Velmora did not welcome the unknown.
It tolerated usefulness.
Andres moved through the streets with measured calm, his senses quietly adjusting to the rhythm of the city. Vendors shouted prices, metal clanged in distant forges, and footsteps overlapped into a constant hum of movement.
He stopped before a modest building marked by a simple emblem: a sword crossed with a coin.
A guild.
Not the strongest. Not the most prestigious.
But accessible.
"…The lowest door is still a door," he murmured.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted. Conversations dulled into murmurs as eyes briefly turned toward him, assessing, dismissing, then moving on.
Behind the counter stood a tired-looking receptionist.
"Registration or request?"
"Information," Andres replied.
She raised an eyebrow.
"That costs."
Of course it did.
Everything here did.
Andres reached into his sleeve, producing a single replicated fruit—fresh, identical, perfect.
Her expression changed instantly.
"…Where did you—"
"Payment."
A pause.
Then she leaned forward slightly.
"…What do you want to know?"
Andres met her gaze steadily.
"How does someone with nothing… start earning here?"
For the first time since entering Velmora—
He asked the right question.