Kabir followed Nebula out of the assessment room and back into the main hall of the Guild.
The noise hit him instantly.
Voices overlapped—arguments, laughter, negotiations spoken too loudly on purpose. Chairs scraped against stone. Metal clinked. Somewhere, a table was slammed hard enough to crack.
It felt alive.
Not like the Badlands, where everything wanted him dead in silence—this place thrived on chaos.
Nebula stopped at the reception desk and bent slightly, retrieving something from beneath the counter. She straightened and placed a small, dark metal badge in front of Kabir.
"So, Kubaira," she said, her tone slipping neatly back into professionalism. "The final step. Your guild badge."
Kabir leaned in.
The badge was oval-shaped, forged from a dense black alloy that felt warm even through the counter. Faint runes traced its edge in a tight circle, dormant but clearly active.
"This will act as your adventurer identification," Nebula continued. "It verifies contracts, tracks rank, and records sanctioned kills."
Kabir nodded. "And what do I need to do?"
"Nothing complicated," she replied. "Just a single drop of blood."
Kabir blinked once. "…Blood?"
"Yes." Nebula's expression didn't change. "It binds the badge to your soul signature. Prevents forgery, theft, or impersonation."
Kabir exhaled slowly. "Right. Makes sense."
Without thinking too hard about it, he drew one of his daggers. The blade caught the hall's firelight for a brief second before he nicked the tip of his finger.
A single drop of blood fell.
The moment it touched the badge—
The runes ignited.
Crimson light surged across the metal, lines of information carving themselves into the surface as if etched by invisible hands. The glow pulsed once, twice—then faded, leaving permanent markings behind.
Kabir watched, quietly impressed.
What he didn't notice—
Was the shift around him.
The noise didn't stop, but something changed.
Eyes turned.
Not toward the badge.
Toward his hands.
Nebula's gaze flicked down—then sharpened.
"…Kubaira," she said slowly. "Those daggers."
Kabir looked up. "Hm?"
"Where did you get them?"
He glanced down at the Infernal Fang Daggers. Even now, they radiated faint warmth, their veins of crimson metal pulsing subtly.
"These?" Kabir started. "Oh, I—"
Mara's voice slammed into his mind.
No. Kabir. Don't tell them.
His breath caught.
Do not mention killing a Lavacarion. Make something up. Now.
Kabir didn't question it.
That tone wasn't advice—it was warning.
He swallowed and adjusted his grip.
"My father made them," he said instead. "He was a forger."
Nebula tilted her head slightly, listening but not interrupting.
"One day," Kabir continued, keeping his voice steady, "he found a Lavacarion on the brink of death. After it passed, he extracted the core and brought it home. These were forged from it."
Silence stretched for a heartbeat.
Nebula studied his face—really studied it.
She didn't look convinced.
But she didn't challenge him either.
"…That's rare," she said finally. "Extremely rare."
Kabir shrugged. "Yeah. Guess I got lucky."
Nearby adventurers murmured among themselves. Even a dead Lavacarion was the kind of story most devils only heard about, never touched.
Nebula slid the completed badge across the counter.
"Lucky or not," she said, "your registration is complete. Welcome to the Bullera Guild, Kubaira."
Kabir picked it up, feeling the faint hum beneath his fingers, and clipped it to his coat.
"Thanks."
That was when—
BANG!
The main doors slammed open hard enough to make the runes in the walls flicker.
Conversation faltered.
Heavy footsteps echoed across the stone floor.
A massive devil strode inside.
Broad shoulders. Arms thick with muscle. Two short, blunt horns jutted from his forehead, scarred and uneven. A greatsword rested against his back like it was nothing more than decoration.
The room felt heavier with him in it.
He didn't even glance at Kabir.
His eyes locked onto Nebula.
"Well, well," he said, grinning. "There you are, my lovely Nebula."
Nebula straightened, her posture stiffening. Her voice cooled instantly. "Willose. I already gave you my answer."
Willose laughed, deep and unpleasant. "And I came to hear it again."
"I refuse," she said flatly. "I have no interest in a brute like you."
Several devils nearby suddenly found the floor fascinating.
Kabir sighed under his breath.
He stepped forward.
"Well," he said, casual but clear, "she's clearly not interested. Might be time to take the hint."
Willose turned slowly.
His gaze landed on Kabir.
"…And who are you supposed to be?"
He stepped closer and placed a heavy hand on Kabir's shoulder, fingers digging in. "New. I can smell it."
Kabir didn't flinch.
"Oh," he replied calmly, "I'm Kubaira. Just registered."
Willose snorted. "Don't care."
His grip tightened, pressure increasing as he tried to force Kabir down.
That was when Kabir's hand closed around Willose's wrist with quiet precision.
For just a fraction of a second—barely perceptible to anyone not watching closely—
Kabir's eyes glowed.
Not brightly, like a beacon in darkness.
Not dramatically, as in the tales of old.
Just enough to convey something ancient and dangerous lurking beneath his composed exterior.
His voice dropped, cold and steady as winter steel. "When a woman says no," he said, measuring each word carefully, "it means no."
The pressure vanished from his grip, leaving only the memory of strength.
Willose froze, his confidence evaporating like morning dew. A shiver crawled down his spine before his mind caught up to what had just transpired between them.
"…Tch," he muttered, yanking his hand back as if burned. "Whatever." His bravado was hollow, a poor mask for his wounded pride.
Without another word, he turned and left, the doors slamming shut behind him with an echoing finality that punctuated his defeat.
The hall exhaled collectively, tension draining from the air like receding floodwater.
Kabir turned to Nebula, his expression softening. "Well. That was uncomfortable," he offered with understated simplicity.
She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face for something beyond his casual dismissal of what had just happened.
"…Thank you," she said quietly, her voice carrying a weight of gratitude deeper than the simple words could convey.
Kabir scratched the back of his head, suddenly awkward in the aftermath of his own intensity. "Yeah. No problem." His fingers lingered at his nape, betraying his discomfort with recognition.
He glanced around at the lingering stares and low murmurs that rippled through the remaining guests. "Guess I should get going." The words came out casually, though his shoulders tensed under the scrutiny.
Nebula nodded, something like respect flickering in her eyes. "Stay alive, Kubaira." The formal farewell carried an undercurrent of newfound regard.
Kabir smiled faintly, adjusted his coat with deliberate movements, and walked toward the exit, his footsteps measured and unhurried.
As he stepped outside into the cooler air—
The whispers followed, clinging to him like shadows.
And for the first time since stepping into Hell's society—into this world of power and subtle dangers—
Kabir realized something important, the knowledge settling into his bones with both satisfaction and unease.
He wasn't invisible anymore. For better or worse, he had made himself known.