Outside the WildHorizon Guild — 8:00 AM
"Come on, what are you waiting for—do you expect me to hand-deliver your weapons to you?!" Derek bellowed from the second-floor balcony.
Inside the hall, every single adventurer of Rank D and above was rushing frantically back and forth.
Weapons, armor, and alchemical potions were strewn everywhere—littered across the floor, piled on tables, and some even hovering in mid-air by basic telekinesis. There wasn't a single square inch of the guild hall that wasn't occupied by gear.
"What on earth is going on?" Dylan asked, thoroughly alarmed as he stepped through the front doors.
"Is this some kind of ceremonial festival?... Are we going to war?!" Rose asked, looking genuinely terrified.
"Not exactly," Connor replied, casually moving a spare practice sword off his bench seat. "It's the season of the Annual Great Hunt. It's a real shame we aren't qualified to participate."
"Thank goodness for small mercies," Dylan sighed in relief, slumping into the chair beside Connor.
If Dylan had learned anything since arriving in this bizarre realm, it was that any event forcing every single combat-tier adventurer to mobilize at once spelled absolute disaster—especially for his own blood pressure.
"Don't worry, one of these days we'll be heading out to the Annual Great Hunt too, guys," Connor remarked, his hand trembling with barely contained excitement.
Just picturing himself out on the front lines, cutting down hordes of monsters left and right, made Connor's heart race. Following in his family's footsteps was his ultimate dream.
"I just hope the monsters are already dead by the time we're old enough to go," Dylan muttered flatly.
Dylan and his companions sat back at their table, watching the stream of chaotic adventurers darting past. Even the receptionists looked utterly overwhelmed, with zero breathing room.
Before long, three massive draft-wagons rumbled through the guild's main entrance. The first wagon was stacked exclusively with potions, hauling over three thousand vials whose glowing blue and red liquids cast a vibrant hue over the interior. The second wagon was piled high with armor sets—a thousand pieces of treated leather, five hundred iron breastplates, and another two hundred forged from an unfamiliar metallic alloy Dylan couldn't identify. The third wagon groaned under the weight of weapons: swords, warhammers, polearms, daggers, and heavy shields heaped so high the cargo spilled over the wooden tailgates.
"Looks like they're stocking up for a multi-week campaign," Rose observed, prompting a firm nod from Connor.
"I'm not entirely sure how long the hunts last around here, but back home, the Annual Hunts usually spanned one to two months. The vanguard parties would cycle back and forth from the front lines, taking scheduled rotations every week," Connor recalled, leaning his elbows on the table with a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes.
"You really, really love fighting, don't you?" Dylan asked.
"Is there honestly anything better?" Connor countered defensively. "Constant combat, carrying your family name to the absolute pinnacle of glory, slaying magical beasts and legendary monsters... and maybe, just maybe, crossing paths with a fierce female warrior, engaging her in a battle to the death until you subdue her, and asking for her hand in marriage." This chapter was copied from novelping . com without permission.
Connor let out a lovestruck sigh, sinking deeper into his chair.
"You have some genuinely bizarre relationship goals," Dylan dry-ly remarked.
"Wait, like a fierce warrior woman? You mean like Lady Lydia?!" Rose asked excitedly, having heard countless tavern tales of Lydia's legendary exploits.
"Lydia? Pfft! No offense to the girl, but I'm looking for someone whose lineage is entirely forged in pure warrior blood," Connor declared firmly.
"But I've heard she's insanely strong!" Rose argued back.
"She is, but her bloodline has been diluted with non-combatant ancestry over generations, and that sort of thing affects genetic purity in offspring," Connor stated matter-of-factly, earning an offended glare from Rose.
"How rude! You say that as if you're guaranteed to reach her rank anytime soon," Rose scolded, jabbing a finger in his direction. "I've heard very few adventurers ever make it that high!"
"Everything you heard is true, and for the record: not only am I going to reach her rank, I'm going to surpass it," Connor claimed with absolute, unshakable confidence, only serving to rile Rose up further.
"And what makes you so sure of that?" Rose challenged immediately.
Before Connor could reply, three chilled mugs of fresh peach juice were set down onto their table.
(I always assumed adventurers exclusively drank heavy ale or moonshine...) Dylan thought to himself, staring down at the fruity drink.
(Damn, they're completely out of stock on beer...) Connor thought simultaneously, eyeing his juice with quiet disappointment.
"He's not wrong, Rose," Melissa chimed in, tucking her empty serving tray under one arm while casually leaning her weight against Dylan's shoulder with total familiarity. "It's widely understood that Lady Lydia will likely peak at Rank A and go no further—no matter how naturally talented she might be. Meanwhile, Connor, who just started his career as an adventurer this year, possesses an inherent growth ceiling reaching all the way to Rank S simply because both of his biological parents were veteran Rank A fighters." Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
"Wait, hold on—how does any of that make logical sense?" Rose protested, turning to look at Dylan for backup, only to find him simply shrugging apathetically.
Given that adventurers in this world had literally resolved a magical energy crisis through casual sex, Dylan had long since abandoned any expectation that Vaelthar would operate by Earth's rules of logic.
"It might sound a bit unrealistic—and perhaps downright unfair once you wrap your head around it—but that's simply how the ecosystem of adventuring works here," Melissa began gently, pulling up a chair to sit directly beside Dylan. "In short, an adventurer's raw potential and operational ceiling are entirely hereditary and genetic. Better bloodline genes equal a higher ceiling. Simple, right?"
Both Rose and Dylan fell silent for a few moments, processing her words. Melissa had just explicitly told them that an individual's limits were entirely dictated by their parents. So where did that leave them—the transmigrated outsiders?
"What about us, then?" Dylan asked quietly. "Transmigrators like us don't have local adventuring parents to serve as a genetic baseline for our potential."
"In cases like yours, the answer is a massive 'It depends,'" Melissa explained warmly. "There are a few distinct ways souls manage to cross over into Vaelthar, as you and Rose can clearly attest."
Melissa's words served as a stark reminder that despite both being transmigrators, they had arrived through entirely separate circumstances.
"First, you have the reincarnators; their inherent potential depends entirely on the biological parents they're born to in this world. Then you have the summoned individuals—you and Miss Jancy, for instance. Though you share the same classification of transmigration, your starting potentials are worlds apart. While you were summoned by a mid-tier guild mage, she was summoned by a conclave of royal court mages and received multiple divine blessings during her crossing," Melissa revealed, earning a deep, profound sigh of depression from Dylan.
(So life definitely has its favorite children,) Dylan thought bitterly, choking down the blatant unfairness of materializing with zero starting perks while others arrived practically pre-packaged with divine cheat codes.
"Then you have the resurrected—like Rose—people who died in their original worlds and instantly revived inside a native body here. Their growth potential is directly tethered to the original host body's genetic capacity. Meaning, Rose possesses the exact same potential ceiling that the original Rosevelle once held," Melissa finished with a bright smile, though it quickly faltered into an awkward grimace. "And lastly... you have the Claimed. But there's only one recorded instance of that, and it's generally considered bad luck to talk about him..."
Dylan instantly caught the sharp shift in mood—not just from Melissa, but from Connor as well. It was glaringly obvious that whatever a "Claimed" was, it represented a heavy, forbidden taboo across Vaelthar.
"So..." Rose started carefully, "does that mean every single adventurer here has a hard cap on how strong they can possibly get?"
"Yes," Melissa answered, her gentle smile returning. "Every single one of us has fixed limitations. But that doesn't stop us from doing what we love: protecting those who cannot protect themselves."
Around them, the high-rank adventurers continued darting back and forth amidst the chaotic whirlwind of preparation. But looking at them now, Dylan saw them through an entirely different lens.
They weren't just overpowered magical beings chasing after cheap glory. They were mortals burdened with strict, immutable ceilings—yet fully aware of those limits, they willingly sacrificed themselves day after day to secure a future for their realm.
Without a doubt, they were the true heroes of this world.