Vincent's journey from Limmark to the outskirts of the Holy Capital, Limveil, was smooth and uneventful. It took close to a full fortnight, but there was little to speak of. There were the occasional monsters, but they were far weaker than the undead wolves he had faced before, and they left him without a scratch.

  As the city's legendary spires finally appeared on the horizon, memories of traveling here with his father surfaced. At first, his mind was filled with sweet nostalgia, but it quickly soured as the bitter recollections intertwined with the sweet.

  When visiting the capital with his father, they would always stay with his father's friend. That friend had a daughter, and young Vincent had grown close to her. Because of her, he had always looked forward to these trips.

  Remembering this, a flicker of curiosity about her current life sparked within him. But he just as quickly smothered it. *We have no reason to meet anymore.* A small, resigned smile touched his lips. *It's better not to, anyway.*

  Yet,secretly, a part of him hoped he might see her again.

  He continued along the massive farmlands that fed the capital until he reached the nearest gate.

  Unlike the emptiness of Limmark, Limveil had a long, bustling line of people, horses, and carriages of every description, all waiting to enter. Stopping at the back of the line, Vincent observed the crowd. There were merchants on sturdy draft horses, nobles in lacquered carriages, pilgrims on foot, and adventurers in worn leathers—a tapestry of the kingdom itself.

  To his relief, the line was moving relatively quickly. Not only were the guards efficient, but both entry lanes at the massive gate were active, processing the constant flow of humanity into the heart of the city.

  Eventually, it was Vincent's turn. A guard stepped forward while his partner moved to inspect the wagon.

  "Name and purpose of visit."

  "V. I'm an adventurer looking for work," Vincent replied, offering a polite, practiced smile.

  "Vee," the guard repeated, his tone flat. "Unique name. Do you have identification?"

  "Sure do." Vincent handed over his guild card.

  The guard took the card, studying it for a long moment. He glanced at his companion, who had just finished a cursory check of the empty wagon, then back at the card, his brow furrowed.

  "Your name... is a single letter?" He looked up at Vincent with naked confusion.

  "My parents had a... unique sense of naming," Vincent offered with a shrug.

  The guard's eyes narrowed slightly. He glanced at the card again, then at Vincent's face, as if doing a quick mental calculation. "Is there a particular reason for the name?"

  "None that I'm aware of."

  "Well, Mister C-rank Swordsman 'V'," he said, emphasizing the rank, "may I ask why you're riding an empty wagon into the capital?"

  "I've no further use for it," Vincent said, keeping his tone casual. "Hoped I might get a fairer price for it here than on the frontier."

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  The two guards exchanged a long, silent look—a whole conversation passing between them in a glance. The first guard handed the card back. "We won't detain you any further. You may pass."

  "Thank you very much," Vincent replied, urging the wagon forward. The polite smile faded from his face the moment he passed beneath the massive stone archway.

  He didn't need to ask for directions; the city's layout was branded in his memory, and clear signs pointed the way to key districts. Directions would have been futile anyway in the sprawling, layered maze of the Holy Capital.

  Vincent reduced the speed of the wagon move to a walking pace, not due to traffic, but because a wave of potent nostalgia washed over him with every familiar street corner and distant spire. The urge to seek out his old friend grew from a flicker into a persistent pull.

  Yet, his pragmatic side won out. Today was for logistics: registering at the capital's guild, securing an inn, and, most importantly, selling the cumbersome wagon.

  Maintaining his slow, almost reluctant progress, he reached his first destination—a branch office of the Adventurer's Guild, similar in function to the one in Limmark, though undoubtedly more bureaucratic.

  The guild hall was densely populated, a hive of murmured conversations and clinking tankards. Though it took a boringly long time waiting in line and filling out paperwork, he managed to get everything done without drawing attention. Before leaving, he asked for and received directions to several reputable stables where he might sell his wagon.

  With the administrative drudgery finally over, Vincent made his way to the nearest recommended stable. It was a large, functional building with grand doors of red-stained wood standing open. He guided the wagon inside.

  The interior was cavernous, smelling of hay, leather, and animals. His eyes swept over the few empty stalls and landed on a vacant counter.

  *Ahem.*

  Vincent cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the quiet space, announcing his presence.

  "Coming!" a man's voice announced from the back. The sound of brisk footsteps grew quickly louder, and a few seconds later, a grizzled stable master stood before him, wiping his hands on a leather apron.

  "So? What do you need? I don't have all day. It's nearly closing."

  "I want to sell this wagon and one of the horses," Vincent said, gesturing behind him.

  "This fancy thing?" The man jabbed a thumb toward the elegant elven-made wagon, his eyebrow raised.

  "Yes."

  "Well, where'd you get it from?"

  Vincent glanced back at the wagon. "It was a gift..." He met the man's skeptical gaze. "...one that I have no use for."

  The man grunted and began a thorough inspection, running his hands over the wagon's joints, checking the wheels, and examining the teeth and hooves of both horses. After a long while, he returned, his expression unreadable.

  "Kid, where'd you really get them?"

  "As I said. They were gifts." Vincent took a half-step closer, his voice lowering. "Why? Do I need to take my business elsewhere?"

  The stable master held his gaze for a moment, then shrugged. "Well. Never mind. If you want to sell, I can offer a fair price. So long as you guarantee no one's going to come looking for it with pitchforks."

  "Don't worry."

  "You said one of the horses, right?" He moved to the left side of the wagon without waiting for an answer. "I want this one." He patted the flank of the left horse.

  "Sure. He's yours."

  "How much d'you want for the lot?"

  Vincent gave a slight shrug. "Give me a fair price. Two hundred gold, preferably."

  "Two hundred? In this economy?" the man shot back, barking a laugh. "Are you nuts?"

  "I know the horse alone is worth a hundred. And we both know this woodwork is as good as it comes," Vincent argued calmly.

  "Well... what about one hundred twenty-five?"

  "I said a fair price, not a robbery." Vincent rolled his eyes.

  The man busied himself with grooming the chosen horse while he thought. "What if I pay half now, half after I sell the wagon?"

  "If I wanted to wait, I'd have asked for three hundred," Vincent said, scanning the stable. "I want it paid all at once."

  "You're a hard man to please, mister."

  "Indeed. But that doesn't mean you should stop trying."

  "I don't have that kind of coin on hand. Best I can do is one-fifty."

  "You could sell the wagon alone for that much tomorrow," Vincent countered instantly.

  "If I pay you more, I'll be eating bread and water 'til I sell it!"

  "A small price to pay for the profit you'll make," Vincent replied with a sharp, not-so-noble grin. "Give me one hundred eighty, and it's yours."

  "Then I won't be able to pay my stable boys!"

  "They'll understand once you pay them with interest."

  Silence hung in the dusty air for a long minute.

  "Alright, kid," the man finally said, his voice loud in the quiet stable. "One hundred eighty gold crowns. But you're bleeding me dry." He stormed off toward his office.

  He returned with a moderately sized leather bag, dumped its contents onto the counter with a clatter, and began counting the coins aloud under Vincent's watchful eye. After a few agonizing minutes, he separated a pile of one hundred eighty coins, scooped them into a fresh bag, and thrust it at Vincent. He then pulled out a sheet of parchment and began scribbling a contract with a charcoal stick.

  "Here. Make your mark here," he said, pointing to a line labeled Seller. "And write your details below."

  "Sure." Vincent took the charcoal. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before signing not with his name, but with his new identity: V - C-Rank Adventurer, Guild #. He slid the contract back.

  The stable master—Evan, according to the document—looked at the signature, then back at Vincent. "Right. I'll untie and saddle your horse, Adventurer 'V'." He extended a calloused hand for a shake, sealing the deal.

  Once their hands parted, Evan efficiently untied the remaining horse, fitted it with a simple saddle, and bid Vincent a terse farewell, his attention already on his new acquisitions.