The heavy, iron-studded door of the Crimson Blades guildhall groaned shut behind me, the sound swallowed by the low, murmuring din within. The immediate assault on my senses was a world away from the sterile, psionically-calmed streets of Nexus Delta-7. Here, the air was thick and heavy, a potent cocktail of stale ale, unwashed bodies, weapon-oil, and the faint, coppery tang of old, dried blood. It was the smell of a place where desperate people came to trade violence for coin. Dim light from a few sputtering alchemical lanterns cast long, dancing shadows, revealing a common room filled with scarred tables, mismatched chairs, and the dregs of the sector's mercenary class.

A handful of patrons looked up as I entered, their gazes ranging from dull indifference to sharp, predatory assessment, before dismissing me as just another piece of hopeful cannon fodder. Humans, Dweorg, and a hulking, four-armed Groknar nursing a mug of something foul-smelling were scattered throughout the room. The atmosphere was a palpable thing — a tense, low-grade paranoia simmering under a surface of forced bravado. It was nothing like the earnest, communal hope of Bastion, nor the placid obedience of the Nexus. This was the city's gritty, functional underbelly.

A single bar ran along the far wall, tended by a weary-looking man with a cybernetic eye that whirred softly as it scanned me. But my attention was drawn to a raised dais in the corner of the room. At a heavy, scarred wooden table sat two figures. One was a woman, sharp-featured and severe, her dark hair pulled back in a tight, practical bun. She was meticulously updating a data-slate, her expression one of permanent, weary impatience. The other was the man who was clearly in charge.

He was a massive human, wide and thick with the heavy muscle of a lifelong brawler, not a sculpted warrior. His face was a roadmap of past failures and hard-won victories, dominated by a flat, broken nose and a jagged scar that ran from his left temple down to his jaw, disappearing into a thick, grey-streaked beard. He leaned back in his chair, which groaned in protest, a mug of ale held loosely in one scarred hand. He watched me approach with eyes that were as cold and grey as worn whetstones, eyes that had seen everything and were impressed by nothing.

I walked towards the dais, my gait the slow, tired shuffle of a traveler, my eyes kept respectfully but not fearfully low. I was 'Chris,' a competent but unremarkable survivor looking for a foothold.

"Looking for work?" the woman asked before I even reached the table, her voice sharp and business-like, not bothering to look up from her slate.

"Heard the Crimson Blades hire good steel," I grunted, keeping my tone rough.

The big man, the leader, let out a short, humorless chuckle. "We hire functional steel. Good steel is rare these days." He took a long swallow of his ale, his cold eyes sizing me up over the rim of the mug. "What makes you think you're functional?"

"I'm still breathing," I said simply.

It was the right answer. The man smirked, a crack in his stony facade. "That puts you ahead of many. I'm Tarkus. I run this company. This is Kyra. She runs me." He gestured with his thumb at the woman, who didn't react. "What's your name and your story, wanderer?"

"Name's Chris. Story's short. The tutorial in Nunamnir broke my squad. I've been on my own since. Looking for a crew that pays." I kept it simple, a tale he had likely heard a hundred times before. Believable. Forgettable.

"Hmph. Another Nunamnir rat," Tarkus rumbled, but without any real venom. It was just a statement of fact. "Got plenty of you. Tough, paranoid, and you know how to fight dirty. That's good." He leaned forward, the legs of his chair scraping against the floorboards. The friendly-boss act vanished, replaced by the cold assessment of a butcher judging a side of meat. "But I don't take anyone on their word. This business has no room for charity. You want to earn our coin, you've got to prove you're worth it. Show me what you can do."

Kyra finally looked up from her slate, her gaze sharp and impatient. "Tarkus, Boros is on duty at the sparring circle. Should be a sufficient test."

"Perfect," Tarkus grinned, and it was not a pleasant sight. "Boros! Get your ugly hide over here!"

A hulking figure detached itself from a dark corner of the common room. It was the Groknar I had noticed earlier. He was immense, well over seven feet tall, with four powerful, thickly-muscled arms and a face like a pile of jagged rocks. He wore heavy, overlapping plates of crude iron armor and carried a monstrous, double-bitted axe in his primary set of hands. He was a pure, unadulterated brute, a walking wall of meat and muscle.

"This is your entrance exam, Chris," Tarkus said, his voice laced with a grim amusement. "You against Boros. The rules are simple. No killing. No permanent maiming, unless he does it to you first. First one to yield or be disarmed, loses. Try not to die. It makes a mess."

This was it. The practical application. The test of my control. Inside, I could feel my power coiling, my S-Grade Soul Gate ready to flood my limbs with energy that could shatter this entire building. My [Aura of Cindered Dominion] wanted to flare, to make this lumbering beast kneel just from the sheer pressure. I ruthlessly suppressed it all. I was 'Chris.' Tier 2. Unremarkable.

I drew my own crude sword, its balance mediocre, its edge decent but not exceptional. We moved to the sparring circle, a space in the center of the room cleared of tables, its floor made of hard-packed, bloodstained dirt. The other mercenaries in the room turned to watch, their faces bored but with a flicker of interest. It was entertainment. A new guy getting his teeth kicked in was always a good show.

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Boros let out a low, guttural growl, spinning his massive axe in a surprisingly deft motion. I took a deep breath, consciously slowing my heart rate, feeling my muscles. I forced myself to remember what it felt like to be weaker, to rely on leverage and timing, not on overwhelming force.

He lunged. It wasn't a sophisticated charge; it was a straight-line explosion of muscle, his axe raised high for a crushing overhead blow. It was sloppy, predictable, and for a normal Tier 2 fighter, utterly terrifying. I could have sidestepped it with contemptuous ease and ended the fight in a dozen different ways. Instead, I did what 'Chris' would do.

I threw myself into a desperate side-roll, the massive axe crashing down where I'd been a second before, biting deep into the packed earth with a thud that shook the floor. I came up on one knee, feigning a slight stumble to sell the effort. This wasn't about winning gracefully. It was about winning believably.

"Stand still, little human!" Boros grunted, wrenching his axe free. He swung again, a wide, sweeping arc aimed at my midsection.

I didn't dodge this time. I brought my sword up, angling it to deflect, and braced for the impact. The raw, brute force of the collision was… almost nonexistent? It felt like a mere breeze rather than a full swing, but I still acted the part, and threw myself back several feet, my boots skidding in the dirt. My sword, a piece of mundane steel, screamed in protest, a visible crack appearing near the hilt. This was the difference between me and a true Tier 2 warrior — I could withstand the impact, but their gear, and their bodies, would have shattered. I had to fake the weakness. I let out a sharp grunt of pain, clutching my arm.

Boros, seeing my distress, grinned a jagged grin and charged again. This was the moment I was waiting for. He was overconfident, sloppy, putting all of his weight into another massive overhead swing, leaving his entire torso exposed for a critical second.

I dropped low, letting the head of his axe whistle inches over my hair. As his arms were fully extended at the apex of his swing, I drove forward. I didn't use a killing thrust. Instead, I slammed the pommel of my damaged sword hard into the back of his knee. At the same time, I hooked my leg around his ankle. It was a simple, dirty fighter's trip, relying on leverage and his own momentum.

The massive Groknar, for all his strength, was completely unprepared for the maneuver. His leg buckled, his center of gravity betrayed him, and he went down with a surprised, enraged roar that shook the entire guildhall. He landed on his back with a colossal thud that knocked the wind out of him. I was on him in an instant, the point of my cracked sword pressed against the soft spot where his thick neck met his shoulder. He couldn't bring his axe to bear. It was over.

He lay there for a second, his four huge fists clenching and unclenching, before letting out a guttural, defeated grunt. "I yield."

I stood up, panting heavily, making a show of leaning on my knees, my arm throbbing with a phantom ache that I was selling with every fiber of my being. I had won, not with power, but with quick thinking. I had looked competent, tough, and just a little bit lucky. Perfect.

Tarkus let out a slow, deliberate clap. "Not bad, Chris. Not bad at all. You're scrappy. You don't have much power, but you're smart. I can work with that." He gestured to Kyra. "Sign him up. Standard probationary contract, make sure to take his bio-signature in case he has a change of heart."

As I signed the data-slate Kyra pushed in front of me, Tarkus began the spiel. It was here that real intelligence came.

"Now you're a Blade," he rumbled, pouring me a mug of ale. "Here's how it works. The Empire puts out contracts. We take them. Most of it is boring guard duty, caravan escort, monster culling. But the real money, the big money, is in the new Mandates."

My ears perked up. "Mandates?"

"Yeah," he said, taking a deep drink. "Overseer Vorr has a new obsession. This whole sector is full of these little independent settlements, like ticks on a dog's back. Places that thumb their nose at the Empire, think they can make it on their own." My blood ran cold, but I kept my face impassive. "He's issued a general 'Pacification Mandate.' He wants these settlements 'encouraged' to join the fold. Any guild that brings a settlement into Imperial compliance gets a massive bonus, land rights, preferential access to military-grade tech. It's the new gold rush."

"Encouraged how?" I asked.

Tarkus grinned that ugly grin again. "The mandate is… flexible. It can be a diplomatic mission. A trade embargo. Or, if the settlement is particularly stubborn, a 'regime change.' The Empire doesn't care how the sausage is made, as long as it ends up on their plate. They just want results."

The true nature of Quintus' visit, the threat lurking beneath his polite words, was now laid bare. They weren't just going to ask again. They were going to start squeezing.

Kyra then chimed in, her sharp voice cutting in as she explained the contract terms. "Your pay is twenty percent of contract completion value. The Guild takes sixty. The other twenty goes to the Imperial coffers as a 'loyalty tax.' All resources recovered are guild property. Any unsanctioned side-deals are grounds for termination. And termination," she added, her eyes like chips of ice, "is permanent. You are, for the duration of your contract, an asset of the Crimson Blades and, by extension, a servant of the glorious Kyorian Empire. Welcome aboard."

The gilded cage had snapped shut, at least on my Glimpse-persona. I now had a complete picture. The predatory guild system, the Empire's official policy of aggressive assimilation disguised as opportunity, the very contracts they would use to strangle places like Bastion.

My three hours were almost up. The Glimpse was starting to feel thin, the edges of the simulation growing frayed. I had everything I needed.

My consciousness pulled back with a sickening lurch. The smell of stale ale and sweat vanished, replaced by the cold, damp air of the hidden cave. The sounds of the guildhall faded into absolute silence. I was back in my own body, the raw data of the last three hours — the fight, the dialogue, the chilling revelations — now a perfect, indelible memory.

I stood up, my body stiff after sitting for so long, contemplating my vision. My mission was a success. But the information I had gained brought no comfort, only a profound and terrifying clarity. The Kyorians weren't just going to send another messenger. They were going to send people who worked for the likes Tarkus and his Crimson Blades. The clock was ticking, and Bastion was one of their targets.

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