The Unwoven Arrive: Rongan Kingdom

  At the Rongan Kingdom, the scene was a mix of chaos and fervent aspiration.

  People gathered, queues formed, and the assessment for dungeon raiders had begun. The crowd was a motley mix: the stout figures of kingdom soldiers, renowned fighters from every corner of Elarith, engineers and scholars hoping to unlock the dungeon’s secrets, representatives from various guilds, and even the truly talentless, trying to seize a sliver of luck to escape poverty.

  The dungeon’s lure was potent: the promise of fame, power, legendary weapons, arcane artifacts, skill scrolls, blueprints for grand engineering designs, potent elixirs, and a worthy challenge. All came with different reasons, but because the risk was so high, the kingdom moved to tightly regulate the entire affair.

  Among the throng was the Unwoven group.

  

  
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    Cliff (aka Gale) wore dark cloth and a high collar that covered half his face, a pair of eyeglasses giving him the look of a mysterious, calculating hunter.
  
    


  
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    Jasper (aka Skull), instructed by Cliff, had shifted his skeletal structure into that of a massive brute. He wore a skull mask with two short white horns and carried a menacingly long broadsword.
  
    


  
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    Lenka (aka Seeri) wore a robe, appearing like a fortune teller, her face obscured by a cloth patterned with stylized eyes.
  
    


  
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    Tierra (aka Locks) had her long white hair braided. Her delicate skin and long legs were on display beneath a provocative, elegant robe. She held a needle-shaped weapon and wore a white glove, giving her the air of a seductive nurse. She leaned sweetly into Emmet, acting "kawaii"—exaggeratedly cute and clinging.
  
    


  
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    Emmet (aka Mr. Craft) wore a plain, hollow mask with only two eye-holes, his head shrouded by a cowl. He looked tall and slim, but was dwarfed by the monstrous figure Jasper now presented.
  
    


  

  Cliff couldn't suppress a grin, proud of their presentation. "Great work, guys. You look mysterious and intimidating enough, just as planned," he said. "Now, let’s make an impression."

  Emmet spoke in a low voice. "Lenka, scan everyone. I want to know if there's anyone truly out of the ordinary. Give me the details later." Lenka nodded and initiated her Unwoven Eyes. Her robe, patterned with stylized eyes, seemed to momentarily glow with a faint, oily green light, a subtle magical pulse washing over the crowd, cataloging everyone in her view before the light faded instantly.

  Tierra tugged on Emmet’s arm. "Oh, Master, I don't like the way people are staring at me! Please protect me, Master!" she whined, pressing into him.

  Cliff instructed Jasper. "Skull, act mighty and intimidating. Lead the way."

  As Skull lumbered forward, people shrank back in palpable fear, instinctively opening a path. Some even scrambled to jump out of the queue. "They look strong and mysterious! Are they hunters? Divinants?" people whispered. The Unwoven weren't the only formidable group; other famous, battle-proven soldiers and renowned head hunters were also undergoing the assessment.

  The person in charge called out, "Next!"

  Cliff watched the queue. "Still not our turn. That group just failed... well, they looked too weak, so that's for the best." Moments later, a powerful-looking group—one member as big as Skull—passed the assessment and were given their dungeon entry pass.

  Finally, it was the Unwoven’s turn.

  The registrar reviewed his papers. "Ah, you're registered as The Unwoven. Your group is composed of a Fighter, a Mage, and a Healer. And... Divinants?"

  Cliff laughed. "No, none of us are Divinants, but I assure you, even one of us could beat everyone here combined."

  The surrounding crowd erupted in whispers—some were afraid, others provoked by his arrogance, and still others thought his confidence was ludicrously misplaced.

  The battle proctor, a veteran warrior, stepped forward. "Come, let's see if you can back up that talk. The assessment depends on my judgment. You can engage in one-on-one combat, demonstrate a weapon skill without a fight, lift a heavy stone, or show me any skill that impresses me. Since you are a registered group, members can be weak as long as I believe there's someone who can carry their weight."

  Cliff asked, "Is it acceptable for only one of us to show off?"

  The proctor shrugged. "That’s fine, but I'm curious to see what the others have. Two or three would be better."

  "Great. Hey, Skull! Destroy that boulder!" Cliff said, turning back to the proctor with a challenging look. "I hope that’s alright?"

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  The proctor scoffed. "He only needs to lift—"

  Before he could finish his dismissive sentence, a deep, vibrating CRACK echoed across the square as Skull's fist, a grotesque mallet of bone and muscle, pulverized the boulder. The rock didn't shatter; it simply ceased to be solid, exploding outward in a heavy rain of gravel and white dust. Fear of the powerful fighter settled over the spectators.

  Cliff smiled. "Mr. Craft, is it alright if I have a little fun?"

  Emmet replied, "Do what you want."

  Cliff turned to the proctor. "I want to fight. I won't settle for two proctors. Give me four, five... maybe ten." The proctor, offended by Cliff's bravado, called for ten of his colleagues.

  Cliff chuckled. "Oh, you really didn’t have to believe that."

  "You get what you asked for," the proctor snapped. "You may use a weapon. You can hurt them a little, but killing, grave robbing, or unnecessary violence is strictly prohibited. Your team will fail the assessment if you break the rules."

  "Oh? Okay, then. I'll be gentle," Cliff said.

  With the extraordinary speed granted by his Unwoven Breath and the physical upgrades he’d gained from Craft’s traits, Cliff was a silent, dark storm. He didn't run; he dissolved into motion. "Come at me... actually, maybe I’ll come at you!"

  In the blink of an eye, Cliff knocked out three proctors, the air momentarily heavy with the smell of sweat and ozone, then kicked the legs of a fourth, dropping him to the ground. The others swung blunt swords, but he moved like a phantom, evading the attacks before punching one with an open palm. The blow created a sickening whoosh of displaced air and a dull, meaty thud as the man's armor crumpled, sending him slamming against a wall, unconscious. He sidestepped an incoming blow, elbowed another proctor, and then leaped high, rotating as he brought his legs down, kicking the rest one by one until all ten had fallen.

  He turned, gave the crowd a thumbs-up, and his blue, braided plait-tail swung with the motion, eliciting cheers from several young women.

  Cliff faced the lead proctor. "Would that be enough, or do you still need another one of us to show our strength?"

  The man stared, wide-eyed. "No, no! That will do. You passed." He quickly handed Cliff a token—their entry pass for the dungeon.

  Cliff spoke to the team. "Excellent work, guys. Now we have two to five days to wait until the whole assessment is over. I'll find us a room."

  Mr. Craft, however, was already planning. "Great. Now we have time, and I don't feel good about this kingdom. Gale, I need you to roam, find out everything you can, and take Seeri with you. I need you both to gather a lot of intel, from the participants and the kingdom itself. A monarchy regulating a dungeon this tightly feels like bad news."

  Gale agreed immediately. "You’re right on the money with that hunch, Mr. Craft. I did find out a few things earlier, but yes, I should definitely dig deeper. We’ll meet you later for dinner; I already reserved a table at the Randown Bar."

  Seeri dissolved into the shadows, a hidden extension of Gale. With her shadow magic, Gale could move quickly and gather as much intelligence as possible, determined not to disappoint his master.

  Mr. Craft turned to the others. "Skull, go show off your strength. Join events or competitions, but don't cause any real trouble. I need people to know your power and attract attention from possible onlookers or, as Gale would say, 'Sponsors.'"

  Then to Locks. "And Locks, you will help heal those who are wounded coming out of the dungeon. Be sure to use more than just minor healing spells."

  Locks pouted. "Oh, Master, but I want to stay by your side!" She quickly brightened. "But okay, I will do that. Is it okay if I... damage them if I can’t heal them?" Her voice momentarily shifted, taking on a sudden, sadistic lilt.

  Mr. Craft was firm. "On your best behavior, Locks. We need people to have a good impression of our group. You will represent us by healing the wounded."

  Locks returned to her sweet facade. "Right! Just healing, no breaking," she said, but the single word breaking was stretched out, a high, soft whisper that held a tremor of genuine, delighted anticipation. "My best behavior!"

  Skull and Locks departed for their assigned tasks.

  Craft decided to stroll around for his own investigation. Entering the kingdom felt surprisingly easy and relaxed; adventurers and aspiring raiders were clearly welcomed and respected, with easy passage through the gate as long as one showed their token amulet. Emmet stopped at a street vendor, paid a few coins, and took a bite of a grilled, skewered lizard tail.

  The kingdom seemed to thrive on this arrangement, with its people earning money from selling goods to the raiders. The dungeon was less a threat and more a lucrative tourist destination. I should check on the weapons and artifacts while I’m here, he thought. The kingdom was small compared to others, but it maintained a surprisingly large army. He wasn't sure if they had any Divinants in their ranks, but Gale had confirmed the monarchy here was corrupt.

  Mr. Craft savored the grilled meat, but his mind was on the city’s creeping rot. He had come here for small proof of corruption, but the shouting near the Speaker’s Pillar promised something far grander.

  He moved toward the commotion, his presence blending with the crowd like a drop of water in a river. He didn't stride or sneak; he simply existed in the blind spot of every eye, a trick learned from years of needing to be forgotten.

  A local orator stood atop a splintered crate, his face red and his voice raw, successfully drawing the immediate attention of the City Watch.

  

  "They drain the public purse, not for defense, but for luxury! And now, the ‘Golden Fowl Tax’ on every piece of metal and glass imported into the city! They call it a tariff; I call it The King's Theft!"

  The crowd roared, a mix of genuine anger and restless amusement. It was a good show, but too loud, too direct. It felt like a distraction. Mr. Craft knew an honest riot didn't need a loudspeaker.

  He pushed his Unwoven Eyes online. The world desaturated, turning into a high-contrast blueprint where people were represented by thermal trails and structural flaws. The crowd's noise became a muffled white-noise hum as his focus narrowed, letting him observe only the mechanics of the exchange.

  He saw movement that was too organized for a riot and too precise for random chance. He was in the right place, at the right time. This was a goldmine.

  

  
• 
  
    Near the butcher’s stall, a heavy, oiled canvas bag—the shape and weight of freshly sharpened arrowheads straining the seams—was passed with a smooth flick of the wrist to a cart driver. The exchange was too easy; no coin changed hands.
  
    


  
• 
  
    By the fishmonger, a beggar, whose cloak belied the taut muscle in his arms, casually handed off a tight coil of dark rope and a handful of climbing spikes. Tools for infiltration, not for a public brawl.
  
    


  

  This wasn't just dissent; a rebellion was being meticulously planned right here in the open. Mr. Craft didn't want to stop it, but he needed more information—and maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to assist.