Officially licensed, chartered, and wearing a badge on his belt – Tyr left the central hall. The ground floor of the tallest building was dedicated to third party government administrators and bureaucrats. Something about 'checks and balances to ensure liberty and justice'. Seemed like a load of bullshit to Tyr, but it wasn't really his business how they ran things. The badge itself was similar to Daito's, but with one one star instead of five. And silver, instead of platinum. Only a slight difference in the shade, but the shape was different as well to separate the two.

Tyr was surprised to learn that it had a variety of magical functions as well. It was strange, such a bizarre contradiction. Amistad was the 'capital of magic', but Lernin had said it best in one of their few conversations. Something about arrogance and stagnation. Their contracts were enchanted, but mostly only to prevent destruction or forgery. They'd bond to any communication class artifact, tracking its completion, but here... Everywhere was innovation. The great gift of capitalism. The badges could actively track, display, and save bounties. When mana was fed into them, it had over two dozen functions and apparently the higher ranked artifacts would contain even more.

Not every adventurer was a mage, and this artifact solved some of the issues. The vast majority of adventurers were not capable of advanced magic at all. Badges could summon a flare when calling for assistance, or bind with various magical paraphernalia that could be used to map the landscape or track individual targets or locations via planted beacons. Things Tyr didn't expect he'd need so he stopped toying with it. All of those buttons made his head hurt.

Magic was a privilege and source of individual pride of Amistad, but here it was a service. The mindset of mages was so different and they were constantly trying to improve. Notably, collaboration and the concept of 'sharing' discovery was encouraged here. Granted, it was for profit, but money was a motivator, as valid as any. For them, it was about the little things, whereas Amistad's mages had grown old, fat, and complacent.

Not in the literal sense, mages tended to be scrawny, but the point was very real. Those with the talent to innovate considered their services too transcendent to waste time creating mass production utility items. Granted, that's exactly what runesmiths were supposed to do. Maybe it was a lack of creativity? Tyr didn't know. The shops here had items of diverse and unique purposes, some of which you could find in Amistad but their selection was far larger.

Apparently, the republic had a trade embargo in effect so that their unique innovations would not make it elsewhere. It seemed wise. For all their liberty, any nation was bound to view that as an advantage, a national power of sorts.

Bertrand was the mans name. The man that had performed his 'rating ceremony'. Typically, he had said, it was overseen by a sponsor and a with a lot more pomp – but Daito and the other Hunter's were not keen on ceremony. That worked well enough for him. The only problem was, he had no idea where he was going. He was expected to know so many things that he had never been informed of, and all of the bounties were 'beyond the gate and into the astral space'.

“Badge?” Another attendant addressed him. This time, it was a guard, with a relatively impressive mana signature only slightly inferior to Tyr's own. An older man with a shiny bald head and a phenomenally sense salt and pepper mustache. Watching the comings and goings at the gate in a checkpoint booth must've been a boring job, odd for a real mage to do something so mundane. Tyr offered his badge and waited as the man passed it under a device labeled in bold common as the 'badge reader' – which seemed rather redundant, all considered.

“Sorry, kid. Can't let you past the gate without a team of five. Those are the rules.”

“Really?” Tyr asked, tilting his head. Again... “Why is that?”

“Silver ranks can fly solo if they'd like, but not probationary adventurers. I've heard it all before. You're some big shot out in wherever the hell you came from. Rules are rules, savvy?”

“You're Harani?” Tyr observed, latching on to the opportunity. He had no interest in forming a team, not in the slightest – and would prefer not to delay his inspection of this 'astral space' that formed the singular purpose for the entire city. The man did have the light complexion, green eyes, and black hair of a Harani man, but it was strange to find one of his countrymen so far from home. Strange, but possibly lucky, that kind of contrivance was a little too much but it happened and he'd make use of it. “Where from?”

“Arendal. Made my way around a bit after the war with Sinea. Retired, got bored and didn't want to coop up in the colleges, came here from Kriegstad after the Brotherhood started invading all of their neighbors. You?”

“The capital.” Tyr replied. “You're a legion man, as in the 2nd legion?”

“Born and bred. Father was, too. First in, last out and all that. See?” The man hiked his sleeve up to reveal the crescent sigil of the moon legion black and worn with age on the underside of his forearm. “How's home?”

“It's 'home'. I guess. You wouldn't happen to know a Captain Rorik, would you?” Tyr leaned forward, conspiratorially. The guards lips split with booming laughter, slamming his hand against the desk of the booth he worked at.

“Sure do! I was in the third battalion, never served under him, but few in the legions wouldn't know Red Rorik. A good man. A hard man, but fair. I still remember that day when we stormed the Sinean capital. Bathed in blood, he was, with the sun come down just enough to make him look like like some creature. Standing there next to the primus. Cursed the day I was assigned to auxiliary duty in the back with the siege, a sight I'll never forget though, promise you that. How do you know old Rorik?”

“I...” Tyr could claim he was Rorik's son. Maybe pass for it, too. The man was clearly positive in his consideration of the old captain. Red Rorik, though, what a nickname that was – but Tyr had no interest in besmirching him. Rorik had no wife at least during the period he would've needed to based on Tyr's age, and while siring a bastard was no incredible shame, it had social implications. For a mayor or headman, that could see him lose his position if one noble or another used it as an excuse to leverage something on him. “We are friends, I'd say. Fought together a few times, though I'm no man of the legions. I stayed in Riverwood for a time, if you know of it.”

“Alright.” His name tag identified him as Forrest. Leaning forward to speak to Tyr in a conspiratorial whisper. “We're not supposed to do this, but it's not technically against the rules. Got fifty Lyran's on you? Credits, crowns, sovereigns, doesn't matter.”

“Sadly, I do not.” Tyr looked downcast, before recovering. Slipping back into 'the game' was a habit of his, but he'd give what he got from now on. This man had been nothing but sincere, and he'd do the same. “I've got eighteen credits and four sovereigns to my name. That's all. As far as bribes go, though, that's quite the sum. Are you serious?”

“It's not a bribe, you dolt.” A flicker of offense appeared on his face but he recovered well enough. “It's a deposit for the equipment you need when you're inside. You'll see. Typically the guilds cover it, and it's all insured in any case. Just enough to establish value to the artifacts lest someone with more greed than sense tries to make off with them. Let's say, though, that you hand over ten sovereigns. That's about twenty two Lyran's what with the conversion rate, plus fees. What say you hand them over in good faith, and when you return I just happen to note that I made an honest clerical error, and you forget the tenth. That's a bribe. Savvy?”

“Savvy.” Tyr replied, accepting his gate pass and shaking the mans hand in agreement. He could live a coin shorter, and it was a fair bribe. Bribes were risk and reward. Accepting a 'tip' was just part of the job for guardsmen like this. Men who worked long shifts and were always on call for an indeterminate period of time. He couldn't blame him for it. Corruption came from the top, not the bottom. This was was an honest old man trying to live.

This 'gate' wasn't your typical gate at all. It was a tunnel, perfectly straight with alcoves and kill boxes set into the side of it every ten meters or so. Riddled with murder holes and a score of portcullis down the length of it, not unlike Amistad's, just far more impressive. An incredibly potent edifice of death clearly designed to make passing through it a sentence on anyone foolish enough to try. Near a hundred automata golems lay in these alcoves, deactivated for now and waiting on an animist to... Well, animate them.

The space beyond the wall obscured the significance of the structure from external observation. A monolithic structure with thousands of guardsmen present and ready at all times. Something that could throw back an army of hundreds of thousands if it had come to it. Like a miniature Krieg if the pictures were a good representation.

The question, was why? What kind of threat could justify such a serious defense? All of it was human made, unlike the city. This fortress alone was similar to the size of the imperial palace, which he knew was larger than the Talon. Every so often he'd feel a pulsing of mana in the walls, live wards and explosive runes that could bring instant death to anything that triggered them. Thankfully, he didn't, but he still wondered.

“Badge?” He was checked in at a second, and a third, and then a fourth checkpoint. Thankfully, he'd been given approval by Forrest – and they didn't care to question it. As long as the deposit was marked as paid, he was clear to enter, but redundancies were what they were. Clearly, they took this all very seriously. It had been a slow day, from the outside looking in. He'd passed just in time to avoid the flights of gryphon riders who patrolled the outer wall, among other creatures friendly to mankind. Otherwise he'd have realized their care of this place ran even deeper.

Only at the last checkpoint did he begin to understand just a bit. “Badge? Silver rank... Listen, kid, I'm not one to go around saving lives – but are you sure you want to fly solo? Things have been wild in there lately, not like it used to be.” The guard sighed. Clearly overworked and visibly exhausted. Much younger than Forrest. A lesser rank of private, clearly expendable, being so close to the final aperture in a quarter mile long tunnel made for death. “Just changed, too. Jungle terrain. Adventurers keep coming out bloody or worse, my advice is to get a team, but its your life.”

Nobody had ever accused Tyr of being smart, perceptive, or overly concerned with his own safety – so he refused all attempts to dissuade him from entering. The guard, on his part, had bigger fish to fry. Every so often you'd get a noble of some sort with the coin to pass the deterrent at the first checkpoint and come out in a bag.

Or not at all.