Lain, dressed in his ever-neat butler's uniform, entered the room with quiet steps. He carried no tray of pastries today—it was well outside Custodian's usual window for such indulgences.

"You called, sir?"

Custodian sat in his cushioned chair, comfortably reclined. In front of him lay a modest stack of papers—important documents awaiting his review. Though he spent much of his time here, the room lacked a proper desk. Having one, he felt, would make the space feel too official. Too cluttered. Like a place built for stress.

"Lain," he began, eyes not yet leaving the topmost sheet, "you mentioned that you looked into the Empyrian family records. Is that correct?"

The butler gave a short bow, followed by a nod. "Yes, sir. If you are referring to the girl named Enya, the one you've spoken to through the Grim Pullet—then yes, I have confirmed. Her identity does not appear to exist."

Custodian gave a low hum. "Is that so?"

Another nod.

"Yes, sir. No records, written or otherwise, list anyone by the name of Enya. Additionally," Lain raised his head and stood straight, "I dispatched a spy to observe Helmutt. From there, we confirmed that members of the royal Empyrian line are still alive. However…"

"However?" Custodian repeated, setting the paper aside and turning his gaze toward Lain.

"However—it appears the youngest daughter of the Empyrian family has gone missing. Her death was never recorded. Furthermore, it seems the King, Queen, and senior family members have all undergone memory alteration. None of them recall her whereabouts."

Custodian's brow lifted. "A wise tactic. Erase their own knowledge so they cannot betray it… even under duress."

He crossed one leg over the other and steepled his fingers, resting them atop his knee. "The daughter's name, Lain. I presume you've found it by now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is it Lia Empyria?"

"Yes, sir."

Custodian chuckled softly, a trace of amusement curling at the edge of his lips. "Fascinating."

He leaned his head back, gaze drifting upward as the chandelier's crystal light shimmered in his eyes.

"Have you discovered something, sir?" Lain asked.

"I've formed a theory, at the very least. I believe this girl, Enya, may be connected to Lia Empyria. Either she is Lia—her memory altered so thoroughly it even fooled the system—or she's a hidden twin. Perhaps an illegitimate child, kept secret."

Lain remained silent. He had no data to support or deny such a theory.

"That being said," Custodian murmured, setting a page aside, "it appears someone does know about her—at the very least. I've just been informed that a demon was sent after her. One acting under the command of a person named Pin."

Lain tensed. The air in the room changed.

"Sir… you mean Pin, as in…"

"Yes. That Pin," Custodian confirmed, voice flat. "A known associate of one of Merciless's members. She's in our records."

A beat of silence passed before Lain asked, more carefully this time, "Is this Empyrian case… related to Mrs. Veraine?"

Custodian's expression shifted. His face darkened—not dramatically, but enough. The corners of his mouth flattened, and the gleam in his eye dulled to something heavier.

"History must always repeat itself, mustn't it, Lain?"

Silence unfurled across the chamber like a curtain.

"…It could be coincidence," Lain offered quietly. "Perhaps Helmutt sent the commission himself. If someone leaked her location, it would make sense to move quickly. Capture her. Silence her. Standard contingency."

Custodian's gaze drifted from the chandelier's light and fell back to the table. He leaned forward, fingers curling around the nearest documents. With a subtle gesture, his pen floated up into his hand, drawn by a lazy arc of magic.

"That would be the better explanation," he said at last. "The hopeful one."

He adjusted a paper with his fingertips, eyes narrowing.

"But you and I both know—Merciless rarely accepts commissions that reach into the lower layers. Too exposed and too noisy. Even they understand the risk."

He paused.

"But if the request came directly from Lady Veraine…" His voice turned to ice.

Lain said nothing. He didn't need to see Custodian's face to know what kind of expression he wore behind those pages.

"Do you believe this is a repeat of last time?" Lain asked. "That the Godsworn would attempt it again?"

Custodian answered faster this time—but his voice was sharp. "I believe they would do anything to achieve their ends. And this time… the pieces are even more confounding."

He hesitated. "If they're searching for a new vessel…"

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. Lain understood the implication.

It had all happened before. Again and again. Unique classes—like flickering flames—always drew the moths in. And the Godsworn? They were relentless. Obsessive. They would chase power to the ends of the system. And tear everything apart to possess it.

Custodian shifted the conversation, ending it there.

"Lain. Go and contact Lady Jira. Inform her that the new Necrosmith has expressed interest in joining the Crafter's Association," he said, breaking the silence.

For a brief moment, Lain hesitated—but he quickly regained his composure.

"Yes, sir."

With a small bow, he turned on his heel and exited the chamber, the large gate sliding shut behind him with a hiss of metal and the low grind of the spiral-locking mechanism sealing into place.

Custodian remained seated.

Alone.

His gaze lingered on the document in his hand, though his eyes no longer scanned the words. His thoughts had drifted elsewhere.

"How many have I erased so far?" he murmured to himself. "Are the methods I've chosen… truly the right ones?"

He set the papers aside and rose from his chair.

Crossing the room in slow, deliberate steps, he came to a narrow door nestled beside his towering bookshelf. Smaller than the grand gate Lain had exited through—yet its lock was far more intricate.

"Maybe…" he muttered, his voice low. "Maybe this time, I try something different."

His eyes fixed on the door. "Maybe I'll be a bit more proactive in stopping their schemes."

He placed his hand on the large circular pad embedded into the door's center. With a small surge of mana, gears shifted. Mechanisms clicked. Rings unlatched. Dozens of concealed components whirred to life—sliding, folding, unlocking.

The door opened.

Beyond it lay a room far larger than his own. He stepped through, his hands calmly clasped behind his back. The door sealed itself behind him with swift precision.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"Quit lounging around! Get down here already!" Pell shouted from the bottom of the stairs.

"Coming!" Enya called back, fumbling to shove her foot into her boot. She stepped out of her room but gave a cheerful wave before leaving.

"Bye-bye Mr. Bones! Zerus! I'll be back!"

The dungeon core rested peacefully on the table, nestled in its blanket. Mist swirled lazily within the spherical glass.

Beside it, on the floor, sat the heart-container—now known to be a demonic phylactery.

When they'd first brought it in, Sheryl had nearly protested. Her disapproval was visible, but she swallowed her words. She simply asked them to please keep it out of sight from other guests. Something about "bad for business."

Enya didn't quite understand that part. She wasn't sure why a demon's heart-in-a-cage would hurt business. It wasn't dirty or anything. She'd even scrubbed the container clean, multiple times.

Both Enya and Pell sat down at their usual table and had breakfast. Well, Enya had breakfast. A single egg, two slices of bacon, one toasted buttered roll, and a hashbrown cooked to golden perfection. Of all the inn's offerings, the hashbrown remained her favorite.

Pell, meanwhile, simply sat there, staring at his marketplace interface. He was almost addicted to the thing; his attention was fully focused on it while Enya stuffed her face.

After a few minutes, they finished up, and left the inn, Enya feeling satisfied with her hearty breakfast. The next destination was the Crafter's Association.

Originally, they were supposed to meet up with Berry and Risha. Particularly, Berry wanted to have a conversation with Enya, but Custodian had informed them that the crafter's association was now ready to see them. Enya figured they could simply talk at a later time, and so, she rescheduled to meet another day.

Pell knew where the crafter's association was located, though he had never been there himself. Many of its members were crafters, tinkerers, smiths, and even a few alchemists, though most tended to hover around the magic association instead.

Most artifacts that people had were crafted, while armors, forged. There was also a ranking system that existed there, most likely the same ones at the adventurer's guild or merchant's guild, if he had to guess. If he could assist in Enya becoming proficient enough in her class, maybe that'd redeem his earlier betrayal, if just by a tiny bit.

The higher-ups in the city knew to not discriminate against Enya, as they knew her status. That said though, not everyone would be as kind. He wasn't sure if a unique class would be enough to quell the anger of whoever tried turning Enya into some special Archmage, especially with her passives when they first met. Maybe if he helped, and she accomplished something major, or created some obsidian-tier artifact, his sins would be slightly forgiven.

Maybe.

Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the Crafter's Association.

The building stood broad and welcoming, its stone white walls etched with sigils of hammer, loom, and flame. Colored glass windows cast warm sunlit hues across the entryway, and the heavy double doors creaked softly as Pell pushed one open.

Inside, the lobby was bright and meticulously clean—displays of engraved daggers and ornate trinkets locked behind glass cases, each one labeled with its crafter and grade. The scent of heated metal lingered faintly in the air, with some pleasant flowery aromas accompanying it.

Various people milled about, some talking with representatives of the association. They walked and discussed various things, from natures of recipes, to processes, to bargaining items to and from the association itself.

As the two came in, they noticed only one open line. Behind the front desk sat a man with slicked-back hair and a deep purple vest, polished buttons catching the light. He was flipping through a bound ledger, ink pen balanced lazily between his fingers.

He glanced up. His gaze landed on Pell first—and stuck there for a moment too long.

The smile he offered was tight and compressed. "Good morning," he said coolly. "Welcome to the Talo Branch of the Crafter's Association. My name is Talven Krask. Are you making a delivery?"

Enya stepped forward, smiling brightly. "Hi! I'm here to join the Association! I think I'm supposed to become a Paragon of Crafting?"

The man blinked. His pen stilled over the paper. "I… see." He leaned back slightly. "You're here to become a Paragon."

"Yup! A friend told me to come here. They said this was the place to do it!"

The man's eyes narrowed slightly, but he quickly composed himself. "Do you have an examination scheduled?"

"Uh… no? I was just told to come here and you guys would do everything," Enya replied.

He gave a slow exhale, setting his pen down with exaggerated care.

"I think there may have been a misunderstanding," he said, with a practiced sort of patience. "You see, the Crafter's Association does not hand out titles. Certainly not the Paragon of Crafting one for free. That's earned through hard work and an official examination conducted by at least a silver-tier crafter."

"Oh… but I've crafted before," Enya said, nodding quickly. "A few things! I've made some helpful items. I can show you—I make some really good moss."

The clerk gave a shallow chuckle, then looked down at her closely. From her robes, down to her boots, as though inspecting them for dirt or mud. "Well, miss, we don't usually take walk-ins claiming they're ready for certification, even if you do seem to have a nobler connection. And some… moss doesn't seem good enough for an evaluation, anyway. It doesn't even sound like a crafter's item."

"I'm not claiming anything!" she said, puffing her cheeks slightly. "I just came like I was told to."

Talven sighed, tapping the end of his pen lightly against the counter. "And who, exactly, are you here to meet?"

Enya tilted her head. "I… don't know."

The clerk's eyes narrowed. "No name?"

"Well," she added quickly, "my friend Custodian told me to come here! He said he'd set it up so that I could become a crafter paragon here."

Talven's expression didn't shift. "I see," he said flatly.

He reached to the side of the desk and pulled a small crystal closer—round and faintly glowing, set atop a bronze socket. As he placed his hand over it, a subtle shimmer passed through his eyes.

Enya blinked. Judging by the way his gaze twitched slightly—side to side, up, then down—he was probably looking through a system screen.

A few seconds passed. Then more.

He finally clicked his tongue softly and released the crystal, setting it back. "No records. There's no one by the name of Custodian registered in the Association. Nor any of the veteran crafters setting up an apprenticeship application. Or this month, for that matter."

Enya deflated slightly. "Oh. But…"

Talven cut in, already flipping through another stack of thin paper slips. "Now, if you're interested in setting up an examination, I can do that."

His tone had shifted—less polite now, and more perfunctory and monotone.

He rifled through a few more forms and gave a small nod to himself. "Earliest available date would be in two weeks. We've already filled all the slots until then."

Then, with a pleasant smile that didn't reach his eyes, he continued. "If you don't wish to schedule an exam however, then I'm afraid I must ask you to leave. As charming as this little visit is, we do have actual work to do. Walk-ins without documentation, appointments, or at least a name… they tend to waste valuable time."

Enya opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Pell took a quiet, scratchy breath behind her.

Talven's gaze flicked toward him again. "And while I understand this may be a grand adventure for the both of you, the Association isn't a playground for children or… abominations."

That last word landed with a sharper edge than the rest.

Still, Pell didn't speak. Not yet. Enya opened her mouth to retort, but Pell simply put his hand on her shoulder, stopping her.

She paused.

"I didn't mean to waste anyone's time," Enya said quietly. "I really did think I was supposed to be here."

Talven gave her a slow nod—mocking in how patient it tried to seem. "Of course. Happens all the time. Misunderstandings, fairy stories. Someone tells you you're special, you walk into a hall expecting applause. But the Association runs on records. Skill. Proof. A document. Any kind. You're welcome to return… once you have any of those."

His hand returned to his pen, ready to dismiss them with the scratch of a signature.

But Pell's voice finally cut through the air, low and calm. "You're enjoying this too much."

Talven didn't look up. "Pardon?"

Pell's tone cooled even further. "She was sent here by someone with probably more influence than you. She's someone you shouldn't be brushing off like a roach on your counter."

"So it can speak," Talven remarked with a poisonous drip. His gaze stilled on Enya, refusing to make eye contact with the skeleton. "Oh, let me guess. One of the High Enchanters, perhaps? Maybe a lost duchess of the Wandwright Syndicate?"

"We're not here to play games," Pell said. "A high-ranking official told her to come here. If you can't take two minutes to verify that properly, then we want to speak with someone higher. A supervisor. Manager. Anyone that isn't you."

Talven rolled his eyes. He turned his full attention on Pell now, eyes running slowly over the skeleton from skull to heel.

"For your information," he said sternly stretching out the syllables, "I'm a Class-2 Manager. That's as high as you're going to get to speak with today. Unless you'd like to request an appointment with the branch owner himself."

His smirk deepened. "Spoiler: no-names won't be able to do that. Not here, not at any guild or organization."

Pell stepped forward once, not looming—just close enough to the counter that he was almost touching it. "And I'm telling you again, this is your last chance to act like a professional before someone else sees how you're treating registered guests."

"Oh, registered, are you?" Talven snorted. "What's your identification number, skeleton? Or are you just a decoration the girl brought with her? Why should I have to waste my time documenting something that my grandchild should be killing in a dungeon?"

Pell took another stepped forward, now, slightly leaning over the desk, soul-flames focused on Talven. The tension was about to crack—

When the door at the far end of the lobby clicked open.

The clack of boots echoed softly against the stone floor. A man stepped through, older than Talven by at least twenty years, with a salt-gray streak in his swept-back hair and a black-and-copper jacket marked by four gleaming badges along the collar.

Every representative, and even other crafters seemed to pause. The staff members gave a polite nod and bow, while the others seem to murmur among each other, as if discussing ways to reach out and initiate contact.

"Good morning," the man said calmly. "You must be Enya Empyria."

Enya blinked. "Um… yes?"

The man offered a warm, professional nod. "Welcome. We've been expecting you."

Talven froze.

The man turned slightly, gaze flicking across Pell without hesitation, and then resting—pointedly—on Talven.

"Class-2 Manager Talven," he said evenly. "Thank you for greeting our guests. I'll take it from here."

There was no venom in the words. No sarcasm. But the look in his eyes said everything.

Talven's mouth opened. Then shut. "Yes… Class-4 Manager Renwick," he muttered, imitating the title-drop as he just did. He then stiffly stepped aside.

Renwick gave a cordial nod, then gestured for Pell and Enya to follow. "Come. We'll speak in one of the private conference rooms."

Enya glanced at Pell as they walked.

Pell just grunted. "Told you we weren't here for a form," he said to Talven.

Behind them, Talven remained at the desk, jaw locked, face pale with the effort of holding in his reaction. A simmering fury burned in his eyes, his gaze locked onto the skeleton that dared to taunt him. The silence was broken only by the skeleton's rattling bones as they moved past.

Renwick didn't even spare him a second glance as he lead the pair upstairs, towards the fourth floor.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.