The night’s gloom enveloped the guild camp as Novian and Kessel emerged from the forest. The dim glow of campfires reflected off armor, and shadowy figures of adventurers slowly turned toward their approaching footsteps. Here, among the tents, wooden barricades, and watchtowers, life never stood still. The guild was a place where death walked hand in hand with fortune, where gold and blood blended into a dull alloy.


    Novian strode forward, carrying a lifeless body in his arms. It lay motionless, wrapped in tattered cloth, but none present would mistake its size and shape—this was no ordinary fallen comrade. This was one of their own.


    The men by the fires fell silent, their gazes locked onto Novian and his burden. Conversations died, leaving only the crackling of flames and the soft rustle of the wind. Some squinted, others exhaled heavily. Whispers slithered through the crowd:


    "Whose token are they bringing to the gravedigger this time?"


    "Could it be Kairon?"


    "I bet Tamion finally bit it while cleaning up after his fools."


    At those words, a woman sitting at a nearby table flinched and tightened her grip on her quill. Before her lay an open book, its pages filled with neat lines of records. For a moment, her eyes lingered on Novian before she sharply looked away, inhaling deeply.


    Kessel, silently circling the fire, approached an adventurer holding a mug of ale. Without a word, she snatched it, took a deep swig, and drained it dry before tossing the empty mug to the ground without so much as a glance.


    The stunned man blinked and asked cautiously:


    "You alright?"


    Kessel turned, her eyes blazing.


    "Are you blind? Can’t you see what happened? How the hell did you even become an adventurer, you halfwit?"


    She turned away, storming toward the guildhall, leaving behind only tense silence.


    <hr>


    The guildhall, once a sturdy four-story structure, now bore the scars of time and war. Its wooden walls, once smooth, were marred by deep gashes and weapon marks. Cracked stone foundations held up the beams, and the heavy doors had been repaired more than once after raids.


    But the most striking feature was inside. The walls were adorned with trophies—armor, daggers, breastplates—belonging to the greatest adventurers... and those no longer among the living. This unspoken ritual, leaving behind armor in memory of the fallen, was a reminder: the guild never forgot its heroes.


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    Patrols moved along the perimeter, their faces weary but alert. About fifteen men kept watch, waiting for their shift to end. They cast envious glances toward the campfires, where others drank, rested, and shared stories. In an hour, their duty would be over, and they could join them.


    <hr>


    Novian trudged through the camp toward a lone figure sitting in the shadows, slightly apart from the gathering. People stepped aside, their eyes drawn to his massive frame. Despite his imposing presence, his steps were heavy, as if each one was a struggle.


    The men by the fires held their breath, watching. Some clenched their mugs, others gritted their teeth. No one knew for sure whose body Novian carried, but they all understood: if it was being taken to the gravedigger, this wasn’t just another wounded man. This was the end.


    Finally, Novian stopped. Before him sat a man who didn’t look up.


    He appeared to be in his forties, but his eyes held indifference and exhaustion, as if he’d seen death too often to feel anything for it anymore. Long black hair fell over his face, obscuring his expression. His clothes—faded gray and stained with dirt—spoke of years of labor. A small box and a shovel rested beside him.


    Novian took the final step forward, holding out a token. His fingers gripped it so tightly his knuckles turned white.


    The token lay on his open palm. Novian, usually as unshakable as a boulder, now looked as though this was his hardest battle yet. His stern gaze was filled with pain. He couldn’t speak—only hand over the token, a final farewell.


    The gravedigger lifted his head, examined the token, and took it. He held it closer to his eyes, then announced flatly:


    "Malrian."


    A metallic clink—the token dropped into the box. Then, calmly, the gravedigger added:


    "The funeral will be at dawn."


    This time, the silence was absolute. His words struck the camp like a stone dropped into still water. People froze, processing what they’d just heard.


    Whispers began to fill the air.


    "How could Malrian die?"


    "It’s impossible... he was too good."


    "Honestly, it’s a miracle he lasted this long, the way he acted."


    Some stood wide-eyed, others exchanged glances. Malrian had been well-known in the guild, and now everyone who’d heard of him was talking about the loss.


    One thing was clear—no one remained indifferent.


    Novian turned away, his footsteps heavy as he headed toward the guildhall, ready for respite even though he knew peace wouldn’t come.


    At that moment, the woman with the book—the one who had flinched at Tamion’s name—let out a deep breath. Her gaze flickered toward Novian before she returned to her notes, scribbling another entry.


    Behind her, around the fires, heated discussions erupted. How had this happened? What had gone wrong in that village? The guild buzzed with theories, whispers, and guesses.


    Malrian was dead.