Dorian felt eyes on him the moment he arrived at the Guild.

It was subtle. A prickling in the back of his mind, easily overlooked if you didn’t know any better. Dorian recognized it as the work of a scrying-glass; this was qi residue. I’m being watched. But by whom?

It was very likely one of the Guild’s higher-ups—perhaps a Grand Elder or a Vice-President. Scrying-glasses were rarities, most often used by Oasis authorities to monitor their territories. Eh. I’ll do what I’ve planned regardless. If the chance arises, maybe I’ll even show off a little. Do some tricks for them. The surveillance didn’t bother him. By now, he was used to prying eyes trailing him wherever he went in this city.

He was stopped at the entrance by a surly-looking guard. “Halt! This Guild does not admit Outsiders!”

“I’m an Artificer, actually,” said Dorian, putting on his most reassuring smile. He pulled out his Tier-2 badge. The guard didn’t so much as glance at it.

“Ha! Right. And I’m the Oasis Lady.”

Then the other guard pulled him aside, muttering something.

Dorian caught a few flecks of the conversation. “—you sure? Really?”

Some more back-and-forth. The two men exchanged glances.

“—Martial Elder Kal—“

“—can’t be—“

“Must we let him in?”

Finally the surly guard returned, looking even surlier. “You may enter. But I don’t want any trouble from you, you hear?”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” I have a godsdamned Artificer’s badge, and I’m still being brow-beaten by the door guards? Goodness me.

Lin wasn’t at the Guild, as it turned out. Neither was Kal. All the Guild bigwigs had gone off to some Zhang family ball—so said receptionist Tao, looking none-too-happy that Dorian had showed up again. The Guild was mostly deserted. A handful of Artificers and servants shuffled to and fro, but that was that. A few eyes trailed him—bitter, narrowed eyes. He caught an Artificer glaring at him, but the man quickly scurried off. Angry mutters sputtered up around the lobby.

Dorian was amused by it all. My reputation precedes me, apparently.

Martial Elder Kal had given his project priority status, a fact receptionist Tao also looked none-too-happy about. The receptionist gave him a beady-eyed squint. “The Vordor which flies highest falls farthest, as they say…” he muttered under his breath.

Then Tao took him to a workshop, where Dorian spent a lovely half an hour sweeping through each of the Artificer Volumes on the shelf—Volumes 5 through 8, in order—imbibing, memorizing, and recycling the contents in his mind. It feels like cheating, applying my comprehension to such trivialities. All the knowledge he’d browsed today amounted to a drop of water in his sea of knowledge. Still, by the time he closed the last Volume, he had a higher mastery over Artificing than all but a handful in the Guild. He breathed out, smiling, feeling the weight of his new skills in his mind.

Maybe the next time I visit, I’ll clear a few more Artificer Tiers. Today was set aside for another task—finalizing the designs of his big moneymaker, the Wizard’s Sticks. His futures in Artificing and Alchemy were hinged on this. It was imperative he got it right.

All the while he still felt that scrying-glass gaze on him. Someone’s very interested in me, clearly…

He devoted the next few splendid hours to tinkering with the blueprints to the Stick. It was a nicely productive afternoon. He carved out a few sample Wizard’s Sticks before he settled on a good design, then clanged out a dozen-odd runes.

No angry uncles or jealous Young Masters or clingy heirs to deal with. He operated in quiet efficiency, getting his work done with little fuss. There was only that scrying-glass gaze watching over him, but he didn’t mind it a whit. All in all, it was a relaxing, pleasant time. Ahh…I could get used to this.

By the end of his session, he’d finished carving a sizable stock of his newfangled Wizard’s Sticks, as well as an assortment of spell-runes. He’d fitted them to sticks and had a pleasant time testing them out. Have a little showcase, mysterious overseer! He made spells which sent gusts of jagged wind scything through the air, spells which bloomed bonfires at a command, spells which gushed freshwater from the tip of the staff, spells which lightened the body, spells which made the whole of the Wizard’s Stick glow like a pillar of sunlight… he licked his lips. The intensity of the qi-residue heightened in the back of his mind. Now he’d really gotten their attention, it seemed.

The use-cases for these spells were legion. Which meant his potential customer-base was nearly everyone in the Oasis. He was salivating just thinking about it.

Dorian had even gotten a basic bombardment spell to work; he’d set up an impromptu firing range of stone chairs and blasted them to scorched slabs. He suspected the Azcan military would be one of his most trusty clients. Again he felt the Scrying-glass trained on him intensely, and he grinned.

Once all was tested, done, and dandy, he strolled back to the receptionist. Dorian thought about giving a little good-bye wave to the air—a farewell to his scrying-glass observer. I’m off. Show’s done, my mysterious friend. Shoo!

As it turned out, he was wrong. The show was very much just starting.

The first indication of the coming trouble was the spurts of bitter muttering which trailed him as he strode down the hall. As he passed by, a servant squinted at him; an Artificer wrinkled his nose at him. Another Artificer, a runt of a man with long wisps of gray hair, pointed a trembling finger at the pin on Dorian’s chest.

“Stop there!” squealed the man. “That is our badge, savage! Earned through years of grueling work! It’s not for the likes of you!”

He hobbled up to Dorian, trying to affect a menacing look, but his head only went up to Dorian’s chest. It was rather hard to take the man seriously. “How dare you bear it on your chest! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Take it off, take it off! Off, I said!”

The wizened man made a feeble, flailing grab for it; Dorian laughed aloud at the attempt. It took Dorian the barest effort to shove the man off. The man fell on his ass with a strangled cry.

“Where are your manners, old man?” tutted Dorian as strolled by. “Next time ask nicely, and I might consider it.”

It seemed wherever he went in these halls, he was embroiled in simmering resentment. He took it all in stride. He was abrasive. He broke things. He offended others. It was all the necessary byproduct of a rapid rise in status. He didn’t read too much into it.

What he didn’t expect was the restless crowd which awaited him in the lobby. A few servants stood at the crowd’s edge, but the main body was composed of men and women in Artificer’s robes. Most had Tier-1 badges pinned to their chests, but a few had the embossed silver badges of the Tier-2 Artificers. They numbered a little over two dozen. Oh, my.

As soon as Dorian stepped into the lobby, there was a rush of sharp voices.

“There he is!”

“The savage the Martial Elder let in? Where?”

“What was the Elder thinking, sullying the Guild’s good name like this?!”

“It’s true, it’s true—that dirty creature wears our Tier-2 badge!”

“Urk! What a disgrace…”

Soon all of them were frowning at him with everything from mild disgust to righteous indignation. Folded arms and scowls a-plenty. A few radiated naked hostility.

Really, now? You’ve all come out just for me? Dorian’s lips twitched. Aww. You shouldn’t have.

At their head was receptionist Tao. His arms were crossed, his face bent in an ugly sneer. It seems my peaceful afternoon is coming to a sordid end…

Ignoring this strange little reception, Dorian he addressed Tao with an easy smile. “The blueprints for the runes and Wizard-sticks are ready and tested. Inform Martial Elder Kal of the matter. Tell him I’ll return shortly. I’d like to begin production as soon as possible.”

Dark murmurs from the crowd. A wave of sneers rippled through them.

“I will relay your message,” drawled receptionist Tao in his shrill squawk. He pushed up on his glasses. “I wish you the best of luck. It must be said—I fear your little fancy may not be taken on by this Guild. Many an upstart Artificer has an idea, but very few make it into production. Even fewer into mass-production. The Guild’s resources are limited and in great demand. They are not given to any old project.”

Mutterings of approval from behind him.

“I appreciate your concern,” said Dorian, “But you’ll soon realize I’m not any old artificer. I suspect the Guild will be quite pleased with my offering.”

At his words, a chorus of heated voices rang out.

“Impudent!”

“How brazen!”

A tall, wrinkly Artificer piped up, a contemptuous frown on his blocky face. “You may not be wise to our ways, savage, but you’ll soon learn! I’ve been a Tier-2 Artificer for three years, and I’ve not had one design approved for production. And you expect the Guild to heed your whims?”

“If you think you’re hot steel now, you’ve got a nasty quenching coming!” crowed an Artificer by his side.

“The brat’s been here one day, and he thinks he’s the reincarnation of Jani Zhang!”

“Makes me want to smash him down a few godsdamned notches…” That last one came from a one-eyed Artificer with gritted teeth and two very beefy forearms.

Admittedly, this sort of reception was two orders of magnitude more intense than what Dorian had expected. He’d thought some side-eye and catty comments would be the end of it. A whole crowd, just for little ol’ him? Really?

This one’s on me. It’s my own silly fault, underestimating the power of human bigotry. The hoity-toity Artificer’s Guild letting in an Outsider for the first time in its history was bound to cause a bit of a kerfuffle.

It seemed Dorian’s existence in the Guild was not only an insult but also a threat to them. He could guess the anxieties rippling through the crowd; they were laid out plainly on the Artificers’ faces. There was a fidgety restlessness to all of them. ‘What if he steals our resources? What if he tarnishes our honor? What if he’s the first of many—what if the Guild is flooded with savages?! Oh, the horror!’ That sort of thing. Very banal stuff. The crowd seemed halfway to descending into a lynch mob. A few of these men were nearly frothing at the mouth.

They wouldn’t actually attack me, would they? Dorian stilled. It would be a most opportune time, with the Martial Elder gone and most of the Guild’s brass missing. And there were more than twenty of them, nearly all of higher cultivation than him. They did seem fairly riled up. A few were Peak Profound… um. Hm. This…could be an issue.

A vein stood out on Receptionist Tao’s temple. A slight sneer formed on his wizened nose. “The hypothetical value of your ‘Stick’ aside, as you can see, your presence is not exactly cherished by most of our guild. Especially not the Elders. Grand Elder Lu spent the evening berating the Martial Elder for letting a savage pass the Artificer test.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Fat drops of spittle flew from Tao’s mouth as he prattled on. “Do you truly believe a creature of your bearing belongs in a Guild of this caliber? Is the Honorable Guild of Artificers a joke to you?”

A bushy-bearded Tier-2 Artificer snarled at him. “If you were sorry, boy, you’d renounce that badge on the spot! It took me twelve long years to earn it, I’ll have you know! You dare lay claim to it after a mere afternoon?!”

Dorian sighed. Must I keep enduring these banal idiots? He supposed fighting wasn’t a serious option. Twenty-on-one was pretty long odds, even for him. Plus, whether I like it or not, I miiiiiight need these people to not despise me. And not just so they don’t beat me up. They are, after all, the ones who will be producing my Sticks for me…

“Is there truly a need for this animosity?” Dorian asked dryly. “I hold no ill will toward any of you. I’m a Guild member, just as you are.”

Tao laughed, which sounded like the squeak of a poorly-oiled hinge. “Please. I’ve served this Guild faithfully for a decade, boy!” With all these disgruntled Artificers behind him, he had the confidence to bluster twice as loud. “You’ve blundered in here for less than a day. You think you’re better than me simply because you’ve tricked the Martial Elder into passing you? Comedy! Comedy, I say!”

He pointed a severe finger at Dorian.

“You may dress like one of us. You may wear the Guild’s badge. But you will never be one of us!”

“Hear, hear!”

“Exactly right!”

“Fuck off! Renounce that badge! Crawl back to whichever wyrm-hive spawned you!”

Yes, yes. Dorian snorted. ’Go back to where you came from!’ It’s always the same five lines spewed over and over.

A burly Tier-1 Artificer pounded his fists together as he glared. “You’ll leave this Guild and never return, if you know what’s good for you.”

Yet another tried-and-true line. Though I suppose it's hard to be original when you're mad and frightened.

“Go roll in the mud, you dirt-skinned wyrm!”

Oh, my. That one was particularly sad.

It was plain that Dorian was dealing with not only an angry mob, but also a very uncreative angry mob, which was his least favorite sort of angry mob. Dorian wasn’t all that opposed to being beaten up. Heavens knew he’d taken his share of lickings before, sometimes to the death. But the most irritating beatings came from these trite types. All they’d do was punch punch punch splatter dead. Very boring. The creative bigots, on the other hand, broke out the tar and feathers or found imaginative ways to shove very hot objects into very small holes. That, at least, was an interesting way to go out.

So Dorian knew then he couldn’t allow himself to be taken—not when the prospect of such a dull demise loomed before him. He doubted he could run very far, either—not when he was nearly surrounded already.

He supposed he’d have to talk his way out of this mess.

Dorian cocked his head. Curiously, the qi-residue had also gotten to its most intense; he suspected there was now more than one gaze trained on him through the scrying-glass.

Oh, look. It’s the adult supervision again. Somehow he doubted this was the cavalry arriving, so to speak. There was no Grand Elder coming to burst through the double doors, screaming, “Unhand him, you fiends!” He got the feeling whoever was watching him was content to leave him to his fate. He was alone.

What he did next would not only determine whether he left here with all his limbs intact. It’d also determine the impression he made on this mysterious Guild higher-up.

Handle this well, and it might go a long way to allaying his apparent unpopularity with the Guild—both its members and its leaders. If whoever was monitoring him was sufficiently impressed, who knew? His Wizard-Sticks might be fast-tracked to production.

Handle this poorly, and his body and reputation would both take quite the beating.

My task is the small matter of convincing a crowd of frothing bigots on the verge of assaulting me to not only not do that, but also to reverse course entirely, accept me, and support my cause…

When he first arrived today, Dorian figured he’d do some tricks to impress this mysterious Guild higher-up.

As he surveyed the sea of angry, snarling faces, he realized this would need to be quite the trick indeed.