Ludger left the arena still warm with steam from Rage Flow, though his mana had calmed, his steps relaxed. The capital air tasted cleaner outside the crowded coliseum, cooler against his cheeks. Torvares estate wasn’t far across the plaza, and the familiar path brought a slow wave of comfort, stone corridors, banners fluttering in the wind, the scent of bread from market stalls drifting lazily through the streets.

Ahead of him, Elle and Arash dashed circles around each other, fists flying at nothing, mimicking every punch, kick, and shoulder pivot they’d just seen. Elle swung a sloppy uppercut that had nearly perfect spirit, if not form. Arash bounced on the balls of his feet, throwing jabs and shouting little battle cries.

“Like this!” Elle declared, twisting through a wild roundhouse that almost took her twin’s head off.

“No, like this,” Arash argued, performing a dramatic leap that ended with him rolling in the dirt, laughing.

Ludger exhaled slowly. Oh, he was absolutely getting scolded. His mother was going to tell him he’d made violence look fun, exciting, inspiring. He glanced over his shoulder, waiting for the lecture. It never came.

Elaine walked behind them with a small, amused smile, watching the twins swing invisible punches without a shred of worry in their bodies.

They turned a corner, and suddenly a hand like a falling tree trunk slammed into Ludger’s back.

WHACK.

The force nearly sent him face-first into the cobblestone.

Kharnek laughed, voice booming loud enough to make a flock of pigeons scatter.

“HA! Little Luds! We must celebrate!” he roared. “Drink! Feast! Make noise! Do it properly!”

Ludger straightened his spine, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Celebrations aren’t something you can do all day and night,” he said dryly. “Like you’ve been doing since yesterday.”

Kharnek barked another laugh.

“I like to mix the celebrations together! One never ends, the next one begins! That is efficiency!”

Elaine finally stepped in, voice firm but warm.

“Children should not be drinking.”

Kharnek snorted, then burst into a grin so wide it nearly split his beard.

“See? That is Ludger for you. He can beat three fighting masters, crush a guild, and make grown men cry in dust, but he cannot go against his mother’s words!”

Ludger opened his mouth to respond. Everyone else opened theirs to laugh. And together, walking through the capital streets, they did exactly that.

Soon enough, the Lionsguard entourage splintered apart in the palace courtyard. Those who wanted to celebrate, mostly northerners and a few others, charged toward the nearest taverns with tankards already in hand. It wasn’t even noon yet, the sun barely cresting the roofs, but that meant nothing to people who had been drinking since yesterday. 

Ludger watched them go with a slow blink. The northerners’ constitution should be studied. Preferably by scientists. Or priests. Or both.

He followed the non-celebrating portion of the group into the estate dining hall, where warm bread and freshly seasoned meat waited. The scent alone felt like a reward. They gathered around the long table, Arslan, Elaine, Viola, Torvares, Freyra, Kharnek (already with a mug of something thick), and a handful of Lionsguard members. But Ludger’s mind wasn’t on the food. Not entirely.

Halfway through lunch, he looked up from his plate and asked,

“Shouldn’t we pack and get ready to go home? I don’t think they’ll send any more fighters.”

Arslan tore off a bite of bread and swallowed before answering.

“You think the Ashbound Compact will just give up that easily?”

The question carried weight, but the expression on his face gave the answer first: yes. They both knew it.

He continued anyway, voice even.

“They might not have anyone stronger to send. But guild pride is stubborn. They may still try something.”

Torvares, seated across the table with a cup of herbal tea instead of alcohol, nodded slowly.

He didn’t look worried. He looked… thoughtful.

“We wait,” Torvares said. His tone was calm, measured, far too neutral to be casual. “A little longer. Just in case.”

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t offer scenarios. Didn’t provide reasons.

Which made it worse. Everyone at the table understood immediately: Ashbound Compact still had options. Political options. Legal options. Dirty options. They could bend the rules, pay the right noble, claim technicalities, demand second opinions, file complaints, or twist the laws around labyrinth ownership.

No one knew which method they would choose. Only that they would choose something.

The real question wasn’t whether they would fight back. It was how far they would sink trying to insist on victory they could no longer earn.

Kharnek leaned back in his chair, half a roasted hen in one hand, tankard in the other, grin wide and reckless.

“If there are more fighters, good,” he rumbled. “If they are weaker than those three, then they are not worth bothering with. Ludger can keep showing off, crushing skulls, bending metal, and we northerners will keep enjoying the good alcohol of the capital.”

He punctuated the statement by slapping his tankard down with enough force to make several plates rattle. Ludger lifted an eyebrow.

“If you keep drinking like that, someone might use your drunkenness against you.”

Kharnek barked a laugh loud enough to shake the room.

“Let them try!” he declared. “Any coward bold enough to strike a drunk northerner can learn how it feels to lose teeth at breakfast.”

Freyra muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like: More like lose an arm, while stabbing vegetables with unnecessary aggression.

Arslan wiped his mouth with a napkin, then shot Ludger a sideways look. His expression held both pride and caution.

“Rest until something changes. If another challenge comes, you need to be ready. Unless you’d rather share the next matches with the guild.”

There was humor in his tone, but also sincerity. Arslan would never deny his people a chance to test themselves, especially not recruits eager to prove they weren’t growing soft under tailored meals and hot baths.

Ludger shook his head lightly, voice level.

“I’m fine with that, if the opponents are weaker.”

He paused, flicking a glance toward the window where sunlight spilled into the dining hall.

“But leaving weaker opponents to the others just because they’re weaker feels…” he searched for the word, shoulders lifting in a slight shrug, “…dismissive.”

Torvares arched a faint eyebrow, amused. Elaine’s smile warmed. Viola rolled her eyes fondly. Ludger finished his thought without hesitation.

“I’ll end what I started.”

The table quieted for a breath, not out of tension, but out of certainty. Everyone present understood exactly what that meant.

If Ashbound Compact wanted to keep pushing, if they wanted another fight, another spectacle, another attempt to claw back dignity, Ludger would be the one waiting for them in the arena. And he would not leave the job unfinished.

— —

A few hours passed before Varkas Stonefury’s eyes finally opened.

The world came back to him in fragments, blurred ceiling beams, throbbing pulse in his temples, the crisp scent of alchemical herbs burning in strange bowls, and the faint hum of arcane lamps suspended overhead. His body felt impossibly heavy, pinned to the bed by exhaustion and pain. Pain that radiated everywhere.

Bones bruised. Chest throbbing. Ribs aching. Jaw pulsing with a deep bruise that felt like it had reached the bone. A sharp sting spiked when he tried to breathe too deeply. It was the kind of soreness that only came from being thoroughly, systematically dismantled.

He was lying atop a clean linen mattress in the capital hospital, one of the high-tier wards reserved for noble families and recognized guild leaders. Soft white curtains sectioned off each bed, though through the faint glow of light spells he could guess the room was large and nearly empty.

Healers stood nearby, three of them, hands glowing faintly as they finished channeling the last of their spells over his body. He watched in silence as the magic faded from their palms, leaving only a fading warmth across his chest and sternum.

None of them spoke to him. Not a word. When the final spell concluded, they bowed stiffly, not to him, but to someone beyond the curtain, and quietly left. No reassurance. No questions. No affiliation. Not Ashbound healers. Not his people.

Varkas felt his throat tighten, the dryness rough as gravel.

He wanted to call after them. Ask who sent them. What orders they followed. Why were they treating him instead of his guild members?

But the moment he shifted his head, memories flooded in, bright, sharp, humiliating shocks across his mind. The arena. The dust. The roar of the crowd. The impact against the stone wall.

Ludger’s heel cracking his jaw. The palm strike crushed his chest. The flight through the air. The splintering wall. He couldn’t remember the moment he lost consciousness, just a blur of motion and then the feeling of falling through darkness.

His fists clenched weakly at the sheets, shame burning hotter than any wound. He had fought in labyrinths. He had survived wars. He had gone toe to toe with monsters twice his size and spellcasters twenty years his senior. But he could not recall the finishing blow that put him down. He just knew he had been beaten. Decisively. Completely. He’d had his ass kicked by a twelve-year-old boy.

Soft footsteps approached, muffled by the ward’s polished floors. Varkas tried to lift himself higher, but pain bit into his ribs, forcing him to settle halfway upright. The curtains rustled, then parted.

Three figures stepped into the recovery space.

Varkas’s expression sharpened into disbelief, then darkened further into anger.

Standing before him were the guild leaders of the three most powerful, wealthiest, and politically entrenched guilds in the capital:

Swordsworn Company… Their Guildmaster, Alden Marr, was tall, lean, with a scar slicing from cheek to chin like a carved line through stone. His armor, silver plate etched with gold threading, gleamed even in the sterile white light. His short-cropped hair was streaked with gray, and his eyes carried the cold, unblinking sharpness of a swordsman who had seen more people die than speak. His presence was rigid discipline made flesh.

At his side stood Lady Serennia from the Emberfall Adventuring Corps, robed in layered crimson silks embroidered with smoldering patterns that almost resembled embers floating from a burning tree. Her hair was long and dark, flowing over one shoulder, braided with glowing threads. Her skin was pale, expression unreadable, posture elegant enough to drown a ballroom. But her eyes burned, truly burned, with faint arcs of fire flickering beneath them.

And completing the trio was General Kyren Valdros leader of The Crimson Reapers, built like a siege engine disguised as a man. Broad shoulders pushed against a cloak the color of drying blood. A weaponized beard framed his face, bristling like armor, while thick cords of muscle rolled beneath a sleeveless breastplate. A crimson rune tattoo glowed faintly on his exposed forearm, pulsing with power.

Three giants of the capital. Three rival powers. Three guilds whose combined political pull could bury armies.

Varkas’s jaw clenched hard enough that a nerve twitched beneath his cheek. Anger painted his expression, not just from humiliation, but from the insult of visitors arriving while he lay wounded.

He narrowed his eyes at them, voice hoarse and thick.

“What,” he growled, “do you want?”

The question wasn’t a greeting. It was a warning.

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