Chapter 3 - Earn Your Coin the Right Way

Weeks passed since the rescue of Emmett’s farm, and word of the Beacon Hall's success began to ripple through Breezevale.

More came seeking help—not just with oversized rodents, but with all manner of small town problems: lost livestock, strange howling in the woods, a collapsed fence near the river trail.

Normally, these issues would fall to the town guards. But they were slow to respond, often dragging their feet with the occasional "expedited fees" for even the most petty of troubles.

Now, townsfolk began turning to the guild.

Among the first to answer those calls were the Trailblazers: Cedric, Lyle, and Marla— unlikely pioneers of adventuring.

The trio became familiar faces around Beacon Hall, showing up with proud grins and dirt-smudged boots, boasting loudly about the jobs they’d taken and the coin they’d earned. Whether it was shooing off wild dogs, retrieving a merchant’s missing parcel, or guiding travellers through foggy trails, they tackled each task with growing confidence.

Arlen, seeing their dedication, officially anointed them with their first guild rank: F.

It wasn’t much, but a start. A symbol that they had stepped onto a path larger than themselves. He even scribbled their names into the guild ledger with a touch of ceremony, presenting them with their adventurer cards.

But Arlen knew that if Beacon Hall was to grow—if these youths, and others to come, were to be taken seriously outside of Breezevale—he would need something more.

Something official.

A Rank Assessor, a neutral third party qualified by the Grand Guild Alliance.

In the wider world, a verified rank wasn't just a title. It was a license. It opened doors—dangerous quests, restricted ruins, elite escorts, and better pay. Without them, any ranks granted would lack wider recognition, meaningless beyond Breezevale.

Still… perhaps it was too soon.

Given Beacon Hall’s current scale, it might be wiser to wait. Let its reputation grow first. Let its number of homebred adventurers grow—each with their own scars and stories to tell.

Perhaps then, it would be time to officialise Beacon Hall in the eyes the Known World.

====

Town guard, Jorven Kirk stood outside the guild, adjusting his shortsword in the afternoon sun. He could hear the lively chatter from within, and the murmur of excited adventurers. His partner, Finley Dawes, timidly leaned against the wall.

“You sure about this, boss?” Finley asked meekly.

Jorven snorted with bitter words. “What choice do we have, Finley? Look around. The villagers are paying these lot to do our job now. We’re being pushed out. It's not right.”

Finley frowned, glancing nervously at the guild’s large wooden doors. “I don't know, boss. It feels... wrong, walking in there like this.”

Jorven clapped his partner on the back with a chuckle. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to let these upstarts walk all over us. We're guards. We know how to handle ourselves.”

====

Jorven’s eyes narrowed as he pushed the guild door open. This was no brawl—these people were organized.

The guild hall was bustling with energy. He counted over a dozen villagers milling about in loose clusters. These “adventurers” were gathered around talking strategy, sharing tips, and reviewing quests.

They were barely equipped. Makeshift leather harnesses, loose chainmail, and scavenged blades. But even a blunt rusted sword could be dangerous in the right hands.

Jorven couldn't help but feel a bit out of place.

Behind the counter was a man who stood out. No armour. Just a white cloth tunic, loose at the collar. But the maplewood staff resting beside him revealed all.

Arlen Bright.

That damned Guildmaster.

He was deep in conversation with two female adventurers—and from their posture, mid-argument. They weren’t yelling, but the tension was sharp enough to cut parchment.

Arlen's eyes flicked up—and caught sight of the two guards.

The women turned, noticing the shift in his expression. All three fell silent.

“How can I help you two gentlemen?” Arlen asked, his voice steady and welcoming. “Quest board’s outside if you’re eager to earn coin.”

Jorven squared his shoulders to cast a larger shadow, his tone filled with purposeful intimidation.

“Heard this place was the new thing in town,” the guard said, slowly scanning the hall.

“Figured it’s time we had a word about your little operation. You’re putting us out of work with all these ‘quests.’”

Arlen raised an eyebrow, unshaken. “We’re just filling a need that was there long before we arrived. This town needed adventurers, not guards, to handle certain tasks.”

Red flushed through Jorven’s neck and face. “You don’t get to waltz in here and take our jobs. We’ve been keeping the peace in Breezevale for years! You think these amateurs can do better?”

“You’ve gotten farmers to swing sticks like it’s a game," Finley chimed in, though with little intimidating effect.

“Doesn’t sound like something that concerns the guards, does it,” Arlen replied, unimpressed.

A silence fell over the guild.

Chairs creaked. The hum of idle chatter died off as every adventurer turned their attention to the unfolding exchange.

Eyes sharpened.

The Guildmaster was being confronted—and the Beacon Hall adventurers weren’t about to let any disrespect slide.

Jorven noticed the crowd forming a wide circle around them. They were outnumbered. Finley started to quiver, unbefitting of a town guard.

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“A wager, Guildmaster,” Jorven proposed, eager to reduce the tension.

“No magic. You lose to me in a duel, you start running quest postings by the guards first. We decide which ones you get to keep.”

Arlen tilted his head slightly. He didn’t look angry. He looked amused—curiously mulling the proposition.

He glanced back at the two adventurers from earlier, then he let a sly, cunning smile.

“The two of you,” he pointed at both Jorven and Finley, “against me.”

That caught them by surprise—especially Finley.

“No magic, no tricks,” Arlen affirmed before adding, “If I win, I want you two to join these adventurers here on a quest. See firsthand what it means to earn your coin the right way.”

Gasps and banter flood the guild hall from Arlen’s bold proposal. The eyes on the guards grew more expectant.

Arlen glanced again at the two adventurers—Lyra Sunwood, a silver haired bow-ready Ranger and Kaelin Quill, a dark braided Engineer, a branch of the Skirmisher archetype with mechanisms and tools behind her back.

Both shrugged indifferently.

……

“You’ve got to let us take this quest,” Kaelin demanded.

“Look, I’ve heard much about your exploits,” Arlen retorted, withholding the location of a quest.

“But these are goblins we’re talking about. And in a cave, no less. Preparation can only get you so far if you don’t have the crew to support you.”

“We’ve killed monsters bigger than these pipsqueaks!” Lyra defended.

“I’m trying to save your life,” Arlen’s expression hardened, no longer just a Guildmaster—but a leader bearing the weight of responsibility.

He'd have to be more attentive moving forward—no more handing out quests without clear requirements.

Not if he wanted them all to come back alive.

The local stonemason had just received a long-awaited delivery—specially forged and enchanted tools, crafted to allow flawless chiselling without so much as a hairline crack. But before he could even put them to use, disaster struck.

Overnight, goblins ransacked his workshop, making off with the entire set. The mason gave chase, managing to trail them just far enough to see them vanish into the cave systems near town—but he knew better than to pursue them alone.

The tools were expensive, painstakingly crafted, took weeks to arrive. He could afford to commission a new set, but the delay would worsen his already growing order backlog. Hiring adventurers to retrieve the stolen tools was the most cost-effective—and immediate—solution.

The reward? One gold and seventy silver—the largest commission Beacon Hall had seen so far.

“We’ll just keep our distance, then,” Kaelin said. “Lyra will shoot them from a far, and my traps can go off when they get too close.”

“I’m not saying you’re not capable,” Arlen countered. “I’m saying this mission requires more than capability. Goblins don’t fight fair. And in caves, they fight smarter. You need someone to keep their eyes on the dark. You need a shield. Maybe two.”

……

The two guards presented an opportune solution.

Jorven, large and imposing, looked like he could take a hit and keep going—exactly the kind of presence needed to draw goblin attention away from the rest of the party.

Finley, though… didn’t inspire much confidence. His posture was slack, and his eyes flicked about nervously. But in a quest like this, numbers mattered. Even an extra sword could help thin the horde.

“Fine,” Jorven finally said. “You got it, Guildmaster. But don’t come crying to us when your coin purse runs dry.”

“Good,” Arlen nodded.

His cherished staff lifted itself off the counter and snapped into his waiting grip.

“Let’s step outside, then.”

====

A crowd gathered at the open yard behind Beacon Hall—larger than anyone had expected. Word had spread like wildfire, fanned by curiosity.

A fight.

With the guards.

Farmers paused in their fields, shopkeepers left their counters, and children scrambled up barrels for a better view. The entire village seemed to orbit around the gathering commotion like moths to flame.

In the heart of it, Arlen rolled his shoulders and gave a slow, casual stretch—more like a man who had just woken from a nap.

Loose tunic. No armour. Just a simple wooden staff resting in his grip like a walking stick—no glow from his mana stone this time.

No tricks, after all.

Across from him, Jorven and Finley paced like hounds, shortswords drawn and gleaming in the light—eyes scanning for an opening.

Two armed guards against one underdressed man with a stick—It looked absurdly uneven.

It looked like an execution.

But the adventurers who had gathered weren’t worried. They whispered bets, and watched with quiet amusement.

From the crowd, Pip stood on his toes behind a crate, clutching it like it was the edge of a cliff. His eyes sparkled.

"Go, Arlen!" he cheered excitedly, bouncing in place.

====

“Well,” Arlen gestured, beckoning the two men with a flick of his fingers. “What are you waiting for?”

Finley moved first, a wild pounce with both hands clenched around the hilt of his shortsword—like he was chopping firewood.

Arlen tsked—disappointed.

A sidestep and a simple extension of his foot was all it took. Finley tripped over himself and tumbled to the dirt, brought down by his own imbalance.

“Don’t forget me, Guildmaster!” Jorven shouted, sweeping his blade horizontally, aiming to limit Arlen’s space to dodge.

Arlen could easily block a direct hit with his staff—but he wasn’t about the let so much as a scratch befall it.

Instead, he calmly extended a hand and nudged Jorven’s sword wrist mid-swing—disrupting the attack without a sound.

Jorven’s form broke, leaving his torso wide open—ripe for a flurry of fatal blows. Arlen didn’t take it. He simply raised the base of his staff on Jorven’s chest and pushed him back, enough to reset the distance.

“You’re not focused on your attacks,” Arlen lectured.

“If this was a real fight, I could have blasted you five times over.”

Infuriated, Jorven charged wildly—as if trying to break up a drunken tavern brawl. Finley had just found his footing—until Arlen seized him by the collar and pulled him to meet the full brunt of Jorven’s charge. The two collapsing into a heap.

Laughter erupted from the crowd—a humbling display for the proud defenders of Breezevale.

Being a mage demanded concentration, discipline, the ability to act while chaos roared around you. But being an adventurer required more than just spellwork.

You had to adapt. Stay alert. Live on the edge.

Arlen wasn’t Jared, whose raw strength could break a man’s shield in two. Nor was he Kai, who glided through shadows with inhuman grace.

But he had learned enough to survive.

Alone.

He assessed the guards—comfortable in the security of their posts, dealing more with drunks and petty thieves. That life had made them complacent.

“Hey, guard,” Arlen called out to Jorven, this time dropping his staff and raising his fists.

An invite for fisticuffs.

“You dare!” Jorven shouted, rage burning behind his eyes. Finley lay groaning in the dirt, too dazed to continue.

A fistfight? Fine. That was Jorven’s forte.

He came in high, a flurry of heavy punches. But running high on emotions made every move sloppy—and highly predictable. The mage could evade them all.

Finally having enough, Arlen made one slip under a wild swing, a quick turn, and grabbed Jorven’s arm.

With a smooth twist, he flipped Jorven over his shoulder and slammed him into the earth. The impact rattled the guard's armour. His breath left him in a groan.

Jorven stared up, pale and stunned.

Arlen didn’t let go.

He looked too lean to overpower him. But his grip was iron. Arlen could break his arm if he wanted. And he knew it.

“I’m sure you’ve got what it takes, Jorven,” Arlen said lightly. “But you lack discipline. Routine. Guard work has made you soft—too laxed.”

Still on his back, Jorven growled in frustration.

“Give yourself a chance to be much more," the mage said. "The guild isn’t just about muscle, and it certainly isn’t about doing things like odd jobs alone.”

“It’s about teamwork, making others stronger just by being there.”

Those words struck a chord inside the guard.

Most of his assignments were solo patrols or intimidation jobs. He rarely worked with anyone—only beside them. No sense of wanting others get in his way, either.

And if he had to be honest, he only let Finley stick around because it fuelled his superiority complex. Whereas for Finley, Jorven made him a less likely target to be bullied by the other guards.

It was a sorry sort of partnership—more survival than camaraderie.

“Fine...” Jorven grumbled in defeat. “You win. Let’s see what all this ‘party’ business is all about.”

The crowd cheered—not just for Arlen’s victory, but for the way he earned it.

From the back, a few groans rose as a handful of locals realized they’d lost silver betting against him.

Arlen’s gaze softened—finally releasing his grip on Jorven’s arm.

“You won’t regret it, Jorven,” he said, extending a hand which the guard took.

Pip ran up to Arlen as the guards dusted themselves off. “Arlen! That was amazing! The wrist thing—the flip! Can you teach me that next?”

Arlen chuckled, ruffling the boy’s hair. “One lesson at a time, Pip.”

“You said that last time!”

Unbeknownst to Arlen, from that day forward, the yard behind the guild would become Beacon Hall’s training grounds—a place where fledgling adventurers would gather, spar, and swap stories. And among those stories, none would be told more eagerly than the tale of the day their Guildmaster bested two town guards with nothing but a staff.