Ludger finally stepped out of Raukor’s forge like a man escaping a collapsing labyrinth. The heat clung to his clothes, his hair smelled like metal dust, and his arms felt like he’d been wrestling anvils for three straight days. To be fair… he had. Magic Blacksmith had jumped several more levels, the passive humming in his mana channels stronger, sharper. Good progression.

Still, he was done with forges for a while.

Behind him, Raukor’s massive silhouette lay sprawled across the floor, one arm limp over the side of the anvil like a felled titan. The beastman had pushed himself past the edge again. The nonstop crafting he insisted on supervising, plus Ludger’s elemental assistance… it all added up.

Ludger had tried to warn him. Raukor had snarled at him. Now the lion had face-planted mid-swing. Convenient timing.

Ludger stretched until his spine cracked, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness. His mana still flickered with the echoes of fire, earth, wind, and water, the residual burn of too much assisted forging. Enough was enough. If he didn’t take a break, he might end up next to Raukor on the floor.

He stepped onto the street, taking a long breath of cool air. And immediately noticed something different. People were… greeting him.

Not fleeing. Not pretending not to see him. Not offering awkward, “please don’t throw me through a wall” smiles.

Actual nods. Actual greetings. Actual warmth.

A baker lifted a hand. “Morning, Vice Guildmaster!”

A pair of caravan guards gave him a respectful chin tilt as they passed. Ludger blinked.

This wasn’t the usual wary respect Lionfang had always shown him, the practical sort given to someone you admired from a safe distance. This was… familiarity. Acceptance. Something less stiff.

Something warmer. His reputation was shifting.

All the labor, the walls, the training, the sculptures, the raids, the quiet work no one knew about, it was bleeding into the town’s atmosphere. They weren’t just grateful. They trusted him. That was new.

Ludger walked toward the guild, feeling more eyes than usual on him. But instead of flinching or pretending not to stare, people openly watched him with something like… reassurance. Like seeing him walk around meant things were under control.

The thought was strange. Heavy. He wasn’t sure if he liked it.

But as he passed an alley and saw a trio of kids play-fighting with wooden swords, one of them shouting, “I’m Ludger! I win!” before tripping on a rock and face-planting…

He snorted. Yeah. This town was changing. And so was he.

Ludger was still rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders when he reached the Lionsguard headquarters, only to stop dead in front of one of the strangest sights he’d seen since arriving in Lionfang. Kids. A lot of kids.

They were clustered in front of the guild’s doors like a small, chaotic army. Some were dirty, some wore patched-up clothes, some had wide, hungry eyes, and all of them were buzzing with the kind of energy that made trained adventurers quietly consider early retirement.

And right in the center of the storm was Yvar. The poor man looked like he was actively losing levels in real time. His hair was frizzed, and his glasses kept sliding down his nose as thirty different voices asked him thirty different questions simultaneously.

“No, we do not take… no, the guild is not, please stop climbing that, no, you cannot stab the sign, stop poking each other with sticks. NO, the Vice Guildmaster is not hiring assassins—just—just WAIT—”

Then Yvar spotted him. It was the look of a drowning man seeing land. “LUDGER!”

Thirty heads whipped toward him at once. And that’s when he saw one of them, the tall half-northerner boy from Ragdar’s village. Broad shoulders for his age, sharp eyes, the same hard-worn alertness Ludger remembered from their brief talk. The kid straightened when he saw him, as if reporting for duty.

Right. He had told them they could come to Lionfang to learn magic… and also learn to read and write. He’d meant it, too. But he hadn’t expected them to arrive all at once. And definitely not on the same morning he’d sworn to take a break.

Yvar hurried over, lowering his voice like he was afraid the children would explode if they overheard.

“Please tell me,” he said, glasses crooked, “that this is not, NOT, what I think it is.”

Ludger glanced at the group. Counted. Counted again.

“…Thirty.”

Yvar closed his eyes. “Thirty what, Ludger.”

“…Kids,” he said helpfully.

The scholar inhaled sharply through his nose, adjusted his glasses with shaky fingers, and stared at him like he was trying to solve a puzzle nobody asked for.

“Why,” Yvar began, slow and deliberate, “are thirty children standing in front of our guild?”

Ludger shrugged. “I told them to come if they wanted to learn magic. And literacy.”

Yvar blinked at him. Once. Twice. Very slowly.

“…You what?”

Ludger repeated it like it was obvious. “They needed chances. I gave them some.”

The kids watched the exchange with hopeful, nervous eyes, every single one of them waiting for the verdict.

Yvar looked from them… to Ludger… to the heavens… then back to Ludger with the expression of a man realizing that yes, this was his life now.

“…We don’t even have chairs for this…” he whispered.

Ludger patted his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

Yvar made a noise that sounded suspiciously close to a whimper. Ludger didn’t bother answering Yvar right away. He walked past him, past the crowd of kids, straight toward the empty space behind the guild building. The children trailed after him like ducklings, confused but curious. Then Ludger raised both hands. Mana pulsed. The ground trembled.

A deep rumble rolled through the courtyard as the earth responded, softening beneath his will. Stone surged upward in controlled layers, bending and shaping into walls, clean, smooth, and perfectly aligned. Support beams formed from packed earth-hardstone, interlocking like ribs. The roof arched into place with a quiet thoom as if dropped by invisible giants.

A basic interior layout took shape—common room, bunk area, a study space, a small kitchen alcove, nothing fancy, but sturdy, warm, and livable. The entire structure took less than a minute. When Ludger lowered his hands, the finishing dust scattered in the breeze.

The kids just stared. Mouths open. Eyes wide. Shock, awe, and a hint of fear mixing together.

“Woooow…” one whispered.

Another poked a wall like it might explode. The tall half-northerner boy just looked at the building, then at Ludger, then back at the building with a mixture of disbelief and resolve, as if he’d just decided he had to learn whatever that was.

Yvar approached slowly, whispering under his breath, “Do you… realize what you just did? That was, gods, Ludger, at least pretend to struggle a little…”

Ludger dusted his hands. “Don’t see the point.”

Yvar exhaled in defeat. “Of course not.”

But then he leaned closer, lowering his voice further. “Still… why this? Why did you decide suddenly that you wanted to teach a small army of children?”

Ludger didn’t hesitate.

“They’re perfect targets,” he said simply. “Underworld guilds want scared kids. Hungry kids. Kids who think no one will help them.”

Yvar’s expression tightened.

Ludger continued, voice low and pragmatic. “If nobody gives them another option, they’ll end up criminals. Traffickers. Scouts. Disposable. And eventually, they’d become my problem. Or your problem. Or Lionfang’s problem.”

He nodded toward the new building.

“This is cheaper.”

Yvar stared at him for a long moment, then his eyes softened.

“…It’s noble,” he murmured.

“It’s practical,” Ludger corrected.

“But,” Yvar sighed, “there are problems.”

Ludger raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

Yvar started counting on his fingers.

“First: time. Teaching thirty children, some illiterate, will drain manpower from the guild.”

“Second: resources. Food, supplies, tools, we don’t exactly keep those lying around.”

“Third, and this one worries me most, the nobles won’t like it.”

Ludger frowned slightly. Yvar pushed his glasses up, tone growing serious.

“Education is a privilege, Ludger. A noble-class privilege. Most of them think that teaching commoners, especially slum children, magic is dangerous. Some think it’s outright forbidden.”

“And?” Ludger asked.

Yvar stared at him, baffled. “And?

They might complain to Lord Torvares. They might pressure the town. They might try to sabotage this whole endeavor.”

Ludger looked back at the thirty kids staring at him like he’d hung the moon. Then he shrugged.

“They can complain.”

“…That’s it?” Yvar asked, incredulous.

“If they have something to say,” Ludger said dryly, turning back to the new quarters, “they know where to find me.”

He paused.

“Besides,” he added, “I’m not teaching them battle magic. Just literacy. Basic control. Enough to stop them from burning their houses down.”

Yvar rubbed his temples. “Please don’t say that part where nobles can hear it.”

Ludger snorted. But the truth was simple: He wasn’t doing this to make friends.

He was doing it because someone had to. And right now, Lionfang needed fewer criminals and more competent people. Even if they were twelve-year-olds with snotty noses and too much energy.

The thirty kids gathered in a loose semicircle in front of the fresh-built quarters, the weight of the stone-and-earth structure behind them making the whole moment feel more official than Ludger intended. Some stood stiff, nervous. Others shifted their weight from foot to foot. A few clung to each other like they expected him to bark military orders.

Ludger wasn’t great with speeches. But he was good at being direct. He stepped forward.

“Alright. Listen up.”

Instant silence. Even the rowdiest ones froze. Good start.

Ludger pointed at the new building. “That’s yours for now. Quarters, common room, beds, water. Use them as you like. No fighting over rooms. If you break something, tell us so we can fix it.”

Some of the smaller kids exchanged glances, like they were checking if this was real.

“It’s simple,” Ludger continued. “In the mornings, I’ll teach you. Reading. Writing. Basic magic. Stuff you’ll actually use. Not battle spells, not anything dangerous. Just control and foundation.”

A murmur rippled through them, excitement from some, anxiety from others. He raised a hand to quiet them.

“You’ll get food. You’ll get water. And if you want to earn coin, the guild can help find small jobs, delivery runs, sweeping, sorting supplies, helping merchants. Nothing risky.”

That last part lit up more than a few pairs of eyes. Starving kids knew exactly how much a few copper could mean.

“But,” Ludger said, voice dropping with weight, “there’s one rule. Lionfang is offering you a place. Training, shelter, chances most people won’t get. So don’t cause trouble here.”

A few of the bolder kids stiffened, straightening their posture. The tall half-northerner boy met his gaze and nodded firmly.

“Even if you’re guests,” Ludger continued, “that doesn’t mean you’re untouchable. If you steal, attack people, or make this town unsafe…” He shrugged. “You’ll be sent away. No exceptions.”

This time the silence was heavier, but receptive. They understood rules. Rules made things predictable. Rules meant home.

Ludger looked over them one more time, starving kids, street kids, abandoned kids, and felt something settle in his chest. Not softness. Just… purpose.

“As long as you’re here to work, learn, and help each other,” he said, voice steady, “you’ll be welcome in Lionfang.”

Several of the smaller children smiled brightly, something raw and hopeful breaking through tired eyes. A few older ones simply nodded, absorbing every word. Then one kid raised a hand.

“…Mister Ludger?” he asked timidly.

Ludger blinked. “What.”

“Does… does this mean we’re Lionsguard?”

Ludger snorted. “No. It means you’re not alone. Perhaps you will be one day, no guarantees.”

And for this group, that was more than enough.

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