The morning light shone through the high windows of the Slayers Division hall, casting long, thin beams over the crowd of gathered slayers. Velos stood stiff as he glanced around among the new batch of one-mark rookies. He could feel the prestige of the room—slayers, seasoned and fresh alike, all busy with their own conversations yet ready to dispatch at a moment's notice.
Sterling stood next to him, unimpressed. His eyes flicked around the room before giving a quiet snort. "Hell of a welcome party."
Velos said nothing. His eyes were fixed on Shovi, the officer presiding over the morning assembly. Her voice echoed through the low murmur of the room, commanding the attention of every slayer present. "Alright, I know most of you want to get back to your day-to-day, so let’s make this quick."
"Velos Rendhal, Sterling, newly promoted." Shovi called out, her tone even. She pointed towards the seats for where they were sitting. There was little noise save for the sideway glances and hushed whispers that followed their names. Sterling, seated beside him, slouched in his chair, twirling his badge idly between his fingers unaware that the skeptical glances and strange whispers were directed towards them.
Velos could hear the faint mutters: something about ‘connections.’ He tried to keep his face neutral, trying to focus on the announcements but he couldn't help but think about whether or not the slayer ranks were talking about a certain familial figure. If they did, he supposed it was inevitable, yet it still stung all the same.
The atmosphere shifted when Shovi introduced the last of the newly promoted slayers. "Pyakar Angbawa, she’s currently... absent." Unlike the murmur of doubt that had followed Velos and Sterling, Pyakar's name was met with nods of approval. The slayer wasn’t even present, and yet her reputation more than sufficed.
"Man, I've got to get her on my team." A slayer spoke at a table across from Velos, chanting in excitement to his teammates. Whatever kind of slayer this Pyakar was, it was exactly the reputation Velos envied. The difference in reception was not lost on him.
After a few more minutes of introductions, Shovi moved on to the announcements. "Alright, we’ve got reports of missing people near the southern borders. Could be bandits, could be something worse. Stay sharp if you’re assigned down there." She glanced at a parchment in her hand. "Disrupted supply lines are still an issue—we’ve got a new shipment of equipment coming in next week. Don’t break anything before then."
The announcements continued, each one more mundane than the last, until finally, Shovi clapped her hands together and dismissed the assembly.
Velos exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. But before he could stand, Shovi’s gaze locked onto him, and she made her way over. "Velos, follow me," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Sterling raised an eyebrow. "The hell? What’s that about?"
Velos shrugged. "Probably financial stuff I need to arrange. You know, because of the dummy stunt."
Sterling chuckled. "Figures. I’ll take a look at whatever’s on the quest board then."
With that, Velos followed Shovi through the crowded hallways of the Division headquarters. As they walked, she turned to him. "You remember what you signed in that contract, right?"
Velos nodded. "Yeah. Half of my earnings go to the Division until the debt is cleared. My inactivity period’s reduced to a week before the contract gets revoked. And I’ve only got two refusals left before I’m forced to take whatever mission’s assigned."
Shovi gave a small, approving nod as they turned down another corridor. "Good. At least you were paying attention."
They stopped outside a large, unassuming door. Shovi placed her hand on the handle but paused before opening it. "This is where you’ll be working off that debt. You're a half-off now."
"Half-off?" Velos repeated, confused.
Shovi gave him a brief look before pushing the door open. "They’ll explain. Just wait for instructions."
Velos stepped inside, and the atmosphere immediately shifted. The room was filled with slayers, but unlike the proud, battle-ready men and women from the main assembly, these individuals looked... worn. Their armor was chipped, rusted in places, their weapons dulled by use. Some slumped in their chairs, their faces weary, as if life had ground them down to the bone.
Velos blinked, taken aback. "What... is this?"
Shovi didn’t answer. Instead, she simply said, "Good luck," and closed the door behind her.
Velos glanced around, unsure of where to even start. His attention was quickly drawn to a familiar figure entering the hall—Melicent Althaus III, the same coordinator from his first mission. She strode in, flanked by two clerks carrying stacks of parchment and quest slips.
Velos instinctively edged toward the door and listened in as Shovi, now standing outside, began chatting with Melicent. Shovi leaned against the wall, spotting Melicent approaching with her clerks. With a smirk, she called out, "Hey, Meli! Got a sec?"
Melicent rolled her eyes, her expression flat. "Cut it out, deputy. What do you want? Got anything new to report?"
Shovi pushed herself off the wall, her smirk widening. "Actually, yeah, for once. The Rendhal kid? He’s under your jurisdiction now."
Melicent blinked, a frown forming as she tried to recall. "Rendhal...?" Her eyes widened in recognition. "Wait. Rendhal? How the hell did he end up here?"
Shovi shrugged, a casual tilt of her head. "Racked up too much debt. Kept doing the combat trial over and over again. And for whatever reason, he either can’t—or doesn’t want—the family money to bail him out."
Melicent let out a sarcastic groan, rubbing her temple. "Just what I need. Another special treatment case from command to babysit."
Shovi raised an eyebrow, a playful grin. "Aren't you the same thing?"
Melicent froze, gritting her teeth. There was a tense silence as she visibly worked to keep her composure. "Watch it, deputy. I’m not an empty suit, I actually work here."
Shovi raised her hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. My bad. I thought we were friends." Her smirk returned as she added, "Besides, I’m treating you to coffee next week. Don’t get mad at me now, princess."
Melicent huffed but didn’t take the bait. "As long as he’s not a complete disaster, he’ll probably find himself assigned to the low-risk quests. Should keep him out of trouble, at least for a while." She turned around, swerving her glance towards the door as Velos moved to the side before they could notice him eavesdropping.
Velos stood still, pieces finally clicking into place. They knew. Of course they would. Sooner or later the name of a famous surgeon is going to ring around the places that would need him, yet he thought he could keep it under wraps for longer. He wasn’t here because of some connection, wasn’t trying to coast by on his family’s influence. But that didn’t matter now.
His thoughts were interrupted when an older slayer called out to him from across the room. "Oi, new blood. Over here."
Velos approached cautiously, meeting the gaze of a boorish man with a bushy beard and a large nose. His armor looked patched together, with dents and scratches covering the surface. He extended a hand. "Name’s Korin."
Velos shook his hand. "Velos. So... what’s going on here?"
Korin leaned back in his chair. "Welcome to the half-offs assembly, kid. This is where those of us who owe the Division gather. You don’t pick your quests from the big board anymore. The Division sends over a bunch of quests they don’t bother posting—ones no one wants to take, or ones that are too risky for the regular slayers."
Velos frowned. "So... we just wait for the scraps?"
Korin chuckled, though it was a humorless sound. "Pretty much. We’re the debtors, kid. We don’t leave until every quest slip in this room is signed, and if you don’t get your name on one before they’re filled... let’s just say the higher-ups don’t like that."
Velos glanced at the door. "What if there aren’t enough quests? Can’t we just pick from the big board outside?"
Korin shook his head. "Nope. If you don’t grab a slip here, Command will assign you something themselves. And trust me, that’s not a good thing."
Velos’ mind raced. This assembly seemed like a trap. He needed to act fast, or risk getting stuck with something worse.
As if on cue, Melicent re-entered the room, barking orders. "Alright, the new batch of quests are here. Take your pick, sign your name. Any pushing or shoving and you’re moving back in line!"
The clerks began posting quest slips on the wall, and immediately, the room exploded into action. Slayers surged forward, desperate to get their names on the best-paying missions. Velos, caught off guard by the sudden rush, hesitated for a moment too long.
Korin remained seated, watching the chaos and resigning to his seat. He pointed at the stack of papers the clerks were carrying, speaking to Velos in a hushed tone. “Just some advice. There’s only two types of quests in this room. The ones that pay and can get you killed, and the ones that don’t.”
Velos looked at him. "What about you?"
"These days?” Korin lifted his left leg, revealing a wooden peg where his foot should have been. “Scraps."
Velos swallowed hard, then turned back to the board. He pushed through the crowd, his heart pounding in his chest. The quest slips were already disappearing fast, slayers shoving each other aside to claim their spots.
Melicent, overseeing the chaos, caught sight of Velos. "For those of you who are new," she began, her voice cutting through the noise, "this is how it works. You’re in debt, and as long as you are, you’ll be picking your quests from this—”
Velos didn’t listen anymore. He simply didn’t have the time. He got up and shoved his way to the board.
“Alright, have it your way then.” Melicent nodded in exasperation before returning to bark orders.
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Velos eyes scanned the slips frantically, trying to make sense of it all. The details blurred together, each quest looking more dangerous than the last.
Before he could even finish reading one, three names had already been signed under it.
—
The main hall was far quieter than the frenzy back in the debt assembly. Slayers sat in small groups scattered around, some eating, others sharpening their weapons or scanning the quest board for opportunities. A few leaned against the stone walls, nursing drinks and sharing stories of close calls or successful hunts.
Sterling sat at one of the smaller tables near the back, his boots kicked up onto the bench opposite him. In one hand, he held a mug of ale, and in the other, a crumpled sheet detailing some low-tier quest he’d snagged from the board earlier. It wasn’t much—a routine mission, maybe a couple of unranked beasts causing trouble on a farm—but it was work. And more importantly, it was a break from the chaos.
He scanned the quest, barely paying attention, when a loud voice broke through his thoughts.
“Hey! Sterling!”
Sterling glanced up, already feeling his mood souring. Across the hall, a group of slayers waved him over. Their table was littered with empty mugs and the clatter of rough laughter. Three of them, all of them two-mark veterans, with gear that had seen better days—scratched armor, dented swords, the kind of equipment that spoke of countless battles but also a bit of neglect.
The man in the middle of the group was the kind of sight that stuck with you long after you looked away. His face was a patchwork of burn scars, parts of his skin charred while other sections remained unnervingly pristine. His scalp was mostly bald, not from age, but from the flames that had seared his flesh in a past incident. He always had a ragged cloth slung loosely around his neck. Strapped across his chest was an ammunition sling, filled with shells and bolts, a sign of his preference for ranged combat.
Sterling recognized the man. He took a final sip of his drink and stood up, keeping his expression neutral as he sauntered over to the group.
“Yeah?” Sterling said, crossing his arms as he stood by their table, feigning disinterest. He glanced at the charred slayer, then at the two slayers flanking him, both grinning like they’d just found fresh meat.
The charred slayer leaned back in his chair, resting one arm lazily across the table. “You know who I am?”
Sterling shrugged, keeping his voice casual. “Kavian, right? Heard of you. Everyone remembers a face like that.”
Kavian grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good. Saves me the introduction.”
Sterling didn’t mention it, but he knew exactly what Kavian was famous for.
The nickname "The Butcher" hadn’t come from nowhere. There were stories—rumors, mostly—about a mission where Kavian had made a name for himself, though not in the way most slayers would want. It was said that when his squad was ambushed by a pack of beasts, Kavian had coldly used his own team as bait, drawing the creatures into a trap he’d set. His long-range style allowed him to stay back, out of danger, even as his comrades were brutalized. The mission was a success, but at a deadly cost. The name stuck.
Sterling glanced at the two slayers flanking Kavian now and wondered why anyone would willingly follow a man like that.
Sterling raised an eyebrow. “So what do you want with me?”
Kavian’s grin widened, but there was no friendliness behind it. “Not you, actually. Your partner.”
Sterling tried to keep his expression neutral. “Velos?”
“Yeah, that Velos Rendhal kid. You do know who he is, right?”
Sterling shrugged again. “He’s just some archivist.”
The two slayers at Kavian’s side snickered, but Kavian leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His eyes were locked on Sterling’s, like a predator eyeing its prey.
“Archivist, huh? That’s what you think?”
Sterling frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Kavian’s grin turned mocking. “I mean, have you heard the rumors?”
Sterling stayed silent, which Kavian took as an invitation to continue.
“Velos Rendhal,” Kavian said slowly, savoring the name. “That’s a big name, isn’t it? His father, a famous surgeon. Rich, influential. You don’t think it’s a little convenient that the son of someone like that gets promoted after just two missions? No one rises that fast, not without some help from the right people.”
Sterling’s jaw tightened. “That’s bullshit. I’ve seen Velos in action. He’s got grit.”
Kavian laughed harshly. “Grit? You think ‘grit’ gets someone promoted in this Division after two missions? You’re either delusional, or you’ve been blind. He’s not cut out for field work. We saw it the moment he walked into the assembly—some kid playing at being a slayer.”
Sterling’s exhaled in frustration, but kept his voice steady. “Maybe you need to get your eyes checked.”
Kavian’s grin vanished, replaced by a steely glare. He stood up slowly, towering over Sterling, his voice dropping low and irate. “I’ve been working in this field for years. I’ve bled for this Division, fought beasts you can’t even imagine. And now, some rich brat thinks he can play pretend because he’s got money? Thinks he can skip the line and earn marks faster than people who’ve been here for decades?”
Sterling met Kavian’s gaze, at a loss for words, but he refused to back down.
Kavian leaned in, his voice almost a growl. “You tell your partner something for me. You tell him that people like him? They’re not welcome here. The Division doesn’t have time for whelps who think they can buy their way through this life. He’s going to get someone killed.”
Sterling’s hand twitched, itching to strike Kavian, to put the arrogant bastard in his place. But he knew better. Two-mark slayers had enhanced strength, reflexes. Even if Sterling could win the fight, it wouldn’t be worth the trouble. Kavian and his crew could make things difficult for him, sabotage quests, spread rumors, make life miserable.
Sterling bit his tongue, his temper boiling with the effort it took to hold back. Instead, he spat on the ground at Kavian’s feet and turned to leave.
But as he walked away, something stopped him. Something grabbed hold of him, deep in his gut, something that refused to let Kavian have the last word.
Sterling paused, clenching his fists tight, then turned back around. His voice rang out across the hall, clear and confident. “You know what? Forget about Velos. If you and your piss-soaked charcoal mug think you can decide who belongs here and who doesn’t, I’ll personally ensure that when we reach heights you can’t even imagine, you will grind your weapons scraping the dirt off our boots.”
Kavian’s expression hardened, his brow furrowing as he leaned closer, a scowl creeping onto his face. “That so?”
“Eat shit.” Sterling barked as he walked off.
—
Velos scanned the wall of quest slips, his eyes darting between various missions pinned to the board. The hall bustled with slayers, all eager to secure the best-paying or least risky jobs. He had been there for over an hour, carefully reading each slip, gauging the dangers and rewards, but each time he settled on one, it disappeared. One by one, the slips were snatched away, claimed by faster hands or more decisive minds.
He eyed a quest slip detailing a job in a volcanic region, something about monitoring the shifting of lava flows, but before he could fully take it in, a gruff slayer grabbed it. Velos sighed, stepping back, getting a feel for his dwindling options.
As the crowd thinned, only a handful of hesitant slayers remained. Velos found himself standing in front of three lonely quest slips, each one with its own undesirable baggage.
The first was a gathering mission. Collect hazardous plants. For research. The words practically screamed boring and dangerous in the same breath. No one in their right mind would want to traipse around collecting poisonous flora, no matter how valuable the research was.
The second quest offered barely more incentive. Routine patrol of northern Valfield mines. It sounded like easy work, but the pay was laughably low. He couldn’t help but feel his lips curl in frustration. Korin had warned him: There are only two types of quests in this hellhole. Velos could see now what he meant. No slayer wanted these scraps, but they lingered all the same.
Then came the third quest.
Quest #A1021 - Unusual Tracks Near Misthollow
Issued by the Covenant’s Slayers Division
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Information
* Rank: ▲ (One-Mark)
* Classification: Investigation
* Objective: Investigate reports of large, unnatural damage marks near Wind Hollow Forest.
* Location: Wind Hollow, Eastern Bharu Border
* Reward: 250c
* Additional Info: The area is known for frequent fog and low visibility.
Details
Recent reports from caravans passing through the Mist Hollow wetlands have noted increasing damage to their wagons, seemingly caused by a large, unidentified creature. The region’s native inhabitants have also reported unusual marks found on trees and other foliage—distinct claw-like gashes, but with no consistent pattern. A number of people have gone missing after attempting to locate the source of the disturbance. As of yet, no official investigation has been undertaken by the Division.
This quest is for observation and investigation only. Your goal is to assess the situation, identify any creatures responsible, and verify the rumors.
*The area is notorious for its thick fog and low visibility, which may hinder tracking efforts.
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Approved by Head Coordinator Taguri Bronne
Property of the Covenant, Slayers Division
Investigation. Damage in the Misthollow swamps, Eastern Bharu. Threat unknown. Velos blinked, his gaze lingering on the words. He knew the region—a fog-covered wetland bordering key caravan routes. It made sense why this would be a guild priority, but he was surprised at how well-paying it was.
The reward was 250 crowns. Enough to pay back my debt in one go.
His debt stood at 250 crowns exact, and while the reward would settle that, half of it would still be cut from the final amount, and splitting it with Sterling seemed inevitable. They had fought side by side before, and Velos knew that at this stage, he needed the backup. Velos thought of being a bit of a weasel, convincing Sterling to opt out of the payment, but Sterling's reaction to a proposal like that would be anyone's guess.
Velos knew how the payment was going to go. After all, his contract did say that it was his earnings that would get a subtraction, not the reward itself. 125 crowns at best, he thought, a number that seemed fair, but it's about as much as he can get before the cut.
The risk, however, loomed large in his mind. An investigation meant uncertainty. They wouldn’t even know what they were up against until they got there, and unknown threats often proved far worse than anyone imagined. But the objective wasn’t to slay the creature—just to identify it, report back, and get paid. He could manage that. With Sterling’s help, maybe they could handle whatever was out there.
Velos hesitated for a moment, gaze switching to the few remaining slayers nearby. A few of them hovered by the board, waiting for the least dangerous quests. One of them was Korin, the old slayer who always sought out low-priority missions. He noticed the way Korin glanced at the patrol slip, the one no one else wanted.
Velos didn’t have the luxury of avoiding danger. Not if he wanted to be more than a slayer scraping by. He turned back to the board and, with a steady hand, took the investigation slip and signed his name.
As he did, a cold realization hit him. No one else had signed up for this one.
He stared again at the slip now marked with his name. The hall had emptied out, and the once-crowded board looked sparse and bare. Velos exhaled, contemplating the nature of his choice. Is it really that dangerous?
If he was going to make this work, he needed to do some quick preparation. Research the region, gather supplies, and ensure that he and Sterling were ready for whatever awaited them in the fog-choked swamps of Eastern Bharu.
Velos folded the quest slip and tucked it into his jacket, casting one last glance at the nearly empty board.
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Slayer's Notes
Property of Velos Rendhal
Half-Offs
Half-offs. That’s what they call us—the slayers who made too many mistakes, left too many debts, and are now shackled to the Division’s bottom-tier scraps. Those quests nobody wants, the ones just dangerous enough to make us question if it’s even worth the coin.
As an indebted slayer, you live on a tight leash. Your inactivity period is slashed to just one week, which means you’re barely given time to rest before the Division pulls you back in. Half of whatever you earn from each quest goes straight to them, a constant reminder of the debt you’re dragging around. And when they assign you something, refusing isn’t much of an option—you’re given a limited number of refusals before they cut your choices down completely. It’s not about what you’re capable of anymore; it’s about paying your dues and hoping you survive long enough to see the end of it.
Then there’s Korin. He’s been in the half-offs longer than anyone should be, old enough that no one even remembers why he’s there, except that he lost his leg somewhere along the way. I’ve always wondered what went wrong for him. Yet, despite everything, he reached out, helped me catch up when I was green and fumbling. Small gesture, but I'm not eager to forget that.