The sun hung low on the horizon as Alaric approached the Adventure Guild, its large, sturdy building bustling with activity. Hunters of all ranks milled about, some chatting animatedly about their latest exploits, others poring over dungeon listings on the massive quest board. Alaric’s hand gripped the hilt of his sword, a nervous tick as his thoughts churned. He rehearsed his story repeatedly, knowing that any slip could unravel his carefully crafted lie.
The events of the dungeon still weighed heavily on him. The mutated Broodmother, the betrayal, the brutal fight—he needed to ensure no suspicions fell on him. Adjusting his cloak to hide the new sword at his side, he stepped inside.
The guild's interior was as lively as ever, but Alaric ignored the commotion. He made his way to the reception desk, where a young woman with short auburn hair and a kind smile greeted him.
“Good evening, Alaric,” she said, recognizing him from his recent frequent visits. “Here to report your raid?”
Alaric hesitated, letting the weight of the situation settle on his face. “I need to talk about something serious. It’s about the Broodmother dungeon… and my party.”
The receptionist’s smile faded, replaced by concern. “Is everything all right?”
“No,” Alaric said, his voice low. “They didn’t make it. I’m the only survivor.”
The woman gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “Wait here. I’ll take you to the Guild Manager.”
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Moments later, Alaric found himself in the guild’s private office. The manager, a middle-aged man named Reynard, sat behind a broad wooden desk. His grizzled face bore the marks of countless battles, and his sharp eyes studied Alaric with an intensity that made him uneasy.
“Sit,” Reynard said, gesturing to the chair opposite him.
Alaric complied, keeping his posture composed. Reynard folded his hands, leaning forward. “The receptionist mentioned you were the sole survivor of your party. Tell me everything.”
Alaric nodded, taking a deep breath. He knew this moment was critical. Any hesitation or inconsistency could arouse suspicion. “We entered the Broodmother dungeon as planned,” he began. “Everything was normal at first. We fought through the spiderlings, but then... something changed.”
He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to sink in. Reynard’s expression didn’t shift, but Alaric could feel the man analyzing every word.
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“The Broodmother mutated,” Alaric continued, lowering his voice. “Its power increased tenfold. We weren’t prepared for that kind of strength. The others tried to retreat, but the monster was relentless. One by one... they fell.”
Reynard leaned back in his chair, his steely gaze unyielding. “And you? How did you survive?”
“I...” Alaric hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I’ve been experimenting with my skills. One of them, Essence Extraction, gave me heightened senses when I used it on a spider minion. I could sense the Broodmother’s attacks just in time to dodge. It wasn’t skill or strength—it was pure luck.”
Reynard’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Luck, you say?”
Alaric nodded, meeting the man’s gaze with a mixture of weariness and determination. “I barely escaped. If it weren’t for that ability, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”
Reynard listened without interrupting further. His years of managing the guild had honed his ability to read people, and he could tell that Alaric wasn’t telling the whole truth. The details of the story were too neat, too rehearsed.
Still, Reynard had heard rumors about the deceased party. Derek, Bran, and their crew were known troublemakers, with whispers of shady dealings and suspicious deaths surrounding them. If Alaric had indeed eliminated them, it wasn’t necessarily a loss to the guild.
But Reynard couldn’t show his thoughts. He kept his expression neutral as Alaric finished his story.
“This isn’t the first report we’ve received about mutated monsters,” Reynard said finally, shifting the topic. “Something’s been happening in the dungeons lately. Monsters are evolving, becoming more dangerous. Hunters have been dying at an alarming rate.”
Alaric frowned, grateful for the change in focus. “Do you know what’s causing it?”
Reynard shook his head. “Not yet. But if this keeps up, we’ll have to close certain dungeons entirely. For now, consider yourself lucky to have survived. I’ll handle notifying the families of the deceased.”
Alaric’s stomach twisted at the mention of the families. He forced himself to nod, knowing it was best to stay silent.
Reynard dismissed him with a warning. “Be careful, Alaric. The dungeons are changing, and so are the people in this guild. Trust is a rare commodity these days.”
As Alaric left the office, he let out a shaky breath. The weight of Reynard’s gaze lingered on him, but he felt a small surge of relief. The story had been accepted, at least for now.
The receptionist watched him leave with a sympathetic smile. “Take care, Alaric. If you need anything, let us know.”
Walking through the guild hall, Alaric’s mind raced. Reynard knew. Maybe not the whole truth, but enough to suspect what had happened. Still, he hadn’t called him out.
“Did he suspect the party’s true nature?” Alaric wondered. “Or is he just waiting for me to slip up?”
The incident had left him shaken, but it also strengthened his resolve. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down. The mutated monsters, the looming threat of the Demon Lord, and now the guild’s scrutiny—it was all pushing him toward a single conclusion.
He needed to grow stronger. And fast.
As Alaric stepped out into the fading daylight, a figure watched him from the shadows of the guild hall. Their lips curled into a sly smile as they turned and disappeared into the crowd.
“Let’s see what secrets you’re hiding, Alaric.”