I Have a Military Shop Tab in Fantasy World-Chapter 88: Job Offer?

Three days after his audience with the royal family, Inigo found himself once more walking the red-carpeted halls of the Royal Citadel. This time, he wore his usual attire—his armor lightly polished, pistols holstered, and the minigun strapped to a reinforced sling across his back. He wasn’t here for a ceremony. This was business.

Lyra walked beside him, bow in hand, dressed in her travel leathers. A faint glint of curiosity shone in her eyes.

"You really think they’re going to send us out again this soon?" she asked.

"I don’t think they ever stop sending people out," Inigo replied. "I just didn’t think we’d be the ones they’d pick next."

"Don’t sell yourself short. You’re practically a national treasure now."

He gave a wry smile. "A noisy one."

The pair stopped at the great doors leading into the audience chamber. Two palace knights opened them without a word, and the familiar warmth of sunlight pouring through stained glass greeted them.

This time, the court was much smaller. No nobles lined the walls. No formal choir or chimes echoed. It was only the king, seated on his throne, the queen beside him, and Princess Aeralyn standing at attention near the edge of the dais.

Guildmaster Thorne was already present, arms folded, his expression grim.

"Inigo Velasquez," King Eldrath III said, rising. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

Inigo bowed lightly. "Of course, Your Majesty."

"You may dispense with ceremony. We’ve already honored you. Now we ask something of you."

Inigo’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

The king nodded to a court mage, who stepped forward and conjured a large illusion in the center of the room. It shimmered, then stabilized into a map—detailed and marked with animated flags, storm clouds, and shadowy tendrils spreading like a plague across one quadrant.

"This," the king said, "is the Western Rift. You may have heard of it. You may not. Few go near it willingly. But we now have reason to believe the Demon King has returned—and is gathering his forces within."

Inigo’s eyes narrowed. Lyra’s face tensed.

"The same Demon King from the legends?" Inigo asked.

"He was never truly gone," the queen said softly. "Only dormant. The last Demon King’s action a century ago, he was only the rift, staying for whatever reason, possibly gathering so much force to conquer our realm."

"And now," the king added, "we believed essence is whole again that the demon king will start attacking. The Rift pulses with dark magic. We’ve lost two scouting parties. The third barely escaped. Their captain brought back a warning etched in blood: He Awakens."

The illusion shifted, showing the vague outline of a dark fortress hidden amid chasms and cursed lands.

"The Demon King commands four generals," the king continued. "You’ve already encountered one—the Lady of Illusion."

Inigo clenched his jaw. He hadn’t forgotten that encounter. Her magic had warped the battlefield. It had taken every ounce of focus and firepower to break through her constructs.

"She is only one of the Four Lords," the king went on. "The others are worse. And if they complete whatever ritual they are enacting in the Rift, not even Elandra’s walls will be enough."

"So what’s the plan?" Inigo asked. "I assume I’m not just here for a lecture."

"No. We’re asking you to go," the king said simply. "To lead a strike team into the Rift. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Soon. As soon as you’re prepared."

Inigo’s breath caught.

"You’re serious?"

"Deadly," Thorne said. "We don’t need a hero’s ballad. We need the man who stood his ground against a Demon Vanguard with a weapon no one understood."

"We will fund everything," the queen added. "Whatever gear you need—artifacts, enchantments, weapons, supplies—we will sponsor it. You may choose your team. Three others besides yourself."

Lyra stepped forward without hesitation. "I go where he goes."

The king nodded. "We expected as much. That leaves two more."

Inigo exhaled. He looked down, thinking. "I’ll need a healer. The best one you have. And a tank—someone who can take a hit from a demon without turning into paste."

Princess Aeralyn stepped forward now. "Then I have recommendations."

She waved her hand, and a court scribe brought forward two folders.

"The healer," she began, "is Arienne of Solmere. A prodigy. Trained by the High Priests of the Twin Moons, blessed with Light affinity. She healed a battalion’s worth of soldiers during the Battle of Irondeep. She’s not cheap, and she doesn’t like politics, but she’s powerful—and loyal."

"And the tank?" Inigo asked.

Thorne spoke this time. "That’d be Korrik the Bastion. Dwarf-blood, enchanted armor fused to his body, carries a shield the size of a cart door. Fought dragons back in the northern steppes. Drinks like a whale, but he doesn’t fall."

Inigo chuckled. "Sounds like a party."

Princess Aeralyn smiled. "We will send word to both. They will be at your command."

"And my weapons?" he asked.

"The royal forgemaster is already working on a special armor that will grant you and your party essential buffs and enhancements," said the queen. "But if you need improvements and access to our state-of-the-art magic arts types, we will supply it. Say the word."

Inigo was silent for a moment. Then, finally, he nodded.

"Then I accept."

The king let out a long breath.

"You have our blessing. And our hopes. The fate of not just Elandra, but the realm itself, may rest on this mission."

Inigo looked at the illusion again. The dark fortress. The twisted Rift.

He felt that old thrill again. The kind only a gamer-turned-adventurer would recognize.

An endgame mission.

A real one.

"We’ll begin preparations immediately," he said.

Later that afternoon, Inigo and Lyra walked through the Guild District, past market stalls and training grounds. The city buzzed with renewed purpose.

"You good?" Lyra asked.

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just... it’s happening fast. A month ago I was still practicing dash moves and awkwardly eating burgers. Now they want me to kill the Demon King."

"You’ve got the power. And the mindset. And the team."

"I’m not worried about the fight," he said. "I’m worried about the cost."

Lyra didn’t reply for a moment. Then she placed a hand on his shoulder.

"We face it together."

He smiled. "That’s the plan."

They turned a corner just as a courier ran up with a scroll bearing the royal seal.

"For Inigo Velasquez!" the boy cried.

Inigo took it and broke the seal. Inside were names, dates, and a departure notice:

"Team gathering at Dawnwatch Barracks, five days from now. Supplies to be delivered to the Guild. Rift portal opens on the seventh day. Good luck."

He rolled the scroll and tucked it into his coat.

"Five days," he muttered. "Better get ready."

***

The next morning, the first rays of sunlight hadn’t yet kissed the cobblestones of Elandra when Inigo arrived at the forge district. He wasn’t alone. Guildmaster Thorne had arranged a private audience with the royal forgemaster, a stoic dwarf named Brannick Steelmantle, whose beard was braided with silver wire and who wore goggles that constantly fogged from the heat of molten steel.

"You’re the gunman," Brannick grunted, barely looking up from his workbench. "The one who makes thunder with your hands."

"Something like that," Inigo said, setting his Desert Eagle on the worktable.

Brannick’s eyes finally met his. He picked up the firearm with surprising delicacy for someone who looked like he could bench-press a wyvern. He turned it over, inspecting every groove, every imperfection, every fine scratch from battles already fought.

"This ain’t magic," the dwarf muttered. "But it hums like it’s alive. Not enchanted, but... something more. Something old. Ancient in principle. Modern in design."

Inigo raised an eyebrow. "You say that like it’s a good thing."

"It is. Means I can work with it. Improve it. The king said spare no expense. I’ll rework the plating with dragonsteel, reinforce the barrel to handle higher enchantment loads. And I’ll craft you a second one to match it."

"No need, and since you can do that, I’ll have you do my other weapons too. What about armor?" Inigo asked.

Brannick nodded toward a side rack where partial sets of shimmering gear were being assembled—one for Lyra, clearly tailored for mobility and archery; another with runic shoulder guards and wide bracers likely intended for their future tank, Korrik. And then there was his set—sleek, modular plating with smooth contours that shimmered faintly with enchantments still being etched into the steel.

"It’ll amplify your agility, reload speed, and elemental resistance," Brannick said. "You’ll be able to blink-dash without draining your stamina like before. I even made room on the back for that oversized barrel of yours."

"You’re a miracle worker," Inigo muttered, genuinely impressed.

"No, I’m just good at what I do," the dwarf huffed. "Now get out. I’ve got work to do before you throw yourself into a death trap."

Outside the forge, the city had begun to stir. Merchants rolled out awnings, children chased each other between stalls, and the blacksmiths’ rhythmic hammering filled the air like a heartbeat. Inigo exhaled and made his way toward the adventurer’s guild, where a separate wing had been cleared for training.

By midday, he and Lyra had tested two dozen types of arrows—explosive tips, elemental shots, even ones enchanted to seek out heat signatures. He’d practiced dash maneuvers in tight combat drills, learning to weave between magic traps while dual-wielding pistols.

"We’re sharper than ever," Lyra said, not even winded.

"But the Rift is a different beast," Inigo replied. "I don’t know what we’ll find there."

"You never do. That’s why we bring allies. That’s why we prepare."

Later that evening, they returned to the Guild’s upper lounge. A map of the continent stretched across the table before them, pinned at various points with markers—scouting reports, magical surges, even rumored movements of the Demon King’s generals.

Arienne of Solmere had already arrived, sitting cross-legged with a holy staff resting beside her. Her white robes glowed faintly in the dim candlelight, and her expression was calm, almost meditative. She raised a hand in greeting, but said nothing—content to observe for now.

Korrik showed up next, stomping into the room like a living avalanche. His armor clanked with every step, the shield strapped to his back taller than most people. He eyed Inigo up and down, then gave a grunt of approval.

"So you’re the loudmouth," Korrik said.

"You’ll hear it soon enough," Inigo replied, smirking.

By nightfall, the team was assembled. The Rift loomed on the horizon—not just in maps, but in conversation, in breath, in the unspoken tension that crackled between them.

As they sat around a table sharing one last meal before full preparations began, Inigo looked at the three people around him. A healer who could resurrect the nearly dead. A tank who had faced dragons. A deadly archer who knew him better than anyone. And himself—a man from another world, now entrusted with saving this one.

"Here’s to not dying," Korrik said, raising his mug.

Lyra rolled her eyes. "Great toast, truly inspiring."

But Inigo chuckled. Then he raised his own.

"No, he’s right," he said. "Here’s to surviving. And making sure the Demon King doesn’t."

They clinked their cups together. The fire crackled. Outside, the wind howled softly, as if whispering of battles to come.

And so the countdown to the Rift began.

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