While Renn, Marie, Bramm, Jorin, and Tali were still a bit green, there was no denying reality anymore, they were more than skilled enough.

They helped Ludger and Yvar drill the newcomers day after day. Correcting stances. Repeating reading exercises. Demonstrating Create Water until wrists cramped and mana thinned. They didn’t complain. They didn’t slack. They worked like people who already belonged.

Which, in practice, meant they did.

Despite being only eleven years old, they were already full members of the Lionsguard.

Still, when Ludger gave them the option to move on to heavier training or patrol work, they asked to stay.

They wanted to help the newcomers longer. They wanted to train harder in the gaps. They wanted to sharpen themselves before stepping fully into the field. And, more importantly, their goal hadn’t changed. They still wanted to work for Viola.

They were basically her fan club now.

Ludger noticed it gradually, how Renn would casually bring up Viola’s duels when explaining footwork, how Marie would praise her discipline during reading lessons, how Bramm exaggerated her strength just a bit when talking to younger kids. Jorin and Tali would nod along solemnly, backing every claim like witnesses to legend.

Now and then, Ludger would spot them whispering to other recruits, eyes bright, voices animated.

Did you know Lady Viola—

She once sparred three soldiers at once—

No, seriously, she’s amazing—

They were recruiting for a fan club that didn’t technically exist. Yet. Ludger let it happen.

Motivation came in many forms, and this one was harmless, if a bit loud.

With their help, managing five different training groups became dramatically easier. Instructions carried faster. Mistakes were corrected before turning into habits. The newer kids listened more readily when someone closer to their age demonstrated instead of an adult shouting from the sidelines.

There was only one problem.

Some of the newcomers were older. Taller. Broader. Louder.

And while Renn and the others had skill, experience, and discipline, they lacked authority. A few of the older kids hesitated when corrected. Some ignored instructions until Ludger himself stepped in. Nothing openly defiant, but enough friction to slow progress.

Ludger noticed. And decided to fix it. He fixed it the next day. At Raukor’s forge.

Raukor’s hammer slowed the moment he noticed what Ludger was working on.

The lion beastman frowned, golden eyes narrowing as he leaned closer to the smaller anvil Ludger had claimed for himself. Sparks danced as Ludger shaped metal with careful, deliberate strikes, compact bracers, reinforced but light, followed by something broader.

Raukor watched in silence as Ludger pressed the heated plate outward, carving a shield-like curve, then began shaping a raised emblem on its surface.

A lion’s face.

Stylized. Simple. Clear.

Raukor let out a low rumble.

“…That is not for you alone,” he said.

Ludger didn’t look up. “No.”

The bracer cooled slightly as he adjusted the mold.

“It’s for everyone in the guild,” Ludger said. 

Raukor straightened slowly, arms folding across his chest.

“You plan to arm all of them with this?” he asked. “That is not cheap. Not in effort. Not in metal.”

“I know,” Ludger replied calmly. “That’s why it’s small. Defensive. Symbolic.”

He glanced up briefly. “Authority needs to be visible.”

Raukor grunted. That, at least, made sense. He watched a moment longer before asking, tone more technical now, “Do you want enchantments placed before finishing?”

Ludger paused mid-strike.

“…I can do that?” he asked.

Raukor snorted.

“You could,” he said. “But you should not.”

Ludger straightened, listening.

“You lack the proper depth of knowledge depth,” Raukor continued. “And even if you did, enchanting after forging weakens the result. Mana does not bind as well. The metal resists it.”

Ludger frowned slightly, eyes shifting back to the half-finished bracer.

“So it has to be done during forging,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Raukor confirmed. “Or the enchantment will be inferior. Wasteful.”

Ludger was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then he nodded.

“…Then I’ll solve it with runes.”

Raukor’s ears twitched.

“Runes?” he repeated.

Ludger picked the bracer up again, already adjusting the design in his head.

“They don’t need deep enchantment,” he said. “Just reinforcement. Recognition. Authority.”

A brief pause.

“And runes can be rewritten later.”

Raukor stared at him for a long second. Then he grunted approvingly.

“Clever workaround,” he said. “Temporary solution. Adaptable.”

Ludger resumed forging, hammer ringing steadily. It wasn’t perfect. But it was enough. And for now, enough was all he needed.

There was a downside to engraving runes onto gear—one Ludger understood better than most.

Runes caused degradation.

They weren’t true enchantments fused into the metal’s structure. They were commands, etched into matter and enforced every time mana flowed. Each activation stressed the gear, tiny fractures, mana scarring, gradual fatigue. Over time, the metal would weaken.

Normally, that would be a dealbreaker. But Ludger wasn’t normal.

With him nearby, and with his Magic Blacksmith skills steadily improving, repairs were trivial. A few minutes of mana-guided reshaping, reinforcement along the stress lines, and the gear was good as new. For guild-issued equipment that stayed close to Lionfang, degradation wasn’t a fatal flaw. It was a manageable cost.

When the first bracer finally cooled, Ludger lifted it and turned it slowly in the forge light. The lion-faced shield plate caught the glow, shadows pooling in the grooves. Solid. Practical. Visible enough to matter.

Now came the decision that mattered. The rune.

He didn’t want something flashy. No explosions. No constant drain. These weren’t weapons meant to dominate, they were tools meant to reinforce authority and keep people on their feet.

He needed a rune that would do two things, cleanly and reliably: Increase physical output in short bursts. Improve durability under stress

Something familiar. Something proven.Ludger didn’t hesitate long. He chose what he knew best. Earth Overdrive. He knew its costs. He knew its limits. He knew exactly how it failed, and how to stop it before it did.

Using it as a rune didn’t mean granting the full technique. It meant carving a restricted expression of it: a shallow amplification, a brief surge of reinforced force through the limbs, capped hard to prevent injury.

A controlled echo of the real thing. Ludger closed his eyes and visualized the concept, not the raw technique, but its essence.

Grounded power.Momentary reinforcement.Strength without loss of control.

This was the first time he was carving a rune into gear meant for others. Not a disposable device. Not a test piece. Something people would wear every day.

So he took his time.

The engraving followed the inner curve of the bracer, hidden from casual view, lines clean and deliberate. His English-based Wordweaving translated the concept directly, no arcane flourishes, no unnecessary complexity.

He finished the final stroke and let a thin thread of mana flow.

[Wordweaving + 100 XP]

The rune flared, low, earthen, steady, then settled into the metal like a heartbeat finding its rhythm. The bracer felt different immediately.

Denser. More anchored.

Not heavier in weight, but heavier in presence. Ludger flexed his fingers and nodded once. Earth Overdrive wasn’t a gift of power.

It was permission, to push just a little harder, to stand just a little firmer, to endure impact without folding.

Perfect for members. Perfect for leaders. Perfect for establishing authority without words. He set the bracer down on the anvil, already thinking about production, maintenance, limits, and safeguards.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was controlled. And for Ludger, control was everything.

Raukor watched the finished bracer in silence, eyes lingering on the faint earthen glow that had already faded back into the metal. He reached out, turned it once in his hand, then set it back on the anvil with more care than he usually bothered to show.

Finally, he grunted.

“I will help.”

Ludger looked up from the tools he was arranging, surprised just enough to notice it.

“You like this kind of thing?” he asked, tone neutral.

Raukor snorted softly, sparks hissing as he stoked the forge. For a moment, he didn’t answer.

As a beastman, Raukor was supposed to value tribe above all else. Blood, shared labor, standing shoulder to shoulder until the end. Ludger couldn’t help but think the bracers carried the same idea, quiet reinforcement, strength shared without boasting.

Authority not through fear, but through presence.

Raukor finally spoke, voice low.

“Metal that strengthens many is better than metal that glorifies one.”

Ludger blinked. That… answered more than expected. He hesitated, then held up the bracer slightly. Still, it was weird how obsessive he was with making only masterpieces.

“Do you want one?” he asked. “It would work with your build too.”

Raukor didn’t even look at it.

He grabbed a hammer, turned back to the forge, and brought it down with a heavy clang.

“No.”

Another strike.

“I do not need symbols.”

He glanced sideways, mane flicking.

“You do.”

Then he pointed the hammer toward the metal stack.

“Enough talking. Get to work.”

Ludger stared at him for a second. Then smiled, just a little, and picked up his tools. The forge rang again, two sets of hands working in rhythm, shaping something that wasn’t just armor. It was cohesion, hammered into steel.

By the time the forge bell rang for noon, Ludger’s mana pool was noticeably lighter—but not strained. That alone said a lot.

Using controlled mana pulses, Magic Blacksmith shaping, and rune work done with practiced restraint, he moved from piece to piece without wasting motion. Heat, shape, engrave, stabilize. No flourish. No hesitation.

Ten bracers were made before noon. Each one identical in structure:

Compact guards. Lion-faced shield plate on the outer surface. Inner engraving carrying the restrained Earth Overdrive rune. Reinforced stress lines to slow degradation. Clean edges, meant for work, not ceremony

Raukor inspected the last one, snorted approval, and stepped aside.

“Enough,” he said. “They will hold.”

Ludger wiped his hands, took the bracers, and headed straight for the training grounds. The courtyard quieted the moment he arrived.

Newcomers paused mid-drill. Older recruits stopped talking. Eyes locked onto the metal in his arms. Ludger walked past them all and stopped in front of Renn, Marie, Bramm, Jorin, and Tali. The five straightened instantly. Ludger didn’t raise his voice.

“These are yours.”

He handed each of them a bracer, one by one, deliberately, slow enough that everyone could see.

In front of everyone he said calmly, “this is your proof of membership in the Lionsguard.”

The newcomers stiffened.

“You are not assistants anymore,” Ludger continued. “You are guild members. Instructors. You represent us.”

He looked each of the five in the eyes.

“Use them well. Know what they mean. And remember, authority is not given by metal. It’s maintained by conduct.”

All five nodded, serious, backs straight, hands tightening around the bracers like they understood exactly what they’d been given. Around them, the newcomers watched in silence. Not anger. Jealousy.

Clean, sharp, undeniable.

Froststeel bracers. Runic work engraved by Ludger himself. A controlled Overdrive effect. Anyone with half a brain knew what that meant. Those should cost at least ten gold coins each. And Ludger had handed them out like tools, because that’s what they were. Not rewards. Expectations.

The five slipped the bracers on, metal catching the light, lion crests gleaming faintly as the runes settled.

The training grounds felt different after that. Heavier. More serious. Ludger turned back to the rest of the recruits.

“Back to work,” he said.

And no one hesitated.

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