Waterdeep, Sea Ward, House Wyndrivver Manor.
"Sir, someone has delivered a calling card. It's signed by Anser Holrewen, but I don't recognize the heraldry." The butler stepped forward with a respectful bow and placed an exquisite purple, gold-embossed calling card on the desk.
Seated behind it was an elderly man in a simple gray formal suit. His silver hair was impeccably groomed, and a slim booklet lay open before him.
He marked his place with a dark bookmark before casually picking up the card. "The fact that you brought this to me personally suggests this isn't just another fraud trying to pass himself off as nobility."
House Wyndrivver was both prestigious and immensely wealthy. Every week, countless people tried to find their way into the estate, and forging a noble identity to deliver a calling card was hardly uncommon.
Most of them were either swindlers or down-on-their-luck hopefuls trying their luck.
The old butler was a seasoned expert in heraldry and could usually spot a fake at a glance.
As a result, such people rarely got anywhere. At best, they were politely received, treated to a cup of tea, and quietly shown the door.
Standing ramrod straight beside the desk, the butler continued, "I've heard that name before. It's well known among adventurers. And the man who delivered the card wasn't ordinary either. His name was Stoll."
As a peak-tier professional, Stoll had been famous for many years. Durlag had also risen to prominence as a city of adventurers in recent years, so it was impossible for House Wyndrivver not to have kept an eye on it.
"Anser Holrewen?!" The silver-haired elder's voice dropped as his eyes fixed on the card. Suddenly, something occurred to him.
He set the card down, picked up the booklet he had just been reading, and rapidly flipped toward the back.
"The Chosen Slayer... Could they be the same person?" His expression grew grave. "Wasn't he supposed to be on the Rock of Bral?"
The booklet in his hands was top-secret intelligence from Waterdeep's Noble Commercial Alliance. It had only just arrived from the Rock of Bral, and the ink was still fresh.
With so many major powers converging there and the world-renowned struggle among the Chosen unfolding, the Rock of Bral had become the center of attention. Waterdeep was watching just as closely as everyone else.
He looked over the calling card again.
The stated purpose of the visit was to express gratitude, but it gave no hint as to why.
"The appointment is for tomorrow at nine in the morning. Rather rushed... It seems he has urgent business." His gaze lingered on the six-winged creature emblazoned on the crest as he carefully searched his memory for any connection between House Wyndrivver and Anser, but came up empty.
"Sir, should we notify the Council?" the butler asked, suddenly tense.
Waterdeep's nobility differed from traditional feudal nobles. They held no landed estates, and even the size of their private guard was legally restricted—generally no more than seventy.
Their wealth and influence existed because of Waterdeep itself. The city's laws and governing council protected both their lives and their private property, making the strength of the family itself far less important.
Countless people dreamed of joining their ranks, yet very few ever chose to leave Waterdeep.
Even so, earning the Council's recognition was no easy feat. After centuries of development, Waterdeep still had only a few dozen noble houses, which together controlled the economic lifeblood of the city and its surrounding regions.
As a result, whenever they encountered a truly formidable enemy, they had little choice but to seek help from Waterdeep's authorities.
Ordinarily, one or two peak-tier professionals wouldn't qualify as a serious threat to House Wyndrivver. Their own hired professionals and household guards could deal with that.
But this man was different.
He had fought his way from Baldur's Gate through Abeir, Claw Bay, Durlag, and finally the Rock of Bral. More creatures had died by his hand than there were members in the entire Wyndrivver family.
Ignoring someone like that simply wasn't an option.
"Tell the messenger," the elder instructed solemnly, "that I'll be waiting at the manor at the appointed time."
He added with particular emphasis, "Make the necessary arrangements. Tomorrow, receive him with the highest level of courtesy."
"Yes, sir."
...
Lucky Portia Tavern.
After giving it some thought, Anser realized he didn't actually have many capable subordinates.
The barbarian Adolf, the tiefling Makaria, the lizardfolk Giant Tail, and the wizard Lin Qiancheng were the standouts among them, and of the four, only Lin Qiancheng had reached the advanced tier.
The halfling Osborn and Iris were companions rather than subordinates. Bringing them along simply to act as bodyguards wouldn't feel right.
'Then I'll just bring everyone. They all happen to be on White Stone Island anyway.'
His thoughts drifted to the tiefling tribe, whose relocation still wasn't complete.
They had only just finished their preparations, and progress had been slow. Anser understood why. The tribe was probably divided—some wanted to leave, while others didn't.
Relocating an entire tribe was no simple task. They had to decide what to take and what to leave behind, gather supplies, and exchange possessions for things they would actually need.
White Stone Island was, after all, an island whose economy revolved around fishing, completely unlike the green plains where they currently lived.
Anser had no obligation to support them indefinitely. If they wanted to become self-sufficient, they would have to adapt to that way of life, which meant preparing the necessary tools and stockpiling essential supplies in advance.
'Once Stoll gets back, I'll take care of it. That way Makaria can stop worrying about it all the time,' he thought.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Footsteps approached and stopped nearby.
At first, Anser paid them no mind. This was a tavern, and with his high Charisma, people often stared at him.
But when he glanced over from the corner of his eye, he froze.
The man was staring at him with obvious suspicion. His face looked strangely familiar, yet Anser couldn't remember where they had met.
"Can I help you?" Anser looked up at him, puzzled.
The man studied him for a few moments, stepped forward, and dropped into the seat across from him.
"Do you recognize me?"
"No," Anser replied without hesitation.
The man was tall and unremarkable in appearance, but he wore an expensive suit of blue-and-white armor that was as elegant as it was practical. Someone dressed like that had no business eating in an ordinary tavern like this.
Besides, the lunch rush had long since passed, and the third floor was more than half empty. It was obvious he had come specifically for Anser.
The man's expression was anything but friendly.
After taking several deep breaths, he gripped the hilt of his sword with his left hand while pressing his right firmly against the edge of the table, as though he were afraid it might run away.
"You..." he said slowly. "You carry a scent I know."
"Could you speak like a normal person?" Anser frowned slightly.
The man locked eyes with him and enunciated every word.
"A few dozen days ago... I lost a shield."
Anser's heart skipped a beat.
Long-buried memories surfaced—the Deck of Many Things, the portal, the luxurious hall, Euryale's Aegis, and the furious, indistinct figure on the other side.
'Oh no... the real owner has come looking for it!'
Back then, he'd only caught a brief glimpse of the man through the portal, and the distorted image hadn't been clear enough for him to recognize him.
"So it really was you!" The man noticed the change in Anser's expression, shot to his feet, and drew his sword with a sharp shing, his face blazing with anger.
"Do you have any idea what it cost me to find you? And now you've actually delivered yourself right to my doorstep."
The sword point trembled as it leveled at Anser.
Anser was speechless.
Whoever had created that Deck of Many Things card had been completely unhinged.
He had later learned that not every Deck of Many Things worked in such a ridiculous way. The exact effect depended on its creator. Perhaps that particular creator had once been burned by a Wish spell and had decided to inflict the same misery on someone else.
"I do have a legendary shield called Euryale's Aegis," Anser admitted leisurely.
"Hand over the shield, surrender yourself, and come with me to see a magistrate," the man demanded.
Despite his fury, he made no move to attack.
This was Waterdeep. No one dared murder someone in broad daylight, and judging by Anser's appearance, he was clearly a noble as well. The man could only keep restraining himself.
Anser raised his right hand and gently wagged his index finger. A glimmer of platinum light bloomed at its tip.
"Isn't there a misunderstanding here?
I originally obtained a Deck of Many Things card, and when I used it, it gave me this shield. Now you're telling me it belongs to you—but what proof do you have that it's yours?
And let's take a step back. Even if it really was yours before... what does that have to do with me?"
The man's expression froze.
The fury on his face gradually melted away.
His sword slowly lowered, and for a moment, he found himself completely at a loss for words.
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