The journey stretched on, the group moving in near silence for the past three hours after their previous discussion. No one made unnecessary movements, their steps measured and steady as they conserved their strength. Xhaelyn wasn't tired—her mind remained sharp, her breathing even—but her body told a different story.
She had only transmigrated into this seven-year-old form a day ago, and despite the endurance she once possessed, this body had its limits. A persistent ache throbbed through her feet, unaccustomed to prolonged travel. It wasn't exhaustion, just a numbing reminder that she had yet to fully adapt. Even so, she pushed the discomfort aside and kept moving.
She needed to train this body to match the endurance and strength her mind was accustomed to. But seriously—was there no other way to travel? No carriages? No familiars like flying beasts or dragons? Fantasy books always had those. Heck, even horses would do. She could handle long journeys, but this body clearly couldn't.
Her thoughts ran wild as she walked, silently cursing her aching feet while simultaneously cheering them on. Just as she lifted her head to finally ask about transportation, a sight ahead caught her attention—a settlement, larger than a village yet carrying a modern touch.
Paulo's voice broke the silence. "Look! We're close."
Alex smirked, lifting his chin with pride. "Crimsonclaw is back. Look and admire the might of our mercenary group!"
Xhaelyn raised a brow. So… that's City K?
As they neared the city gates, the weight of attention settled on them. The three massive duskrend beast carcasses strapped to their makeshift sled left little room for subtlety. Their dark, rough hides and enormous claws stood as undeniable proof of their feat. Conversations paused. Eyes followed them—some filled with curiosity, others with thinly veiled greed.
The walls of City K weren't towering fortresses, but they were sturdy—reinforced with stone and metal, built for function rather than grandeur. Guards stood at the entrance, their armor mismatched but well-maintained, a sign that they were mercenaries rather than soldiers. The people moving in and out were much the same—battle-worn warriors, cloaked figures, and traders who had clearly learned to survive in a city that didn't favor the weak.
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"That's—are those duskrends?"
"Three of them? Who the hell—?"
"Wait, isn't that Crimsonclaw? Did they really take down three on their own?"
Xhaelyn observed the growing interest with a neutral expression. The carcasses weren't just proof of a successful hunt—they were a statement. In a dominion where strength dictated authority, this kind of display mattered.
One of the guards at the gate stepped forward, scanning the carcasses before settling his gaze on the group. "Crimsonclaw returning?"
Alex stepped ahead with a smug grin. "Yeah. Mission complete."
The guard gave them a once-over, then nodded. "Welcome back. Report to headquarters first." His gaze then landed on Xhaelyn, his brow slightly furrowed. "And the girl?"
Xhaelyn met his gaze, unreadable. Before she could answer, Paulo spoke. "She's with us. No issues."
The guard didn't look entirely convinced, but after another glance at the carcasses, he simply muttered, "Go on in."
As they passed through the gates, Xhaelyn let out a slow breath. She hadn't missed it—the way the guard's fingers had subtly tensed near his weapon, the slight shift in his stance. Suspicion. Reasonable, given she was an unfamiliar face.
Inside the city, the streets were just as she expected—rugged yet bustling. Shops lined the roads, selling weapons, armor, potions, and survival gear. The scent of cooked meat and metalwork mingled in the air, and people moved with a sense of purpose.
As they moved deeper into the city, Paulo leaned slightly toward Xhaelyn, lowering his voice.
"Listen closely," he murmured. "Duskar Dominion isn't ruled by any government. No kings, no nobles—just the law of the strong. Each city follows the will of the most dominant mercenary group. But here in City K, things are... complicated."
Xhaelyn kept her gaze ahead but listened intently.
"The ones in power here have been rooted for years," Paulo continued. "They've got influence, resources, and, most importantly, support. Even though Crimsonclaw is the strongest in terms of raw power, we haven't taken control yet. The current rulers—Steelwards—have deep ties with traders, supply lines, and smaller merc groups willing to back them."
Xhaelyn hummed thoughtfully. "So, you took that high-difficulty mission not just for the reward but to establish authority."
Paulo glanced at her, expression unreadable for a moment before he gave a short nod. "Sharp. That's exactly it. If we want to take City K, we need more than strength—we need influence. Big hunts like this prove our worth. The more we succeed, the more people start looking at us as the rightful rulers here."
Xhaelyn's lips twitched slightly. She had expected this place to be chaotic, but this level of calculated power struggle intrigued her.
"Steelwards won't sit still, will they?" she asked.
"No," Paulo admitted. "They'll try to suppress us, one way or another. But that's the game. We win enough, we take over. We fail, we stay under them—or worse."
Xhaelyn exhaled softly. "Survival of the fittest, huh?"
Paulo smirked slightly. "Welcome to Duskar, Little Xhae."
The group made their way toward a large, reinforced building—the Mercenary Guild. Unlike the structured guild systems in kingdoms or empires, this one didn't function under a single governing body. It was a place where mercenary groups and lone mercenaries registered themselves, picked up missions, and built reputations. While mercenaries could be hired directly, most requests were posted as missions, complete with requirements, difficulty rankings, and rewards.
As they approached the entrance, several mercenaries loitering nearby took notice. Some simply glanced their way before returning to their conversations, while others openly assessed them—specifically, the carcasses they had dragged in.
"Tch. Show-offs," someone muttered under their breath.
Xhaelyn ignored the comment but filed it away. Tension was natural in a place where power was always shifting.
A woman leaning against the guild's outer wall scoffed. "Crimsonclaw's getting bold. Three duskrends? What, trying to prove something?"
Alex shot her a cocky grin. "You jealous, Layla? Didn't think we'd pull it off?"
Layla rolled her eyes. "I don't care either way. Just don't go crying when Steelwards start moving against you."
"Let them try," Alex said, unfazed.
Before Xhaelyn could say anything, the heavy doors of the guild slammed open.
A sharp silence cut through the murmurs as a figure strode inside.
"Hah. Crimsonclaw," a voice drawled, dripping with mockery. "I heard you finally crawled back after that little mission of yours. What a feat."
Owen said bluntly, "Yeah. Unlike the great Captain of the Steelwards, who sacrificed half of his hundred members just to take down a single duskrend and a nightstalker. We did pretty well, don't you think, Captain Worz?"
His words cut through the tension like a blade, laced with casual disdain. A few mercenaries stifled chuckles, while others simply watched, waiting for the inevitable reaction.
Captain Worz's expression darkened.
Xhaelyn watched the exchange with amusement. Woah. Clearly affected. So, this guy really is the captain of the Steelwards.
Captain Worz folded his arms, his stance exuding confidence. "A few beasts down, and you think that gives you a place here?" His gaze swept across them, unimpressed. "Duskrends or not, Crimsonclaw is still an outsider guild. You lot are overstepping."
Owen tilted his head, smirking. "Overstepping? That's funny. Because from where I stand, we're just picking up the slack where others are falling short."
A few murmurs stirred in the crowd, but Worz's expression remained unreadable.
Then, his eyes landed on Xhaelyn. He let out a sharp chuckle. "And what's this? A child playing mercenary?" His tone was laced with mockery. "Did you bring her along for sympathy points?"
Xhaelyn met his gaze without flinching. "I don't need sympathy to stand here," she said evenly. "Just like you don't need competence to call yourself 'Captain.'"
A short silence fell over the crowd. A few mercenaries shifted, intrigued by the sudden shift in tone.
Worz's smirk twitched, but he recovered quickly. "Confidence is easy when you're standing behind stronger men," he said smoothly. "But I wonder—can you still talk that way when it's your own strength being tested?"
Xhaelyn took a slow step forward, her expression unreadable. "That's a fair question," she said, her voice calm. "But let me ask you something in return—" she tilted her head, dark red eyes glinting, "—is your position built on strength? Or just the weight of your name?"
The challenge in her words was subtle, yet razor-sharp.
Worz's jaw tightened ever so slightly.
Samuel let out a low whistle. Paulo folded his arms, smirking.
The surrounding mercenaries watched with growing interest. This wasn't just a back-and-forth exchange anymore. This was a test—a battle not of swords, but of presence.
Worz finally exhaled, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. "Careful, girl. Words like that can make enemies fast."
Xhaelyn's eyes didn't waver. "Only if they hit where it hurts."
Silence.
Then, a sharp chuckle broke through the tension—Alex's. "Damn," he muttered. "That was brutal."
Samuel grinned. "He walked right into that one."
Worz exhaled sharply through his nose, turning away. "Enjoy your little moment," he said, voice cool. "It won't last."
With that, he strode off, his subordinates following close behind.
Jacob smiled, but his tone was solemn. "He won't let that go."
"Let him stew," Owen said, amused. "I wanna see how long he can pretend that didn't sting."
Xhaelyn watched Worz's retreating form before glancing at the guild hall. The weight of lingering gazes still pressed against them.
She hadn't come here for power struggles. But if people kept underestimating her, she'd have no choice but to remind them—
She wasn't someone to be dismissed—but she also wasn't someone who made the first move carelessly.