No one paid much attention to the man in his mid-twenties behind the desk.
He sat there every day, quiet and precise, his presence as constant as the creaking old sign that hung outside the Adventurers' Guild. He logged names, processed missions, answered questions with a calm voice and a faint smile that never quite reached his eyes. His uniform was clean but unremarkable—brown vest, rolled sleeves, silver-rimmed spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose.
His name, according to the faded nameplate nailed to the desk, was Canis Majoris.
To most, he was just another guild receptionist. A man who seemed a little too efficient at filing paperwork, a little too knowledgeable about danger zones, and a little too quiet for someone surrounded by warriors and bloodshed.
But none of them asked. No one wondered who he had been before the desk. And Canis liked it that way.
Long ago—ten years, to be exact—his name had echoed across the battlefield with a certain Legendary story.
Now, he stamped forms.
"Expedition Team Ronin, eastern route. Four days. Mid-level threat," he murmured without looking up, sliding a mission folder across the counter to a group of young, eager fighters.
They grinned like they were stepping into legend.
Canis knew better.
They were walking toward graves that hadn't been dug yet.
And all he could do was watch.
---
The morning rush was beginning to thin when a boy approached the desk. Tall, awkward, barely sixteen. His clothes were clean but ill-fitting, and the sword at his belt looked like it had never been drawn. A satchel bounced against his hip, too big for his frame, stuffed with folded clothes and, likely, hope.
Canis noticed the hesitation first—the way the boy's steps slowed as he neared the desk, how his fingers tightened around the registration form he clutched like a lifeline.
"You here to register?" Canis asked, voice calm, neutral but not unkind.
The boy flinched slightly, startled that someone had spoken to him so directly. "Y-Yes. I mean—yes, sir. My name is Aron Telsa. I'd like to become a warrior."
Canis regarded him, gaze steady but unreadable.
The kid didn't look like much. Too skinny, too green. He had that shine in his eyes—naive courage wrapped in nervousness. The kind of look people had when they thought fighting monsters was some kind of noble calling. Canis had seen it before.
And he had seen what happened after.
But still... something about the boy gave him pause. A quiet stubbornness. Not the kind that shouts, but the kind that holds on.
"All right, Aron Telsa," Canis said, sliding a crisp form forward. "Let's get you started. Fill this out. Carefully."
The boy nodded, pulling out a pen with trembling fingers. He began to write.
"You know," Canis said after a moment, his tone casual but weighted, "it's not all adventure and triumph out there. Monsters don't wait for you to find your courage. They come fast. They come hungry."
Aron froze, pen mid-air. "I know. I… I've seen them. Outside the walls. Near my village."
Canis blinked. That, he hadn't expected.
But he gave a quiet nod and didn't press further. "Then you also know not everyone comes back."
"I do," Aron said, voice firmer now. "But I still want to try. I have to."
The form was signed. The line crossed.
Canis stamped the document, expression unreadable. "Then welcome to the guild, Aron Telsa. May your first mistake not be your last."
The boy bowed his head slightly, then turned and walked away—slowly, hesitantly.
Another name. Another risk.
Canis watched him go.
---
It was nearly midday when the door to the guild hall burst open once more, this time with noise, laughter, and the heavy clank of metal boots. A group of warriors strode in, their armor caked in dirt and blood, their voices loud with victory. They walked like they owned the room—because today, they did.
"Majoris!" one of them called, a broad-chested man with a booming voice and a trimmed silver beard. "Still holding that desk hostage, I see?"
Canis glanced up from his ledger, expression dry. "Still tracking mud into my hall, I see."
The man guffawed and slapped the desk with a loud thud, nearly toppling a pile of parchment. "It's good to see you, old man."
"You're three years older than me, Duren."
"Three years wiser," Duren grinned.
Behind him, the rest of the party gathered. A woman named Maren, lithe and sharp-eyed, stepped forward and dropped a heavy satchel on the desk. It landed with a muffled clunk, the faint glow of blue light escaping the seams.
"Three nests cleared," she said proudly. "Northern ravine. No casualties. Clean sweep."
Canis opened the flap slightly. Dozens of energy crystals pulsed faintly from inside—raw, concentrated mana, humming with contained power.
He nodded. "This is… a significant haul."
"Tell me about it," Duren chuckled. "Bag's been humming the whole ride back."
Canis ran a few quick mental calculations. "I'll need a few days to process this. It's more than our reserves can handle here."
"How long?" Maren asked, arms crossed but smiling.
"Three days," Canis replied. "I'll make a trip to the capital. You'll have your coin before the end of the week."
Duren slapped his shoulder. "That's why we trust you, Majoris. Still the most reliable man in the guild—even if you hide behind paper now."
Canis gave a faint nod, securing the bag beneath the desk.
Reliable. Trustworthy. Safe.
If only they knew who they were trusting.
---
Later that afternoon, as the guild hall quieted again, Canis stepped outside.
He lit the last cigarette from his tin case and leaned against the wall, watching the smoke curl into the cold air. The sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The wind carried the smell of ash and autumn leaves.
And that's when he saw him.
Aron Telsa was still there—sitting alone on the stone steps by the side of the guild, arms wrapped around his knees, the signed registration form crumpled in one hand. He wasn't crying. But his face was pale, lips slightly parted, eyes fixed on nothing.
Canis took a drag and walked over, slow and quiet.
"You planning on turning to stone out here?" he asked.
Aron flinched. He hadn't heard him approach. "I just… needed to sit. Sorry."
Canis didn't answer right away. Instead, he sat beside him, offering only silence. The kind of silence that had nothing to prove.
"You're scared," he said finally.
Aron nodded. "Is that… bad?"
"No," Canis replied. "It's human."
He looked out toward the horizon. Beyond the city walls, the world stretched wide and wounded, still littered with ruins and darkness.
"Do you know how much of the world we've reclaimed since the campaign began?"
Aron shook his head.
"Twenty percent," Canis said. "That's all. In ten years of fighting, risking everything. Just twenty."
Aron stared at him, unsure what to say.
"You're not late, Aron. Not even close," Canis continued. "There's still time. Time to train. To learn. To be afraid. And to choose anyway."
He stood, brushing ash from his sleeve.
"Come back here at the end of the week," he said. "If you still want this—if you're still sure—I'll help you deal with that fear."
Aron looked up slowly. "Why would you help me?"
Canis gave a rare smile. Small. Honest. Fleeting.
"Because once, someone did the same for me."
And with that, he walked back inside, the cigarette trailing a thin wisp of smoke behind him.
The door creaked shut, leaving Aron alone in the fading light.
{Chapter 1 end}