Morning arrived softly at the studio.
Sunlight filtered through layered curtains of gauze and silk, painting the wooden floor in warm, woven patterns. Spools of thread glinted like small towers of color. Half-finished projects rested where Ace had left them—an adventurer's dented gauntlet, a patched traveling cloak, a child's stuffed rabbit awaiting new ears.
Ace stood atop the main worktable, tail swaying, inspecting a cracked breastplate. He pressed one paw gently against the metal.
A faint pulse answered him.
Memory flickered—mud, shouting, a shield wall breaking—
Ace pulled back before the sensation deepened. He exhaled slowly.
"Moderation," Pipkin muttered from below, adjusting his spectacles while balancing a ledger twice his size. "We discussed moderation."
Ace flicked an ear in acknowledgment.
A knock interrupted them.
Not a hurried knock. Not a desperate one.
Measured.
Official.
The studio door opened before Pipkin could reach it. Three figures entered, cloaked in navy coats trimmed with silver thread—emblems stitched at the shoulder: a sword crossed with a needle.
The Adventurer's Guild.
The tallest of the three stepped forward, removing his gloves with precise calm.
"Is this the registered premises of the independent artisan known as…" He glanced at a parchment. "…Ace?"
Ace stared back at him.
Pipkin scrambled up onto the counter, chest puffed.
"Yes! This is a legally operating magical tailoring studio, compliant with all regional trade codes, subclauses, and sub-subclauses. How may we assist the Guild this fine morning?"
The official studied Ace.
"By order of the Central Guild Council, you are hereby issued a formal notice of classification."
He unfurled the parchment.
The scroll shimmered faintly as the wax seal broke.
> Designation: Strategic Magical Artisan Asset
Subject: Ace
Risk Level: Undefined
Value Level: High
Monitoring Status: Active
Silence settled over the room.
Ace tilted his head.
Pipkin did not.
"Monitoring?" Pipkin squeaked.
The second official stepped forward, scanning the studio. His eyes lingered on the labeled bins—FAILED. CURSED. WAITING.
"We have received multiple reports," he said evenly. "Items repaired here display… anomalous resonance. Memory retention beyond expected enchantment stability."
Ace's ears lowered slightly.
The tall official continued.
"You are not accused of wrongdoing. However, your work intersects with relic-grade artifact modification. That places you under Guild jurisdiction."
He rolled the parchment closed.
"You will attend a formal inspection tomorrow."
A pause.
"Attendance is not optional."
The words weren't hostile.
But they were heavy.
Pipkin opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. "We are a small independent operation. Surely—"
"You restored a cursed battlefield shield in under three minutes," the official interrupted. "In front of thirty witnesses."
Ace blinked.
Ah.
That.
The official met Ace's eyes directly.
"Do you understand the scale of what that implies?"
For a moment, the studio felt smaller.
Threads along the walls seemed to hum softly.
Ace stepped forward on the table and placed one paw firmly on the dented breastplate.
A pulse ran through the metal—steady. Controlled.
He lifted his paw.
The memory did not spill.
The officials noticed.
The tall one's expression shifted—just slightly.
"Tomorrow," he repeated.
They turned and exited as cleanly as they had arrived.
The door closed.
Silence lingered.
Pipkin slowly exhaled and slid down the ledger like a defeated general.
"Well," he said faintly, "that escalated."
Ace hopped down beside him.
Outside, faint murmurs could already be heard from passersby. Word traveled quickly when uniforms appeared at a small shop's door.
Pipkin adjusted his glasses, regaining composure.
"Strategic Asset," he muttered. "That means they see you as either a weapon… or a resource."
Ace's tail flicked once.
He padded to the window and looked out.
Across the street, two adventurers whispered while pretending not to stare.
Recognition.
Curiosity.
Expectation.
For the first time since awakening in this world, Ace felt something unfamiliar coil quietly in his chest.
Not fear.
Pressure.
He was no longer a strange little cat in a forgotten studio.
He was visible.
Pipkin climbed onto the windowsill beside him.
"We can refuse ownership contracts," the hamster said firmly. "We can reject sponsorship. But inspection is different."
Ace turned his gaze upward.
Threads hung from the ceiling beams like silent constellations.
Monitoring Status: Active.
His reflection stared back at him in the glass—small paws, bright eyes, fur that still felt borrowed.
A faint whisper brushed the edge of his mind.
Memory always leaves a mark.
Ace placed one paw against the window.
"If they want to inspect," Pipkin continued, gathering courage, "then we show them what crafting truly means."
Ace lowered his paw.
His eyes sharpened.
Tomorrow, the Guild would step into his studio.
They would measure his magic.
Quantify it.
Categorize it.
He flexed his claws gently against the wooden floor.
They would not define it.
The threads along the walls trembled softly—as if in agreement.
Outside, a cloud passed over the sun.
And somewhere far beyond the city walls, in a towering building of iron and stone, a man in a dark coat reviewed a report with quiet interest.
"Strategic Artisan," he murmured.
He smiled faintly.
"Good."
The game had begun.