The Guild was a hive of whispers, and the name of the queen bee was Stephen. Talia wiped down the long wooden counter, the same spot where the Goblin Champion's head had sat just the day before. The wood was clean, but she could still feel the phantom stain of it, the ghost of the silence that had fallen over the entire hall. The silence was gone now, replaced by a constant, low buzz of speculation.
Every adventurer who came to the counter had a question.
"So what's the real story, Talia?" asked Tanic, a barrel-chested man who made his living escorting merchants. "Did he really walk in there alone?"
"He accepted the Goblin Nest Culling quest," Talia replied, her voice the flat, professional tone she used a hundred times a day. "He returned with proof of completion and was paid accordingly."
"But a Novice plate..." Boric muttered, shaking his head as he walked away. "Doesn't make a lick of sense."
She knew it didn't. She had processed the paperwork herself. The Guild Master had registered him as Iron-rank, the standard starting point, but Stephen had refused the silver plate. He had walked out with more gold than most adventurers saw in a year, yet he still wore the identifier of a complete beginner. It was a contradiction that seemed to bother everyone more than the dead monster had.
Her eyes drifted to the corner table. Gideon and his two cronies were there, as they always were. But the mood was different. The usual loud boasting was gone, replaced by a thick, sour miasma of resentment. Gideon was staring into a half-empty mug of ale as if it held the answers to his own failure. His gleaming steel breastplate, the one he was usually so proud of, had a noticeable, fist-sized dent in it. He hadn't bothered to get it hammered out. It was a badge of his humiliation.
Another adventurer, a lanky man named Hanniel, swaggered past their table on his way out. "Watch your step there, Gideon," he called out, a sneer playing on his lips. "Wouldn't want to trip. They say the floorboards in here are a bit weak."
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The entire guild hall heard it. A few scattered snickers broke out. Gideon's face went from a dull red to a deep, blotchy crimson. His hand tightened on his mug, his knuckles turning white. He didn't say a word, just watched Hanniel leave with a look of pure, undiluted hatred.
The laughter died down, but the damage was done. His pride, which was all a man like Gideon really had, had been shattered in public, not by a dragon or a demon, but by a quiet nobody in cheap clothes. Talia felt a prickle of unease. Humiliation was like cheap wine; it soured quickly and led to bad decisions.
Later, as the evening wore on and the tavern grew louder and smokier, Talia saw three other men join Gideon's table. They weren't his usual hangers-on. These were men from the guild's bottom rungs, the ones who took the dirty jobs, the ones with shifty eyes and the lean, hungry look of scavengers. They huddled close, their heads together.
Talia moved to a nearby table to collect empty mugs, trying to appear busy. Gideon's voice, a low and drunken growl, carried over the noise.
"...not possible," he slurred, jabbing a finger at the dent in his chest. "No Novice hits like that. It's a trick. An item, a relic... something."
"He bought that old shack out by the east wall," one of the newcomers added, his voice a raspy whisper. "Keeps to himself. No one's seen him since."
"We just need to find out his secret," Gideon hissed, leaning so far forward he nearly tipped into the table. "Corner him when he's on his way out of town. Put him in his place, proper this time. Make him... share what he knows."
A cold knot formed in Talia's stomach. This wasn't just drunken boasting anymore. This was a plan. A stupid, petty, and incredibly dangerous plan. She had seen this kind of jealousy fester before. She had seen adventurers end up in shallow graves over a stolen kill or a perceived insult. Stephen had done far more than insult Gideon; he had erased him.
She placed the mugs she had collected back on the counter with a quiet clatter. She looked at the plotting men in the corner, then at the main doors. The Guild Master had told her to watch Stephen, but he hadn't said from a distance.
"Marta, cover for me," she said to the other barmaid, untying her apron. "I'm taking a break."
Without a second glance, Talia slipped out the heavy oak doors and into the cooling night air. The street was lit by a few flickering torches, casting long shadows. She knew where the old shack was. It wasn't far. She picked up her pace, her worn boots slapping against the stones, a silent alarm ringing in her head. She had to warn him.