When the house finally quieted and the twins had dragged Arslan into another round of chaos, Ludger sat alone by the window, staring into the lamplit streets outside. He hadn’t expected his father’s words to stick. But they did.

Blank slates. The phrase lingered in his mind. It was interesting, more than he wanted to admit. There was a certain appeal to the idea of training recruits who had no habits, no baggage, no preconceived ideas about how the world should work. Kids who hadn’t yet been hardened, or broken, by failure.

On paper, it was a nightmare: too young, too green, and too idealistic. But in practice…? There were merits.

They were malleable. Their mana affinities, stamina, even reflexes could still be shaped efficiently. They’d develop his methods from the ground up, no clashing doctrines, no wasted years unlearning bad form. And because they admired Viola, they already had a foundation of discipline through idolization. He could turn that naïve loyalty into real conviction.

A team like that would be completely synchronized. trained from day one to think, fight, and move in the same rhythm. No politics, no ego, no factional loyalties. Just pure, efficient teamwork.

But there were demerits too, and Ludger knew them well. Blank slates cracked easily. Inexperience made them fragile, both in battle and in spirit. The first real failure could crush them if they didn’t have the mental calluses to endure it. Worse, they might follow orders too well, never questioning, never improvising. And in the field, obedience without judgment was a liability.

Then there was the moral weight. Training soldiers from childhood meant taking responsibility for what they became. Their future victories, or mistakes, would trace back to his lessons. If he shaped them wrong, they wouldn’t just fail, they’d die believing they were doing what he taught them.

He rubbed the back of his neck, thoughtful. The idea of building such a team fascinated him. The strategist in him saw the potential; the realist in him saw the cost. It was, in essence, like constructing a fortress from raw stone: solid if built correctly, disastrous if rushed.

Still, he couldn’t deny the draw. Watching those kids run laps without complaint, seeing the same fire that once burned in him, it stirred something he hadn’t felt in a while. Maybe his father was right.

Maybe raising blank slates wasn’t just about shaping others, it was a test of what he had become. He exhaled softly and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. “Blank slates, huh… Let’s see what kind of picture I can paint.”

Ludger sat there for a long time after that, the thought gnawing quietly at him. The more he turned it over, the more he realized there was something off about the whole idea of shaping blank slates. It wasn’t just about efficiency, it was about control. About deciding what another person should become before they ever got the chance to figure it out for themselves.

That was the moral pitfall, the kind of thing older commanders always justified with words like duty, discipline, or purpose.

But the truth was simpler, and heavier: raising blank slates meant stripping away the chaos that made people people.

Ludger knew he could train them into perfect order. He could synchronize their movements, their teamwork, make them an extension of his will. It would be clean, efficient, unbreakable even. But it would also erase something fundamental: individuality.

Every person had natural strengths and weaknesses, habits that came from who they were, not what they were taught. The quiet ones usually learned to observe more. The loud ones led by instinct. The reckless ones discovered courage, and the cautious ones kept everyone alive.

Trying to overwrite that with his own structure would risk creating soldiers, not adventurers, followers, not thinkers.

He frowned slightly, tapping a finger against the table. “If I shape them too much, they’ll stop growing on their own,” he murmured.

That was the other side of the moral line: power without freedom. A perfect team would be one that moved as he directed, but a good team would be one that adapted without him.

He thought of the people who had trained him, his father, Aronia, even Cor. None of them had tried to make him into a copy of themselves. They’d given him tools, not paths.

Maybe that was the real test here: not to see if he could build soldiers from nothing, but whether he could teach them to think, act, and choose for themselves, without falling apart.

He leaned back, letting out a low exhale. Blank slates were dangerous. Too easy to write on, too easy to break. But if he focused on who they already were, on turning their quirks and flaws into assets, then maybe they’d become something real.

Not copies of him. Not instruments of the guild. Just… people strong enough to stand on their own.

He gave a faint, humorless smile. “Guess the hard part isn’t training them,” he muttered. “It’s letting them stay human while I do it.”

For the next week, Ludger kept the training brutal in its simplicity.

Every morning, the recruits arrived at dawn. They ran laps around the town, followed by one hundred push-ups, one hundred sit-ups, and one hundred squats, again and again, until their forms stopped shaking and their breathing fell into rhythm. No swords. No spells. No flashy techniques. Just repetition, sweat, and discipline.

It was monotonous. The kind of grind that broke most adults within days. He could see the boredom written all over their faces by the third morning, the dull stares, the small sighs when he barked out the same instructions as yesterday. But they didn’t complain. Not once.

They knew why they were doing it, even if they couldn’t yet explain it. They had a purpose, however childish it sounded, to become strong enough to stand beside Viola Torvares. Although Ludger was testing them to make them disciplined instead.

That simple belief kept them moving, kept them biting back fatigue and frustration. Ludger noticed it. The rhythm of their steps, the way they looked out for each other during the runs, the quiet determination behind their silence. He respected that, even if their technique was still a mess and their endurance barely passable.

By the seventh day, when the group was finishing their last set of exercises under the morning sun, Ludger found himself pausing mid-count, watching them from the edge of the courtyard.

The thought came quietly, almost out of nowhere:

Wouldn’t they be better off as Viola’s guards instead of guild recruits?

They already idolized her. Everything they did was fueled by her name, her legend. It wouldn’t take much to shape them into a unit that served directly under her, an honor guard trained to protect, not just fight.

Part of him saw the logic in it. The Lionsguard needed structure, but House Torvares needed loyalty. These kids already had both. Still, he stayed silent, arms crossed, watching as they finished the last of their squats, panting but proud.

Maybe, he thought, it didn’t matter yet what they became. For now, it was enough that they were learning to move forward together. But the idea stayed in his mind like a stone in his pocket, heavy and insistent. Because if Viola ever decided to take the field again… these kids might just be the first ones willing to follow her there.

Ludger gathered the group in the training yard as the sun crept over the rooftops. The recruits lined up automatically, mud-streaked, sweaty, but standing tall. He studied them for a moment before speaking.

“Starting tomorrow,” he said, voice calm and even, “you’ll keep doing the same exercises, runs, push-ups, squats, but this time, you’ll be carrying the weapons you choose.”

The kids exchanged quick, eager looks.

“Pick anything you like from the guild warehouse,” Ludger continued. “Sword, spear, staff, bow, whatever feels right for you. Get used to its weight before you start swinging it. Your body should know it as well as your hand does.”

Renn immediately raised his hand. “Even a greatsword?”

“If you can lift it,” Ludger said dryly. “Barely lifting it doesn’t count. Don’t ego lift.”

“What is ego lift?”

A few chuckles broke out. He waited for the noise to settle, then reached into his coat and held up a thin, handwritten booklet bound with cord.

“And in the afternoons,” he said, “you’ll study this.”

He handed the manual to Renn, who blinked at it. The cover read, in clean block letters: Basic Mana Manipulation: Mana Bolt (Beginner’s Edition).

“Read it. Memorize it. Once you understand how to cast this spell, come find me. You’ll demonstrate it, and then we’ll move on to something harder.”

The kids crowded around Renn, peering at the pages. A few seconds passed. Then he looked up at Ludger, face awkward.

“Uh… Vice Guildmaster,” Renn started, “we… can’t read.”

Ludger froze. “…What?”

Marie nodded shyly. “Yeah, sorry. None of us went to school. Only the merchants’ kids get that around here.”

Jorin scratched the back of his neck. “We can count, though!”

Ludger stared at them, expression blank for several seconds. He could practically feel the sigh trying to escape his chest. He stopped it, barely. Sighing now would’ve been cruel.

Of course they couldn’t read. Only nobles and city-trained commoners did. The rest learned survival, not letters.

He took the manual back and flipped it shut with a quiet thump. “Alright,” he said finally. “Change of plans. We’ll start with reading.”

The kids blinked at him in surprise.

“At the very least,” he continued, “you’ll learn to read and write. If you want to use magic, or live long doing it, you’ll need both.”

A few nodded slowly, unsure but curious. As the group dispersed to get water, Ludger tucked the manual back under his arm, thinking.

Maybe I should just write a reading manual instead, he mused. Sell it across the empire . If everyone learns to read, I won’t have to teach the basics myself.

Then he allowed himself a dry, private smirk. And it wouldn’t even disrupt the balance of power. Just make life less annoying. Tons of XP waiting to be gain as well… but how people read to read a manual to learn how to read?

For now, though, he turned back to the recruits, who were arguing excitedly over weapon choices.

“Alright,” he called out. “Enjoy the noise while it lasts. Tomorrow, the alphabet will hurt more than the training.”

For the next several days, Ludger’s schedule became a blur of exhaustion and repetition.

Every morning, he drilled the recruits—runs, squats, weapon conditioning. Then, after a brief lunch, they gathered in the guild’s study room for what had quickly become the most painful part of their training: reading lessons.

Two hours a day. Every day.

He stood at the front of the table, chalk in hand, writing letters on a slate while the kids squinted and mumbled their way through the alphabet.

“This one is B, not R,” Ludger said patiently for what felt like the hundredth time. “It curves—see? Like a stomach. R has a leg.”

“Looks the same,” Jorin muttered.

“It’s not,” Ludger replied without blinking. “If you confuse your letters in a spell incantation, you’ll blow your arm off.”

That shut him up immediately. The progress was slow, but steady. And while the kids struggled to untangle words, Ludger’s own mind was elsewhere, on the one element that continued to elude him. Wind.

He’d mastered earth, fire, and water through basic lessons, experience and intuition, but wind was different. It wasn’t grounded, reactive, or flowing. It was freedom itself, something he couldn’t grasp through theory alone.

So while the recruits practiced their reading, Ludger searched. He asked Yvar if any wind mages had passed through town recently.

“None,” Yvar said, sorting through parchment. “You’d have better luck buying a book. There are a few old Imperial treatises on air manipulation. I can request a copy.”

Ludger shook his head. “I prefer to learn from a teacher.”

Yvar sighed. “You realize how rare wind mages are, right? You’re basically asking the elements themselves for a tutor.”

That gave Ludger an idea. The next morning, he pinned a small job listing on the guild’s main board:

WANTED: Wind Mage (Any Level)

Teach the basics of Wind Magic. Duration: one lesson.

Reward: 1 Gold Coin.

Inquire with Vice Guildmaster Ludger.

It didn’t take long before Arslan found it. When Ludger returned from the training yard, his father was already standing by the board, arms crossed, reading the paper with a mix of disbelief and amusement.

“A gold coin?” Arslan said, turning toward him. “For one lesson? Planning to bankrupt the guild over your education?”

Ludger deadpanned, “I’ll pay from my own pocket.”

Arslan blinked. “…You still have that much saved?”

“Enough.”

Arslan chuckled, shaking his head. “You really think some wanderer’s going to walk in off the road and teach you wind magic for that?”

Ludger shrugged. “If they can’t resist easy money, they’re not worth learning from. The ones who can? They’ll come.”

Arslan smiled faintly. “You sound just like your old man.”

Ludger looked up at the job listing one more time, eyes steady. “Then hopefully,” he said, “that means it’ll work.”

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