By now, the drunk mercenary who had been haggling with the receptionist had already scurried away, leaving a tense silence around the shattered tables. Ethan strode up to the counter.

The wiry clerk behind the desk—his narrow face pale under the dim lantern light—raised his brows as Ethan spoke.

"I'm here to register as a mercenary," Ethan said evenly, "and to establish a company."

For the first time, the man's expression cracked. Irritation flashed in his eyes as he leaned forward, voice low and sharp.

"Oi, kid. Noble or not, you don't get to bend the rules here. Registration's one thing. But a company?" He scoffed. "Mercenary companies are the face of the guild. They can't be led by some brat who thinks breaking a few tables proves anything. It takes ten qualified members at minimum. Ten."

His gaze slid toward Lirael and Sylvie, lingering on their well-kept appearances. "And I don't see them in your ranks. Pretty maids don't count as warriors."

Lirael's eyes narrowed like drawn blades, but she held her tongue. Ethan, however, only smirked.

That smirk made the wiry man bristle. "What the hell are you grinning at? Don't think you can buy me off with a pouch of gold."

Without a word, Ethan lifted his hand. A subtle signal.

In perfect unison, Lirael and Sylvie stepped forward and slammed their adventurer badges onto the counter. The sound echoed like hammer strikes in the suddenly hushed hall.

The man frowned, curiosity pricking at his irritation. "Already registered in adventurer guild, huh? Let's see." He picked up the first.

"C-rank…" He glanced at Sylvie, disbelief flickering across his features. Not bad. Passable for company member. Still—how the hell did he rope her in as a maid?

He checked the second badge.

"B-rank—?!" He nearly choked. His eyes darted from the badge to Lirael, who stood tall and impassive. B-rank already? Top-class talent like her, playing maid to… him? Is she some sort of bodyguard? Then maybe she will be the leader of company...

Then Ethan placed his badge on the counter with a quiet clink.

The man reached for it lazily expecting D - rank or something due to his well kept body—then froze. His pupils dilated. His breath caught in his throat.

"…A-rank?" His voice cracked. He turned the badge over. Not just A-rank. A crystallized insignia. A VIP.

The clerk shot up from his chair, nearly knocking over his inkpot. What the fuck! he shouted internally before clamping a hand over his mouth. His face flushed as realization sank in. "A… A-rank adventurer. A VIP… wanting to join mercenary guild…"

All around, mercenaries who had been pretending not to eavesdrop suddenly went stiff. Some glanced over, caught sight of the gleaming insignia, and instantly looked away again—backs turned, hands busy with nothing in particular. The earlier scorn evaporated as if it had never existed.

The wiry man's throat bobbed. I… I should… I should register him right now! Damn the forms! But then he faltered, sweat beading on his brow. "But you said… a company. Ten members are required. Even I can't bend that rule."

His mind whirled. Should I beg others to join him? Should I—

In desperation, he leaned forward, almost pleading. "Sir Adventurer—if you'd simply join as an individual, I'll petition the manager myself. You'll be promoted straight to Gold-rank mercenary. And the ladies as well—they'll be given equivalent rank immediately. Just…"

His voice trailed into a pitiful whisper.

Across the counter, Ethan said nothing. His smirk hadn't faded.

And in the far corner, the burly, chest-haired mercenary from earlier was trembling like a leaf, his pride crumbling under the sheer weight of disparity. In adventurer terms, he'd barely scrape mid C-rank. Against someone like this… he wasn't even worth the air he breathed.

It had to be mentioned: majority of the continent's population never awakened. Even reaching C-rank was an achievement worthy of recognition. B-rankers could be granted nobility in certain lands. And A-rank? That was the starting domain of legends.

And one of them had just walked in through the guild's doors.

Ethan's smirk widened. He finally broke his silence.

"Tell me… why do you think I'd try to form a company with only three members?"

The wiry clerk froze, then glanced around the hall as if he had missed an entourage hiding in the shadows. But no one else had come with Ethan. Only the two fair maids stood at his side.

"I… don't follow," the man admitted cautiously.

Ethan leaned a little closer, voice calm, but carrying like steel.

"I once heard of an exception. A man was permitted to form a company with only himself—because he commanded an army of undead. Mindless but loyal. And under the guidance of a competent master, they were a force stronger than any band of mercenaries."

The clerk's eyes widened. His mind scrambled, flicking through records and gossip until—

"Ahh… the necromancer case!" he blurted. "Yes, yes! And not just him—after that precedent, more necromancers and some summoners were allowed as well. Those who could maintain at least ten creatures in their service…" His words trailed off as realization dawned. His gaze snapped back to Ethan. "Wait. Are you… by chance, a summoner?"

He peered suspiciously around Ethan's boots, half-expecting skeleton hands to claw their way up from the floor. "Because I don't see any undead following you, sir."

In this age, necromancers usually paraded with their retinues in plain sight. Only rare liches and old and rich mages possessed special storage artifacts to conceal their entourage.

Ethan only grinned, a subtle nod confirming the suspicion.

The clerk's face lit up, his entire demeanor flipping like a coin. His earlier disdain had vanished, replaced with a glimmer of greedy delight. A summoner! his strength's real, this is perfect. Even weak summons won't matter—I'll make sure the guild accepts him. An A-rank VIP with a personal unit? This is a windfall.

Ethan tilted his head slightly. "I take it the offer for direct rank advancement still stands?"

The wiry man nearly choked. "O-of course! Absolutely it does! But… ah…" He licked his lips, trying to hide his eagerness. "For registration purposes, would you allow us a demonstration of your… summons?"

Ethan gave a slow nod, then swept his gaze across the crowded hall. The mercenaries had already begun pretending they weren't eavesdropping again, but his eyes lingered on them just long enough to make a few flinch.

"…Hm. I'll need some space," he muttered.

The clerk, catching his hesitation, clapped his hands loudly. His voice cracked as he barked out, "Ooi! You lot! Make room—now! Sir is going to summon his… his company!"

Chairs screeched. Boots thudded against the wooden floor. Tables were dragged to the walls, a few men even hoisting benches into the air to clear them faster. In less than a minute, the central hall that had once been filled with drunken chatter now lay open and silent, a wide circle of expectant faces watching.

The air was thick with unease. Whispers rippled at the edges.

"Summoner?"

"No wonder he dared…"

Ethan stepped forward into the cleared space, his boots echoing in the sudden quiet. He raised a hand, and a dangerous grin spread across his face.

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