The Adventurers' Guild hall stood like a fortress of ambition in the heart of Beldam Sprawl, its stone walls bearing the scars of countless battles fought by those who had once called it home. Morning light filtered through tall windows, casting long shadows across the main floor where dozens of adventurers gathered around job boards and planning tables.
Astaroth approached the reception desk with measured steps, Volk trailing behind him like a shadow. The boy had adapted well to his new role, his enhanced abilities allowing him to move with supernatural silence. His transformation was less obvious now – the pointed ears hidden beneath carefully styled hair, the fangs only visible when he smiled, which he rarely did in public.
"I'm here for the evaluation," Astaroth announced to the clerk behind the counter.
The woman looked up from her ledger, her eyes taking in his appearance with practiced assessment. "Name?"
"Astaroth."
She consulted her records, nodding when she found the entry. "Provisional member, no clan affiliation. You'll be testing for C-rank initially, based on your request yesterday." She gestured toward a corridor lined with training rooms. "Third door on the left. Your examiner is waiting."
"And my companion?"
"Observers are permitted," she said with a glance at Volk. "But interference will result in immediate disqualification."
Astaroth nodded and made his way to the designated room. The training chamber was spacious, with reinforced walls and floors designed to withstand magical combat. A man waited in the center, his armor marking him as a veteran adventurer.
"Marcus Ironwood," the examiner introduced himself, extending a gauntleted hand. "C-rank adventurer, ten years of active service. I'll be conducting your evaluation today."
Astaroth shook the offered hand, noting the firm grip and the confidence in the man's stance. "What are the parameters?"
"Simple combat test. You need to demonstrate that you can handle C-rank threats. The ranking system is straightforward – E-rank for beginners, D-rank for those with basic competence, C-rank for skilled professionals, B-rank for specialists, A-rank for elite operatives, and S-rank for legendary individuals."
Marcus drew his sword, a well-maintained blade that gleamed with enchanted edges. "There's also the Mercenary Guild with their Bronze, Iron, Silver, Gold, Diamond, and Platinum ranks, but that's a different structure entirely. Here, we care about results."
"Understood," Astaroth replied, his posture shifting subtly as he prepared for combat.
The fight began without ceremony. Marcus moved with practiced efficiency, his sword work clean and precise. He was skilled, his movements showing years of experience and training. But to Astaroth, he might as well have been standing still.
Astaroth sidestepped the first thrust, his hand shooting out to grip Marcus's wrist. The examiner's eyes widened as his sword arm was twisted, the blade clattering to the floor. A second later, he found himself on his back with Astaroth's boot pressing lightly against his throat.
"Good enough?" Astaroth asked, his tone suggesting mild boredom.
Marcus stared up at him, his face flushed with embarrassment and shock. "That was... unusually quick. Are you sure you're not already ranked?"
"I'm sure."
The examiner climbed to his feet, retrieving his sword with obvious reluctance. "Well, you've demonstrated C-rank competence. Hell, you might even qualify for B-rank with a performance like that."
"Then let's test that theory," a new voice interjected.
Everyone turned to see a woman entering the chamber. She was tall and imposing, with short-cropped auburn hair and eyes the color of storm clouds. Her robes marked her as a mage, but there was something about her bearing that suggested she was far more dangerous than the typical spell-caster.
"Lyra Stormwright," she introduced herself, her gaze fixed on Astaroth. "A-rank adventurer, dual-affinity mage specializing in earth and water magic. I was observing your little demonstration."
Marcus stepped back, suddenly looking nervous. "Lyra, I don't think—"
"He handled you like a child, Marcus," she interrupted, not unkindly. "He's operating above C-rank level. The question is how far above."
Astaroth studied her with interest. Unlike Marcus, this woman radiated genuine power. Her mana signature was complex, layered with the kind of depth that came from years of serious magical study. This might be entertaining.
"I accept your challenge," he said simply.
Lyra smiled, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "Excellent. Marcus, you might want to step back. This could get messy."
The mage raised her hands, and the air around her began to shimmer with gathering power. Unlike Marcus's straightforward approach, Lyra believed in preparation and tactical thinking. Water began to condense from the air around her, forming into floating orbs that pulsed with compressed energy.
"Begin," Marcus called out, though his voice carried little authority now.
Lyra's opening move was devastating in its complexity. The water orbs launched toward Astaroth while the stone floor beneath his feet began to shift and buckle. Earth spikes erupted from the ground, trying to impale him while high-pressure water jets sought to batter him from multiple angles.
Astaroth moved, his enhanced reflexes allowing him to dance between the attacks. But these weren't the clumsy swipes of beasts or the predictable strikes of amateur fighters. Lyra's magic was precise, coordinated, and relentless.
A spike of stone caught his shoulder, tearing through his armor and drawing blood. He grimaced but pressed forward, trying to close the distance. Lyra was ready for him, the floor beneath her feet turning to quicksand just as he reached her position.
He sank to his knees, his movements suddenly sluggish. Lyra's follow-up was immediate – a lance of superheated steam that scorched the air where his head had been a moment before. He rolled desperately, trying to escape the trap, but the mage was in complete control of the battlefield.
"Impressive mobility," Lyra commented, her voice calm despite the intensity of the combat. "But you're fighting on my terms now."
She was right. Every surface in the room was under her control, every moisture source a potential weapon. Water flowed along the walls, gathering into striking serpents that lashed out at him from unexpected angles. The stone floor rippled like liquid, making stable footing impossible.
Astaroth felt something he hadn't experienced in eons – the possibility of defeat. Not the overwhelming power differential that had led to his battle with Aetherion, but the simple reality that his opponent was better prepared, better positioned, and fighting smarter.
He began to gather power, drawing mana from the atmosphere to fuel his abilities. But Lyra sensed the shift immediately, her next attack coming with increased urgency. A wall of stone erupted between them, followed immediately by a torrent of water that crashed over the barrier like a tidal wave.
The impact sent him flying backward, his body slamming into the reinforced wall hard enough to crack the stone. Pain flared along his ribs, and he tasted blood in his mouth. When was the last time he had been injured by a mere mortal?
"Yield," Lyra called out, her voice carrying the weight of absolute confidence. "You're skilled, but you're not strong enough. You should learn how to choose your battles."
Astaroth wiped blood from his lips, his eyes narrowing as he studied the battlefield. She was right, of course. He had been fighting like a berserker, relying on raw speed and strength instead of strategy or other traits he had. Against lesser opponents, that approach worked. Against someone like Lyra, it was a path to defeat.
He began to rise, power gathering around him like a storm cloud. His eyes shifted from blue to gray, and the temperature in the room plummeted. This was no longer a simple evaluation – it was a lesson in humility that he desperately needed.
"Enough!"
The voice cracked like a whip across the chamber, freezing both combatants in place. Marcus stepped forward, his face pale but determined.
"This was supposed to be a ranking evaluation, not a death match," he said, his voice carrying newfound authority. "Both of you have proven your points. Astaroth, you've demonstrated well above C-rank capabilities. Lyra, you've shown that raw power isn't everything."
Lyra slowly lowered her hands, the water and stone around her settling back into their natural states. "He has potential," she admitted, her gaze still fixed on Astaroth. "But he fights like someone who's never faced a real challenge. That kind of arrogance will get him killed."
Astaroth straightened, his power dissipating as he regained control of his temper. The mage was right, and that realization stung more than any physical injury. He had grown accustomed to overwhelming opposition through sheer force. When that approach failed, he had no backup plan.
"B-rank," Marcus announced, his voice carrying the weight of official judgment. "Provisional, pending completion of appropriate missions. Your combat skills are exceptional, but you need to work on tactical thinking and battlefield awareness."
"I concur," Lyra added, her tone neutral but not unkind. "You have the raw ability to reach A-rank, maybe even S-rank eventually. But you need to learn to think, not just fight like a brute."
Astaroth nodded slowly, absorbing the critique. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but a necessary one. The world had changed, and he needed to change with it.
"Thank you for the lesson," he said, his voice carrying genuine respect for the first time in eons.
Lyra smiled, and for a moment, her expression was almost warm. "Don't thank me yet. If you want to improve, you'll need to put in the work. Raw talent only gets you so far."
As the three adventurers began to file out of the chamber, Volk finally stepped forward. He had watched the entire exchange in silence, his enhanced senses picking up every nuance of the battle. His master had been beaten but only outmatched by superior strategy and preparation.
"Master," he said quietly, his voice carrying a note of concern.
Astaroth glanced at him, noting the worry in the boy's expression. "What is it, Volk?"
"Are you... disappointed?"
The question caught him off guard. Disappointment was an emotion, something he had never bothered to analyze or understand. But looking at Volk's concerned face, he realized that perhaps there was more to learn from this encounter than just tactical awareness.
"No," he said finally. "I went easy during the battle, but still... It's the first time I've lost this terribly".
As they left the guild hall, Astaroth found himself deep in thought. The world had indeed changed, and he was still adapting to its new rules. But perhaps that was not entirely a bad thing. Growth required challenge, and challenge required the possibility of failure.
For the first time in his existence, he began to understand that true strength might require more than just raw power.
It might require wisdom as well.