I Have a Military Shop Tab in Fantasy World-Chapter 101: Celebration before Departure

Two months later, the halls of the Adventurer’s Guild in Elandra felt different.

Not quieter—never that—but lighter. The war room was no longer filled with frenzied shouting or the clatter of emergency dispatches. For once, the parchment stacks were lower, the messengers fewer, and the tension that usually weighed on everyone’s shoulders had finally begun to lift.

Victory did that.

Across the continent, the last two anchor points had been destroyed. Cleansing operations had confirmed that the demonic trace had stopped spreading. Mages reported that the veil between worlds was stabilizing, and even the High Temple had issued a rare proclamation of thanks to the Guild. It was, in every sense, a turning point.

So tonight, Guildmaster Thorne had called for a gathering.

"Not a ceremony," he clarified dryly to his aides. "Adventurers don’t care about medals. Feed them, let them drink, and give them a few hours to remember that they’re still alive."

And so they had.

The long banquet hall on the third floor—usually reserved for high-ranking guests and dignitaries—had been stripped of protocol. Tables were pushed together into long, mismatched rows. Plates piled high with roast venison, thick stew, salted fish, and baked bread filled the space. Jugs of ale and fruit wine passed freely. Laughter bounced off stone walls.

It wasn’t elegant, but it was real.

Inigo sat at the end of one of the middle tables, a plate half-full and untouched in front of him. He watched the others for a moment, taking it all in.

Lyra was perched on a bench to his left, arguing playfully with Korrik over who had the better reflexes.

"You got hit three times in Hollowmere," she said between bites. "And don’t even try to say that one was a glancing blow."

Korrik scowled into his mug. "I was baiting the spawn. That was strategy."

"You tripped over a root."

"A strategic root."

Inigo smirked quietly and looked across to Arienne. She was seated beside Garen, a wine glass in hand, leaning back as if she could finally exhale. Her eyes caught Inigo’s for a moment, and she offered a small smile.

He returned it, then finally picked up his fork.

Thorne, standing at the far side of the room near the head table, cleared his throat. Not loudly—but even so, the room began to settle. The man hadn’t spoken much since this operation began, but everyone knew when the Guildmaster stood, you listened.

"I won’t take long," he began, holding a goblet of dark red wine. "You’ve all earned better than speeches."

A low chuckle rippled through the room.

"But I’ll say this: two months ago, we weren’t sure how many of you would make it back. I reviewed those initial reports myself. All three anchor points were far more entrenched than we expected. And yet..." He gestured around the hall. "Here you are."

Some raised their mugs. Some just nodded. But all listened.

"We’ve bought time. Disrupted the cult’s network. Closed the paths they were carving through our world. And maybe—we’ve even made them afraid for once."

There were cheers at that. Loud ones. Someone at the far table even stood and yelled, "To making demons afraid of us!"

Thorne didn’t smile, but his eyes warmed. "Enjoy your evening. You’ve earned it."

The room erupted in applause, and the feast truly began.

Music followed, courtesy of a bard squad from the local academy—young, eager, and far too loud, but no one minded. Lyra grabbed Inigo’s wrist and dragged him up from his seat to dance. He resisted at first, claiming he had no rhythm, but she rolled her eyes and pulled him anyway.

"Come on, mister brooding soldier," she teased. "You saved the continent. You can manage a two-step."

He eventually caved and let himself be pulled into the laughter. His steps were stiff at first, but Lyra’s energy had a way of making everyone around her lighter. By the third song, he was even smiling without realizing it.

Korrik, meanwhile, challenged two younger adventurers to an arm-wrestling contest—and beat them both with only one hand. "You need more than youth and enthusiasm," he growled as he slammed their wrists to the table. "You need experience and beef stew."

Arienne stayed mostly seated, content to sip her drink and enjoy the noise around her. Garen occasionally nudged her with his elbow, encouraging her to eat more. "Come on," he said. "This is the part where we pretend to be normal."

She snorted. "Define normal."

He tilted his head. "Not nearly dying every week?"

"...Fair."

As the night wore on, groups shifted, stories were shared, and the atmosphere grew warmer. Adventurers who had only nodded in passing before now shared drinks. Those who had once been rivals compared scars. And for just one night, the walls of the Guild didn’t feel like a fortress—but like home.

Late into the evening, Inigo found himself standing near the open windows at the edge of the banquet hall, looking out over Elandra. The city was quiet, bathed in the golden glow of lanterns and moonlight. Below, the streets were calm. No alerts. No calls for reinforcements. Just peace.

Arienne stepped up beside him. "Thinking again?"

"I don’t know how not to," he admitted.

She leaned against the frame, folding her arms. "We stopped something big. I know it doesn’t feel like it all the time. But we did."

He nodded slowly. "I just keep thinking... if we missed even one site. If there’s another anchor point buried somewhere we didn’t see..."

"Then we find it," she said simply. "Together. That’s how we’ve done everything."

A pause passed between them.

Inigo finally said, "It’s strange. I never thought I’d live long enough to see a victory."

She glanced sideways. "And now that you have?"

He looked out at the city again. "Now I think we have to protect it harder than ever."

Arienne smiled faintly. "You’re not wrong."

Back inside, Thorne had sat down at the head table at last, though he kept sipping water instead of wine. He watched the room with a quiet satisfaction, arms folded, legs crossed. His aides were still on standby, of course—they always were—but even they looked a little more relaxed.

Korrik was now teaching a group of rookies how to throw a hatchet indoors, much to the horror of the Guild’s maintenance staff.

Lyra and Garen were seated together again, their cheeks red from drink and laughter. She leaned against him lightly, letting the moment settle.

"We will continue on our original mission right? " she asked.

He grinned. "If we didn’t encounter something like that, we will."

"And if we’re unlucky?"

He raised his mug. "Then we’re ready."

By the time the feast ended, the moon was high, the food was mostly gone, and the wine barrels had run dry. But no one complained. The mood was calm, content. Not triumphant, not roaring—but steady. Earned.

Inigo and the rest of his team lingered in the hallway just outside the banquet hall, armor off, jackets open, and breaths long.

"First night I haven’t dreamed about Hollowmere," Lyra admitted quietly.

Korrik nodded. "Same."

Inigo glanced at them all—his team, his friends—and finally allowed himself to relax.

"Let’s not waste it," he said.

And for once, there was nothing more that needed saying.

They stood there for a long while, watching the city sleep.

Tomorrow, there would be more missions. More threats. Maybe even more darkness to face.

But tonight was theirs.

And for the first time in a long time—it was enough.

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