After a couple of days buried under parchment and ink, Ludger found himself developing a reluctant respect for Yvar, Aronia, and, gods help him, his father.

He hadn’t thought much of the guild’s paperwork before. Just signatures, ledgers, and the occasional stamped seal. But after spending several nights sorting trade complaints, supply manifests, and half-legible reports from villages that couldn’t tell the difference between a frost lizard and a stray dog, he finally understood why Yvar always looked five years older than he was.

Yvar leaned against the doorway of the guild office, arms crossed, watching Ludger scratch another signature onto a pile of requisition forms. “You know,” he said, tone too casual to be innocent, “I didn’t think you’d last this long. I gave you until the second day before you’d bolt for the training yard.”

Ludger didn’t look up. “I thought about it,” he admitted, sliding another page to the completed stack. “But then I realized if I stopped, you’d just make me start over.”

Yvar grinned. “You’re learning fast. Honestly, I’m impressed. Most people can’t handle this tempo without threatening to burn the office down.”

Aronia passed by the open door, her arms full of medical reports and herb invoices. “He already tried that once,” she muttered without slowing, then added, “If only we could invoice the monsters directly for damages.”

Yvar chuckled, pushing off the wall. “And for the record, don’t tell him I said this, but your father’s not exactly quick with paperwork either. Arslan means well, but he… let’s say he delegates.”

Ludger stopped mid-stroke, blinking once. “You mean he’s slow.”

“Painfully,” Yvar said, leaning closer. “I once timed him. Took him twenty minutes to sign his own name on a tax form. Said he was ‘strategizing.’”

Ludger exhaled through his nose, half amusement, half fatigue. “Good to know incompetence with paperwork is hereditary.”

Yvar smirked. “Welcome to management, Vice Guildmaster. Don’t worry, by the time you’re his age, you’ll hate paper more than war.”

Ludger didn’t answer. He just reached for the next stack and kept writing. The quill scratched against the page like sand under armor, steady and ruthless. Somehow, that rhythm was worse than battle.

By the end of the week, the mountain of paperwork had finally started to shrink. Not vanish, just compress into something survivable. The town’s trade permits were filed, supply routes balanced, and only a handful of merchants still demanded “emergency compensation” for damages they’d caused themselves.

For the first time in days, Ludger’s desk looked less like a siege fort and more like a workspace. He took it as a sign from the gods or maybe just Yvar’s mercy that he could finally breathe again.

So, he used the free hours the only way he knew how: testing limits.

He stepped outside the guild’s courtyard, the night air still damp from an earlier drizzle. His mana circuits were stable now, clean, pulsing evenly through his limbs. The earth beneath his boots thrummed faintly, familiar as a heartbeat.

He’d long mastered how to attune that flow to earth mana: grounding, shaping, hardening. But water… that was different. Softer. Unpredictable. He had the Rain Sorcerer class now, and he’d heard enough of Callen’s notes to understand the theory, water responded to rhythm and flow, not pressure.

So he started small. Ludger crouched, drawing a circle in the dirt with his finger. Mana trickled from his hand, first heavy and rigid, then lighter, rippling as he shifted the attunement. He imagined humidity itself breathing in sync with his pulse, letting droplets condense across his skin.

No brute force. No compression. Just guidance.

A faint shimmer appeared in the air, mist forming, condensing into a trembling bead that hovered above his palm. It wobbled once, then burst into a spray against his face.

He sighed. “Too dense.”

Still, it was progress. The mana had obeyed. Somewhat.

Ludger reset his stance, slowed his breathing, and began again—letting the Overdrive feed the flow instead of forcing it. Earth mana grounded him; water required surrender. He could already feel the subtle difference in texture—the mana less like stone and more like breath.

“Slow,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded. “Don’t fight it.”

For once, he listened to his own advice.

After a few cautious trials, Ludger moved on to the next phase. His mana flow was steady, his control sharp enough that the mana no longer trembled when he focused, progress by his standards.

He drew a long breath and ignited Overdrive, the familiar surge crawling up his arm like molten metal beneath the skin. Mana threaded through his muscles, coiling tight, focusing along the veins until his hand thrummed with power. The air around his fingers wavered faintly, pressure building.

Normally, this was where he’d anchor the energy with earth attunement, turning the force heavy, deliberate, every strike like a hammer swung by the land itself. Or, if he wanted something sharper, more aggressive, he’d shift to fire attunement, sacrificing control for a violent burst, turning each movement into an explosion of kinetic backlash.

But tonight, he wanted to see what water would do. He eased his stance, letting the Overdrive’s glow dim to a steady pulse. The mana in his arm shifted, its vibration softening as he changed the rhythm of his breathing. He pictured not weight or flame, but flow. Movement without resistance.

The sensation changed instantly. The mana didn’t cling to his arm, it moved through it, cool and fluid, syncing to every heartbeat. His limbs felt lighter, smoother, almost too smooth. When he flicked his wrist, the motion carried farther than expected, like his muscles were sliding through air instead of pushing against it.

He tried a light jab at a nearby training dummy. The strike landed with a wet crack, not from raw impact but from the continuity of motion, the mana guiding the force rather than releasing it all at once. Interesting.

Earth made each attack heavier, more final.

Fire made them burst.

Water… made them flow.

He tested again, stepping forward with a fluid strike. The transition from guard to hit was seamless, no pause, no tension. His body just followed the motion, the Overdrive amplifying his speed without breaking rhythm. The energy rippled across his skin, almost serene. Dangerous, too.

“Adaptable,” Ludger murmured, lowering his hand. “But slippery.”

A few days later, Ludger’s progress took a noticeable leap. The rhythm between his mana flow and body control had sharpened, his Overdrive cleaner and more refined with each test.

He focused on experimenting with different levels of mana density, carefully layering Overdrive with his new water attunement. Too dense, and the mana flooded his veins, dragging his movements like sludge. Too thin, and it barely registered. But at a balanced flow, light, fluid, steady, it created something strange.

Instead of amplifying his raw strength or speed, the Overdrive made every motion smoother. Muscles responded with perfect precision; his fingers moved exactly how he intended, without the usual micro-stagger of human imperfection.

It wasn’t just physical power anymore. It was mastery of motion. He flexed his hand, brow furrowing. “This isn’t speed… it’s control.”

The sensation was uncanny, like his body had become a finely tuned instrument. Every shift of balance, every breath, felt measurable. He wondered how far that precision extended. So he decided to test it.

That afternoon, Ludger walked beyond Lionfang’s southern wall, to the training range where the plains stretched open under the pale sun. He raised a hand and pointed at a boulder resting two hundred meters away, barely visible past the ridge.

He formed a Mana Bolt, blue light condensing at his fingertip.

The shot cracked the air like a whip, then, with surgical precision, struck the center of the boulder. Dust puffed outward in a clean ring. Perfect hit.

He tried again. Two hundred fifty meters. Then three hundred. Each time, the Mana Bolt cut through the air with zero deviation, slamming into its mark like guided artillery.

By the fifth shot, Ludger lowered his arm, watching the distant stone crumble apart. He couldn’t help but huff a quiet laugh. “Three hundred meters… even Aleia would curse at that.”

He wasn’t just firing faster, he was aiming better than ever before. The Overdrive’s precision, merged with water’s fluid attunement, had turned his entire body into a stabilized mana conduit. It wasn’t raw power. It was evolution through finesse.

Ludger spent the next evening quietly thinking through what he’d learned.

For once, there were no reports, no recruits shouting in the yard, just the soft hum of the mana lamps and the sound of rain dripping from the eaves.

He flexed his hand, watching faint traces of Overdrive light fade beneath his skin. He’d started to notice the patterns. Every elemental attunement didn’t just change Overdrive, it reshaped how mana behaved inside the body.

Fire, he realized, was all about burst output. When he flooded his Overdrive with fire-aspected mana, the energy spiked violently. It didn’t care about stability or control, only release. Muscles twitched faster, movement hit harder, but it burned through reserves like a furnace left open. It was perfect for decisive attacks, short bursts of dominance, but risky. Fire mana didn’t cooperate; it consumed.

Earth, by contrast, was patient and grounding. When he attuned to it, the mana sank deeper into muscle and bone. His stance became firmer, weight more deliberate. Strikes landed like hammers, every blow carrying a fraction more gravity. Defense improved too; each impact dispersed through his body instead of rattling it. Earth didn’t make him faster, but it made him unshakable. It was the mana of permanence, of structure—ideal for holding a line or breaking through one.

But Water was different. Subtle. Deceptive. When he layered water attunement into Overdrive, the mana didn’t rush outward or dig in, it flowed through. It followed the natural pathways of his nerves and tendons, smoothing them instead of overloading them. His coordination refined, movements became continuous, seamless. It didn’t grant raw strength; it removed waste. Every motion was efficient, every strike pure intent with no hesitation between thought and action.

Ludger leaned back in his chair, frowning slightly. Mana, he thought, always reflected behavior. Fire burned, so its mana burned, direct and impulsive. Earth held, so its mana anchored, solid and reliable. Water adapted, so its mana synchronized, fluid and responsive.

The Overdrive didn’t change those traits; it amplified them through the body. The real difference wasn’t just elemental—it was how the mana wanted to move. He traced the pattern in his notebook:

Fire: Pressure and release.

Earth: Containment and reinforcement.

Water: Flow and refinement.

Each was a philosophy, not just an attribute. He rubbed his thumb against his palm, feeling the faint tingle of leftover mana. “So it’s not just strength or speed,” he murmured. “It’s efficiency. The body follows the element.”

That realization hit harder than he expected. Overdrive wasn’t just a tool—it was a language. And every element spoke differently. All he had to do now was learn to speak all of them fluently.

The next logical step, Ludger knew, would be wind attunement.

He already had three foundations, earth, fire, and water, each shaping his Overdrive into something distinct. But wind remained a mystery. He didn’t even know the basic flow of air mana, let alone how to integrate it into his body.

Unlike the others, there was no teacher for it in Lionfang. Maurien, the only true wind mage he’d met, was still out in the eastern mountains, he was already a master of another class, so there was no point in trying to learn from him. And Ludger wasn’t reckless enough to just improvise with an element he didn’t understand, especially one known for volatility. Wind could either empower movement… or tear muscle fibers apart if channeled wrong. Still, the thought stuck in his mind.

He sat in the guild office, surrounded by half-finished reports and an untouched cup of tea, the rain tapping against the windows. The candlelight flickered as he leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing in thought.

Earth made his stance immovable.

Fire gave him raw bursts of destruction.

Water turned motion into art—precision, adaptability, grace.

If he added wind to that equation…

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “What kind of monster would that make me?”

He imagined it for a moment, Overdrive cycling seamlessly between all four flows, strength, speed, control, and agility perfectly balanced. A body moving as freely as thought itself. The idea wasn’t just tempting—it was inevitable.

He reached for another report, the smirk still faint on his lips. “Eventually,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll get there.”

Outside, the rain picked up again, as if agreeing.

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