Chapter 5: Paperwork and Pulled Steel

The ink-stained clerk behind the high mahogany counter looked up from his ledger, letting out a heavy sigh that smelled faintly of stale cabbage and dashed hopes.

"Heavy silver?" The clerk adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles, sizing up Zevryn’s slate-grey skin, long silver-white hair, and the matte-black hilts strapped to his back. "Stranger, around here, 'heavy silver' pays for things like missing limbs and clean burials. If you want contracts that pay better than a bowl of porridge, you don't just walk up and ask. You earn your rank."

Zev stood motionless, his piercing, luminous blue eyes fixed on the clerk. "Explain."

"The guild operates on a ladder," the clerk droned, tapping a greasy ledger with the back of a quill. "Iron is the bottom, where fresh fools die clearing rats out of breweries. Above that is Bronze, Silver, Gold, and Platinum. An Iron-grade novice touching a Bronze contract is a fantastic way to turn paperwork into a posthumous inventory. If you want silver-tier work today, you take the qualification test. Those are the rules."

"Where is the test?" Zev asked.

The clerk pulled a blank square of yellowed parchment and a stub of charcoal from beneath the counter, sliding them across the polished wood. "Write your name, your primary class, and your combat style. Drop it in the brass tray when you're done."

Zev took the charcoal. With swift, precise strokes, he wrote:

Zev

Skills: Dual sword style

The clerk picked up the paper, stared at the two painfully brief lines, and blinked. He looked up at Zev, then back down at the parchment. "Just this?"

"Just that," Zev replied flatly.

The clerk rubbed his temples, muttering something about northern barbarians lacking conversational skills. "Right. Sit down by the sparring pit in the back hall and wait for about an hour. We'll call an examiner. Try not to murder anyone before the bell rings, as we have a strict cleaning schedule on Tuesdays."

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

An hour later, amid the deafening roar of shouting mercenaries, clashing training weapons, and general brawling, a bored-looking guild warrior named Aleric slouched into the sand-filled courtyard. Aleric was a thick-necked veteran with a jagged scar across his cheek and a heavy broadsword slung lazily over his shoulder. He looked at Zev with the supreme, world-weary arrogance of a man who had crushed a hundred greenhorns that month.

An arbiter in a slate-gray cloak stepped between them, raising a bronze hand.

"Qualification bout," the arbiter called out, his voice cutting through the noise of the hall. "No lethal strikes, stop when blood is drawn. Ready..."

The arbiter dropped his hand. "Start."

Aleric didn't even bother to drop into a proper stance. He lazily reached for the grip of his broadsword, a condescending smirk playing on his lips.

He never touched the hilt.

Before Aleric’s fingers could wrap around the leather, the air in the courtyard seemed to tear. There was no sound of steel clearing leather, only a terrifying, whistling snap.

Zev was already there. His dark saber was drawn, the razor-sharp point resting with absolute, unyielding stillness directly against the hollow of Aleric’s throat. A single bead of crimson welled up where the tip grazed the skin.

Aleric froze, his eyes crossing as he stared down the length of the blade. Every ounce of color drained from his face, leaving him chalk-white. His breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed hard against cold steel.

From the sidelines, the arbiter’s jaw dropped. He stared at Zev’s blur-fast stance, his voice cracking as he stammered out, "Gold! Examiner, he passes at..."

Before the arbiter could finish, Zev’s eyes shifted slightly. A low, icy whisper left the drow's lips: "Silver."

The arbiter blinked, caught himself, and immediately cleared his throat, raising his voice to a booming shout that echoed off the stone walls. "He passes! Silver grade!"

The surrounding mercenaries went dead silent, staring in stunned disbelief at the veteran warrior paralyzed by a newcomer who had barely broken a sweat.

Zev smoothly sheathed his saber with a quiet click, turned his back on the trembling examiner, and walked back to the reception desk.

Ten minutes later, the clerk, his hands noticeably less dismissive this time, handed over a heavy, gleaming medallion stamped with the crossed swords and the intricate insignia of a Silver-grade adventurer.

Zev tucked the token into his ranger's sling bag, turned on his heel, and stepped back out into the bustling, unforgiving streets of Port Vandermir.