"Did you hear about the F-rank hoarder?" a young woman whispered to her companion as they leaned on the wooden railing outside a bakery, steam from the fresh loaves warming the cold morning air.
"Who wouldn't hear about him?" her friend replied, scoffing. "Because of that guy, there aren't any F-rank missions left on the board. He hoards them like gold! A lot of the newbies gave up and just went back to their villages to farm."
The young woman leaned in, clearly intrigued. "But why didn't he rank up? I mean, if he did that many missions, he should be D-rank or even C by now, right?"
"From what I heard," the man said, lowering his voice dramatically, "a noble from the Academy wanted him to be his personal guard. Offered him a deal, but the guy rejected it."
"Rejected a noble? Seriously? What was his name again? Ian?"
"No, not Ian. Ivan. Ivan the Meat Shield," the man said with a grin. "That's what folks call him now. Heard he just stood there once and let a hot-headed warrior punch him half to death. Didn't even flinch. Didn't draw his weapon either. Just stood there with this blank stare. Like he was bored."
"What kind of lunatic lets himself get beaten like that?" the woman said, eyebrows raised.
"Someone with ogre blood, probably. Or maybe a curse. Whatever it is, that guy's built like a fortress. I saw him once—walked into the guild with this heavy crossbow and a scimitar strapped to his back like it weighed nothing. Didn't talk to anyone. Just grabbed missions and walked out."
Nearby, two young adventurers were chatting while training at the barracks.
"I tried to take an escort mission last week. The clerk said it was already gone—taken by Ivan, of course," one of them said as he stabbed his training dummy. "What the hell is he doing with twenty different escort requests at once?"
"Beats me. I heard he completes them all. Said he moves around at night too. I think he only sleeps a few hours a day. Heard from a merchant he's seen Ivan outside city walls fighting goblins alone at midnight."
"You think he's trying to make his own adventurer guild? Like stockpiling resources?"
"Or building an army?"
Another duo sitting at a tavern table joined the chorus of rumors.
"I heard the guildmaster is pissed," an older rogue whispered while nursing his ale. "Wanted Ivan to at least slow down. Said it's making the guild look bad—scaring away new blood."
"That's not even the worst part," his drinking buddy said, leaning in. "You know that noble—Ravveth from the Academy? Word is, he offered Ivan a bunch of magic gear, a class promotion, even a house in the merchant quarter if he agreed to serve. Ivan spat at his feet and walked out."
"Spat on a noble?!"
"Right at his feet. Everyone in the lobby saw it. Ravveth stormed off red as a beet, and now he's pulling strings with the guild. That's why Ivan's still F-rank. They're freezing him."
Elsewhere in the city, in the quieter corners of slums and alleyways, a few homeless folk had their own tales.
"He bought a shack three alleys down," a ragged man said, lighting a makeshift torch. "Fixes it up himself. Doesn't talk much, but he gave me soup last week."
"Yeah, and he helped old Mira when she fell. Picked her up like she weighed nothing. Didn't say a word. Just nodded and left."
"He's not bad. Just quiet. Too quiet."
Meanwhile, inside his modest home, Vanthelis—now Ivan—sat at his worn desk in silence. Two months had passed since he arrived in Gesir. The house was small, barely furnished, but clean. Functional. Enough.
He had heard the rumors too. Whispered in the market, mumbled in the guildhall, or shouted at taverns. He didn't care. He needed the city to forget about him eventually. Being an F-rank hoarder helped push the real threats out of people's minds.
A rough sketch was laid out on the table in front of him. It was the mansion of Noble Ravveth. A dozen windows. Two gates. Four guards. All watched.
"How can I kill that bastard without anyone thinking it was me?" he muttered to himself.
He tapped his fingers on the wood. Then, slowly, a smirk tugged at his lips. He would morph—just once—into a woman. A pretty, wandering traveler. Let a guard see her lingering near the noble's mansion. Maybe even flirt with them a little. Create a false trail. The guards would remember a different face entirely.
He rolled the parchment up, stood, and drank the last of his water.