Caban Oxwell didn’t fancy himself the best adventurer around.

Especially since his master didn’t. More than once, he’d suggested taking up a job behind his bar instead of waving a sword at all the things which wanted to eat him in a cave.

And maybe in another life, Caban would have accepted.

But most masters weren’t Thomas Lainsfont. And most hadn’t made the mistake of personally patting him on the shoulder.

That was all Caban needed.

He didn’t actually remember what Thomas said to him that day. And Thomas definitely couldn’t remember what was said back.

In fact, he couldn’t remember anything about Caban at all.

Which was normal.

He was just another boy in another village, rescued from another burning field of certain doom.

Except that while most village boys would pick up a wooden sword and see their vows to follow in their saviour’s footsteps end with the first fruit slime which headbutted them back, Caban persevered.

… Eventually.

It wasn’t easy. Especially not for his unsuspecting master.

Thomas had barely decided to retire before Caban showed up at his bar, worldly possessions on his back and a very unsubtle look of hope on his face.

The disappointment that Caban wasn’t there as a customer was greater than all the grief he gave him from that moment onwards. Not because Caban was a terrible student. But rather, as fate would have it, Caban proved even better at pouring drinks.

A Granholtz Sunrise with a Clocktower.

That was his specialty.

Nobody knew what the clocktower was until they ordered it, but once they saw the ice cubes towering over their drinks like a keep above its walls, all were hooked.

Even his master, and he hardly drank at all.

The day Caban decided to officially register with the guild was the only day he saw Thomas Lainsfont with a look of defeat. It was the rarest triumph for the village boy from Avinbelle, and he knew he had to take his victory all the way onto the next rung.

The Oldest Ladder was there to be climbed, after all.

That’s why–

“Here you go, buddy. A Goblin Surprise. On the house.”

Sitting on his makeshift bar counter, an orange, black and white calico sniffed at the bowl of milk on offer. The cat was right to be suspicious. It was supposedly sheep’s milk. But Caban hadn’t tried.

All he knew was that the goblins liked it more.

Recently saved by pure virtue of accidentally wandering into his neck of the woods, Pepper now only awaited his proper return to his owner.

Sadly for him and the nice girl still anxiously waiting, the reunion had to wait.

After all, these weren’t the great outdoors they were in.

These were caves. And while they were both here, Pepper needed to share Caban’s hospitality with the goblins. All of them, in fact. He was very popular. And why not?

He served the drinks.

Sticky tables. Stools which were both too tall and too short. Kegs filled with mystery liquid. Even a bubbling cauldron which would have been better if it was just the fire underneath.

Here in the cozy corner of his own cave, the young, talented prodigy of Thomas Lainsfont fulfilled the destiny which would have made his mentor nod in satisfaction. At least until it was realised this wasn’t The Singing Mule being tended to, but Caban’s very own establishment. And it was more popular.

As a result … he’d chosen the name carefully:

‘Caban’s Prison–Send Help’.

There was even a sign.

None of those present bothered to look.

Instead, a healthy gathering of goblins and hobgoblins sat around their tables, looking indistinguishable from their adventuring counterparts as they traded jests, elbows and taunts in no particular order. But although little thought seemed to be given to the slapping and tossing of the cards they toyed with, Caban didn’t need his adventurer’s instincts to see that not a single eye was wayward.

Nobody liked to lose.

Not when it came to cards. And not when it came to drinking.

The tankards were piled high. If the adventurers before him knew goblins could hold their liquor so well, the treaties never would’ve been needed. All their differences could’ve been solved with a well placed keg … over the course of maybe two minutes.

Or just a handful of seconds, given his clientele tonight.

“Ah, Bogspit,” said Caban, cheerfully painting the picture of the model barkeeper by drying a tankard with a soggy wet cloth. “How’s the young’un doing?”

Before his counter, the newly arrived goblin shook his head.

Caban offered a nod of sympathy.

“... Still haven’t learned the concept of sleep, eh? I’ve no experience in the matter, but I hear it’s the same for all new fathers. You just need to tide it over until he’s old enough to headbutt his friends instead of your sleep schedule. Then you’ll have a different set of problems to deal with.”

The goblin snorted.

A moment later, he pointed towards the shelf behind his counter.

Despite the number of drinks optimistically arranged, the goblins only ever asked for the same thing.

“Here you are,” said Caban with a flash of his easy smile. “An Adventurer’s Grog. The worst I can make it.”

Bogspit accepted his filled tankard. He gave an approving sniff of the beverage. A concoction able to sweep seasoned buccaneers off their feet until they woke up on a different ship.

He left to rejoin his fellow company a moment later.

Bogspit was Caban’s favourite. He was the most talkative.

In fact, he found most goblins a talkative bunch once an attempt at niceties was made.

Or so he liked to think. It was probably the grog.

Unfortunately, even with its magical effects at enhancing social skills, there were some things even illegal amounts of alcohol couldn’t manage to draw out.

Snatches of conversation … was surprisingly one of them.

Just not when the only other adventurer arrived.

The noise was wiped clean like snow brushed from a window. Where there was chatter and an imminent brawl, there was now silence and apprehension.

Liliane Harten, either unaware or unbothered, practically skipped her way towards the bar, the door into his little cave swinging loudly to a close behind her. She hummed as she smiled, and with a click of her finger, summoned a stool as easily as she did the magical weapons hovering by her side.

The stool was still the wrong height.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Oxwell,” said Liliane, hands clasped together in earnestness. “I know I promised to provide updates, but it’s been hectic. You wouldn’t believe it. I’ve had Guildmaster Triniard, the Seamstress Guild, Lady Meryl and even the giant rats asking me about the goblins. I know, I know–that’s no excuse. And it’s not. Well, it is. But it isn’t. But they’ve all been in my ear and now I can’t tell whose voice is whose. It’s just words, words, words, words, words …”

Caban gave his usual, easy smile … all to hide his stare as he made sure it was her.

“... Is that right?” he said with a bartender’s false chuckle. “Rough days, huh?”

“Rougher than a Hobgoblin’s Bounty. Do you know what that drink is?”

“I don’t,” admitted Caban, curious despite himself. “What is it?”

The woman smiled. It sent a shiver through him.

Liliane Harten.

Truthfully, Caban knew little of her other than her rank.

She was an A-rank adventurer. An acclaimed member of the guild. The same as his master. And yet when it came to fame, there was a world of difference between her and Thomas Lainsfont.

It was no insult, though.

After all, not all who climbed the Oldest Ladder did so by wrestling basilisks in a spilled pool of another basilisk’s stomach acid. The Adventurer’s Guild believed in merit. And only rarely was the importance of healers, druids and bards forgotten in the face of public displays of brawn.

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It was more unusual for a mage to be so little known, but not everyone capable of magic threw fireballs wherever they went. Because of that and more, Caban’s first impression of her was of someone closed and guarded. But he’d sensed no hostility from her.

In fact, he still didn’t.

He just didn’t know what he sensed now.

She was a completely different person.

Her auburn hair was loose and free. And while she was by no means old, she seemed to have lost a decade in age. The bright smile she gave as she reached over to make her own drink was no different to a town girl done with both her work and the hassling of men.

She walked with a spring in her step. And as she mixed the only thing more powerful than an Adventurer’s Grog, it confirmed to Caban what he’d already known.

She was utterly nuts.

“I heard about this from the hobgoblins,” said Liliane, enthusiastically sipping something which should rightfully see the last of her senses knocked out of her. “It’s awful. I like it. Drinking half will murder you. Drinking the other half will take your soul as well. I’m thinking about putting it in a nice bottle for the next bureaucrat to ask me how long the goblins plan on taking up Marinsgarde’s hospitality.”

Caban smiled, as he only could do.

“Oh? And what did you say?”

“I said the truth, of course. Goblins do time differently than us. A day might be an hour and an hour might be a year. Goblins come and go depending on the coarseness of their toe hair. And you know what? They seemed shocked by that.”

“Well, I’ll admit that does sound a little vague on the timescale front.”

“Not to goblins. It’s what they use to feel. They can sense the vibrations in the air. The changes in the mood. The coming of danger. A sixth sense. Except it’s like a sixth toe. And that’s what they use to fetch missing cats.”

Beside them, Pepper looked up, unhappy at the suggestion that he didn’t come to mooch entirely of his own accord.

Liliane glanced at the calico. And for a moment, the sight of every F-rank adventurer’s first quest allowed her eyes to glimmer with a fresh spark of life.

Caban’s back straightened, his hands gripping the edge of the counter in hope.

It mattered for naught.

The moment went, just as it always did, and so did Caban’s hopes of a sudden epiphany.

“... Isn’t it ungrateful?” she continued, with all the swagger of a drunkard 2 hours after they should have left. “The goblins pile gold into the town. They fix the rooftops, the gutters and then sweep away with the rats under them as well. But the higher ups don’t feel the slightest obligation to offer their thanks.”

Caban glanced at the crown upon her head.

So close, yet so far. At this distance, he could make out every dent and scratch. But more importantly, the hovering magical weapons could make out his fingers. They’d be snipped if he offered anything more than another round.

“I’d say so, yeah. The work you’ve put into cleaning up the town sounds nothing short of saintly. It’s a crime they don’t treat you better, the guildmaster most of all.”

“Thank you. It’s what I’ve been saying.”

“In fact … I’m ashamed to say it’s taken me this long to see the truth of it. Adventurers work to improve the lives of common folk. We shouldn’t let mannequins behind a desk tell us how it’s done.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Oxwell. But I hope that’s not the drinks speaking.”

Caban gave a small chuckle.

“I don’t think there’s much possibility in that. I don’t touch the stuff myself. You’re all bigger fans of my work than I am. But for some reason, it’s nothing compared to the cheap stuff at the guild. Why don’t we both go back and we can down the bad stuff together while giving Guildmaster Triniard a piece of our minds?”

Liliane simply nodded.

“I’d like that. But not right now. I still want to convince you. And not just you. Everyone. And yes, I know this looks less than ideal. But your placement here is only temporary. Soon, your worst concerns will be alleviated. In fact, I hope for your sword to take part in what’s to come. Once the expedition begins, I’ll be delighted if you could join in.”

“The … uh, the what?”

“The chance for both of us to gain what we want.”

All Caban could do was blink.

“Right, well, I’ll be honest, I sort of just want to deliver Pepper back.”

“And you can. But you’ll have to wait. The guild–they don’t understand. Not yet. But they will. Because no matter how closed their mind is, they can’t avoid the big picture if I spell it out for them in writing as large as the sky itself. They’ll be ecstatic. More than enough to give you your B-rank trials. Naturally, I’ll offer a recommendation as well.”

“Oh.”

Caban blinked, forgetting that was a thing.

If Liliane had wanted a different response, she didn’t show it. Instead, she downed the rest of her makeshift poison. Whatever effect it had on her, it probably only made her more sane.

“... I’ll be returning shortly,” she said, leaving another tankard for him to clean. “But if you can, I wanted to ask if you could make sure we’ve enough Goblin Surprises on hand. I think we’ll need as many as you can fit in this cave.”

A stool promptly vanished.

Just like that, Liliane turned away, ready to commit to whatever that crown encouraged her to do. At least until Caban raised his hand. He quickly lowered it when a small arsenal of weapons snapped unerringly towards him.

“Miss Harten–wait, I’ve just a question, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“… lf we both want the same thing, does that mean you’re trying to climb the ranks? Are you hoping for S-rank?”

It almost seemed like a redundant question.

Everyone wanted to climb the ranks. And to become S-rank was to become glory itself.

But in truth, few wanted it enough to go through the hardships required to earn anything higher than C-rank. That alone meant they were already considered the talk of the village back home.

But those who did … well.

Caban wondered what they were willing to sell in exchange.

His fears only became more real at the sudden silence.

The unnatural smile didn’t fade. But the eyes before him only became more distant, despite staring straight at him.

“... S-rank?” Liliane put a finger to her lips. “That’s a wonderful aspiration, isn’t it? I should know. I’ve known a few. But even the worthiness of S-rank is a matter of perspective. While it seems laudable from below, it seems so very poor from above.”

“I, uh, don’t quite catch your meaning?”

Liliane merely smiled.

Then, she turned and began walking away.

“You might have heard the rumours, Mr. Oxwell, that there exists a higher rank than S? It’s rare to be acknowledged, and even rarer to be spoken of. But it exists. You should consider that when performing your B-rank trials. The next rung, I find, is much easier when another still waits on the other side.”

Caban had no words as she exited his bar.

For one thing, he had heard the rumours.

SS-rank.

An official rank higher than anything the kingdom had seen in a century, the ceiling so preposterous that it was never broached even in the most drunken of boasts and declarations.

After all, if there were any SS-rank adventurers, they would pose a danger so severe that the borders of kingdoms would shift. It would be like a nation gaining a dragon. No, several dragons. Such a sudden shifting of power would cause armies to march.

However … that Liliane Harten was even considering that rank in her head was bad news.

Caban had to do something. He needed to escape. To warn the guild that Liliane herself was little freer than the goblins under her command.

He didn’t know what magic crowns had in mind these days, but he didn’t need to.

He’d let others ask the questions.

Thus, he leaned back and did the only thing he could.

He tapped his fingers across his counter and waited … counting the minutes.

“Uuuunnnnnnnnggghhhhh.”

They lasted as long as the best drinking companions he had.

He nodded at the sight. A cave full of goblins and hobgoblins, now each as fallen as the tankards by their sides. Froth foamed at their mouths while hands gripped stomachs.

Only their groans still worked as every soul begged for a merciful end.

They’d have it by the next morning. Maybe.

Adventurer’s Grog with a twist was no joke. Especially when the twist was a dash of damn near everything he had all mixed at once. Half was an excellent cocktail. But another half was a trip straight to the local herbalist.

“All right,” said Caban, leaving another bowl of suspect milk for Pepper. “Not sure how many acid traps are waiting for me out there. You enjoy the free food for now. If I live, I’m coming back.”

He nodded as the cat busied himself with forgetting his existence for food.

Then, seeing the only other movements were the thumbs stubbornly playing with the cards on the ground, Caban grabbed a torch from the wall and left his prison of watchers and customers behind.

The rest was luck, instinct and more luck.

His three closest companions.

Treading swiftly without the weight of a sword by his side, Caban made his way through the tunnels without once stumbling. As surefooted as a deer in a forest, he betrayed the steps of a man who’d fled his fair share of tunnels, caves and mines. And this one was immediately better than most.

The air wasn’t poisonous and the rocks were smoothed down.

That earned all the drinks he’d served.

Caban had known more than one dwarf to take offence at the idea that goblins were better tunnellers than them, but of all the dark and damp places he’d swiftly fled from, the ones made by goblins were usually the very best.

All he had to do was follow the sound of water.

He hurried without care for noise. Goblins could smell him before they heard him–unless he thoroughly washed himself first. The sound called out to him like Lady Lumielle’s Star in the night sky. And it came in the form of a stream clearer than any on the surface.

Shielding his torch as much as he was able, he hopped into the stream and waded against the current, even as it became as wild as a brisk river. Twice, he stumbled as his foot caught against the stone underneath. Three times, he went backwards as the current picked up pace.

He carried on regardless, trusting in his memories of surviving each edition of fleeing via Mother Nature–all the way until he was forced to make new ones at the sight of an endless waterfall.

The torch in his hand spluttered and floundered as the many droplets flung over him. But it wasn’t the only light. There was something high above now. A pale streak of golden light breaking through the surface like the thinnest ray between a window shutter.

It was enough.

Sucking in a deep breath, he grabbed the least jagged protrusion from the rocks beside the waterfall. Darkness engulfed him as he tossed his torch.

Then, he began to climb.

One stretch at a time, he accepted the moisture attacking his face, the sharpness of the stone and the water weighing down his sodden clothing and boots. More than once, he slipped as his hands failed to grasp the wet surface, earning nothing but new aches and new cuts.

It was nothing at all.

As ever, Caban gritted through the discomfort by playing a familiar scene through his mind.

It was one which came about often. Usually while fleeing from a brown bear. But any adversity worked.

Even now, he still remembered every second of that day as clearly as the bright orchard where it’d happened.

A princess slicing a falling apple, followed by the rain … and then a mock duel where he still wasn’t sure what had happened.

That was the moment everything changed.

The man with the easy smile hadn’t vanished. But the lackadaisicalness in his heart did. It was a flame which guided him through any trial, any darkness.

In a way, Liliane Harten was right.

It was always easier when there was another rung. And he’d found the next one after reaching his mentor. For even in their final lesson, when he’d endured the full weight of a single strike by Thomas Lainsfont, his sword had stuck to his hand like melted wax.

Not the case with a princess in a dress.

It’d been ripped away so suddenly that he hadn’t noticed the difference in weight until his palm grasped only the sweat upon his skin.

Thus, Caban followed both the streaks of light and the candle of his own modest ambition.

He climbed, bearing the water suffocating his face and the exhaustion anchoring him down until he was offered his just reward. The hint of a draft. The whistle of freedom.

Seeing the edge of the precipice rising above him, Caban allowed himself to smile.

And then he saw the light disappear as something very large promptly decided to block his view.

… Especially since it was now plummeting towards him.