Emilia slumped her shoulders, groaning so loudly that the birds around scattered immediately. She dragged her feet behind Mr Swordsman and Pasta as they made their way toward Gildenspire.
What was supposed to be a simple errand had spiralled into a full-blown disaster—saving a town from an erupting volcano, battling mercenaries, getting attacked by giant birds, and, of course, witnessing an old drunken man ride a bull at a banquet. Not exactly the kind of adventure Emilia had signed up for.
And the worst part? The very reason they had left Pyrovile in the first place—the sun blossoms—were now bouncing along in Andy's carriage, heading who-knows-where. To make matters worse, the field where they had originally picked them had been obliterated by a chunk of the volcano.
Emilia groaned again. She dug into her bag, revealing a bundle of flowers. They looked like sun blossoms and the merchant swore on his mother's life they were exactly the same.
She sighed, closing back her bag. "Should have tested it on Pasta, but nooo Mr Swordsman just had to buy those flowers anyway," she said, crossing her arms. "Hopefully, the taskmaster won't notice they're fake or we will be in huge trouble with the adventurer guild"
She glanced at the others, expecting some kind of reaction, but they just walked in silence, completely unbothered.
Emilia blinked. "Seriously? That's it? You guys were freaking out earlier about the flowers why so quiet now?"
Pasta yawned and stretched. "Yeah, but that was before I remembered something important."
Emilia perked up. "What?"
He yawned again. "Oh.... I forgot. But still, we just can't fret over some flowers, it'll be fine"
Mr. Swordsman nodded in solemn agreement.
Emilia twitched. Why are they so relaxed? Are all guys like this?
She clutched her bag tightly. "Hey, guys… are we going to be okay?"
Mr. Swordsman didn't even hesitate. "I doubt it."
Pasta gave a wide smile "Yeah, we're totally doomed."
Emilia's face turned to a boiling red. "You just said everything will be fine!"
Pasta turned back to her, maintaining his annoying smirk. "Yeah, that was before I thought it through"
Emilia lowered her head. Even if we get caught, even if we get in trouble… I had fun. And no one can take those memories away from me.
She shot her head back up, holding a fist.
"What am I even worried about? There's no way the guild would figure out the flowers are fake.
…Right?"
#
Amy, the taskmaster, slammed her fist onto the table. Her piercing gaze locked onto the sorry excuses for adventurers standing before her.
"So let me get this straight," she said, voice laced with exasperation. "Not only did you take days to retrieve some flowers, but you also had the audacity to buy a fake? Do you think the guild is that foolish?"
Mr. Swordsman and Pasta remained silent, arms crossed, their faces calm under the pressure.
Emilia, on the other hand, turned away, a bead of sweat rolling down her temple as she forced a painfully stiff smile.
Amy let out a deep sigh, rubbing her temples. "I didn't want to do this, but your licenses are revoked. This was your first mission—an easy mission—and you lot decided to cheat. There's no way you'll survive more difficult commissions. I'm doing this for your own good."
Pasta and Emilia's eyes widened.
It was over.
Their days as adventurers—finished before they had even truly begun.
Emilia lowered her head, her vision darkening. Was it a crime to help someone in trouble? The thought echoed in her mind, but in a place like this, crowded and full of judgment, she couldn't bring herself to voice it. She clutched her jacket, wondering how she had found the strength to act so fearlessly in Pyrovile. Now? She felt like a different person.
No, she hadn't changed.
She was the same girl she had always been. Scared.
Then—
BANG.
Pasta slammed his fist onto the table, the impact sending a ripple through the room. Amy flinched, momentarily startled.
"Hey, who do you think you are, huh?"
His voice thundered across the room, filled with unrestrained ferocity. "You can't just strip us of our licenses! Our journey has only just begun, and there's still so much to do, dammit! We just got back from stopping a freaking volcano from obliterating a town—that's not enough action for me!"
The room fell into dead silence.
Then, Pasta unsheathed his sword, pointing it at the now-staring taskmaster. "Listen, I still got dragons to fight and dungeons to raid. So you're gonna let us stay adventurers—got that?"
For a long moment, no one moved.
Amy's eyes flickered. "Wait… you three… You're the party that saved Pyrovile?"
Pasta scowled. "Yeah. That a problem?"
The guild hall remained silent for a beat—then erupted into deafening cheers.
Before they could react, the trio found themselves surrounded.
A grizzled adventurer eagerly grasped Mr. Swordsman's hand. "How in the Nine Realms did you single-handedly stop a volcanic eruption?!"
"Your skills are clearly beyond E-Rank," another said, nodding in admiration.
Mr. Swordsman blinked, adjusting his hat to hide the slight smirk creeping onto his lips. Praise like this wasn't something he received often.
Meanwhile, Emilia turned bright red as several enormous, battle-hardened men crowded around her.
"You must be Lady Emilia, the one who led the townsfolk to safety! How admirable!"
She stiffly nodded. "Y-Yes. Thank you."
A group of girls also joined in the crowd surrounding her. "Who knew the famous Lady Emilia would be adorable as well"
Emilia's face went so red it felt like she could erupt at any moment.
The shower of praise continued as Pasta stood at the centre of it all, basking in the glory.
…Except, no one came to him.
Not a single soul.
A vein twitched on his forehead as he clenched his fists. Before he could loudly declare his own feats, another voice beat him to it.
"Amazing, I tell you! I was there, after all! Hahaha!"
The hall fell silent.
All eyes turned to the adventurer who had dramatically leapt onto a nearby table, grinning ear to ear.
It was the same man who had refused to help Little Bobby.
The young man held his pose, undeterred by the scrutiny. If not for the torches Emilia had lit back in the tunnels, he and his crew would have been lost in the chaos—but of course, he rather not tell a soul about that.
"It was an honour to assist these brave adventurers, and save hundreds," he said, placing a hand over his chest. "Truly, a noble act from one such as myself! Right, ladies?"
He winked at the female adventurers.
…Who didn't even spare him a glance, too busy fawning over Mr. Swordsman and Emilia.
The adventurer cleared his throat and tried again. "Ladies—"
Before he could finish, his foot slipped. And then his face crashed onto the floor.
Pasta, seizing the moment, immediately placed his boot atop the fallen man's back and struck a pose of his own.
"How dare you all ignore the Mighty Pasta's—" He paused, dramatically flipping his coat. "—Presence!"
Silence.
Someone coughed.
"He's part of their crew, right?" an adventurer muttered.
"Probably their bag carrier," another snorted, eliciting a few chuckles.
Pasta's eye twitched.
His lifeforce flared as he lunged forward. "I'll show you what a bag carrier can't do, you ogre—!"
Before his blade could even swing, Emilia whacked him over the head with the back of her sword.
He crumpled instantly.
She let out a long sigh, grabbing him by the collar as the redness in her face slowly faded.
The crowd erupted into laughter and cheers once more.
Amy cleared her throat, calling for silence. Her cheeks were still slightly flushed as she fidgeted with the papers in her hands.
"Ahem. So, here's the thing—" she exhaled, composing herself. "The guild master had actually issued a high-priority commission to save Pyrovile. But with the manpower we had, we couldn't even get past the first wave of mercenaries. When news reached us that a small band of adventurers had contained the crisis, we were all in awe."
She took a deep breath before continuing.
"So, as per guild protocol, Mr. Swordsman has been promoted to S-Rank."
A murmur of approval swept through the guild hall.
"Lady Emilia, for successfully guiding hundreds of civilians to safety, has been issued B-Rank for her achievements."
The applause grew louder.
Amy then hesitated, looking toward Pasta.
"…And as for the—" she coughed, meeting his intense glare. "—the bag carrier—"
Pasta's brow twitched as Emilia tugged his collar.
"H-He'll, uh… also be promoted," she said quickly. "Congratulations. You are now officially… D-Rank?"
She turned to the silent crowd and then threw her papers. "And they'll be rewarded with a whooping sum of a thousand gold coins!"
A mug shot up into the air, a burly adventurer bellowing loud enough for the entire hall to hear.
"To the heroes of Pyrovile!"
The hall erupted in cheers.
Pasta, meanwhile, stared blankly at the ceiling. His face darkened under the bright celebration
#
The sack of gold coins landed on the table with a solid thud, rattling the wooden surface. Emilia planted her fist beside it.
"Here's the plan," she said. "We split the money evenly. Some goes toward supplies for our trip to the Fourth Realm, and the rest? Personal expenses."
Silence followed.
Then, Mr. Swordsman, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, tilted his head slightly. "I object."
Mr. Swordsman exhaled, shifting slightly in his corner. "Why should we split the money evenly when our efforts in Pyrovile weren't equal?"
Pasta immediately stomped toward him, jabbing a finger close to his face. "What's that supposed to mean, huh?! Spit it out!"
Mr. Swordsman leaned in, his crimson gaze flickering. "We aren't on equal footing, boy."
Pasta tensed, his hand hovering over his sword hilt. But then, a smirk. "Oh? And what do you plan to do with the money, huh? Buy some clothes? Last I checked, you only wear torn-up cloaks and rags. Just search any dark corner and you'll find something that'll fit your taste."
Mr. Swordsman's lips stayed silent.
Their standoff was so intense, that a crackle of electricity sparked between them.
Emilia groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Not this. Not this. It's too late for this, we just got back from partying and I'm exhausted."
"You both need to stop. Pasta helped guard the civilians and Mr. Swordsman did stop an entire volcanic eruption on his own. Meanwhile, I just led a group through a tunnel. If anyone deserves less, it's me."
Pasta spun around so fast he nearly tripped. "What?! No way!" He clutched Emilia's shoulders. "You solved that whole riddle thing! The puzzle! The—uh—yeah! That thing with the weird symbols and statues and… whatever!"
Emilia turned away, muttering under her breath, "Same thing, Pasta."
"Exactly!" Pasta grinned. "Without you figuring that out, hundreds of people would've been crushed by falling rocks. Even if you're terrible at a lot of things—"
"Excuse me?"
"—you still saved lives! You should get the biggest share!"
Emilia blinked, her expression softening as she met her brother's gaze. "You… really think so?"
"I do—"
"Hold it."
Mr. Swordsman stepped forward, voice flat. "Why should she get the most when I clearly did all the work? Without me, you'd all be dead. Be more grateful."
Silence.
Then.
Emilia and Pasta turned on him, their teeth sharper than that of wild animals.
"Why do you always ruin the mood?!" They yelled.
"I'm going through a lot, can't you tell?"
Pasta drew his blade. "Go fight a Mushkin or something!"
Emilia swung af inger. "Why are you always like this?! Is it some kind of sickness?!"
Mr. Swordsman said nothing. He turned on his heel and walked toward his bed, throwing himself onto it.
The sibling bickering echoed well into the night, rattling through the walls and Mr Swordsman's eardrums.
#
The clothing store was decorated with elegant banners featuring noble ladies draped in extravagant gowns, and flower arrangements lined along the walls. Gildenspire was known for its picturesque buildings, but this boutique took the cake. The air carried with it the fresh scent of fabric, mingled with the chatter and giggles of well-dressed women flitting about.
Emilia held her handbag tightly as she stepped into the building.
She was in charge of getting the crew warm clothes for the Fourth Realm. Pasta was handling food, and Mr. Swordsman… well, she had no clue where he had disappeared to. She'd given him the rest of the money since he was the oldest and all.
Though she could trust him, the same couldn't be said for Pasta. But there was little chance he'd blow all the money on terrible food.
Probably.
Emilia reached into her bag. "My glasses…? Ugh, not again."
She sighed and stepped deeper into the store. "Must've lost them at the celebration. Guess I'll manage."
A pink dress on a nearby rack caught her eye. The material was soft, but the cut was impractical—tight at the waist, flowy at the bottom, and completely useless against the Fourth Realm's frigid climate. What was the point of fashion if you froze to death in it?
"Still, the dress isn't that bad"
Before she could put it back, a hand landed on her shoulder.
"Hey, beautiful," a silky voice cooed.
Emilia stiffened.
A stylist stood behind her, taller than her by at least a head, black bangs framing an elegant face. A measuring tape draped over her shoulder, marking her as one of the store's professionals.
"Good morning," Emilia greeted awkwardly.
"Oh, so polite! How adorable." The stylist clasped her hands together. "What's a cutie like you doing in a place like this?"
"Well… I came to find some warm clothes"
The stylist plucked the pink dress from her grasp and tsked. "Oh, my dear, this certainly won't do for a darling like you."
Before Emilia could object, the stylist swept her away toward another section, where an emerald-green suit hung pristinely on display.
"This!"
she declared, presenting it with a flourish. "This will look absolutely fabulous on you! Right, ladies?"
Seemingly out of nowhere, a flock of store girls materialised, nodding enthusiastically.
Emilia eyed the price tag and nearly choked. "A hundred gold coins? I was hoping for something more… practical. Like a thick coat. For, you know, the cold? My friends and I are on our way to the Fourth Realm so we'll need something warm"
One of the women gasped. "Wait! I know you! You're Lady Emilia, the adventurer!"
Gasps rippled through the group. Suddenly, she was being poked and prodded playfully.
"I knew you were special!" The stylist beamed, clasping her hands. "Come on, at least try it on. Just this suit! I promise."
Emilia hesitated. "Just the suit?"
"Of course, dearie!"
"Well, I don't see any harm in trying one thing…"
She slipped into the suit. The smooth fabric hugged her form, her chestnut locks spilling out over the collar. She looked almost scholarly, like an esteemed academic from the Second Realm.
A round of applause erupted.
"Marvelous!"
"Incredible!"
"A true noblewoman!"
Emilia flustered and tugged at the sleeves. "I-Isn't this a bit too much?" she asked. "Can I get those warm clothes now?"
The store girls rushed away and returned with an armful of clothes.
"Here, try these next!"
"Wait—no, I just need—"
Before she knew it, she was trapped in a personal fashion show. Dress after dress, coat after coat. From dazzling crimson gowns to velvet capes embroidered with golden thread, some so extravagant they made her itch. A few dresses that were so bold Emilia nearly sprinted out of the store on sight.
Somewhere along the way, she gave up resisting and began posing—albeit stiffly—for the excited crowd.
Smiling and putting her hands behind her back counted as a pose, right?
After what felt like an eternity, the stylist clapped her hands. "Alright, girls, we're all done for today."
Finally!
Emilia quickly changed back into her clothes while the stylist scribbled something on a notepad.
"That was fun, ma'am," Emilia said, relieved. "Can I get those coats now?"
The stylist pointed toward the racks. "Pick what you want, dear."
She wasted no time, darting toward a rack she'd spotted earlier. A thick fur coat caught her eye—warm, practical, and only twenty silver coins. Perfect.
Just as she grabbed it, the stylist called, "Adventurer, may I have a word about the bill?"
Emilia turned, coat in hand. "Oh, right! Do you have change for a gold coin?"
The store girls returned, hauling a massive bag of clothes.
"We've brought them, madam."
The stylist nodded then turned to Emilia with a dazzling smile.
"That'll be three hundred gold coins."
Emilia's smile faltered. "Wait… what?"
The stylist turned to the clothes. "For the items you tried on."
"But it says here this coat is only twenty silver coins!"
"Yes, but for the others, the total comes to three hundred gold."
Emilia chuckled. "But I didn't buy them."
The stylist and her salesgirls darkened as they exchanged wicked grins.
"Oh, sweetie," the stylist said, "didn't you read the rule board at the entrance? Anything that has been worn must be purchased."
Emilia paled. "B-But—"
"But what, dearie?" The stylist's grin widened. "You're an adventurer, aren't you? And a famous one, at that! Surely a little three hundred gold is nothing to you."
Her eyes sparkled. "Tell you what—since I'm so kind, I'll make it two hundred and eighty gold."
Emilia was seconds away from throwing a tantrum.
The other shoppers cast her pitying glances, but no one stepped in.
In the end, she had no choice. With the heaviest heart, she handed over the money.
As she left the shop, arms burdened with unwanted clothes, she said under her breath:
"I am never shopping here again."
#
Pasta adjusted Emilia's glasses, squinting at the menu.
"Let's see…" he whispered, stroking his chin.
The restaurant was a pristine utopia of whiteness—white walls, white paintings, white tables, and white chairs. Even the spoons, the waitresses, the musicians, and the decorative peacocks were white. For all he knew, the food might be white too.
Bloodborne really loves his town, Pasta mused. He must have poured a fortune into crafting this unsettlingly monochromatic paradise. But now was not the time to ponder the politics of a whitewashed restaurant. No—there were more urgent matters at hand.
FOOD.
With a dramatic flick of his wrist, he flipped through the menu, his fingers gliding over the most tantalizing images. "I'll have this! And this! And that! And oh—double the sauce!"
The waiter bowed. "Right away, sir."
Pasta kicked his feet up onto the table, ignoring the scandalized gasps from the prim and proper patrons. "Food duty is the best! Not only do I get to pick meals for the trip, but I also get to sample everything first. A necessary sacrifice for the team, truly. A genius plan—no, a masterpiece of logistics and... yeah statistics! Even I am in awe of my own brilliance!"
The whispers among the customers grew but before they could voice a complaint, the waiter returned. "Here is your meal, sir."
Pasta's heart raced at the sight. It was not a meal—it was a banquet. Plates upon plates of lavish dishes stretched before him, a shimmering mirage of meaty heaven on earth. The judgmental stares of the other customers melted away in an instant.
There was only him and food. Duty called and Pasta answered as he devoured each meal like a mad beast.
Until—
"Sir, please," the waiter said, standing beside him. "Contain yourself. And I recommend settling the bill now."
Pasta paused mid-bite, a chicken wing hanging precariously from his mouth. "Huh? Already? Here," he said, throwing a small pouch of coins. "I'll need some more food so hurry up"
The waiter extended the bill.
Pasta adjusted his glasses and peered at the numbers. The images on the menu had been crystal clear… but these figures? Surely, they were smudged. A typo, perhaps?
He took off the glasses for a clearer look.
"Two thousand gold coins for… meat?"
The restaurant fell silent. Somewhere in the distance, a violin screeched off-key.
Pasta slowly lifted his gaze. The waiter's polite smile hadn't faltered—but his presence had grown menacing. The dim lighting cast deep shadows on his face.
Pasta chuckled nervously, sweat forming on his brow. "Haha… uh… w-well, you see…"
The waiter tilted his head ever so slightly. "Sir. Payment."
#
The underground fighting ring reeked of sweat, blood, and some weird goo someone had thrown up earlier. The air was thick with the roars of men of all ages even the little rascals were present clutching their tickets as they screamed for their chosen warrior.
Mr Swordsman stood among them, barely paying attention to the match.
Underground fighting pits like this existed in every major town. A place for wariors to showcase their fighting skills and men to showoff their knowlege in gambling. While some others only came to make an overnight success.
The next match was set, and Mr. Swordsman had made his pick.
A six-foot-tall, muscle-bound adventurer named Paul.
Weapons were banned, so it was all fists and feet. Paul had both in abundance—powerful, well-toned limbs that made him both swift and relentless. More importantly, he was composed, a rare trait in these brawls. Composure meant control and control meant victory.
His opponent, Danny, was… less inspiring. Similar in height, but softer around the edges, his body padded with years of careless eating. His posture was lazy, shoulders slumped as if he wasn't used to fights that didn't end in him gasping for air or in a restaurant.
The bell rang.
Paul lunged, his fist smashing into Danny's face.
The impact sent Danny crashing into the barbed wire. He groaned but pushed himself up, shaking off the hit. Then, sluggishly, he threw a slow punch.
Paul barely had to dodge.
Instead, he countered.
A vicious uppercut cracked against Danny's jaw, followed by a ruthless barrage of blows. Paul's once-calm expression twisted into a wide, exhilarated grin as his fists pounded Danny's face with unrelenting force.
The crowd howled.
Then, suddenly—
Danny caught Paul's fists.
Before Paul could react, Danny rammed his forehead into his skull with bone-crushing force.
Paul staggered back, dazed—then he collapsed.
The arena froze.
The announcer cleared his throat, then boomed, "We have a winner!"
The crowd erupted into cheers—until they didn't.
A figure entered the ring.
The referee rushed over, waving his hands. "Hey, mister! It's against the rules to step in here! You need to sign up at the counter if you want to fight!"
Mr. Swordsman ignored him.
He stepped over to Paul's unconscious body, cracked his knuckles and punched the man's face.
"Wake up."
He punched again.
"Wake up."
Again and again.
The dull, meaty thuds of his fists striking Paul's lifeless form sent a hush over the crowd. Eyes widened and faces pale at the sight. The excitement of the match vanished, replaced by something else—
Mr. Swordsman finally let go, Paul's limp body slumping to the ground.
Only then did he notice it.
The crowd wasn't just shocked by Paul's defeat. They were furious.
Not because their champion lost.
But because a swordsman—a man of the blade—had struck a fallen warrior.
Mr. Swordsman exhaled, his hand slipping off his hilt.
"That's not good"
#
Emilia stumbled through the streets, her arms straining under the weight of an absurdly large bag stuffed with clothes. She had managed to get some warm clothes for Pasta and Mr Swordsman.
The price of that?
Her whole life savings and reward money.
She waved her head around as she began to fantasise about the countless things she could have bought with the money.
Books and hot cocoa. The perfect combination for a good midnight read. Then with some soft marshmallows, she snuggled under a comfy oversized sweater as it rained outside. The thought was about to make the girl drool until a loud noise echoed in the distance.
She snapped back to reality and focused on the figure approaching.
A boy with glasses running. With a massive sack. And some armed men chasing after him.
Emilia squinted. "That's Pasta!"
Pasta didn't slow down. In fact, he grabbed her arm mid-run. "No time to explain. Run!"
"You took my glasses?!"
"Not important!"
"Pay for your meal, boy!" one of the guards screamed.
Emilia glared at him. "What are they talking about?"
"Look, I was gonna pay. It just… kinda didn't happen!"
"You had one job to do, Pasta. One job! One job"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so very sorry—JUST RUN!"
Before she could argue further, a powerful gust of wind nearly knocked them off balance, followed immediately by a deafening explosion somewhere in the town.
Mr. Swordsman came sprinting toward them—with hundreds of adventurers chasing after him.
Pasta and Emilia screamed in unison as he snatched them both by the collars.
"Time to leave," he whispered.
The siblings nodded as the swordsman dashed forward—straight toward the restaurant guards.
Emilia and Pasta screamed their hearts out. "NO, NO, THE OTHER WAY!"
"Huh? Oh." Mr. Swordsman pivoted smoothly—right into the path of the angry adventurers.
"NO, NOT THAT WAY EITHER!"
He skidded to a stop, glanced left, then right, then made a decision—leaping onto the rooftops and running towards the town's exit.
Emilia, still flailing in his grasp, stared at him. "Okay, what did you do to them?"
"Nothing," Mr. Swordsman said, expression blank.
"Nothing?! They're trying to kill you!"
"...A misunderstanding."
Emilia groaned. "Why am I the only one who's not in trouble? Why do you guys always drag me into this?"
"YOU!!"
A spear whizzed past, nearly skewering Mr Swordsman's hat.
Emilia whipped her head around—only to see the stylist and her squad of fashionable assassins leaping across the rooftops, each one wearing matching bandanas.
"GIVE ME MY MONEY, SCAMMER!"
Emilia blanched. "Wait, I paid you!"
"NO, YOU DIDN'T! IT'S TWENTY SAPPHIRES, NOT TWENTY SILVERS, YOU THIEF!"
The stylist grabbed another spear from her entourage and hurled it with terrifying accuracy. Mr. Swordsman barely dodged.
Emilia paled. Quickly, she took her glasses from Pasta and checked the coat's price tag.
Her soul left her body in an instant.
Before she could scream, Mr. Swordsman dropped down from the rooftops—because, well, there were no more roofs.
"I'm sorry!!" Emilia yelled to deaf ears.
Pasta, still being dragged, smirked. "So you stole from them, huh? Well… welcome to the club."
Behind them, the mob of adventurers, restaurant guards, and stylish assassins grew larger.
Bombs exploded left and right. Weapons flew through the air.
"Let me at 'em!" Pasta kicked his legs wildly, trying to break free from Mr. Swordsman's grip.
"I'm a criminal now…" Emilia whispered. "After all these years of staying clean. What would Mum say?"
The city gates were in sight—but the mob wasn't letting up. More bombs flew, explosions trailing just behind them.
With one final leap, Mr. Swordsman launched them over the walls, an enormous blast erupting in their wake.
At that single second midair, they all made a silent promise.
Never to return to Gildenspire.