"Please, have a seat," Renwick said.

Pell settled onto the right side of the wide, luxurious sofa, its frame carved from polished wood and its cushions deep enough to sink into. Enya plopped beside him with a soft pomf, her small boots dangling slightly above the carpeted floor.

Maybe one day, she'd find a seat where her feet could touch the floor.

Around them, mahogany shelves lined the walls, each displaying shining artifacts encased in glass domes—gloves that shimmered faintly with enchantments, a pocket-sized anvil covered in runic carvings, and an intricate pair of goggles suspended in midair. Between the shelves, soft cream wallpaper was framed by gold-trimmed molding.

A round, dark lacquered table sat in front of them; atop it lay a small embroidered cloth, its threads glinting with a subtle golden shine. Above that rested a pristine tea set: porcelain cups with delicate painted vines, a matching pot still steaming gently, and a tiered tray of untouched biscuits and freshly prepared cupcakes.

Renwick sat down opposite of them and reached forward for the tea set. "Would either of you care for some tea? It's peppermint," he asked, pouring himself a modest cup as he spoke.

Enya immediately raised her hand. "Ooh, me! I want some!"

Pell leaned back, folding his arms with a dry chuckle. "I would, but I'm afraid it'd just go right through me. Bit of a design flaw."

Renwick turned, smiling warmly without missing a beat. "Ah, my mistake. Perhaps a saucer of bonemeal on the side, then?"

Pell snorted with a harsh grate. "Ha. Finally, someone with a sense of humor."

Enya giggled as she took her cup, balancing it carefully in both hands.

"You're much more accommodating than that other guy in the lobby," Pell said, casting a sidelong glance toward the door. "Talven, was it? That man's face soured the moment we walked in."

Renwick's expression shifted. Just slightly. Not cold, but polished into something a touch more formal.

"My sincerest apologies for his behavior," he said, setting his own cup down. "He'll be disciplined accordingly. Though I will say, he wasn't entirely wrong about procedure. We do tend to conduct matters by the book here—especially when it comes to presenting Paragon of Crafting titles."

He paused, eyes on Enya, measuring his next words.

"That said… this particular meeting came to me through unexpected channels. It wasn't a standard request. The owner, my boss, reached out to me directly just this morning. I wasn't given too many details, only that a young girl named Enya might arrive today—and that I should meet with her personally."

He folded his hands over his knee. "So here we are."

Enya sipped her tea, careful not to spill it. "I don't really know how this works," she admitted. "My friend just told me to come here and… um, that you'd help. Also this tea is really good."

"Glad to hear it." Renwick said, nodding. "Then I believe we'll take it from the top. I'd like to hear about your work—what you've crafted, what you specialize in, and where you hope to go with your craft. Once I understand your abilities, we can proceed from there."

He leaned forward just a little, voice calm but curious. "So, Miss Enya. What have you made?"

"I see… I see," Renwick murmured, fingers steepled, eyes sharp with interest. He wasn't jotting anything down, but the way he leaned in ever so slightly, how he nodded with each detail—he was listening.

They spoke for several minutes, with Pell occasionally chiming in, usually with a sarcastic aside or minor clarification. Enya explained the basics of what she'd crafted so far—her Gravemoss, a salve with practical use, and the Gravecaller's Band, a ring imbued with ice magic for her undead. She added, a little sheepishly, that the ring had already been sold through the marketplace, so she didn't have anything physical to show.

Except, of course, for Pell.

She gestured toward the skeleton beside her, who crossed one bony leg over the other with a faint creak. "He's made of Soul-Forged bone now," Enya offered, proud.

Renwick arched a brow and stood, circling the sofa. "May I?" he asked.

Pell shrugged. "Be my guest. Just don't charge me appraisal fees."

The manager spent a few moments running his fingers lightly across the bone of Pell's arm, tapping once to feel the density. He didn't say much, but the way his brow knit together slightly suggested he was impressed. "This is far more durable than regular bone," he finally said, returning to his seat. "Sturdy, and seemingly consistent… not bad."

When the subject turned to crafting tools, Enya summoned the Grim Pullet. The tome materialized with a flicker of pale light, its pages ruffling as though wind had passed through them.

Renwick's brows rose at once. "Ah! A crafter's book."

Enya blinked. "You… know about it?"

"Of course," he replied, his voice colored with curiosity. "There are several crafter classes that make use of soul-bound books. Not many, mind you—but they exist. A few uncommon classes can utilize alchemical Codices, Recipe Compendiums… that sort of thing. Most rare-tier crafters possess something similar."

She seemed surprised. Until now, the Pullet had felt unique—mysterious. Realizing there were others like it made her feel smaller… but also a little less alone.

Naturally, the next question came.

"And what, exactly, is your class, Miss Enya?"

She hesitated for a moment and looked toward Pell.

Since Custodian already knew of her class, and he was were assisting her here, there shouldn't have been any problem telling a high-ranking member of the crafter's association about her class. With that in consideration, Pell simply shrugged and waved her on.

Enya nodded and turned back to Renwick. "I'm a Necrosmith."

Now, Renwick, paused. His expression didn't twist with fear, nor did he scoff. But neither did he nod in recognition.

"A necromantic smith? Now, that is fascinating." He gave a low, thoughtful chuckle. "I assumed, given your companion, that you were an alchemist of some kind that dabbled in necromancy. I never imagined you'd be a necromancer who crafts—what a curious blend."

They continued from there, shifting into more technical discussion. Enya explained her basic recipes—copper-tier items that required minor undead components or grave materials. When she hesitated, Pell leaned over and muttered something into her ear. She gave a tiny nod, then adjusted her explanation.

Renwick noticed the whisper, of course—he was sitting directly in front of them—but he said nothing. If anything, the admission of just the basic recipes seemed to fascinate him enough.

Even the most basic of Enya's creations piqued his interest. Items that manipulated decay, trinkets that fed off spectral residue, or artifacts that influenced how summoned beings behaved. But the real catch, the unspoken gatekeeper of all her work—was Soul-Energy.

Almost every recipe she mentioned required it. It wasn't just an ingredient; it was the fuel that made the entire class function. Without Soul-Energy, even the most detailed blueprint would be worthless.

Renwick's expression turned contemplative as she described it—its rarity, how it couldn't be stored or traded in the traditional sense. It belonged to the creator. Bound. Earned.

By the time they had gone over the full list—items crafted, tools used, methods attempted—nearly twenty minutes had passed.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Alright, that's quite a bit of stuff I've learned. You are certainly surprising, especially with that rare necromantic class you have. I assume that's probably why my superior wants to recruit you."

Renwick folded his hands once more and leaned slightly forward, his posture graceful and composed. "Miss Enya, what you've shown and described is—if not conclusive—promising. It certainly warrants deeper consideration."

Enya perked up, her legs kicking slightly under the table.

"That said…" He gave a soft chuckle, his expression kind but firm. "Becoming a Paragon of Crafting is not a ceremonial title. It comes with weight. Responsibility. Expectations."

Pell grunted under his breath. "Figures."

Renwick glanced at him with amused patience, then continued. "First, let me outline the primary tenets. These are required of every Paragon within our Association—be they smith, alchemist, artificer, or rune-carver."

He extended a hand, counting off each point on his fingers with fluid precision.

"One: A Paragon must strive for advancement. That is to say—stagnation is not acceptable. We expect every Paragon to make at least one breakthrough each year. Whether it's a wholly original creation, an improvement on an existing formula, or even a new crafting method—we welcome innovation in any form."

Enya's eyes widened. "Like… a new kind of potion?"

"Exactly," Renwick nodded. "Or a better forge alignment rune. Or an enchanted tool that lasts twice as long. You may craft anything you like—common or absurd—but each Paragon must offer something new to the craft, eventually. We don't ask that it change the world, only that it add to it."

He lifted his second finger.

"Two: Each Paragon must provide at least one item each season that serves the public good. An accessible tool. A beneficial potion. A device that simplifies daily life—whatever your mind imagines, so long as it aids people. The item must be delivered to a registered branch, where it will be assessed and distributed accordingly."

"And we get paid for it, right?" Pell asked, arms loosely crossed.

"But of course," Renwick said. "You will be compensated based on merit and usefulness. The Association isn't in the habit of robbing its contributors. Quite the opposite—we aim to promote them."

He lifted his third and final finger, and this time, his voice lost some of its warmth.

"Three: No Paragon of Crafting is permitted to develop or distribute artifacts that require mass sacrifice—whether of people, beasts, or bound souls. There are narrow exceptions. If the device targets demons, corrupted entities, or monsters that threaten the layers, the Council may grant a waiver. But… general use is strictly prohibited."

A quiet stillness fell in the room. Renwick didn't elaborate any further. And he didn't need to. Something in the air around that final rule felt heavier—sharper even. Like the echo of a mistake no one wanted to repeat.

After a pause, he softened again. "Those are the essentials. There are other expectations—professional courtesy, recordkeeping, participation in research events—but those are the pillars. "

He offered her a small smile. "Do you still wish to proceed?"

Enya smiled and nodded thoughtfully. "Yep! Sounds good to me!"

"Very good." Renwick rose from his seat, his posture impeccably straight. He extended a graceful hand towards her, though it held nothing visible.

Enya hopped down from the cushioned chair, boots softly hitting the lush carpet. And in that exact moment, her system screen burst forth.

Receive title: Paragon of Crafting [Accept/Decline]

With a mental command, she accepted.

System Notification: You have become a Paragon of Crafting. Congratulations.

Renwick's gentle voice matched the calm warmth in his eyes. "Congratulations, Miss Enya. Welcome officially to the Crafter's Association—you're now a recognized Paragon."

Her smile widened, but just then, another notification appeared. Enya's eyes instantly grew large, shimmering with surprise.

Renwick noticed her astonished expression and chuckled lightly. "Ah yes, some crafters receive an additional gift from the system when granted the title. Whatever you've just obtained, I do hope it serves you well in your crafting endeavors." He finished his words with a polite, practiced bow.

Enya hesitated for a heartbeat, then leaned toward Pell. She whispered urgently, "Do I bow too?"

Pell, arms folded loosely, gave an amused grunt and waved her forward.

Taking the hint, Enya gave a quick, awkward bow in return.

Renwick straightened and cleared his throat gently. "Now, assigning you the title wasn't my only task. It seems my superior—or perhaps someone even higher up—was especially eager to secure your place among us. Thus, we have one more offering for you, though it does come with certain… stipulations."

Enya tilted her head. "What is it?"

"Kid, are you sure about this?" Pell's tone was quiet, wary. "These things don't exactly grow on trees, especially out here in the layers. You could use this thing for something else—sell it, bargain with it, or keep it as leverage."

Enya puffed her cheeks stubbornly. "Yeah but you saw how much room Sable's had! I want my own too!"

They had made a quick trip back to the inn, collecting a particular item, and carefully wrapping it in a clean white cloth. Now Pell carried it beneath his arm—hidden, though hardly inconspicuous. With a skeletal figure clutching a large, mysterious bundle, they certainly drew more than a few sideways glances as they walked down the bustling streets.

They soon returned to the Crafter's Association. Talven was still at the front desk, diligently sorting papers. The clerk glanced up, his gaze briefly landing on Pell. A sour bitterness quickly flickered in those eyes, a quiet disdain that lingered especially on the skeletal monster. Talven looked away without acknowledging their presence further.

Pell ignored him entirely, though he chuckled inwardly. Still bitter, eh? Good.

They continued on, heading deeper into the association. Eventually, they reached a comfortable back chamber, illuminated by the gentle glow of enchanted lamps set into the walls. Renwick was already there, waiting patiently near a sturdy oak table, documents spread neatly before him.

The room's center held a low pedestal, its surface covered in strange, swirling runes, upon which rested an unsettling, metallic circular device that hummed faintly. Etched into the wall were more runes, faintly glowing, which formed an outline of a gate-like door. It was extremely similar to the warp-gate back at the adventurer's guild.

Renwick's eyes immediately landed on the large, suspicious bundle in Pell's grasp. Surprise flickered momentarily across his otherwise composed features. "Ah. You've returned. And—this would be?"

"Exactly what I said I'd bring!" Enya chirped happily, waving her arms toward the wrapped object.

Renwick blinked slowly, uncertainty evident. "Originally, Miss Enya, I had planned on assigning you a modest workshop. Perhaps a small forge to start. Sanctums were a considerable as well, though our resources in Talo are limited, and it would take years to acquire a vacant one…"

Enya's eyes sparkled eagerly. "But what if we already have a dungeon core?"

Those were the words that she had told him a few minutes ago. Obviously, he was skeptical. Of course he didn't believe her. Dungeon cores within the layers were rare. Who just had one laying around?

And here they were; Pell carefully placed the hefty, cloth-covered object onto the oak table. The cloth slipped down, revealing the subtle swirl of mist within its crystal shell. A soft glow pulsed rhythmically from within.

Renwick's astonishment deepened. He stepped forward, eyes widening in disbelief. "Incredible. An actual dungeon core—and intact?"

Enya nodded proudly. "Yep! This way, we can make our own sanctum, right?"

Renwick stared thoughtfully at the core, fingers grazing his chin. "Well… yes, quite right. This does significantly alter the arrangements." His tone was a mix of curiosity and excitement. "It seems I underestimated your resourcefulness."

Pell chuckled softly from beside Enya. "That's her specialty. Uncertainty. Unexpected things keep happening around her."

Renwick gave a small, appreciative smile. "Indeed. In that case, we can arrange for an official sanctum immediately. With a core like this, creating your workspace will be a straightforward matter."

He paused, looking warmly at Enya. "You continue to surprise me, Miss Enya. I believe you'll fit quite splendidly among the Paragons."

Enya bounced gently on her toes, pure joy lighting up her features. Pell simply gave a quiet nod. If they registered this sanctum officially, that would settle it. It would be permanently bound and locked into the guild's network. The only option left after that would be selling access rights.

It felt a bit of a shame—letting go of something so rare—but creating your very own sanctum was hardly a small thing. Sanctums weren't just uncommon; they were priceless. Some served as permanent homes or private retreats. There were even stories—wild, exaggerated stories—of sanctums large enough to shelter entire cities.

Of course, those had to be nonsense. The sheer amount of mana required to grow a dungeon core into something that massive? Absurd. Even Obsidian-tier War Paragons would likely run dry, attempting something that enormous. Perhaps a class entirely dedicated to mana accumulation could manage it, but even that sounded far-fetched.

Still, for the first time in what felt like forever, things seemed to be genuinely falling into place.

Enya's immediate troubles were easing. She'd reached the surface. She'd made friends, some even in the higher layers. Her place in the academy was guaranteed, and even a demon kidnapping hadn't stopped her. Her class was flourishing, and despite being necromantic—something many frowned upon—it was undeniably prestigious.

But there was still danger. Whoever this "Pin" person was, she remained a threat. Pell was under no illusions; in this world, was anyone ever truly safe? Even average citizens had enough mana to casually destroy homes, if not for the mana-locks Talo enforced. But even then, nowhere was completely secure—not with the ever-present system influencing every facet of their lives.

Pell's gaze drifted across the room as Enya excitedly discussed plans with Renwick, outlining possibilities for the new sanctum. He stepped back, leaning quietly against the cool stone wall. His mind wandered, shifting inevitably toward his own problems.

He'd accepted long ago that he'd probably remain undead for the rest of his existence. He hadn't found even the faintest clue of how to reverse it. But more pressing was the question of Elara. She was still missing, her current status unknown. Yet his title, Orphanage Assistant, remained active in his system—proof that the orphanage still existed. That was a small comfort, at least.

Four long years had passed. She'd faced crushing debts, relentless creditors, and a corrupt noble whose lecherous, grasping hands hovered greedily over her every move.

Pell hadn't been there to protect her. Hadn't even been able to contact her.

What could have happened during his absence?

He released a weary sigh, hoping the Information Guild would soon fulfill his request. For now, all he could do was wait—and hope.

Pell desperately wanted to see Elara again.

If only, to apologize.

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