The South Gate of Raerno was a whirlwind of afternoon activity: creaking carts loaded with goods, guards scrutinizing documents with suspicious glares, and a constant coming-and-going of merchants sweating under the relentless sun.

The air was thick with smells: horse sweat, hot iron from nearby forges, and the sharp tang of spices carried by the traders.

Mirac, Carmen, and Blake arrived a few minutes early for one o'clock, their steps synchronized as they approached the meeting point.

Ms. Rose, impeccable with her gray chignon and a folder clutched to her chest, was already surrounded by a motley group of adventurers arranged in a loose formation beneath the shade of the limestone arch decorated with bas-reliefs of crossed swords.

At that moment, Ms. Rose was speaking with a 47-year-old man sporting a thick charcoal-colored beard and blue eyes that glinted with menacing calm. He wore reinforced leather armor, worn but well-maintained, with a double-headed battle axe strapped to his back, its twin blades flashing in the sunlight.

Beside him, a petite woman with blonde hair tied in a high ponytail gripped a polished ash longbow. A quiver full of fletched arrows hung down her back, almost an extension of her body. Her dark green tunic, form-fitting yet practical, gave her the air of a silent predator.

A little further away, a muscular man stood with tanned skin and scars that told tales of past battles, clutching a spiked mace and carefully watching every movement in the group. His presence commanded both respect and fear.

Next to him, sitting on a crate, was a sturdy woman with arms tattooed down to the elbows. She wore a heavy leather outfit and held the handle of a massive war hammer, its metal head dented from old blows.

A lanky, freckled boy with messy red hair was meticulously polishing his two curved scimitars. His clothes were a chaotic mix of red and brown fabrics, evoking the rustic style of Ardorya.

Further back, a tall and very thin man, wearing a black tunic, a cloak of black feathers, and a necklace of shiny bones, was resting a long staff adorned with feathers on the ground.

Another figure, a massive man with broad shoulders and bulging muscles beneath a simple rough linen tunic, stood apart with his arms crossed. He had short brown hair, a square jaw, and a calm gaze. To his right, leaning on the ground, was an enormous pack almost as tall as he was and so stuffed it looked ready to burst.

Beside him, a woman wrapped in a light outfit of sky-blue and gray fabric, made of overlapping layers that moved as if brushed by a constant breeze, held a thin metal fan. She had piercing green eyes, while her hair—long, straight, and an unnatural silvery gray, a genetic trait from her distant homeland rather than age—was tied in a high ponytail that swayed gracefully with every movement.

At this woman's side, leaning against the wall as if bored with existence itself, a man with a diagonal scar across his cheek chewed on a blade of grass. He wore red scale armor and carried two greatswords crossed on his back.

Finally, a young woman with short charcoal-black hair, wrapped in an asymmetrical cloak that fell over one shoulder, stood silently on her own with her arms crossed.

Mirac recognized her at once: he had seen her the day before during the Entrance Exam, when she had faced Lyria, the Assassin Master.

'If I remember right, her name was Felisia…' he thought, noticing the two daggers she wore at her hips.

Soon, however, his gaze slipped away, captured by another presence in the group.

Another girl had completely seized Mirac's attention.

Not so much because of her appearance or beauty, but because of her age.

She was only 16, making her not only the youngest member of the team after Mirac himself, but also the one closest to his current age—provided, of course, one ignored the previous 85 years he had lived in the other world.

The girl's black hair, woven into a soft braid, framed a delicate face with blue eyes that shone with a vulnerability hidden behind a shy smile. Her clothes were dark and form-fitting, reinforced with light leather plates.

She clutched a gnarled staff inlaid with silver to her chest, and her gloved hands trembled slightly as she nervously scanned her surroundings.

Mirac stared at her for a few seconds without even realizing it.

But suddenly, for a brief instant, the girl met his gaze.

Caught off guard, Mirac flinched and looked up at the sky, pretending to be studying the city walls.

'Damn it! What's wrong with you, Mirac?' the masked boy scolded himself, clenching his fist slightly in embarrassment.

A few seconds later, cautiously, he lowered his gaze back to her.

Fortunately, the girl didn't seem to have noticed anything.

A barely audible sigh of relief escaped him—when suddenly he felt a hand land on his shoulder.

He turned slowly to find Blake watching him with a barely contained sly grin.

"He he he…" Blake chuckled, clearly amused.

His expression betrayed that he was already imagining something involving the girl Mirac had been staring at.

'No no no, wait a second! It's not like that at all!' Mirac shouted inwardly, instantly grasping the misunderstanding.

Yet he never got the chance to explain, because Ms. Rose, having finished her conversation with the 47-year-old man, approached the trio to greet them:

"Always punctual, I see," she said in a professional tone. "We're almost complete. Only one last person is missing. And speaking of which…"

Then, with an almost imperceptible hesitation and a lowered voice, she turned to the tall, thin young man: "Blake, dear… may I speak with you for a second in private?"

At the request Blake grew worried, but he didn't hesitate to follow her.

Ms. Rose led him a few steps away from the group. Her face had tightened into an unpleasant expression, as if the words she was about to say weighed heavily on her.

"I know that some time ago you had… disagreements with a certain individual," she began, carefully choosing her words. "He should be here any moment, but I want you to know it wasn't my decision to invite him. His candidacy came from the higher-ups, and given the importance of the mission, I couldn't object. I truly hope his presence won't make you reconsider your role as guide for the exploration. No one knows how to navigate a cavern better than you do, and the entire mission depends on it…"

Blake stared at her, confused, his brows furrowed as he tried to decipher the meaning of those vague words.

"Who… Who are you talking about, Ms. Rose?" he asked, his voice uncertain, a shadow of unease creasing his face.

Mirac, standing nearby, felt a knot tighten in his stomach, a bad premonition prickling the back of his neck like a warning. 'No… Don't tell me it's-?!'

But before he could finish the thought, or before Ms. Rose could answer Blake's question, an arrogant and all-too-familiar voice cut through the air behind them:

"Here I am, Ms. Rose. I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long…"

Mirac stiffened, while Blake jolted, his shoulders hunching as if an invisible weight had crushed him.

Both turned sharply, eyes wide, and there he was: Joren Tharion, the boy who had insulted Blake at the Association the day before, and with whom Mirac had started a brawl—sparked while trying to defend Blake.

Joren's black hair, tied back in a ponytail, framed a sharp face. He wore light iron armor dyed red, every plate engraved with intricate golden patterns.

The longsword at his right hip, its scabbard decorated with silver inlays, swayed slightly as he approached with an arrogant stride.

"J-Joren?!" Blake stammered, his voice cracking from shock, the smile rapidly fading.

His hands clenched into fists, knuckles whitening, and an embarrassed flush rose to his cheeks as he lowered his gaze just a little.

Mirac, on the other hand, felt anger surge in his chest as the memory of the fight, the mocking laughter, and the humiliation Blake had suffered in front of everyone burned like a fresh wound.

He tightened his fist in an effort to hold himself back, the black mask hiding his expression but not the tension in his muscles.

Carmen, impassive as ever, tilted her head slightly, her cold eyes darting to Joren for a moment, silently assessing him.

Ms. Rose, caught by surprise, quickly regained her composure and inclined her head in a courteous gesture.

"Welcome, Joren…" she said, her voice steady but carrying a hint of coldness that no one missed.

Joren ignored the tone, casting a venomous look at Blake and Mirac, his narrowed eyes glinting with contempt.

"Tsk!" he clicked his tongue, a sharp, scornful sound that rang out like an insult.

'Damn it! What's that masked brat doing here? Ms. Rose didn't warn me he'd be coming too…' he thought, twisting his mouth into a sneer as he stared at Mirac with a challenging glint in his eyes.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Despite everything, however, he said nothing.

He simply crossed his arms and turned toward Rose, his expression visibly irritated, as if the presence of that duo were an annoying insect to be ignored.

Mirac did the same, breathing deeply to keep his calm.

"Ahem ahem!" Ms. Rose cleared her throat to break the tension in the air.

Then she clapped her hands to draw everyone's attention, inviting them to come closer and form a circle around her.

"Very well, I believe we're all here," Ms. Rose announced, her voice firm as she opened the folder with a smooth motion. "As you know, today's mission concerns the sudden disappearance of the ten carts from the Carameo Mine, along with the reconnaissance team sent yesterday morning. Our primary objective is to establish first visual contact with the mine and determine what happened: whether there was a collapse, an attack by creatures, sabotage, or—in the worst case—something anomalous."

She paused, letting that last word hang in the air like an omen.

"The priority is to gather information and, if possible, recover the iron cargo and any survivors. Do not engage in combat unless strictly necessary. I want you to stay together, follow the team leader's orders, and withdraw immediately if conditions demand it."

She closed the folder with a sharp snap, then turned to the bearded man she had been speaking with earlier.

"Operational leadership will be entrusted to Alvern Forh," she announced. "Tenth-rank member, Swordsman, veteran of numerous expeditions, and security chief for at least four high-risk operations."

The 47-year-old man stepped forward, the double-headed axe brushing against his back with a faint clink. His posture was solid, rooted, and his blue gaze sharp as a freshly honed blade.

"Pleased to meet you all," he said, his voice deep and calm. "I am Alvern Forh. From this moment, I am your team leader. I don't expect us to trust each other at first sight, but as we go we'll come to understand everyone's abilities, limits, and roles."

Ms. Rose nodded in satisfaction and finally handed him the folder.

"Here is what we have: the most up-to-date map of the Carameo Mine—at least for the levels officially surveyed—along with documentation on the carts' route and the list of the missing. Nothing more. From here on, operational command officially passes to team leader Alvern."

The bearded man took the folder and carefully slipped it into his side pouch. Then, addressing the group, he gave a nod and ordered: "Let's move."

The group set off toward a sturdy wagon parked just beyond the South Gate.

Two muscular bay horses, patient-looking, pawed at the cobblestones. The driver, a burly man with a worn hat and calloused hands, held the reins confidently. His dark, alert eyes scanned the road ahead, while his bent legs and steady torso spoke of years of experience.

The wagon was wide, with two wooden benches along the sides.

Alvern climbed aboard first, taking the right-side seat, followed by Mirac, Carmen, and Blake, who settled on the left bench.

Joren climbed up a moment later, deliberately positioning himself on the opposite side but with his eyes fixed directly on Mirac.

For an instant the two exchanged a cutting glance: on one side Joren's aggressive pride, on the other Mirac's tense calm as he clenched his jaw behind the mask.

Their knees were almost touching, yet neither moved to give the other space.

Blake, sitting beside Mirac, lowered his gaze to avoid meeting Joren's.

Meanwhile, one by one, the rest of the team climbed aboard.

The last was the man with the enormous pack, who lifted his bulky luggage with a low grunt and carefully placed it in the central space for legs, causing the wagon to sway slightly under his weight.

When he too had taken his seat and the group was finally settled, Ms. Rose gave the team one last nod.

"Good luck. May the strength of Kayro bless you…"

With those words, the driver pulled the reins, the horses neighed, and the wagon began to move, jolting slightly.

The South Gate receded behind them, swallowed by the dust raised by the wheels.

Raerno quickly shrank, the gray walls fading in the afternoon heat.

Ahead of them, the road stretched south-east, straight and dusty, bordered by already-harvested wheat fields and, farther off, the first black hills that heralded the mountains.

* * *

The first few minutes of the journey passed in oppressive silence, broken only by the creak of the wagon and the steady rhythm of the horses' hooves.

Mirac sat between Carmen and Blake, the black mask soaking up the heat like an oven, while his thoughts drifted between unease over the previous team that vanished and the palpable tension with Joren, who sat across from him with arms crossed and gaze lost in the passing landscape.

For better or worse, everyone seemed lost in their own worlds, distant and absorbed, each holding their own posture and private thoughts.

It was Alvern Forh who broke the silence when the wagon turned onto a narrower path:

"Ahem ahem!" he boomed, drawing every eye, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "We're an improvised team and we don't know each other. Let's do a round of introductions: name, your main abilities, and—if you have one—your Syntony."

"I'll start!" exclaimed the boy with messy red hair, theatrically waving one of his two scimitars so the blades clinked. "Name's Roric. I'm pretty good with curved blades. My specialty is close-quarters combat."

Alvern nodded, a half-smile hidden beneath his thick beard. "Good. We'll go clockwise."

The sturdy woman with tattooed arms slammed the haft of her war hammer against the wagon floor, producing a dull thud that made the planks vibrate.

"Morwen," she grunted. "I wield my war hammer by wrapping it in flames thanks to my Syntony with Fire."

The extremely thin man with the bone necklace drummed his fingers on the feathered staff before speaking:

"Zoltan," he murmured, in a voice that seemed to come from somewhere farther away than his own body, his gaze lost on an invisible horizon. "I am a Shaman… and I'm in Syntony with Shadow…"

He added nothing more. There was no need.

Of the Seven Elements with which a person could be born in Syntony, Shadow was by far the rarest.

Trying to develop one artificially was utterly pointless: no training, meditation, or force of will could persuade it.

It was not a matter of discipline or unshakable determination: Shadow simply did not allow itself to be tamed, much less courted.

It was an Element that almost always chose its vessels on its own, by unfathomable criteria, remaining inaccessible and impenetrable to nearly everyone else.

Thus, the mere fact that Zoltan was in Syntony with Shadow was enough on its own to describe the depth of his abilities.

After him, the petite archer with the blonde ponytail spoke:

"My name is Lirael. I have no Syntony, but by empowering myself and infusing my arrows with Mana I can hit a target up to 100 meters away."

The muscular warrior with the spiked mace ran a hand over his shaved head, revealing a scar that crossed his eyebrow.

"Brann. My weapon is this mace. I too have no Syntony, but I rely on magical enhancement."

The muscular man with short brown hair merely grunted and scratched the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with formalities.

"Dorran," he said in a deep, hoarse voice. "Don't let my size fool you—I'm not a fighter. My only role is to carry equipment and supplies for the mission. If you need anything, ask me."

He jerked a thumb toward the enormous pack that took up half the central space of the wagon.

"Pretty much everything is in there," he added with an awkward smile.

The woman with silver-gray hair and green eyes snapped open her metal fan with a quick flick.

"Seren. I am in Syntony with Wind," she said, closing the fan with the same theatrical grace.

The man with the diagonal scar on his cheek and red scale armor briefly removed the grass stem he was chewing, letting his arm drop to his side as he prepared to speak.

"Uh… I'm Darick," he said in a tone that wavered between lazy and vaguely bored. "I don't have a Syntony, but the blades of my two greatswords are engraved with Fire Magic Runes. I think it's pointless to explain what happens when they're activated…"

With that he put the grass stem back between his lips and crossed his arms, resuming his relaxed posture.

Next came the turn of Felisia, the one Mirac had recognized from the Exam:

"Felisia. I'm an Assassin, and I enhance my body to move faster." Her voice was low, controlled, devoid of inflection.

Joren, of course, waited until every eye was on him before opening his mouth.

He placed one hand on his sword hilt, the other open in a noble gesture, introducing himself with his usual solemn, arrogant tone:

"Joren Tharion, of House Tharion. For five years I studied the Crimson Rain style at Sivanyr Academy, earning a certificate thanks to which the Association recognized me as a seventh-rank Swordsman. Needless to say, I'm in Syntony with Fire."

Joren ended his introduction with the corner of his mouth curled into a satisfied smirk, as if he had just placed a crown on his own head.

Some nodded out of courtesy; others—Mirac, Zoltan, Felisia—remained perfectly still, as though his words had slid off them without leaving a trace.

"It is an honor to have you with us, Lord Tharion." Alvern offered the respect due to the son of the Imperial Phoenix Guildmaster.

Joren grinned and crossed his arms, pleased, while behind his mask Mirac rolled his eyes in a gesture that needed no words.

After Alvern's courtesies, Mirac drew a slow breath and prepared himself: it was his turn!

"My name is Isaac," he said, voice muffled but clear. "I'm a Swordsman. Unfortunately I have no Syntony, but I manage with Mana Manipulation, both to enhance my body and my weapons."

The group regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and respect: the determination in his tone and posture betrayed remarkable confidence for his obvious youth.

Yet not everyone could shake a slight doubt.

The missing arm, after all, had not gone unnoticed at all.

A detail that left them mildly hesitant about Isaac's true combat potential.

Still, no one said anything, postponing final judgment until—if it ever came—they faced an enemy together.

'Tsk! Fucking brat!' Joren shot him a murderous glare but kept his mouth shut.

Now it was the turn of the tall, thin boy.

Blake, sitting beside Mirac, cleared his throat, forcing a smile while Joren's mere gaze knotted his stomach.

"M-My name is Blake… Ms. Rose asked me to guide you in case we need to explore the mine. I'm not very good at fighting—I can barely defend myself—so I'm really counting on your help!" he exclaimed, bowing slightly in a gesture of respect.

The group studied him closely, and most seemed to welcome his words warmly.

That reaction only irritated Joren further, who kept his contempt behind an icy silence, saying nothing.

After Blake came Carmen, who at first remained silent. Her reserved nature had already shown itself in the cold glance she had cast over the group, leaving little doubt about her personality.

Finally the red-haired woman spoke, voice calm and controlled, not a shadow of emotion crossing her face:

"Ananya. I have no Syntony. I fight with whatever falls into my hands, adapting to the situation to survive."

A small murmur of approval rose from Roric and Brann, who nodded in respect for her tactical skill.

Alvern nodded, satisfied. "Good. Only one left…"

His gaze settled on the girl sitting beside Carmen: the 16-year-old clutching the gnarled staff to her chest like a shield.

She flinched when she realized everyone was looking at her.

Her cheeks flushed red for a moment, and when she finally spoke her voice came out as a trembling whisper:

"I-I… My name is Aisha." She swallowed, gripping the staff tighter. Her gloved fingers shook visibly. "I'm just a simple Healer. I-I don't know how to fight, so I-I'm counting on you too! I'll do everything I can to keep you all alive."

She bowed exactly as Blake had, and Blake felt relieved knowing that—if it came to a fight—he wouldn't be the only one staying in the rear.

Meanwhile Mirac thought to himself: 'A Healer? If Ms. Rose recruited her for this mission, she must be extraordinarily talented for her age!'

The others reached the same conclusion, offering her encouraging smiles and kind words to reassure her.

With the introductions over, Alvern spoke again:

"Perfect. Now we know who we are and what we can do…"

His gaze grew more intense as his voice dropped to a deeper, more authoritative tone.

"All that remains is to plan our course of action…"

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