I Have a Military Shop Tab in Fantasy World-Chapter 117: Return to the Town

The gates of Elandra came into view just past noon, their iron-bound wood flanked by tall watchtowers carved with ivy and eagle motifs. Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys within, and the faint sounds of hammers, bells, and distant voices bled through the stone walls. After days in the wild, the city’s familiar silhouette was oddly comforting—and heavy. It meant explanations. Truths. Losses.

Inigo adjusted the sling of his M4, the matte-black weapon now dulled by dust and wear. Beside him, Lyra pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. They’d spoken little that morning, save for the necessary. Words had become heavy. Each one risked opening wounds neither of them were ready to touch.

The guards at the gate barely questioned them. The moment they saw the guild insignia sewn into Lyra’s collar and the state they were in—mud-slick boots, dried blood on Inigo’s gloves—they simply nodded and opened the way. The guards didn’t smile. Adventurers coming back without a full party told its own tale.

The city buzzed around them, unaware. Merchants called out prices for figs and linen. Children chased each other across the cobbled streets. Smiths hammered iron in rhythm. But to Inigo, it all felt like a painting—colorful, vivid, and silent beneath the roar inside his head.

They reached the adventurers’ guild within minutes.

The facade of the Adventurer’s guild loomed like a fortress between the market square and the temple road. Banners flapped gently in the breeze—each bearing the same sigil: a sword over an open book, framed by a broken chain. The symbol of free men who fought not for kings, but for coin and cause.

Inigo pushed open the heavy oak doors.

Inside, the main hall was bustling. Adventurers leaned on tables scattered with mugs, half-eaten meals, and dice. Quest boards lined the far wall, and the scent of sweat, smoke, and old wood hung thick in the air.

The moment they stepped through, a familiar voice called out.

"Inigo? Lyra?!"

Elise.

The receptionist— hair tied neatly behind her head, guild uniform crisp despite the hour—had leapt from behind her desk. She hurried over, wide-eyed.

"Gods, you’re back. But where’s—" She stopped short. Her gaze flicked between them, registering the silence, the grime, the blood. "Where’s Arienne? Korrik?"

Inigo opened his mouth, but no words came.

Lyra stepped in quietly. "We lost them."

The words hit like a hammer. Elise blinked, lips parting, then closed them again. "I... I’m sorry. I didn’t know."

Inigo nodded slowly. "They fought till the end. They didn’t run."

Elise looked like she wanted to say something more—but didn’t. Instead, she simply nodded and stepped aside. "Guildmaster Thorne’s upstairs. He’s been expecting you."

They climbed the spiral staircase that led to the upper offices. The hallway above was quieter. Stone walls bore framed maps and faded banners from past campaigns. A soft breeze from a high window stirred dust motes in the light.

At the far end stood the Guildmaster’s door—tall, mahogany, and lined with brass runes that hummed faintly as they approached.

Inigo knocked once.

"Enter," came a deep voice from within.

They stepped inside.

Guildmaster Thorne stood behind a wide desk littered with parchments, quills, and a half-drunk glass of spiced brandy. He was a bear of a man—gray-streaked hair, heavy beard, and arms like tree trunks beneath his coat of chainmail. His sharp eyes studied them before a word was spoken.

"I count two," he said simply.

Inigo gave a curt nod. "We lost Korrik and Arienne in the Rift. They didn’t make it out."

Thorne exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his beard. "Tell me everything."

And they did.

Lyra took the lead, recounting the journey to the Rift, the first signs of corruption, the battles that followed, and the appearance of the Lady of Illusion. Inigo filled in the rest—the deception, the bargain, and the final shot. When they spoke of Arienne’s sacrifice, of Korrik’s defiant last stand, the room seemed to still. Even the air felt heavier.

When it was over, Thorne leaned back, silent for a long while.

"I always knew," he said finally, "that the day would come when we’d lose people to the Rift. But I had hoped... not like this. Not them."

He stood and moved to the tall window overlooking the city square. "The Lady of Illusion is dead. That will shift the balance. The demons will know. They’ll feel it."

"She died thinking she had won," Inigo said, his voice low. "That was her mistake."

Thorne turned back. "You did well. Both of you. You’ve not only completed the mission—you’ve prevented a second incursion. Whatever she planned to bring through that portal... I’m guessing it would’ve leveled this city."

Lyra nodded.

"I’ll make sure their names are carved on the Hall of the Brave," Thorne said, referring to the marble memorial downstairs. "And you’ll be given full honors. gold bonuses. Title advancement. The works."

Inigo didn’t respond to that. It didn’t feel like a reward. It felt like a debt.

"Do we know if the Rift is truly closed?" he asked.

"Scouts will confirm," Thorne said. "But based on what you’ve described, the portal is gone. It’s dormant again. We’ll continue monitoring. And you two will take a week’s rest. Mandatory."

Inigo looked up. "What if I don’t want rest?"

"Then fake it," Thorne replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The meeting ended not long after.

Back in the main hall, Elise handed them small pouches—tokens owed, as promised—and a note marked with the guild’s seal for local accommodations. Inigo took it without reading.

As they stepped outside into the afternoon light, Lyra turned to him.

"So... what now?"

Inigo looked out over the city—the towers, the streets, the alleys. The people who had no idea how close they had come to annihilation.

"We rest," he said. "We honor the dead. And then we prepare."

"For what?"

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at the sky, already fading into late-afternoon gold.

"For whatever comes next."

As they walked away from the guildhall, the sounds of the city gradually filled the silence between them. Bells tolled the hour from a distant tower. A boy pushed a cart of roasted nuts through the street, shouting prices. Life moved on, unaware of the darkness that had nearly spilled through.

Inigo and Lyra didn’t speak much as they passed through merchant rows and winding alleys. The world felt almost too normal.

Eventually, they reached the edge of the Adventurer’s Quarter, where a small inn stood under the shade of a large sycamore tree. The place wasn’t much—modest timberwork and weathered shutters—but the guild seal beside the door meant it was safe and discounted.

After all, Inigo doesn’t feel like going home for the meantime. He wanted to be near the adventurer’s guild, just in case.

Inigo held the door open for Lyra. The innkeeper, a stout woman with thick arms and a flour-dusted apron, greeted them with a look of recognition.

"You two the ones from the Rift job?" she asked quietly.

Inigo just nodded.

The woman said nothing more—just handed them keys and waved toward the upstairs hall. "Room three and four. Firewood’s stocked. If you need stew, I’ll have it ready come sundown."

They climbed the creaky stairs, their boots thudding softly on the worn boards. At the end of the hall, Lyra paused outside her room.

"I’ll see you in the morning?" she asked.

Inigo nodded. "Yeah."

But she didn’t go in immediately. She lingered a moment, her expression unreadable.

"Thanks," she said at last. "For getting us out. For doing what had to be done."

He met her gaze. "We did what they would’ve done for us."

She gave a faint smile. "I guess that’s the only way to live with it."

With that, she turned and entered her room, the door clicking shut behind her.

Inigo stepped into his own. The room was simple—just a bed, a table, and a shuttered window—but the sheets were clean and the roof didn’t leak. He dropped his pack near the foot of the bed and set the M4 on the table beside it. The weapon had seen too much. Like him.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and removed his gloves. Dried blood still rimmed the fingernails, but it wasn’t his.

He thought of Arienne—her laugh, her spark, the fire she carried both in her magic and her personality. And Korrik, stubborn to the end, always the first to charge in and the last to back down. They didn’t deserve to die. But if they hadn’t acted...

He might not be here to mourn them.

He looked at his hands. Hands that had pulled the trigger.

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He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows shift as afternoon turned to twilight.

Eventually, the smell of stew reached his room. He didn’t move.

Not until the sun had fully set did he rise again. He unstrapped his gear, removed the plates of his tactical vest, and folded the coat Lyra had cleaned days ago.

He opened the window, letting the cool air in. Elandra’s lanterns had been lit, a constellation of orange flickering against the growing dark.

For the first time in days, he allowed himself to rest—not just the body, but the soul.

But even then, a thought lingered at the edge of his mind.

The Rift was closed. The Lady of Illusion was dead. But what if she was just a gatekeeper?

What if there were more?

And what if next time... they weren’t ready? And what if the other was more stronger than the Illusion?

Well, he’ll find out soon as the demon race would definitely make a move.

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