Hello, is this a letter addressed to Demon Fortress?

Four hours later.

Night falls.

The hall of the Adventurers' Guild in Copper Gate City was brightly lit and bustling with activity.

A huge crystal chandelier hangs beneath the dome, illuminating every corner as bright as day.

The hall was packed with people.

Adventurers from various city-states gathered here, carrying a wide variety of equipment.

Some wore heavy plate armor, some wore tattered cloaks, some had staffs at their waists, and some carried giant swords as tall as a person on their backs.

The badge of the golden adventurer gleamed on his chest.

An aura of extraordinary power rose and fell among the crowd.

The corners that used to be the favorite gathering spots for novice and trainee adventurers are now completely occupied by extraordinary adventurers from outside the area.

The trainees could only huddle at the edge, standing on tiptoe to look around; there wasn't even a place to sit.

The air was filled with the smells of beer, sweat, and barbecue.

Some were arguing, some were boasting, some were laughing heartily with wine glasses in hand, and some were slamming their fists on the table, their faces flushed red.

The liveliest corner was occupied by the adventurers who had already been eliminated in the qualifiers.

A burly man with a full beard stood on a stool, raising his wine glass high, his voice so loud that it could be heard throughout half the hall.

"Let me tell you, it's not that I can't beat them, it's that I never even wanted to win!"

He took a swig of wine and wiped his mouth.

"You guys don't know about the dirty work of the transport association, do you? More than ninety transport teams died last year, a complete wipeout! They've been keeping this kind of news a secret, but I found out a long time ago!"

"I have a wife and children, it's not worth risking my life for a spot on the transport team! That's why I threw the qualifiers and deliberately lost!"

Some people around started to make a fuss, while others laughed.

In a corner, a one-eyed swordsman silently drank his wine, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the cup tightly.

He did not speak or participate in any argument.

He lost the qualifying round.

We really lost.

Despite giving it my all, I still lost.

They lost their only chance in the past two years to get close to those noble gentlemen.

Someone patted the bearded man on the shoulder and lowered their voice.

"Alright, alright, keep your voice down. If the guild members hear you, they might lock you in the dungeon and beat you to death."

The bearded man was taken aback, sobering up considerably. He quickly jumped off the stool and awkwardly sat back down.

The ladies-in-waiting carried trays and darted like fish among the crowded adventurers, offering them cups of ale and plates of food.

Fine beads of sweat glistened on their foreheads, but their smiles never faded.

In the very center of the hall, around the largest round table, a group of people were gathered.

They are arguing fiercely.

On the table lay a list of candidates recently published by the Transportation Association, densely filled with the names of the teams and their members.

"Bet on the Thunder! The Thunder are sure to win!"

"Bullshit! The Thunder have participated in four drafts and lost every single one. Betting on them is just throwing money away!"

"What do you know? The Thunder got a new captain this year, and I heard he's a tough guy."

"A ruthless person? What good is a ruthless person! Is he a legend?"

A man with a scar on his face slammed his hand on the table and stood up.

He was a contestant who had participated in the preliminary rounds, and he had the loudest voice.

"Let me tell you, the real hope lies with those Iron Fist Transport teams who crushed their opponents in the qualifiers. Three wins out of three, without even a single injury!"

A tall, thin man on the other side immediately retorted.

"Iron Fist? What kind of opponents did they fight? A bunch of rookies just to fill a squad! Let them face Blackthorn! Blackthorn's captain took on five opponents by himself!"

"Blackthorn is nothing! Their logistics are a complete mess; they wouldn't last three days even if they entered the forbidden area!"

"Who are you saying won't last three days?"

The two argued more and more fiercely, spitting as they spoke, and banging their fists on the table.

The adventurers around them who hadn't participated in the selection listened with exceptional attention.

Quietly prick up your ears and occasionally jot down a few notes in your little notebook.

Before each transport team selection competition, an official nobleman would host a betting event that was considered a grand event in the entire Akara.

It's like gambling; everyone's betting on which team will ultimately become the real transport team.

If you bet right, you'll become rich overnight, going from a penniless wretch to a tycoon.

If you bet on the wrong thing, you'll lose everything, down to nothing.

For these adventurers who live on the edge, this is a gamble that is even more thrilling than the selection process itself.

Therefore, every word and every analysis could potentially affect the money in their pockets.

Especially these powerful adventurers who participated in the qualifiers.

While the scarred man and the tall, thin man were arguing fiercely, an elderly man who hadn't spoken until now slowly began to talk from the corner.

"Your focus shouldn't be solely on those few peasants who won the qualifiers."

He picked up his glass and took a sip.

"The real hot spots are those noble lords from Dawn City."

"Most of the people who make it into the transport team each year are these guys who don't have to participate in the qualifiers."

"They have resources, connections, the best equipment, and they even got the roadmap three months ahead of others."

The hall fell silent for a moment.

Many people nodded thoughtfully.

But soon, a young man stood up, looking unconvinced.

"You're right, everyone knows the noble lords have a better chance of winning."

"But look at the odds. Those noble lords are too rich. Everyone is betting on themselves, so the odds are pitifully low."

"If you bet a hundred gold coins, you'll only earn two copper coins if you win."

He pointed to the list of peasant teams.

"But these people are different."

"They won, the odds were 200 to 1, 500 to 1, or even 1,000 to 1."

"If you bet on one, you'll never have to work again for the rest of your life."

Those around him clicked their tongues in amazement.

The argument started again, and it got even more heated.

The list on the table was being flipped through repeatedly, with everyone arguing heatedly about their favorite team.

A bald, middle-aged man stood up.

"A bunch of ignorant fools."

His voice wasn't loud, but the whole round table fell silent.

Everyone was looking at him.

The bald man picked up his glass, took a slow sip, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and glanced at every face in the room with undisguised contempt.

"What's the point of arguing here about Iron Fist or Blackthorn, about who's a better fighter or who has better teamwork?"

He slammed his glass down on the table with a dull thud.

"The only thing that truly determines whether they can return alive from the selection trials is the legendary team leader!"

Someone tried to interrupt, but he glared at them and shut them up.

"The five teams that won the qualifiers: Thunder, Iron Fist, Blackthorn, Blood Wolves, Graywood..."

"Thunder was chosen by a legendary warrior, as were Ironfist and Blackthorn. All three teams were picked by legendary warriors."

He snorted, his disdain growing even stronger.

"Warriors? What can warriors do in this forbidden area? If you encounter an epic demon, can you tank it or fight it? Use your brains!"

He held up two fingers and pointed them in the air.

"Blood Wolf has been chosen by a legendary mage. Graywood has been chosen by a legendary ranger."

His voice was lowered by half a octave, yet it carried more weight.

"Mage, Ranger, Scout, Assassin—these are the most suitable classes for the wasteland. They can run, hide, detect danger in advance, and even if they can't win a fight, they can still escape."

"warrior?"

He scoffed.

"Warriors are like tin cans in forbidden territory; they run slowly, are big targets, and are the first to die when they encounter demons."

He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and glanced at the man with the scar on his face and the tall, thin man, then at the onlookers who were taking notes diligently.

"You guys don't even understand this basic principle, yet you still want to make a killing from this gambling game?"

He picked up his glass, swirled the amber liquid inside, and a sarcastic smile curled at the corner of his lips.

"I heard that the commission to hunt down the vagrant messengers has appeared; one hundred gold coins for each woman captured."

He spat.

"You guys should just go with that bunch of good-for-nothings to complete that commission; at least you can earn some money..."

Before he could finish speaking, he suddenly felt a chill rise from his back.

The chill came suddenly, as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water over his head, or as if something extremely dangerous was watching him from the darkness.

He turned around abruptly.

Behind him were only noisy adventurers, jostling each other, holding wine glasses, and banging on the table.

There was nothing there.

He shivered, rubbed his neck, thinking it was from drinking too much, and turned back.

In a corner of the hall, display boards were covered with adventure commission forms.

A figure with black hair stood in front of the display board.

He was wearing a black robe, and his face was mostly obscured by the shadow of the hood, making it impossible to see his expression.

His gaze did not fall on the high-level red commissions, nor on the lucrative gold commissions.

Instead, it landed at the very bottom, the very edge, the most inconspicuous corner of the display board.

A silver commission.

The paper was ordinary parchment, slightly yellowed, with some curled edges, as if it had been flipped through by many people and then casually stuffed back in.

The handwriting was neat, yet it exuded a cold, formulaic feel.

[Hunting]

Number: M-23742

Type: Hunting

Level: Silver (Dangerous)

Content: Hunt down all refugees in the refugee district of Copper Gate City who are associated with the Seven Copper Coins Post Office, and count them by the number of heads they deliver.

Reward: 1 gold coin for every three heads.

Access requirements: None

Remarks:

A bunch of damn parasites, running right into my line of fire. Time to vent my anger on them!

A seven-copper-coin post office? Delivering mail to the lowest of the low? Do they even deserve that?

These vagrants think they can enjoy the treatment of nobles with just a few copper coins? They probably don't even know their own surname.

I'll pay to expose all those scumbags who send and receive mail.

Heads exchanged for gold coins, clean and efficient.

Remember, this is a reward from me. Take it and find them all. Make them realize their place, especially that post office owner who used the transport team to commit fraud.

The principal: Harold Rostov, the esteemed heir of the Rostov family.

Total number of people delivered: 1325.

The black-haired man stared coldly at the order form.

His gaze swept over the lines of text, over words like "Seven Copper Coin Post Office," "Untouchables," and "Recognize Your Status," before finally settling on the line of numbers.

Total number of people delivered: 1325.

He said something in a low voice, so soft that only he could hear it.

"I don't recall receiving so many letters."

His gaze slowly moved upwards, landing on the name of the person who made the request.

The esteemed heir of the Rostov family, Harold Rostov.

There was no emotion in his dark eyes, as calm as a stagnant pool.

He reached out, his long, slender fingers pinching the corner of the service form, and gently peeled it off.

The parchment made a soft tearing sound as it was removed from the display board.

He folded the commission form twice, stuffed it into the inside pocket of his robe, and turned to walk towards the door.

Pass through the noisy adventurers.

Nobody noticed him.

After half an hour.

Foundry.

Thorin sat wearily behind his workbench, rubbing his sore eyes.

He mumbled something under his breath, his voice indistinct.

"Damn it... how could anyone choose to die at Lieyang... Sigh, I should have read the contract more carefully. The foundry doesn't have any transport vehicles that can be used with Lieyang."

He picked up the contract on the table, flipped through a couple of pages, and frowned deeply.

"Delivery in two days... let's just use a few Haoyue solders to get by."

He sighed, tossed the contract back onto the table, and leaned back in his chair.

"I wonder if that kid can afford Lieyang's exorbitant final payment."

He closed his eyes, intending to take a nap.

The workshop was quiet, with only the low rumble of the furnace coming from afar.

Just then, a voice suddenly rang out.

"Mr. Thorin."

Thorin suddenly opened his eyes.

"I've paid so much money, not so you could just fob me off."

His voice was soft and his tone was calm, but every word fell clearly into Thorin's ears.

Thorin jumped up from his chair with a start, grabbed a hammer from the workbench, and held it horizontally in front of him.

"Who?!"

His gaze swept in the direction from which the sound came.

There was someone else in the corner of the studio at some point.

Wearing a black robe and a black hood, he almost blended into the shadows.

The face was obscured; only a small section of pale chin could be vaguely seen beneath the hood.

Thorin gripped the hammer handle tightly, his muscles tense.

The man reached out and slowly lifted his hood.

Lin Gui's face was revealed.

Thorin was stunned.

He opened his mouth, the hammer in his hand hovering in mid-air, unsure whether to put it down or not.

"you……"

What are you doing here?

Remembering his earlier mutterings, he awkwardly put the hammer back on the workbench and rubbed his hands together.

"Um... I just said it offhand, just said it offhand..."

Lin Gui neither responded nor seemed inclined to pursue the matter.

He simply took something out from inside his robe and placed it on the worktable.

The metal plate, about the size of a palm, has a dull luster on its surface.

It is engraved with dwarven runes and the symbol of a forging hammer.

Thorin glanced down.

The pupils suddenly contracted.

His breath caught for a moment, and his lips trembled slightly.

The hammer slipped from his hand and slammed to the ground with a dull thud.

He reached out his hand shakily, trying to take the metal plaque, but his fingers hovered in mid-air, hesitant to fall.

"This is?!"

Lin Gui looked at him, his tone indifferent.

"The fortress lord of Shield City gave it to me. He said that I could get some discounts at the dwarven blacksmith's workshop with it."

Thorin looked up at Lin Gui, his eyes filled with complex emotions that left him speechless.

Silent for a long time.

He took a deep breath, bent down to pick up the hammer, and then respectfully bowed to Lin Gui and asked.

"My dwarf friend, what can I do for you?"

Lin Gui looked at him indifferently and said.

"Help me build a car."

The foundry gates slowly closed.

The bolt fell, making a heavy metallic clang.

A moment later, a tremendous roar came from deep within the factory.

The loud clang of a hammer striking metal.

The roar of the furnace's blowers.

The creaking sound of gears turning.

One sound after another echoed through the night sky.

The sound could be heard clearly in residential areas within a ten-mile radius.

The sound didn't stop all night.