the quieter side of town, away from the crowded streets and flashy shops. There, he could send a message back to the first layer.

  Direct contact with Elara wasn’t an option; messaging crystals were far too expensive for someone like him. Nobles and information guilds owned most of them. Instead, he’d need to send a message to someone on the first layer, have them scout the town where Elara was, and report her current status.

  Pell passed by stores selling an assortment of wares: confectioneries, potions, knick-knacks, and even knock-offs of noble entertainment items like board games. The noise and chaos of the market didn’t bother him—what did, however, was the prying eyes. To avoid attention, he veered off the main street, taking a side alley that was quiet and far less traveled.

  His mind still churned with thoughts of the guild. Maybe he should just forget about the debt entirely. Elara’s situation was his priority. He could always work off the debt over the next hundred years if he needed to. After all, time was something he had plenty of now.

  But as he walked, lost in his thoughts, a figure appeared at the end of the alley.

  The man was tall, broad-shouldered but not overly bulky. He wore a leather tunic with visible pieces of chain mail beneath. A studded round shield hung from his back, and a pristine sword rested in his hand. He was clean-shaven, his face young but hardened, probably in his early thirties.

  Pell stopped in his tracks, his soul flames narrowing in suspicion. He recognized the man immediately—he had been sitting at a table in the guild just a short while ago. His gaze had been intense, and unlike the others, it hadn’t wavered. It was the kind of stare that felt like an accusation, the kind that didn’t ignore a skeleton like Pell.

  “What do you want?” Pell asked, his voice low and grim. The man stood about twenty feet away, his stance clearly ready for something.

  Pell smirked and let his cloak fall open, revealing his skeletal frame. “Sorry to disappoint, but I ain’t got any money.”

  The man took a step forward, his gaze never leaving Pell. “I know you’re broke,” he said, voice calm but edged with intent. “I ain’t here for that. We all heard you complaining at the guild. Nah, we’re here for something else.”

  Something else? Pell thought.

  The sound of footsteps behind him broke his concentration. He turned to see two teenagers in basic adventurer gear. One had short black hair and a fierce expression that matched the man’s. The other, with curlier black hair, didn’t look quite as confident, but both of them held swords at the ready.

  “You... you’re a skeleton, right?” the first boy asked. His voice cracked awkwardly, like he was trying to sound deeper than he actually was.

  The other boy stepped forward after a beat, following the lead of the first.

  Pell turned back to the man, eyes narrowing. “What do you three want with me? I ain’t got nothing.”

  The man grinned, then scoffed. “You—you're a skeleton.”

  “No shit, you—“

  The man cut him off, his smirk widening. “That means you grant us experience, huh?” He took a step forward, spinning his wrist and swinging his sword in a lazy circle. “See, the boys here are still new to adventuring. Killing a monster like you would give them a nice little boost before their first E-rank quest.”

  Pell’s hands tightened into fists. So, that’s what this was about. These idiots are just looking for easy experience? His eyes flicked between the man and the two boys, his mind racing. “The three of you are really willing to risk being targeted by the War Paragons just for some measly experience?”

  “They won’t know,” the man replied, voice low but sure. “’Sides, no one likes monster-types like you. Thinking you can walk among the races. No one will bat an eye with a monster going missing.”

  The two boys behind Pell started to move, their swords raised and ready. They were preparing to attack him.

  “The locks only sense magic,” the man continued, taking another step forward, now only ten feet away from Pell. “Don’t think we’ll need any magic to handle a skeleton. We overheard you talking to that pretty clerk elf. Hard not to, especially with all your loud complaining. We know you’re just some shitty merchant—and merchants don’t have magic or fighting skills.”

  Pell felt his throat tighten with frustration. He had nothing to defend himself with—not even a proper weapon. His inventory was practically empty, save for a few coins and some lint. The urge to scream in anger rose in him, but he knew it would only make things worse. If he screamed, they’d have an excuse to strike first, and they could easily claim a monster had attacked them.

  That was the problem with looking like a monster yourself—no one would ever believe him.

  Pell grit his jaw, taking up a defensive stance. He wasn’t a fighter, but the one advantage he had was the lack of pain receptors. He could take hits and keep going, punch harder than a normal human, because he didn’t feel the whiplash of pain like they would. It was his only edge—and he’d need to use it.

  The man charged at Pell, sword raised to the side, whipping it forward in a wide arc. Pell braced himself, lifting his left arm, preparing to sacrifice it to block the strike.

  As the sword connected with his arm, a shock wave surged through his body, making his bones rattle. The force of the blow vibrated up his arm, and before he could react, the impact launched him straight into the wall. The world spun, and Pell's body collided with the brick, the sound of his bones clattering against it echoing in the alley.

  But Pell didn’t flinch. Pain and fatigue were no longer things he had to worry about. Pell recovered instantly, shaking off the disorientation. He leaned to the side, scanning the gap between the two boys. Without hesitation, he kicked off the ground and sprinted straight for them.

  The boy on the left, the more confident one, raised his sword. As Pell closed in, the boy swung it diagonally toward him. Pell didn’t slow his momentum. Instead, he raised his right arm, meeting the blow head-on. The blade clanged against his bone, but the strike lacked force. Pell shrugged off the hit easily, pushing back with enough power to make the boy falter.

  That was all the opening Pell needed. He pushed harder with his legs and dashed forward, but the second boy—who had been hesitating before—had found his courage. He swung his sword clumsily from behind the confident one, aiming for Pell’s side. Reacting as fast as he could, Pell bucked his knees and threw himself to the ground in a roll, narrowly avoiding the blow.

  As he tumbled, Pell saw the first boy winding up for another strike—a blatant overhead swing, as if he intended to smash Pell into the ground like a nail. Pell flipped and rolled his body once more, dodging the strike. His gaze darted to the second boy, who seemed to be losing his nerve. Pell seized the opportunity, as he brought his foot forward with a swift, forceful motion, striking the boy’s leg below the knee.

  There was a sickening crack. For a moment, Pell thought it was his own leg that had snapped, but then he realized it was impossible—he surely hadn’t sustained a leg injury—not from that first man, at least. Pell’s eyes flicked down at the boy’s leg, and there it was—a small indentation, as if he shattered the boy’s leg with a single kick. But that was impossible—Pell wasn’t that strong, nor had his kick been that powerful.

  The scream rang in Pell's ears as the boy stumbled back, hands hovering above the damage, unsure whether to clutch at his leg or pull away. He was overcome with pain and collapsed. The first boy shouted something unintelligible. He didn’t continue attacking Pell, but instead rushed to aid the injured boy.

  “Tren!” The adult man’s voice cracked with fury and panic as he ran up from the alley’s end. His eyes widened as he saw the extent of the injury, and with a snarl, he charged toward Pell, sword raised for a final, killing blow. The man’s rage was palpable, every step bringing him closer to ending this fight once and for all.

  Raising both hands, Pell’s bony palms overlapped, prepared for the incoming strike. The sword came down fast, filled with power, slamming into his palms with a force that Pell expected would shatter his shoulders and slice through his hands. But to his surprise, the blow didn’t break through. His palms held firm against the attack. For a moment, both Pell and the man shared a look of shock. Even the adventurer had clearly expected to kill Pell with that strike, but somehow, Pell had blocked it with ease.

  The man regained his composure, and instead of attacking again, he pressed forward, shifting his weight to try and force Pell’s arms down. Yet, to both their surprise, Pell’s arms didn’t budge. Briefly—perhaps a trick of the mind—Pell thought he saw a faint white energy swirling around his hands, a mist-like aura that wrapped around them. But before he could fully understand what was happening—

  “Halt! Throw down your weapons!” A booming voice interrupted the moment. Both Pell and the adventurer froze, startled by the command. Pell tilted his head back, looking upside down as he saw—at least four people—rushing toward him. They wore different clothing and armor, but each had the unmistakable Paragon of War insignia, one exclusive to the city.

  The guards had arrived.

  They charged forward, pulling the man away from Pell. His rescue had come—but as quickly as hope flared for him, it dimmed just as quickly.

  “Sir, are you okay? We heard the screams,” a young woman’s voice asked as she checked the adventurer over, placing a hand on his shoulder. Two others had already moved to the boy Pell had struck, giving him some type of first aid treatment. But the last guard—the one who had shouted—raised a battleaxe and swung it in front of Pell’s skull, hovering it inches above his face. The blackened stone gleamed slightly, reflecting Pell’s skull within.

  “Don’t make a single move, skeleton. You’re under arrest,” the man commanded.

  Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me, Pell thought.