The wind was a freezing roar in Aiven’s ears, a stark contrast to the stuffy, ink-scented air of the office he had inhabited for years. He gripped Virelle’s shoulders, his knuckles white, as the rooftops of the logistics district blurred beneath them into a sea of grey and brown.

  "Virelle! Lower!" Aiven shouted over the whistle of the gale. "Find an empty space, somewhere quiet!"

  Virelle looked down, her hair whipping around her face like a silk storm. She didn't look bothered by the speed or the altitude. "Always worrying about 'fuss,' Master. You should learn to enjoy the entrance!"

  Despite her sass, she complied. She banked sharply to the left, angling their descent toward a patch of neglected parkland on the outskirts of the residential district where the grass grew tall and the only witnesses were a few stray cats and the occasional sleeping drunkard.

  They touched down with a grace that Aiven certainly didn't feel. As Virelle let go of him, his legs felt like jelly, and he had to take several deep breaths to stop the world from spinning.

  Virelle immediately drifted back, crossing her arms and puffing out her chest. Her prismatic orb chimed a sharp, defensive note. "Before you start," she began, her eyes flashing with preemptive defiance, "I am not accepting any scolding. I did what had to be done. That man was a blight on your dignity, and I simply… removed the obstruction."

  Aiven looked at her. He took in the way her jaw was set, ready for a fight, and the way she seemed braced for him to be angry. He thought about Mr. Hendel’s face—the arrogance, the belittling comments, and the way he had treated Aiven’s grief like an inconvenience to be docked from a paycheck.

  "I wasn't going to reprimand you, Virelle," Aiven said quietly.

  Virelle blinked, her defensive posture faltering. "You… weren't?"

  "No," Aiven sighed, running a hand through his messy ash-black hair. "What’s done is done. Reprimanding you won't fix the wall, and it won't put the books back on the shelves. Besides…" He looked up, his grey-blue eyes meeting her violet ones with a rare, tired sincerity. "No one has ever gotten that angry on my behalf before. I… I appreciate it. Truly."

  The change in Virelle was instantaneous. The prickly, jagged aura around her vanished, replaced by a soft, shimmering lavender glow. Her eyes widened, and a faint flush touched her cheeks. She looked away, her fingers twiddling with the hem of her detached sleeve.

  "Oh," she whispered, her voice losing its edge. A small, genuine smile tugged at her lips. "Well. It’s about time someone appreciated my services. You are my Master, after all. It would be a poor reflection on me if I let a commoner treat you like a footstool."

  Aiven let out a dry, weary laugh. "I just hope he doesn't sue me. I’m pretty sure 'Property Damage by an Elf' carries a heavy fine."

  Virelle let out a confident snort. "Sue you? After I threatened to turn his head into a crater? I highly doubt he’ll be speaking to any authorities soon. He’s likely still on his knees wondering if the sky is going to fall on him."

  "I hope you're right," Aiven said, adjusting his sword belt. "But regardless, I'm officially out of a job. If we want to stay fed and keep a roof over our heads, we need to do some proper quests. No more trash duty. We need something that pays, and we need it today."

  Virelle spun in the air, her excitement returning in an instant. "Finally! A proper hunt! Grab my hand again, Master, I’ll fly us straight to the Guildhouse. We can make an even grander entrance through their roof!"

  "Absolutely not," Aiven said, reaching out to stop her before she could lift off. "That is exactly the kind of 'attention' we’re trying to avoid. From now on, we keep a low profile. We walk there like normal people."

  Virelle made a face, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "Walk? Through the mud? Like… pedestrians?"

  "Yes. Like pedestrians," Aiven insisted. "You can float if you have to, but keep it low. No soaring, no glowing, and definitely no explosions."

  Virelle let out a long, theatrical groan, her shoulders slumped in mock despair. "You are a very cruel Master. Denying a lady her wings… it’s practically a crime."

  "Just for ten minutes," Aiven said, already heading toward the street. "Come on. We have work to do."

  As they began the walk toward the central district, Aiven kept his head down, acutely aware of the silver-haired girl drifting silently beside him.

  "Virelle," Aiven began. "We need to talk about what happened back there. I need you to tone down the violence. If you attack people every time they're rude, we won't be seen as heroes. We'll be seen as a threat."

  Virelle tilted her head. "Tone it down? I was being remarkably restrained. I'm simply teaching people to respect my Master."

  "It’s not respect you’re earning, Virelle. It’s fear," Aiven countered. "And fear is a brittle thing. It causes harm in the long run. It makes people want to hurt us before we can hurt them. It creates enemies we don't need."

  "No one can hurt my Master with me around," Virelle said firmly.

  Aiven stopped walking and turned to face her. "Virelle... please. I don't know the limits of this world. If someone like you can exist, who is to say you’re the only one? There might be others out there just as strong. We don't need to pick fights with the world."

  He looked down, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his nicked short sword. "I’ve already lost someone dear to me. I’ve seen how quickly everything can be taken away. I don't want to lose anyone else. And I don't want to lose you because we were too busy being 'outrageous' to see the danger coming."

  The sass drained out of Virelle. She hovered there, looking at Aiven’s weary face. She saw the genuine fear in his eyes—not for himself, but for her.

  She let out a small, defeated sigh. "You are far too soft-hearted, Master. But... I suppose I can try your 'pedestrian' way for a while. If it keeps that look off your face, I will listen."

  Virelle walked at his side, hands clasped behind her back, humming softly as if this were nothing more than a leisurely stroll.

  “So,” Aiven said, breaking the silence, “about the training.”

  Her eyes slid toward him, amused. “Yes, Master?”

  “When can we start?”

  Virelle didn’t even hesitate. “Whenever you wish.”

  He blinked. “That’s it?”

  “We could begin now,” she added sweetly. “If you desire, simply point to an empty patch of ground and we shall commence your journey to become the strongest mage the world has ever seen.”

  “…You really know how to motivate someone.”

  Aiven glanced around, then nodded toward a small park nestled between two residential blocks, just a short walk from the guildhouse. It was working hours—most people were busy earning their keep—so the place was pleasantly quiet. A few benches, a stone path, trimmed grass, and a handful of old trees stretching lazily toward the sky.

  “Let’s do it there,” he said.

  They stepped into the park.

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  Virelle drifted to the center, spinning once as if presenting a stage. “Very well. Your first spell shall be a basic mana blast. Crude, inelegant—but effective.”

  Aiven swallowed. “That’s… a bit advanced, isn’t it?”

  She waved a hand dismissively. “With your reserves? Hardly. The goal is simple: convert raw mana into force. A focused discharge capable of piercing solid matter.”

  “Walls?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “…Comforting.”

  He took a breath. “So. How do I start?”

  “Extend your arms,” Virelle instructed. “Palms open. Imagine the mana gathering, condensing, sharpening. Then release it forward.”

  Aiven did as told. Arms out. Palms forward.

  He closed his eyes. He imagined the blast—pressure building, light forming, power surging out of him in a clean, decisive line.

  Nothing happened.

  He frowned and opened one eye. “…Did I do it wrong?”

  Virelle tilted her head. “Try again.”

  He did. Still nothing.

  She sighed, then raised one slender hand. “Observe.”

  There was no incantation. No dramatic wind-up.

  Mana screamed.

  A brilliant lance of force erupted from her palm and punched clean through the trunk of a nearby tree, leaving a smoking hole straight through the wood. A squirrel that had been peacefully clinging to the bark shrieked, launched itself into the air, and landed squarely on a passerby’s shoulder.

  The woman screamed.

  The squirrel screamed louder.

  Both fled in opposite directions.

  Virelle lowered her hand, perfectly satisfied. “Like that.”

  Aiven stared at the ruined tree. “…Right. No pressure.”

  He tried again. Nothing.

  His brow furrowed. Something felt off.

  “…Okay,” he muttered. “What about something simpler?”

  He raised one finger and focused on a spell he’d forced himself to learn years ago—barely useful, exhausting, but doable.

  A tiny flame. A spark. Anything.

  Nothing happened.

  That made his stomach drop.

  “That’s not possible,” he whispered. “I could do that before. It nearly knocked me out, but I could do it.”

  Virelle’s expression shifted.

  Gone was the teasing smile. Gone was the playful lilt.

  Her eyes glowed faintly as she extended her senses—appraisal magic washing over him in a careful, probing sweep.

  She stiffened.

  “…How interesting.”

  Aiven looked up sharply. “What?”

  “There is a seal, Master,” she said slowly. “On your mana.”

  “…A what?”

  She floated closer, expression uncharacteristically serious. “Your mana is vast. Absurdly so. But it is inaccessible. Completely sealed.”

  Aiven’s chest tightened. “Explain it in normal people terms.”

  She sighed. “Imagine a tap connected to an endless ocean. Infinite water. Infinite pressure. But the valve—the entrance into the pipe—is sealed shut. No matter how much water exists beyond it, not a single drop can pass through.”

  He felt cold.

  “So… I have all this mana. And I can’t use any of it?”

  “Correct.”

  His thoughts spiraled.

  He’d grown up mana-poor. Barely enough to light a candle, let alone cast spells. Now—now he was told he had nearly unlimited mana… and it was useless to him.

  “Who would do this?” he asked quietly.“ And how?”

  Virelle shook her head. “I do not know.”

  The answer hit harder than any truth she could have given.

  Silence settled over the park.

  Aiven lowered his arms. The dream he’d allowed himself to touch—just barely—fractured like glass. Saving villages. Becoming an adventurer people talked about. Standing tall instead of hunched over a ledger.

  Gone. Just like that.

  And yet—

  He clenched his jaw. He was already out of a job. Already burned his bridges. There was no returning to that desk, no matter how loud Mr. Hendel’s voice echoed in his head, already savoring the words I told you so.

  He exhaled slowly.

  “…We’ll figure it out,” Aiven said at last. “Somehow. Eventually.”

  Virelle watched him closely, unreadable.

  “But for now,” he continued, forcing steadiness into his voice, “we still need coin. Information. A place to start.”

  He looked toward the guildhouse banner in the distance.

  “So let’s take some quests."

  Even with his dream cracked and bleeding, he took his first step forward anyway.

  The Guildhouse doors creaked as Aiven pushed them open, releasing a wave of heat and the smell of roasted meat and pine-oil floor wax. It was busier than yesterday. Adventurers of all ranks crowded the hall, their gear clinking as they traded stories or sharpened blades at the communal tables.

  "Step. Step. Step," Virelle muttered behind him, her boots hitting the floor with an exaggerated, rhythmic clack that suggested she was performing a heavy manual labor task rather than walking. "Look at me, Master. I am a commoner. I am grounded. I am practically a tree."

  "You're doing great, Virelle," Aiven sighed, not looking back.

  Aiven led her toward the massive bulletin board. He kept his head down, but Virelle did the opposite. She drifted—hovering just high enough to be technically 'walking' in her mind—her eyes scanning the room with the expression of a queen visiting a particularly dusty stable.

  "This one," she said, tapping a quest that detailed a cull of 'Sky-Shredder Griffins' near the outer rim. "It says they’re terrorizing a village. It looks mildly exciting, and the reward is ten gold pieces. That’s more than twelve silver, isn't it, Master?"

  Aiven let out a nervous chuckle. "Ten gold is a small fortune, Virelle. But we can't take it."

  "Why not?" she pouted, her hair shimmering with agitation. "I can delete a griffin before it even sees my shadow."

  "Because I’m a 'mere' F-Rank," Aiven explained, his 'clerk-brain' automatically reciting Guild bylaws. "The rules are strict. As an F-Rank, I’m only allowed to take E-Rank quests solo. If I want to take a D-Rank quest, I have to be part of a party that includes at least one registered D-Rank adventurer. Anything B-Rank or higher is locked behind years of proven service or a major contribution to the guild. The receptionist wouldn't even let us out the door with that paper."

  Virelle groaned, the sound like a melodious cello. "Rules, rules, rules. Your world is built on very annoying pieces of paper."

  Aiven ignored her, his eyes searching the lower sections of the board. He needed something that paid enough to cover rent and food but was officially listed as D-Rank. He thought he could probably find a D-rank adventurer somewhere to form a small party. His eyes landed on a quest: Subjugation of Rock-Shelled Lurkers – Sector 4 Caves. It was a D-Rank mission, paying five silver per head.

  "This is the one," Aiven muttered. He reached out to snatch the paper off the board.

  Before his fingers could touch the parchment, another hand appeared from the crowd, swiping the quest scroll in a single, fluid motion.

  Aiven blinked, his hand frozen in mid-air. He turned to see a human woman, likely in her early twenties, with a shock of fiery red hair tied back in a practical top-knot. She wore light leather armor that looked well-used, and her knuckles were wrapped in thick, stained bandages—the mark of a hand-to-hand fighter.

  "Sorry," she said, her voice husky and confident. She didn't even look at him as she rolled the scroll. "This one's mine. Need the coin for a new pair of boots."

  Beside Aiven, the air temperature dropped ten degrees.

  Virelle’s orb stopped its gentle hum and began to emit a low, jagged thrum, like a hornet trapped in a glass jar. Her eyes flashed a dangerous, vibrant magenta. "Master," she said, her voice dropping into a terrifyingly sweet register. "May I have permission to remove the thief’s arms? Just the arms. She clearly doesn't need them for manners."

  "Virelle! No!" Aiven hissed, throwing himself in front of her. He grabbed her hand—which was already glowing—and forced it down.

  The red-haired woman paused, looking at the tattered Aiven and then at the shimmering, hovering girl behind him. She didn't look scared; she looked like she’d just found a very interesting bug. "You two are a strange pair. An F-ranker and a... what are you? A very angry chandelier?"

  Virelle’s jaw dropped. "A chandelier?"

  "She's a partner!" Aiven blurted out, bowing so fast his spine popped. "A very sensitive, very magical partner! Please don't mind the glowing, it’s... a condition!"

  Aiven sighed and gave a small, apologetic bow. "I'm sorry. Please, take the quest. We were just... looking."

  The woman hummed, her sharp green eyes sizing Aiven up. "You're an F-rank, right? You want this D-rank quest, but you can't take it because you don't have a D-ranker in your party." She held out the scroll. "Tell you what. I’m a D-Rank. I’m solo, and I’m bored. You two look like you’ve been through a meat grinder and survived. Want to form a party? We split the coin three ways, and you get to bypass the rank restriction."

  Virelle opened her mouth, her eyes widening. "Absolutely n—"

  "Deal," Aiven said, cutting her off before she could protest.

  Virelle looked at Aiven as if he had just suggested they walk into a volcano. "Master! You cannot be serious! We don't need help from a common brawler!"

  "We need a D-ranker to take the quest, Virelle," Aiven whispered back, his voice firm. "And we need to look like a normal adventuring party. This is exactly what we need."

  The red-haired girl laughed, a loud, boisterous sound that drew a few eyes. She extended a bandaged hand toward Aiven. "Name's Rysa. Let's go see the receptionist and make this official before your 'partner' decides to turn me into a frog."