Chapter 86
Written by Bayzo Albion
I gripped the handle, pulled the door open, and stepped into whatever fate had in store.
From inside, a chaotic symphony assaulted my ears: boisterous laughter, the clinking of mugs, a drunken shout piercing the air, and even the muffled thuds of a scuffle brewing in the corner. The place pulsed with raw, unfiltered life—vibrant, rowdy, authentic... until they spotted me.
Everything went dead silent.
Fifty pairs of eyes swiveled toward me in unison.
I froze in the doorway, feeling the weight of that collective stare pressing down like an invisible wall. For a split second, the urge to spin on my heel and bolt surged through me. But hunger gnawed at my gut, and my pockets were as empty as my prospects. I straightened my spine, forcing one foot in front of the other, crossing the room as if each step echoed in the oppressive quiet.
*Great,* I thought bitterly. *I feel like the star of some cheap melodrama. Except applause isn't in the script.*
I made it to the registration counter. Behind it sat a half-elf woman: stern, with a glint of mocking amusement in her eyes. She lazily tore her gaze from the book in her hands and sized me up from head to toe, as if appraising how many days I'd last before breaking.
"Name?" she asked coolly, peering at me from under hooded lids.
I held my breath, then blurted it out with a foolish bravado I didn't quite feel.
"Balthazar. Former god. New man on the block. And possibly your most troublesome client yet."
One of her brows arched slightly. A crooked smirk tugged at her lips.
"Charming," she replied, her voice dripping with dry irony. "Welcome aboard, Balthazar. Your inevitable demise will add to the entertainment around here."
A chuckle rippled through the room, followed by a few snorts. Several patrons eyed me with the same pitying look one gives a corpse that hasn't realized it's dead yet.
*Maybe I should've picked a different name...* The thought came too late.
"Your words... are you implying I'll croak on my first quest?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Spot on," she said flatly, idly flipping through some ledger.
"But I can still register and take on jobs, right?"
The half-elf shrugged indifferently.
"I can make an exception for you. You'll get access to quests."
"And the guild...?"
"But you won't be a full-fledged member."
I frowned, confusion knitting my brows.
"Care to explain why?" I pressed, fighting to stay calm.
"It's simple," she said, finally lifting her eyes from the page. "You look like you'll keel over before facing your first monster. No point wasting resources on a walking dead man."
I stood there, silently digesting her words, the sting of rejection mixing with a familiar resignation.
"And you'd hand a kid like me a guild quest without batting an eye?"
"You're no ordinary kid, Balthazar," she smirked. "Royal bloodline, carrier of ancient heritage. The laws protecting the weak don't apply to you."
*Fair enough,* I admitted inwardly, though it rankled. Once again, my lineage was a double-edged sword: no leniency, no excuses about being "too young." Just endless obligations and the weight of others' expectations crushing down.
The conversation was over. I turned away and headed to the bulletin board plastered with quests. It was an imposing sight: lost pets mingling with bounties on bandits' heads, right next to pleas for exterminating wolf packs. Everything seemed either deceptively easy or blatantly suicidal.
And now, this was my world.
At first glance, the herb-gathering task looked harmless. What could be simpler? Crawl through bushes, sniff some daisies. But a bold label screamed beside it: "Extremely Dangerous. Master Level Only."
I furrowed my brow.
"What the hell...?"
Quests like this were usually tossed to rookies—to teach them herb identification, have them kneel in meadows, and keep them out of the pros' hair. But in this world, apparently, even a dandelion could rip your throat out.
I yanked the notice off the wall.
Screw it. If this world was so eager to see me dead, I'd march right into its jaws, staring fate down without flinching.
From the looks of it, the local flora didn't just have thorns—they came with claws, venom, and perhaps their own twisted philosophy on mortality.
*Well then,* I chuckled inwardly. *Time to find out what grass tastes like when you're no longer a god.*
When I slapped the cursed quest down in front of the receptionist, her demeanor shifted instantly. Her fingers trembled as they brushed the form, as if it were scorching hot rather than mere paper. The smirk vanished; her gaze turned sharp, piercing, like I'd jabbed at some old wound.
"You do realize this is the deadliest job on the board, right?" she asked softly, almost regretfully. Her voice had lost its lazy sarcasm, replaced by a cold, grave finality—the kind reserved for eulogies.
I paused, my insides twisting like a knot. My body seemed to sense the doom ahead, but I nodded anyway.
"I get it. If the world wants me gone, might as well meet it halfway."
She stared at me for a long moment, as if testing whether I was bluffing or truly committed. Then, with a heavy sigh, she stamped it. The ink seeped in, and I swear the paper quivered in her grasp. The stamp's thud echoed like a tolling bell—deep, irrevocable.
"In that case... good luck on the other side, Balthazar," she said, a flicker of genuine pity in her tone.
I forced a grin, though it felt lopsided and strained.
"Hopefully in my next life, I'll get a sturdy body. And maybe a couple of innate talents thrown in."
The words came out light, almost mocking, but a chill settled deep in my chest. It was as if I could already hear the faint strains of my own funeral dirge echoing from afar.
Yet there it was—the stamped form in my hands. That flimsy sheet felt heavier than a boulder.
I turned and strode out of the guild hall, dozens of eyes boring into my back. Whispers buzzed over mugs, blatant stares followed me like I was already fading away. In those looks, pity blended with detached curiosity and even a hint of eager anticipation—as if some were betting on whether I'd return or if my bones would soon decorate some beast's lair.
*Perfect. Act one of the tragedy kicks off. Who's next in line for the slaughter?* The thought flashed through my mind.
I left without fanfare, no goodbyes, no pats on the back. Just me, this suicidal mission, and the forest that already sensed my approach.
The gates groaned open with a resonant creak, as if underscoring the drama, and I stepped through.
Of course, it all had to start in the forest. Where else do gods shed their last scraps of humanity?
"Hello, nature. Hello, wild ass-end of the world," I muttered, drawing in a deep breath of crisp air.
The irony hit me like a slap: I'd just clawed my way out of these damned woods... and now I was diving right back in. I didn't want to, but slaving away in the city for pennies sounded even worse. Risk it was.
At first, things seemed almost peaceful. Dust lazily drifted along the path, wind tugged at dry leaves, and unseen critters chittered from the underbrush. But as the forest loomed closer, the silence thickened, growing oppressive.
The trees fused into a dark, impenetrable barrier, no gaps in sight, as if deliberately concealing something alien and hostile. I took a step forward—and crossed an unseen threshold from sunlight to shadow.
The forest snapped shut behind me like a predator's maw. Light dimmed to a murky haze, sounds muffled to whispers. Every living thing seemed to hold its breath, watching.
I halted and glanced back. The city had vanished. No walls, no people, no chance rescues.
The way out was gone.
"Well, fate..." I whispered, clenching my fists. "Show me your fangs. Let's see who bites first."
*Hold up... What the hell kind of flower am I even looking for?* The realization struck like lightning.
I skidded to a stop mid-trail and frantically patted my pockets. My fingers closed around a crumpled, sweat-dampened sheet. I unfolded it—and nearly burst out laughing.
On the back: a crude sketch. A white lily. Plain old white lily. No glow, no eyes, no demonic petals, no "death trap" warning. Just a flower.
I stared at it, brow creased in disbelief.
"Is this a joke...?" I grumbled. "This could pass for grandma's funeral bouquet. Where's the 'master level' danger in that?"
The longer I scrutinized the drawing, the more irritation bubbled up, laced with unease. Too straightforward. Too mundane. Quests like this were newbie fodder—crawling through fields, sniffing blooms, staying out of trouble. But if a lily was flagged as lethal here... there had to be a catch.
*Something's lurking behind this simplicity. Or someone,* I thought, a prickly chill crawling up my neck.