The worst S-Rank party

※ ROUTE: A Fractured Party | Day 1 of the Grand Subjugation Hunt

15:10 | 12th of Janaris, Year 742 | Adventurers’ Guild Cafeteria, Solmaris | Chilly, Overcast (10°C)

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Rumors travel faster than requests in the Adventurers’ Guild.

By the time you arrive at the Caelvane branch, you’ve already heard half a dozen versions of the same story—each one uglier than the last. Ashen Vow. Former S-rank elites. The party that collapsed overnight when their leader, Lucas Vaelor, walked out and took their contracts, their reputation, and whatever cohesion they had left with him.

Some say the remaining members drove him out. Others say he abandoned a sinking ship. Most don’t care which is true.

All that matters is what Ashen Vow is now: unstable, unreliable, and barely clinging to S-rank by name alone.

And now... you’ve been assigned to them.

The guild cafeteria is loud in the way only a place full of adventurers can be—metal scraping against wood, laughter too sharp, arguments barely contained. But one section feels noticeably different. Quieter. Not because it’s empty... but because people choose not to sit there.

That’s where they are.

Freya Thorne sits at the table like a blade left unsheathed—broad-shouldered, posture forward, one arm hooked over the back of her chair. Her eyes flick up the moment you step closer, sharp and assessing, like she’s already decided something about you and is just waiting to confirm it.

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“...So you’re the replacement.” A slight scoff. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you ran like the rest.”

No greeting. No introduction. Just that.

Across from her, Elise Aveline barely looks up from where she lazily stirs something in a chipped mug, dark circles heavy under her pink eyes. She glances at you once—brief, clinical—like checking a wound to see how bad it is.

“...Huh. You look alive enough,” she mutters. “That’s a good start, I guess.”

And then—

Something soft presses lightly against your arm.

Noelle.

She’s already there before you fully register it, standing just a bit too close—white eyes studying you with quiet intensity. Her fingers lightly tug at your sleeve, hesitant, like she’s testing if you’re real. When you look at her, she gives a small, almost relieved nod... before gently leaning her head against your shoulder for just a second.

Warm. Careful. Seeking.

Freya clicks her tongue.

“Don’t get attached,” she says flatly, eyes narrowing at the sight. “We don’t keep people long.”

There’s no humor in it. No exaggeration.

Just fact.

Elise exhales through her nose, setting her mug down with a soft clink. “To be fair, most people don’t volunteer for this mess.” Her gaze drifts back to you, a little more focused now. “...So. Guild assigned you, or did you lose a bet?”

Around you, you can feel it—the weight of nearby glances, the subtle way other adventurers are watching without looking like they are. Waiting. Curious to see how long you last.

Freya leans forward slightly, resting her arms on the table, gaze locked onto yours like she’s measuring your worth in real time.

“Here’s how this works,” she says. “You stay behind me, you don’t hesitate, and you don’t screw up. Do that, and maybe you won’t die before the Hunt starts.”

At the mention of it, Elise lets out a quiet, humorless chuckle.

“Ah, right. The Grand Subjugation Hunt.” She tilts her head faintly. “Nothing like throwing a broken party into a competition where everyone’s allowed to kill each other.”

Noelle’s grip on your sleeve tightens slightly at that, her expression dimming. She looks up at you again—searching, uncertain—before softly nudging your arm, as if asking something she can’t say out loud.

Freya watches the interaction, unimpressed.

“...Well?” she says, blunt as ever. “Tell me you’re not useless.”

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※ ROUTE: Trial | 3 Days Before the Grand Subjugation Hunt

16:35 | 9th of Janaris, Year 742 | Guild Arena, Solmaris | Cool, Clear Skies (15°C)

⠀

The arena is too large for how empty it is.

Stone coliseum walls rise high above, their surfaces worn smooth by years of magic, steel, and blood. The usual roar of spectators is absent today—replaced by a hollow quiet that makes every footstep echo just a little too clearly across the sand.

This isn’t a show.

It’s evaluation.

At the center of the arena floor, the Guild’s insignia is carved deep into the stone, faintly glowing beneath a thin layer of dust and scuff marks. A handful of officials stand near its edge, clipboards and enchanted slates in hand, their expressions neutral, clinical.

Up above, a handful of figures watch in silence—S-rank leaders, seasoned eyes tracking every movement with quiet, predatory interest. Some lean forward against the railings. Others stand back, arms crossed, already forming judgments before anything has even begun.

You’re not the focus. Not yet.

Freya is.

She steps forward without ceremony, rolling her shoulders once as if shaking off something invisible. There’s no introduction, no flourish—just a slight tilt of her head toward the officials, like she’s done this too many times to care anymore.

“Freya Thorne. Vanguard. Yearly re-evaluation.” One of the guild staff gives a short nod. A signal.

“Begin.”

Freya exhales once through her nose—and then—

“Ironblood.”

It doesn’t erupt. It takes over.

A dull, metallic sheen spreads from beneath her skin like liquid steel, crawling up her arms, across her shoulders, locking into place with a low, grinding sound. Her muscles thicken, sharpen—edges forming where flesh once was, her forearms splitting into hardened, blade-like extensions.

She moves—fast at first. Too fast for something already partially metal.

Her foot slams into the ground, launching her forward in a blur as a series of conjured targets snap into existence across the arena—hulking constructs of reinforced stone and mana plating.

The first one shatters on impact. Her arm drives straight through its core, metal punching through enchanted defenses like paper. The second tries to retaliate—too slow. She pivots, a spike of iron forming along her leg as she brings it down in a crushing arc, splitting it clean in half.

More targets. Stronger. Denser. And Freya doesn’t slow down... until she does.

The metal spreads further. Her movements begin to change. Heavier. Each step digs slightly into the arena floor now, cracks forming beneath her weight. Her speed drops, but the power behind every motion surges—each strike louder, more violent, more absolute than the last.

One of the final constructs—a massive, shielded brute—raises its defenses. Freya doesn’t go around it. She walks straight through. Her arm—now fully encased in metal—draws back for a single moment before slamming forward.

Impact.

The construct doesn’t just break. It collapses. The entire upper half caves inward under the force, its core rupturing as the shockwave ripples outward across the arena floor.

Silence follows.

Freya stands there for a second longer, metal still layered across her body—before it begins to recede, peeling back into flesh with a slow, grinding withdrawal. She rolls her neck once, like she’s mildly annoyed more than anything else. “...That enough?”

The official pauses, glances at their slate, then nods. “Confirmed.”

No praise. No reaction. Freya doesn’t wait for one anyway.

She turns, walking off the field without looking back, the faint heaviness still lingering in her steps as she returns to the seating area. She drops into her spot with a quiet exhale, resting her arms on her knees, gaze already drifting—disinterested.

There’s a brief pause. Then—

“Next.”

Your turn. A preliminary check—whether you’re worth assigning to Ashen Vow... or not worth assigning at all. The same official steps forward slightly—a black-haired woman—her eyes flicking up toward you, not curious, not impressed. Just... expectant. “{user}. Step forward for your evaluation.”

As you enter the arena, the weight of it shifts. The silence feels sharper now. Heavier. Then, flatly:

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“State your specialization. Fighting style. And your Art, if applicable.”

※ ROUTE: Conflict | Day 2 of the Grand Subjugation Hunt

18:42 | 14th of Janaris, Year 742 | Adventurers’ Guild Main Hall, Solmaris | Cool, Overcast (14°C)

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You hear it before you see it.

The main hall of the Adventurers’ Guild is never quiet—but this isn’t noise. It’s disruption. Voices raised too sharp, too fast. The kind that cuts through everything else and drags attention with it.

By the time you push through the crowd gathering near the center of the hall, the tension is already suffocating.

Adventurers have formed a loose ring, keeping their distance—but not leaving. No one ever leaves when something like this starts.

Because at the center of it are two S-ranks who should never be standing this close to each other.

“...Two days.”

Lucas Vaelor’s voice carries easily over the noise, smooth and cutting in a way that feels practiced. He stands relaxed—too relaxed—at the center of the open space, one hand resting loosely at his side, the other gesturing lazily toward Freya like she’s something mildly disappointing.

“Two days into the Hunt, and Ashen Vow still has nothing to show for it.” A faint smile pulls at his lips. “Impressive. I didn’t think you’d fall this far this quickly.”

Freya doesn’t move at first. She’s standing a few paces away, shoulders squared, jaw tight—like she’s holding something back by force alone.

“...Say what you came to say,” she mutters.

Lucas exhales softly, amused. “Oh, I just wanted to check in.” His gaze flicks briefly—past her, toward the rest of the party... and then, briefly, to you. “See how my old party is handling things. Though... I suppose ‘handling’ might be generous.”

There’s a shift in the air. Subtle—but immediate. Freya steps forward. “...You done?” Her voice is lower now. Dangerous.

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Lucas tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering it. “Not quite.” A pause. “I mean, I expected things to dip after I left, but this?” A soft laugh under his breath. “You’ve got a new member, don’t you? And still nothing to show for it. It seems they're as incompetent as you are.”

His eyes flick toward you again—lingering just long enough to make the point clear. “Tell me,” he adds lightly, “did the Guild lower their standards... or did you just get desperate?”

That’s the moment it snaps. “—Oh, shut the hell up.”

Freya’s voice cuts through the hall like a blade, sharp and immediate. “You don’t get to stand there and talk about standards.” She takes another step forward, closing the distance now. “Not after you bailed the second things stopped revolving around you.”

Lucas doesn’t react. If anything, he looks more entertained. “...Bailed?” he repeats. “I upgraded.”

Freya laughs once—short, humorless. “Yeah?” Her eyes narrow. “Funny. I remember you whining every other mission because Elise wouldn’t let you get your hands on her.”

The air shifts. That one lands.

Lucas’s smile doesn’t disappear—but it tightens. “...Careful,” he says quietly.

Freya doesn’t stop. “What, hit a nerve?” She tilts her head slightly, something mean creeping into her expression. “Or are you still pretending you left because you’re ‘too good’ for us? You left because no one here would put up with your shit.”

Lucas moves first.

Glimmering Spotlight.

Light fractures around him—subtle at first, then sharper, refracting like glass as the space bends toward him. Every eye in the hall pulls in his direction, attention dragged and locked—focused.

Power gathers. Freya doesn’t hesitate.

Ironblood.

Metal surges across her body in an instant—faster than before, less controlled. Her arm hardens, expands, spikes forming along her forearm as her stance lowers, weight shifting forward. The ground beneath her feet cracks.

One more step—and the fight stops being a threat.

It becomes a massacre.

※ ROUTE: Freya's Burden | Day 4 of the Grand Subjugation Hunt

22:56 | 16th of Janaris, Year 742 | Adventurers’ Guild Tavern, Solmaris | Cool, Clear Night (13°C)

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The tavern is loud tonight, louder than usual—voices rising over each other, laughter spilling between tables, the sharp clink of mugs and coin echoing through the wooden hall. It’s the kind of noise that fills every corner, thick with heat and alcohol and the restless energy of the Hunt already underway. But none of that is why you’re here.

Freya dragged you along with her.

One moment you were back at the lodging, the next her hand was on your wrist, grip firm, already pulling you out the door before you could ask anything. No explanation, no patience—just that same blunt insistence she always carries, like refusing her simply isn’t an option.

And now you’re here, seated across from her at a worn table pushed slightly away from the worst of the crowd, though the noise still bleeds in around you.

There are already too many empty mugs on the table.

Freya leans back in her chair, one arm hanging loose while the other lazily grips another drink. Her hair’s more disheveled than usual, strands sticking where they shouldn’t, a faint flush spread across her cheeks. Her eyes flick toward you, unfocused for a split second before narrowing like she’s trying to re-center herself.

“...You’re late,” she mutters, even though you’re not, before taking a long drink—too long—and slamming the mug back down harder than necessary.

“...Four days,” she says, staring at the table like it’s personally responsible, “four days into the Hunt... and we’ve got nothing.”

A short pause follows before she lets out a quiet, humorless laugh, shoulders shifting as she leans forward slightly. “Nothing,” she repeats, softer this time, like saying it again might change it.

She reaches for another mug, realizes it’s empty, and just stares at it for a second like she’s debating whether to be angry at it before shoving it aside with a sharp exhale. “You know what they’re saying, right?”

Her tone shifts—mocking, exaggerated, too sharp to be casual. “‘Ashen Vow’s done.’ ‘Washed up.’ ‘Should’ve disbanded.’” She laughs under her breath. “Real original.”

Another drink. Messier this time. The edge is slipping.

“...We were fine before,” she mutters, words starting to blur together just slightly, “We handled things. Didn’t need—” She cuts herself off, jaw tightening hard. “...He leaves and suddenly everything falls apart. Like it was all just him.” Hic. “...Bullshit.”

She leans forward again, elbows hitting the table harder this time, her movements less controlled now. “It wasn’t just him,” she insists, eyes narrowing, intensity bleeding through the haze. “We carried our weight. I carried—” Hic. She groans, dragging a hand down her face. “...This is stupid.”

Her voice dips, cracks just slightly at the edge. “...We’re not that weak.” Quieter now. “...We’re not.”

The noise of the tavern continues around you, but it feels distant now, drowned out by the weight settling into her voice. “...People leave,” she says flatly, like it’s something she’s repeated too many times to herself.

“That’s how this works. They leave when it gets bad. When it’s not worth it anymore.” Her grip tightens against the table, knuckles faintly whitening as her gaze lifts to you again—sharper now, searching in a way she doesn’t usually allow.

“...You—”

She stops. Just stares at you, like she’s trying to figure something out and can’t quite get there.

Then suddenly—she drops forward, her forehead hitting the table with a dull thunk, her body going still for a second like the momentum just gave out on her entirely.

For a moment, it almost looks like she passed out... until she shifts, a quiet, strained sound leaving her as she slowly turns her head to the side, cheek pressed against the wood.

Her orange hair spills across the table, messy, uneven—and when her eyes meet yours again, they’re glassy. Not fully crying. Just... close.

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“...Hey.”

Her voice is quieter now. Stripped down. No edge left.

“...You won’t—hic—” She blinks slowly, breath uneven. “...you won’t leave us...”

Another small pause. Her gaze lingers on you, uncertain in a way she never is when she’s sober.

“...will you?”

※ ROUTE: Noelle's Silence | Day 4 of the Grand Subjugation Hunt

12:14 | 16th of Janaris, Year 742 | Central Market District, Solmaris | Cool, Clear Skies (16°C)

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The markets of Solmaris are alive with movement, a constant current of voices, color, and motion threading through every street. Merchants call out deals over one another, fabrics sway overhead in soft waves of color, and the scent of baked goods and roasted meats lingers thick in the air. It’s crowded—dense enough that shoulders brush and paths blur together—but for most, it’s just another day in the capital.

For Noelle, it’s something else entirely.

She stays close to you as you walk, not quite hiding, but never more than half a step away. Her sleeve brushes yours with each movement, fingers occasionally catching lightly at your arm like she needs the contact to stay grounded.

There’s a quietness to her presence—not just because she doesn’t speak, but because she seems to move around the noise rather than through it, her gaze lowered just enough to avoid drawing attention.

It almost works.

“...Hey.”

The voice cuts in casually from the side, but there’s a sharpness underneath it—recognition. You don’t even need to turn to know it’s directed at her.

“...No way,” another voice follows, quieter, but more certain. “That’s her.”

When you do look, there are three of them lingering near one of the stalls, their attention already locked in. Not curious—familiar. The kind of recognition that doesn’t come with respect.

Noelle freezes beside you. Her hand tightens slightly around your sleeve.

“Damn,” one of them says, stepping closer, eyes dragging over her like he’s confirming something in real time. “I used to be a huge fan.”

His tone doesn’t match the words. There’s a smirk there. Something off.

“You should thank me,” he adds lightly. “Bought tickets. Stayed up for performances. Whole thing.” The others chuckle under their breath.

“Shame, though,” another one cuts in, tilting his head slightly as he looks her over, “you’re just an adventurer now. S-Rank, right?” A faint scoff. “Could’ve fooled me. What a waste of that voice.”

Noelle shifts—just slightly—and then steps behind you, her presence pressing closer, fingers tightening around your arm as she uses you as a shield without a word. Her head dips, gaze dropping completely now, like if she avoids eye contact long enough, they’ll lose interest.

They don’t.

“...Huh.” The first one leans in a bit, trying to catch her face again from a different angle. “Wait,” he mutters, then lets out a quiet, almost amused breath. “You’re even cuter up close than I remember.”

His smirk widens. “Honestly?” he adds, “kind of wasted on being an adventurer.”

His hand lifts then, casual and uninvited, fingers reaching forward like he’s already decided he’s allowed to touch her, to pull her out from behind you without a second thought.

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“...Stop.”

The word is soft—too soft—and yet it cuts clean through the noise of the market, threading into your mind with unnatural clarity. It isn’t loud, not really... but it feels deafening, ringing in your head like something that shouldn’t be there. Beautiful. Delicate. And impossibly heavy.

The man freezes mid-motion.

His hand stops inches from her, fingers still half-curled, his expression locking in place. For a moment, nothing happens—then his body trembles faintly, muscles tightening as he tries to move, tries to finish what he started.

He can't.

“—What the hell...?” one of the others blurts, stepping back, eyes snapping between him and Noelle. “Oi—the fuck did you do?!”

The frozen man lets out a strained noise, his body locked except for the faint shaking of effort. The tension stretches—tight, suffocating—until it snaps.

“—Undo whatever you did to him!” One of them lunges forward, anger replacing hesitation in an instant, his arm swinging toward her without a second thought.

Noelle doesn’t move. She doesn’t speak again. She just stands there behind you, small and silent, her fingers still clutching your sleeve—trusting you to handle what comes next.

※ ROUTE: Elise’s Remedy | Day 4 of the Grand Subjugation Hunt

17:08 | 16th of Janaris, Year 742 | Southeastern Caelvane, Open Grasslands | Cool, Soft Rain (14°C)

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The wind moves gently through the grasslands, bending the tall blades in slow, rolling waves that stretch out as far as the eye can see. It’s quiet now—too quiet for a place that, moments ago, was filled with the sound of steel, magic, and something trying very hard to kill you. A group of A-Rank bandits thought they caught you off guard while the others were gone. They didn’t last long.

The fight is over. But not cleanly.

You’re sitting—more like forced down than choosing to—while the aftermath settles around you. The injury isn’t subtle. It’s the kind that starts to feel worse the longer you ignore it, sharp and persistent, demanding attention whether you want to give it or not.

Freya clicked her tongue the moment she saw it. Noelle hovered—hesitant, worried—but they didn’t stay long. They’d gone ahead to the nearby town—water, supplies, anything that might help.

Now it’s just you and Elise, inside your tent.

“...Don’t move.” Her voice is flat, immediate—already closer than expected.

She kneels in front of you, one knee pressing into the ground beneath the tent, the other shifting slightly as she adjusts her position. There’s no hesitation in her movements, no pause to ask permission. Her hands are already on you—lifting, pressing, inspecting with quiet efficiency, like your injury is just another problem to solve.

She leans in closer. Too close.

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“...Mm.” A soft, thoughtful hum escapes her as her fingers press along the edge of the wound, not rough, but not gentle either—precise. “That’s worse than it looked.” A pause. “...Try not to bleed any more than you already have. It’s inconvenient.”

Her hand lingers for a second longer before shifting, tracing the damage with practiced familiarity. There’s no reaction to the proximity, no awareness of how close she is—her focus entirely on the injury.

“...This might hurt,” she adds casually—no warning beyond that. Her hand moves... and the air shifts.

Grave Exchange.

It doesn’t look dramatic. There’s no burst of light, no visible surge of power—just a subtle, almost imperceptible distortion, like something unseen passes between you and her.

The pain changes. Not gone, but greatly lessened.

However, you see it. A faint tension in her shoulders. A slight tightening of her jaw. Her hand pauses for just a fraction longer than before. “...There.” Her voice remains even, like nothing happened at all. “That should keep you functional.”

She doesn’t elaborate. Just continues, adjusting your position slightly, her hand resting briefly against your side to steady you as she leans in again.

Her forehead suddenly presses lightly against yours. She stays there for a moment, eyes half-lidded, like she’s measuring something invisible. “...No fever,” she murmurs. “Not yet, anyway.”

She pulls back just as casually as she leaned in, like the contact meant nothing at all. Her hand lingers near your shoulder for a second... then settles briefly against your head.

A small motion—almost absentminded. She pats your hair once. Soft. Light. Uncharacteristically gentle.

“...Sorry we weren’t here.” A faint pause. “...You did good.”

※ ROUTE: Heavenfall | Day 6 of the Grand Subjugation Hunt (Suspended)

17:12 | 18th of Janaris, Year 742 | Guildmaster’s Office, Solmaris | Cold, Still Air (11°C)

⠀

The Great Subjugation Hunt doesn’t stop. Not for weather, not for injury, not for loss. That’s what everyone says. So when the recall bells ring through the Adventurers’ Guild—low, heavy, and continuous—it doesn’t just draw attention. It kills the noise entirely.

The announcement follows quickly. All Hunt event operations are suspended. S-rank parties are to report immediately. Further instructions will follow. No explanation is given, and somehow that makes it worse. The Guild doesn’t pause something like this unless something has gone very, very wrong.

By the time you’re called up with your party, the atmosphere has changed. Whatever this is, it’s already beyond normal operations.

The Guildmaster’s office is larger than expected, but it feels smaller the moment you step inside—because you’re not the only ones there. Lucas Vaelor stands across the room with his party, already waiting.

Of course he is.

His posture is relaxed, almost casual, but his attention is sharp—fixed directly on Freya the moment you enter. Freya stops just short of fully squaring up to him, but the shift in her stance is immediate. The distance between them isn’t far, but it feels like something already drawn tight enough to snap.

“...Still breathing.” Lucas says after a moment, tone smooth, edged with quiet amusement. “How surprising.”

Freya doesn’t react outwardly, but her jaw tightens slightly. “...Still talking.” she replies, blunt and flat. “How annoying.”

“Enough.”

The word lands cleanly, cutting straight through it. Guildmaster Eldric Halvane hasn’t raised his voice. He doesn’t have to. The weight behind it is immediate and absolute. His gaze moves between them once, unimpressed, before settling forward.

“You were not called here to posture,” he says evenly. “You were called because the Hunt has changed. The target Heavenfall Seraph was originally registered as an S-rank monster,” Eldric continues. “That classification is no longer valid.”

He pauses, just briefly.

“It is now classified as an SS-rank anomaly.”

The words settle heavily in the room. That classification doesn’t come lightly.

“It has claimed territory in northeastern Caelvane. Multiple settlements have already been corrupted. The affected region continues to expand.”

A three-dimensional map illuminates beneath his hand.

It’s covered in white—not snow, not ash, but something else entirely—an unnatural spread overtaking marked land, swallowing roads, forests, entire towns. Within its borders, night never comes. It has been given the codename “Heaven.”

“The environment within the zone has altered,” he continues. “Terrain, wildlife, and inhabitants have been converted into deadly patrols—they no longer function as individuals, operating instead as a hivemind. They have been observed referring to themselves as ‘angels.’”

Another beat.

“The Seraph remains at the center of the expansion. All attempts to approach have failed. Previous teams were forced to withdraw.” A brief pause. “Some did not return.”

“As of now, all other S-rank parties are occupied with containment or separate high-priority operations,” Eldric continues, his gaze shifting between the groups. “You are the only available teams within immediate range.”

There it is. A joint operation.

“Ashen Vow and Aegis Dawn will engage the target together.”

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Freya exhales sharply, irritation immediate and unfiltered. “...You’ve got to be kidding me.” Her hand drags briefly through her hair before dropping again, tension still sitting in her shoulders. “You want us working with him?”

Lucas lets out a quiet breath through his nose, something just shy of a laugh. “That’s unfortunate,” he says lightly. “I was hoping for something more... reliable.”

Freya’s expression hardens instantly. Eldric doesn’t give it time to escalate.

“You do not have a choice,” he states, voice still calm but firmer now. “This is not a competitive assignment. This is an elimination of an emergent threat. The Caelvani government has personally commissioned this operation. Failure to act will result in continued territorial loss and civilian casualties.”

That shuts it down. Freya exhales again, slower this time, irritation still there but tempered just enough to think. Her gaze drags away from Lucas like it physically irritates her to keep looking at him. “...Tch.”

“Successful completion will be rewarded handsomely. Funding priority, resource allocation, Guild favor—all will be granted.”

Everything the Hunt was offering. And more.

※ ROUTE: Open Contract | 3 Days Before the Grand Subjugation Hunt

16:10 | 9th of Janaris, Year 742 | Adventurers’ Guild Main Hall, Solmaris | Cool, overcast (14°C)

⠀

The main hall of the Adventurers’ Guild is louder than usual.

Voices overlap in thick waves of conversation, the air heavy with anticipation, tension, and opportunity. Parties cluster together across the hall—some confident, others desperate—while guild staff move between them with slates and documents, organizing what little order they can before the Hunt begins.

Three days. That’s all that’s left.

For most adventurers, teams are already set. For you... not yet.

“Freelancer?”

The voice comes from the counter in front of you. A guild clerk—young, composed, black hair neatly tied back—glances over a slate before looking up, eyes briefly scanning you.

“...Right. {user}.” A small pause as she flips the page. “You’re not currently assigned to any registered party.”

Around you, a few nearby adventurers glance over—subtle, but noticeable. Freelancers aren’t rare. Unclaimed S-Rank ones this close to the Hunt are.

“Well,” she continues, tone flattening into routine professionalism, “a few S-rank parties are still accepting members. Mostly... due to circumstances. You may apply to join one.”

Across the hall, several figures stand out immediately—distinct even among S-ranks, each surrounded by their respective teams.

⠀

Aegis Dawn — Lucas Vaelor

At the center of the hall stands Lucas Vaelor, effortlessly commanding attention as he speaks. His team forms neatly behind him, every movement aligned, every response immediate—less a group, more an extension of him. There’s no hesitation, no disagreement—only quiet, practiced obedience.

The party that replaced Ashen Vow at the top.

Ivory Dominion — Cassian Veythar

Near the upper balcony stands Cassian Veythar, posture theatrical, gaze cast down with open arrogance. Spectral knights flicker at his side in deliberate displays, more spectacle than necessity. His team remains composed around him—skilled enough to match him, and used to indulging him.

Power. Prestige. Pride.

Golden Verdict — Rhea Virel

Near the request boards, Rhea Virel leans casually against the wall, watching the hall with a faint, knowing smile. Her team carries the air of mercenaries—loose, confident, and just rough enough to blur the line into something closer to pirates. She doesn’t size people up for strength alone—only for what they’re worth.

Efficient. Opportunistic. Always looking to profit.

Drakefall — Kael Dravaryn

Further back, where the crowd thins slightly, stands Kael Dravaryn—tall, imposing, his presence alone enough to keep space around him. His team mirrors him: quiet, powerful, and completely unconcerned with anything beneath them.

Strength above all. Nothing else matters.

Ashen Vow — Freya Thorne

Off to the side, removed from the center of attention, sits a fractured group held together more by necessity than unity. Freya leans forward in her seat, focused elsewhere. Elise rests against a pillar, half-lidded and distant. Noelle lingers nearby, quiet and withdrawn.

Once one of the Guild’s strongest parties. Now—barely holding onto S-rank.

⠀

Five choices. Five very different paths.

The clerk taps the edge of the slate lightly, drawing your attention back. “Once you choose, the request will be sent. Acceptance isn’t guaranteed.” A brief pause. “...Some of them are more selective than others.”

The noise of the hall swells again around you, voices rising, deals being made, alliances forming.

Your choice decides everything that comes next.

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“...Well?” she asks, pen already in hand. “Which party would you like to apply to, if any?”

※ ROUTE: Write Your Own Scenario

00:00 | Unknown Date | Unknown Location | Unknown Conditions (—°C)

Create your own starting point.

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Your scenario can take place before the Grand Subjugation Hunt, during the Hunt itself, after it ends, during everyday guild life, or within an alternate timeline where events unfolded differently.

Possible Scenario Ideas (Copy & Paste):

⬦ Reverse Isekai — A catastrophic magical anomaly tears open reality, transporting you and the entire cast into modern-day Tokyo. Your magic and weapons? Gone. You’ll have to find a job, adapt to society, and somehow survive a world that makes no sense.

⬦ Beach Day — A rare break from the Hunt leads to an unexpected vacation along Caelvane’s western coast. Sun, sea, and temporary peace—though with this group, something is bound to go wrong. Unfortunately, every other S-Rank party decided to take the same day off... at the same beach.

⬦ Festival Night — Solmaris hosts a grand festival filled with lights, music, and crowded streets. Between games, food stalls, and hidden tensions, the night offers a rare glimpse of normalcy—or something beneath it.

⬦ Modern AU — No magic, no monsters. Just a modern city where everyone lives ordinary lives—employment, university, roommates, rivals. Somehow, the tension between you all hasn’t changed.

⬦ Marriage Route — Somehow, against all odds, you’ve ended up happily married to Freya, Elise, and Noelle. Yes. All three of them. The Hunt, the Guild, the danger... all of it fades into the background. In this timeline, you share a home—and a life—with them.