The morning after our barnyard triumph, Milo woke me up by waving his guild trainee badge an inch from my nose. "Do you think we're famous yet?" he whispered, as if greatness might overhear and come running.
I pried my eyelids apart, blinked at the ceiling, and grumbled, "Only in barns. Give it another miracle or two." But truthfully, there was a thrill in being known even if just for roasting rodents and saving cookware.
Breakfast was a hasty affair of leftover bread and cheese, stolen moments of peace before plunging back into the noisy current of Millcross life. We washed up, dusted off the last flecks of hay, and set out for the guild hall. The streets buzzed with gossip: "Did you hear about the rat-scorchers?" "That kid with the red scarf he's a natural!" "They say the Ember Pair cleaned out old Hilda's barn without burning it down. Well, not all the way."
Milo glowed with every whisper. I just hoped the tales would buy us goodwill and not trouble.
The Million Stars Adventurers' Guild was in fine form this morning: swordsmen flexing by the entrance, a gaggle of bards tuning their instruments (badly), and an ogre in the corner trying to convince the bartender he was "just big-boned." We squeezed through the press, Milo clutching my sleeve, until we found ourselves in the main hall.
Today, the guild's heart beat louder. The reward window sparkled in the sun, and a fresh bulletin board had sprouted overnight covered in new missions, rumors, and more than a few warning posters ("Please stop putting honey in the wyvern traps. Signed, Management").
At the pay desk, the sharp-nosed receptionist handed over our reward with a tiny, grudging smile. "Well done, Ember Pair. You're trending."
Milo waggled his badge at me. "How do we level up? Can we be real adventurers now?"
"Good question." I tucked away our coins and glanced at the nearest wall, where a mural of heroes in vibrant paints towered over a collection of…charts?
The Ranking Wall was a patchwork of portraits, colored placards, and charts so elaborate I felt dizzy just looking. Each rank, from F to SS, had its own painted emblem a cracked egg for F, a silvered leaf for E, a hissing serpent for D, a lion rampant for C, a dragon for B, a pair of crossed swords for A, and at the top, a glimmering, almost mythic badge of interwoven gold and starlight for SS.
Underneath, lists of names (some scratched out, some highlighted) showed who'd made it, who'd fallen, and who was missing in action.
A nearby sign spelled out the guild rules in cheerful, oversized script:
MILLION STARS GUILD RANKS:
F (Novice): For beginners and dreamers. No dangerous quests, no dungeons. Lost pets, missing chickens, "my cabbage exploded" that's your world.
E (Apprentice): A little tougher. Weak monsters, local escorts, haunted wells (no actual ghosts guaranteed).
D (Adept): Village defenders and regional heroes. Bandits, minor monsters, fetch quests for stubborn mayors.
C (Professional): Real adventurers. Caravan escorts, monster subjugation, tiny dungeons with slightly less tiny deaths.
B (Veteran): Swords for hire in dangerous places. Elite monster hunts, high-stakes trades, angry sorcerers.
A (Elite): Legendary work. Rare monsters, big dungeons, city emergencies. Only the brave or unlucky need apply.
S (Master): Catastrophe-class. Dragons, ancient ruins, kingdom defense. Survive, and your story is sung for generations.
SS (Legendary): The world-shakers. Demons, fallen stars, plagues, prophecies. Fewer than ten exist. If you see one, don't blink.
HOW TO RANK UP:
Complete missions at or above your current rank.
Pass an "Evaluation Quest" survive, impress, don't burn down the town.
Collect a recommendation from a high-ranking official or proven legend.
Absolutely, positively, never disgrace the guild by cheating or running away.
Milo's mouth dropped open. "So, we're…eggs?"
"Cracked eggs," I muttered, eyeing the F-rank badge. "But at least we're in the pan."
The system pinged, popping up a comic info box behind my eyes:
[Current Rank: F (Novice). Odds of Success: 100%.
Next Rank (E): Odds: 92% (unless you forget Milo in a well).
D-Rank: "Doable. Wear good boots."
A-Rank: "Not unless you want to meet your ancestors early."
S-Rank: "Try again in a decade."
SS-Rank: "Explode responsibly."]
I bit back a smile, watching Milo dart from one hero portrait to the next. He pointed to a painting of a group called "The Gilded Misfits" a mismatched crew, all gold-plated armor and ragtag cloaks, their leader a woman with a spear and a gaze that could slice diamonds.
"Who are they?"
A grizzled old swordsman nearby leaned in. "That's the Misfits. Only SS-rank party this side of Aurelia. They saved the capital three times. Legend says their leader once stared down a dragon and made it apologize."
Milo's eyes widened. "Do you think we could…?"
"One step at a time," I said, but there was a flutter of hope in my chest I couldn't quite squash.
While Milo daydreamed about slaying dragons, I did my homework. The mission boards were a minefield of fine print:
"Lost Cat (again): Must return alive."
"Giant Slug Removal: Bring your own salt."
"Haunted Outhouse: Squeamish need not apply."
"Escorting Lady Mirabelle's Teacup Collection (seriously, don't drop it)."
I squinted at the contracts, trying to decipher the footnotes. "Any mission that mentions 'bodily hazard' or 'magic-resistant fungus' is probably above our pay grade."
Milo tugged my sleeve, distracted by a new batch of "Hero Posters" adventurers in ridiculous poses, muscles oiled and smiles painted on by wishful artists. "Can we get one? Please?"
"I don't even look like that," I protested. "And if I ever flexed like that, you have permission to throw cheese at me."
The system, deadpan:
[Hero Poster: +5 Ego, -10 Stealth, +100 to being recognized in outhouses. Caution: Do not attempt poses without professional healing staff nearby.]
Milo was soon intercepted by a pair of other F-rankers, kids only a few years older, debating whether rats or chickens were more terrifying. At the same time, a C-rank squad was bragging nearby about their dungeon haul a barrel of "mystic goo" and a half-melted sword.
Arguments flared as a group of D-ranks boasted that they'd "cleaned out a whole goblin den without losing anyone this time," while an A-rank veteran sniffed, "Come back when you've seen a real monster, boy."
The system, never missing a beat, delivered a fresh commentary:
[Ranking Rivalry Meter:
F/E: "Squeaky. Slightly adorable."
D: "Aggressively competent."
C: "Professional showoffs."
B: "Survive or go home."
A: "Glory hounds. May bite."
S/SS: "Rare. May be mythological. Approach with gifts (and insurance)."]
I coaxed Milo back, who returned with a second-hand tale about "a slime so big it had its own weather system." He looked up at the wall of badges and charts, and asked, "What do we do next?"
"We work. We build our name. And we pick missions we can actually survive," I said, nudging him toward the "safe" end of the board. "Even the greatest started as an egg."
The guild hall vibrated with rumor stories about Aurelia, the capital where the S- and SS-rankers reigned, the Misfits' latest feat (something about a basilisk and a bakery fire), and whispers of a new monster on the road east.
Milo squeezed my hand. "Do you think we'll ever get to Aurelia?"