The building was solid stone, three stories tall, with wide steps worn smooth by generations of boots. The massive doors were wide open, with a banner above it, faded but proudly depicting a crossed sword and staff with a shield behind it.
Adventurer’s Guild
~ Est. 89 ~
Like zero, eight, nine. She wondered what year it was on this world.
Miri climbed the steps and stood in front of the open doorway. She could hear the murmur of voices inside and the familiar musk of a library touched her senses.
She liked it immediately.
This is the right move.
Fluffkins’ voice rose unbidden in her head with that patient, mildly smug cadence he used when he was about to explain something important.
You can fight monsters without the guild, he’d said, pacing back and forth in that cluttered pocket cave. Plenty of people do. Bandits, mercenaries, fools with swords and something to prove. But it’s the wrong move.
She could picture him now, tail flicking, ears angled just so.
If you kill something on your own, you get what you physically loot from the body. Monsters usually don’t have anything.
Miri’s hand brushed her inventory pouch reflexively. She had killed over 100 field gnomes and got 12 beans and a broken piece of mirror to show for it.
The Guild, Fluffkins had continued, tapping her forehead with one claw, is bound to the System. That changes things.
Guild jobs were recognized actions that the System tracked, measured, and rewarded.
Kill a monster on a guild contract and the System responded. Credits were generated according to power disparity and automatically deposited in your inventory. Skills and Traits would be awarded. Related quests would be available. Experience flowed cleanly instead of leaking away.
Then the Guild paid her on top of that. Triple-dipping, Fluffkins had called it, with a grin.
System rewards. Monster loot. Guild pay. All tied together nice and neat. He’d sniffed. Also, it makes you less likely to starve. Which I consider a bonus.
Miri smiled faintly.
She could have wandered off on her own. Plenty of people did, as Fluffkins had said. But he had been crystal clear—if she wanted to grow fast, if she wanted the System to reward her, this was the move.
Miri squared her shoulders and went inside.
Moments later Miri stood in front of the polished wood reception desk. She stared at the creature in front of her, hand resting on her sword at her hip, a few choice curse words being mentally thrown like daggers at Fluffkins’ smug, fluffy face.
The guild employee—the actual, legit, for real for real Troll—stared back.
Eight feet tall if he was an inch. Broad as a wagon. Skin a mottled and deep green, stretched over a frame that looked like it had been assembled from spare boulders. His nose was bulbous, his brow heavy, and his mouth was full of far too many teeth.
All of them visible.
He smiled and Miri froze.
Fluffkins had told her that the world was full of different races. He quizzed her on the magical races but she couldn’t remember anything about Trolls.
Trolls, Trolls, Trolls. Think, Miri. They’re omnivores. And…peaceful when not in rut? Often bureaucrats and elected officials.
Often.
She swallowed and forced her hand away from her sword. Only chastising herself a little for freaking out the moment she saw a…Troll in a 3 piece suit.
The troll adjusted the wire-rimmed spectacles perched delicately on the bridge of his massive nose and cleared his throat.
“Good morning,” he said, voice deep but careful, like someone trying very hard not to sound intimidating. “Welcome to the Helmsworth Adventurer’s Guild. How may I assist you today?”
Miri blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re… very polite.”
The troll smiled wider. Somehow, this did not make the situation worse.
“I make an effort,” he said. “Name?”
“Miri. Miri Sutton.” She slid her hands into her pockets to keep them from shaking. “I’m here to apply. For adventuring. Not for—” she gestured vaguely at him as she swallowed, “—whatever you’re doing. Professionally.”
He nodded, unoffended, and pulled out a thick ledger. The pen he used looked tiny in his oversized hand and ridiculous too, with fake flowers and feathers taped around the end. The flowers flopped side to side as the Troll wrote.
She couldn’t remain scared in the face of such politeness and floppy flowers.
“First time?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Late bloomer?”
“…Yes,” she said.
“Far south?”
“Very.”
He hummed approvingly and began writing.
“My name is Grath,” he said. “I’ll be overseeing your intake. I’ll explain the process, then we’ll begin. If at any point you feel unwell, confused, or in imminent danger of exploding, please inform me.”
Miri snorted before she could stop herself. “Will do.”
Grath folded his massive hands on the counter.
“The Adventurers’ Guild evaluates applicants in three parts,” he said calmly. “First is a written examination. This tests your knowledge of common and uncommon races, monster identification, and survival fundamentals.”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Miri nodded. That, she could do.
“Second,” Grath continued, “is a mana integrity assessment. This evaluates your ability to safely channel magic without causing harm to yourself or others. We are not concerned with power level—only stability.”
Uh-oh, Miri thought faintly.
“And third,” he finished, “is a field assessment. A supervised forty-eight-hour excursion into nearby wilderness. You will demonstrate physical capability, situational awareness, and decision-making. Your observer will not assist you, but may provide guidance.”
“That seems fair,” Miri said.
Grath smiled again, professional and reassuring.
“Passing all three grants you full guild membership and clearance for solo contracts. Partial success will limit you to group work only.”
Miri took a steadying breath.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”
Grath gestured toward a door. “Excellent. Try not to die during the paperwork stage. It’s embarrassing for everyone involved.”
As Miri followed him, she mentally amended her earlier curses.
Okay, she thought, maybe Fluffkins didn’t screw me over completely.
Just… mostly.
* * *
The testing room was magically quiet, the white noise of the guild cutting off as soon as she crossed the threshold into the smaller room.
Long tables with high-backed chairs sized for everything from halflings to trolls. A faint smell of ink, dust, and old paper. Grath gestured her to a seat and placed a thick packet of parchment in front of her, along with a pen tipped with flowers.
“You have two hours,” he said. “Take your time. The paper does not bite.”
Miri eyed it suspiciously. “And the flowers?”
He gave a small, pleased grunt and stepped away.
“Makes the pen too embarrassing to steal.”
She chuckled and flipped the first page.
- PART ONE: STAYING ALIVE
She smiled.
Not because it was easy—but because it was sensible.
Questions about rationing food in hostile environments. About recognizing bad water before drinking it. About what kills people faster: cold, heat, or exhaustion. Hypotheticals followed—You are injured and alone. Do you move or shelter? Why?
Miri answered without hesitation. She’d lived these questions. Fluffkins had made her repeat the answers until they were instinct.
She turned the page.
- PART TWO: THINGS THAT WANT TO EAT YOU
This section was longer.
Illustrations accompanied descriptions, some charming, some deeply unpleasant.
A squat creature with a ceramic hat and needle teeth (Field Gnome - avoid swarm conditions).
A slick, translucent mass clinging to stone (Sludge Crawler - do not stab).
A floating light reflected in broken glass (Mirror Wisp - do not look back).
Miri slowed, absorbing details. Weaknesses. Habits. Warnings written in older ink, notes layered atop notes from generations of examiners who had clearly lost patience with repeat mistakes.
Some entries were unsettlingly brief.
Lantern Widow:
If you see the light, it is already too late.
Others sounded absurd.
Wizard’s Cauldron:
Unstable. Extremely volatile. Run when it glows.
Miri snorted and kept going.
One sketch stopped her short: a hunched green figure, broader than a goblin, with thicker arms and crude armor.
Hobgoblin.
She marked it and moved on.
- PART THREE: PEOPLE YOU MIGHT MEET
This section felt less like a test and more like a warning. It gave her an immense amount of information and then tested her comprehension.
Humans - ubiquitous, adaptable, unpredictable.
Elves - varied enough that generalizations were dangerous.
Dwarves - dense mana, dense bones, dense grudges.
Trolls - slow to anger, meticulous, shockingly fond of paperwork.
Miri glanced up reflexively. Grath was still grading at the far end of the room, posture impeccable.
She spent a while on the identifying features of the various races, where to find them, how to behave when meeting them.
Don’t say ‘thank you’ to a fey.
Dwarves never travel, you have to go to them for gem work.
The most populous race in the multiverse was humans, the least populous was dragons.
She was immensely grateful for the education Fluffkins gave her and she finished part three with a head full of trivia.
The final page was blank.
Miri frowned and tilted it toward the light.
Nothing.
She was about to flip it over when the surface warmed beneath her fingers.
Ink bled up from the page, forming letters into words.
One day, you will be forced to draw your weapon against a person.
They are not a monster.
They are not acting in self-defense.
If you do nothing, others will die.
Do you strike?
Miri stared at the question.
Her first instinct was rejection. A sharp, visceral no. This wasn’t why she was here. Monsters were different. Monsters didn’t have families or favorite foods or bad days. Monsters didn’t smile at you in the street.
People did.
She thought of Helmsworth. The guards at the gate. Miss Jane. The farmer with the cubs. Ordinary faces. Ordinary lives.
The idea of raising her sword against one of them made her stomach twist.
She stared at the fake flowers on the end of her pen. How ridiculous it was to answer such a question with a completely unserious pen.
There has to be another way, she thought. There was always another way. Restraint. Distance. Talking. Running. Getting help.
But the question didn’t allow for comfort.
If you do nothing, someone else will die.
Not might. Will.
She imagined the moment stretching, seconds ticking by while she searched for a perfect solution that didn’t exist. Someone screaming. Someone bleeding. Someone’s last breath spent waiting for her to decide.
That weight settled in her chest, heavy and cold.
Slowly, she picked the pen back up.
Her hand trembled.
She wrote carefully because each word mattered. As if the act of writing itself was a commitment.
I try to stop them without killing them.
She paused.
That was the easy part. The part she wanted to believe would always work.
Her pen hovered, ink beading at the tip.
What if it didn’t?
What if she tried everything she could think of and still wasn’t fast enough, strong enough, clever enough?
Her jaw clenched as she forced herself to finish.
If that fails, I strike.
Her breath came shallow. She almost stopped there.
But the truth wasn’t done with her yet.
She added one final line, the words slightly uneven.
And I carry it with me for the rest of my life.
She set the pen down and leaned back, suddenly exhausted, as if she’d already lived the moment the question described.
Grath read the page in silence.
He didn’t react right away. Didn’t nod. Didn’t frown.
When he finally looked up, his expression was unreadable.
“Most people write ‘yes,’” he said. “Or ‘no.’”
He tapped the paper once with a thick finger.
“Those answers are clean. Comfortable.”
His gaze met hers, steady and appraising.
“You’re not wrong to dread it.”
He stood, signaling the end of the exam.
“And if that day ever comes,” he added, “you’ll remember this question. That’s how I know you won’t take it lightly.”
Miri nodded, throat tight.
She had come here to prove she could fight monsters.
She left the desk knowing that someday, she might have to face something far worse—and that the hardest part wouldn’t be the swing of the sword.
It would be choosing to lift it at all.