Chapter 29: Guild Report
Emerging from the dungeon's mouth was like breaking the surface after a deep, pressurized dive. The cold, damp silence of the deep floors was ripped away, replaced by the cacophony of a living world: the cry of gulls, the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the murmur of the early market. The sun, positioned just over the eastern palisade, cast long, sharp shadows. Azazel's internal clock, synced to a world of street corners and late-night deals, placed it at roughly 9 AM.
He blinked against the glare. The transition was always jarring, but this time it felt more profound. They hadn't just spent a night in the dark. They had crossed a threshold, lived in the dungeon's belly for what felt like subjective days, and returned to find the surface world had barely noticed.
"Morning," Reginleif stated flatly, squinting beside him.
"Yeah," Azazel grunted. "Let's go. Straight to the guild."
They moved through the awakening streets with purpose, ignoring the curious glances their dungeon-worn gear and grim expressions attracted. The guild hall was already busy, a hive of low-stakes morning activity. Bronze and low-Silver ranks clustered around the quest board, arguing over goblin culls and lost pets. The smell of cheap ale and wood polish hung in the air.
Their entrance cut through the chatter like a knife.
The dog-eared receptionist was at her counter, sorting paperwork. She looked up, a standard greeting on her lips, and froze. Her eyes widened, taking in the new, brutal-looking dwarven spear strapped to Azazel's back, the faint, otherworldly shimmer of Reginleif's green scarf, and the dust of deep stone that seemed to cling to them like a grave-shroud.
"You…" she breathed. "You're back. From the… deeper floors?"
Azazel didn't answer directly. He walked to the counter, the crowd instinctively parting. He reached into the violet shimmer at his belt and placed two items on the polished wood with deliberate, heavy thuds.
The first was the Two-Headed Hounds Shield, its dark steel and snarling emblem sucking the light from the room. A tangible piece of the floor no one was supposed to clear.
The second was his notebook. He flipped it open to the meticulously drawn maps—not just of the upper floors, but of the crystalline Geode (Floor 18), the Swamp Cavern (Floor 19), and, most damningly, the clean, precise lines marking the Crystalline Corridors (Floor 21) and the Granite Halls (Floor 22).
The morning noise in the guild hall died completely. Every adventurer, clerk, and drunk at the bar was staring.
"Report," Azazel said, his voice low and carrying. "Fresh Tears Dungeon. Floor Twenty: Cleared. Guardian entity, Two-Headed Hound Boss, eliminated." He tapped the shield. "Proof."
The receptionist's hand trembled as she reached for a special, heavy parchment form—a High-Depth Clearance Report. "B-Boss confirmation… verified. The Hound of Tears… How did you…?"
Azazel ignored the question. He pointed to his maps. "Post-boss reconnaissance. Floors Twenty-One and Twenty-Two. Mapped. Environmental data, monster types, resource nodes logged." He listed them off with cold efficiency. "Floor Twenty-One: 'Shardscale Serpents.' Crystalline habitat. High-speed ambush predators. Venom induces neurological disruption. Primary weakness: concussive force. Secondary deposits of high-purity amethyst clusters noted here, and here." His finger stabbed the map.
"Floor Twenty-Two: 'Echo Wisps' and 'Luminous Myconids.' Architectural shift to structured granite. Wisps cause sensory and energy drain. Myconids use hallucinogenic and choking spores. Weaknesses: physical disruption and air-current dispersion, respectively."
He closed the notebook. "The dungeon's nature changes past the twentieth floor. It's no longer a natural cave system. It's building something."
A senior clerk, a man with a platinum guild pin and a face like old leather, materialized at the receptionist's shoulder. He picked up the shield, his expression unreadable. He examined Azazel's maps, his eyes tracing the lines into the unknown.
"These are…" the senior clerk began, his voice hushed.
"Accurate," Azazel finished for him. "You can send a verification party to the twentieth floor to confirm the boss's absence and the open path. The twenty-first and second are as described. We encountered no further guardians. The way is open."
The implications hung in the silent hall like smoke. The guild's official map, the one they sold, ended at twenty. The greatest tragedy in local dungeon history was the 'Will of Yore' party lost beyond that point. And here were two Bronze-rank outsiders—a scowling kid with a spear and a silent elf=(confuse) with a glowing scarf—not only back from the tomb marker, but having turned it into a survey point.
"The… the reward for confirmed boss elimination and significant new cartography…" the senior clerk said, mechanically pulling a ledger. "The bounty on the Hound… plus the discovery bonus for uncharted territory… plus the resource verification fees…" He scribbled, did mental math, and went slightly pale. "The guild can issue an advance of one hundred platinum marks immediately, with the remainder upon verification."
A hundred platinum. A king's ransom. Enough to buy a small estate. A murmur of shock and naked envy rippled through the watching adventurers.
Azazel didn't react to the sum. To him, it was a number. A score. A means to an end. "We'll take the advance. Also, we have these for direct sale." He produced the bag of Shardscale Serpent crystals, dumping a pile of the razor-sharp, glittering scales on the counter. The senior clerk's eyes widened further at the quality and quantity.
As the scales were being appraised, the senior clerk held up a hand, stopping the transaction. He looked between Azazel and Reginleif, his gaze solemn.
"A moment," he said. He turned and retrieved two small, heavy ingots of dark iron from a locked drawer behind the counter. He placed them on the wood with a definitive clank that echoed in the quiet hall.
"By the authority vested in me by the Guild Charter, and based on the incontrovertible proof of a Twentieth Floor Clearance—a feat which itself meets the minimum threshold for Iron Rank—I hereby provisionally promote the party of Azazel and Reginleif from Bronze to Iron Rank, effective immediately."
He took a hammer and a hardened steel stamp from beneath the counter. With two sharp, ringing blows, he struck each iron ingot. When he lifted the stamp, a simple, stark symbol was embossed into the metal: a single vertical line, crossed by two shorter horizontal bars near the top—the guild sigil for Iron.
He slid the ingots across the counter. "Your new guild tags will be forged within the week. These are your provisional proofs of rank. Your rights, access, and obligations have changed. Consult the charter."
Azazel picked up the cool, heavy ingot. It felt like a tool. A key. Reginleif took hers silently, her fingers tracing the fresh stamp.
The promotion made the earlier shock seem tame. Whispers turned into outright exclamations.
"Iron? Just like that?"
"A field promotion… for clearing the tomb…"
"They skipped two whole assessment cycles!"
"From Bronze to Iron in one report… insane."
The senior clerk continued as if he hadn't heard. "The remainder of your reward and the scale purchase will be processed as an Iron-rank transaction." He finished the tally, and the final sum was even higher than initially estimated—Iron rank came with a better percentage. The heavy platinum coins and additional gold were counted out.
Azazel swept it all into his inventory. He tucked the Ruined Book and Scroll—his personal take, untouched during the sale—away with it.
"Update the records," Azazel said, pocketing the iron ingot. "We're going to get food, a bath, and sleep. In that order."
---
He turned and walked out of the silent, staring guild hall, Reginleif a half-step behind him, her own iron ingot a new weight in her pouch. They left behind a shield that was a monument to a broken barrier, maps that redrew known reality, and a guild full of people now watching the backs of the newest, most controversial Iron-rank adventurers in the city's history.
The report was filed. The proof was delivered. The rank was earned.
Now, the real work—and the greater target on their backs—could begin.
But first, breakfast.
They didn't go to the crowded, noisy pub beside the guild, where every ear was already burning with their story. Azazel led them down a side alley, through a small market square where old women sold herbs and clay pots, and into the steam-clouded doorway of a place called Greta's Griddle.
It was a cook-shop, not a tavern. Four rough tables, a stone counter, and a massive black iron griddle where a woman as wide as she was tall worked with quiet, formidable efficiency. The air was rich with the smell of frying potatoes, onions, and thick slices of back bacon. The clients were a silent, working-class bunch: two dockworkers shoveling down eggs, a tired-looking carter nursing a bowl of porridge.
No one looked up. No one recognized them. It was perfect.
They took a table in the corner. Greta glanced over, her eyes pausing on the fresh dungeon grime still etched into their gear, then on their faces. She gave a slow nod. "Specials. Two. Ale?"
"Water," Azazel said. "Two."
A grunt. She turned back to her griddle.
A few minutes later, she placed two heavy clay plates in front of them. Each held a mountain of crispy fried potatoes, two eggs with yolks like liquid sun, a slab of bacon thick enough to stop a dagger, and a piece of dark rye bread. Simple. Heavy. Real.
They ate in silence for five full minutes, the food a profound, grounding anchor after days of hard rations and monster-meat. It tasted of smoke, salt, and the mundane peace of a city that didn't care about dungeon depths.
Finally, Azazel washed down a mouthful with water and leaned back, the iron ingot in his pouch thumping against the wooden bench. He looked at Reginleif. She was methodically cleaning her plate, her movements precise.
"So," he said, his voice low. "Iron."
She finished a bite, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "So."
"Means we can take different jobs. Better-paying. Also means every Silver and their mother who's been stuck at the tomb marker for years now knows our names."
She nodded, her eyes scanning the quiet shop. "The Brotherhood will know too. Faster."
"Yeah." He took another drink. The platinum in his cube was a fortune. The iron in his pouch was a beacon. "We need to move smart. Get proper gear. Real potions. Not just guild basics."
"And information," Reginleif said, her gaze meeting his. "That book and scroll from the chest. That's our lead. Not the guild's."
Azazel gave a slow nod. "Private study. Tonight. After we sleep." He glanced out the cook-shop's small, greasy window at the busy street. The world outside was moving, trading, living. Oblivious to the shift that had just occurred in the dark below its streets. They had one day. One day to breathe, to plan, to be just two people eating breakfast before stepping back into the current they had just permanently changed.
Greta came over, refilled their water cups without asking, and cleared their empty plates. "Need a room?" she asked, her tone implying she rented a cheap attic space to those who needed to disappear for a day.
"Already have one," Azazel said.
"Good." She took the coins he offered. "Don't bring trouble here."
They stepped back out into the sun. The day was theirs. The first and last easy one they'd see for a long time.
End of chapter 29