Ludger froze mid-motion.

The sword dissolved instantly.

Viola staggered forward a step, then straightened, breathing hard. “See? That’s what I’m talking about, wait.”

She blinked.

“…Why do I feel kinda… that something happened?”

Ludger stared at her. So that’s it.

Not solo effort.Not drills. Not orders.

Shared struggle. Shared risk. Shared focus.

He let out a slow breath, something between relief and realization.

Morale didn’t grow when he stood above his people.

It grew when he stood with them, even in something as small as a spar.

Viola rolled her shoulders, still frowning at the hammer. “Okay, don’t get me wrong, this thing still sucks,” she said. “But I swear it feels a little weird now.”

Ludger allowed himself a small, private smile.

“Good,” he said. “Then we’re doing it again.”

Viola groaned. The system stayed quiet. But for the first time, Ludger knew exactly how to make it speak.

Ludger let the realization settle after a few more attempts and analysis.

So Morale only grew when it mattered, when guild members actually leaned on it in combat, when effort and pressure overlapped. Not drills. Not theory. Real use. Real strain. Good to know.

He filed the insight away for later. There was time to refine it properly, once they weren’t in the capital, once eyes weren’t everywhere.

For now, he turned back to Viola.

“Alright,” he said. “Magic summoned swords.”

Her posture straightened instantly. “Finally.”

Ludger raised a hand, mana flowing smoothly as a single blade condensed into existence beside him. It hovered, perfectly balanced, and angled slightly downward.

“First rule,” he said, “don’t think of them as projectiles.”

Viola squinted. “They fly.”

“They move,” Ludger corrected. “There’s a difference.”

He gestured, and the sword shifted position, slow and deliberate. “You’re not throwing mana. You’re assigning space. The sword exists because you allow it to exist there.”

Viola frowned, then tried to copy him.

Mana gathered. Wobbled. A half-formed blade flickered into existence, and immediately tilted sideways like it had lost the will to live.

“…Rude,” she muttered.

“Too slow,” Ludger said flatly.

She shot him a glare. “I literally just…”

“Where’s your motivation?” he continued, deadpan.

Viola paused. Stared at him. “Are you… trying to be dramatic?”

The sword flickered again, then vanished.

“…I don’t get what you’re saying,” she added.

Ludger sighed. “Never mind.”

He waved a hand, reforming the sword. “Focus. Less force. More intent.”

She tried again.

This time, the blade formed cleaner, still unstable, but hovering. It wobbled, then steadied as Viola clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes.

“Yes!” she said triumphantly.

The sword immediately dropped and stabbed into the grass.

“…No!” she snapped.

“Still too slow,” Ludger said.

She turned on him. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Obviously.”

Viola groaned loudly, then squared her shoulders again. “Fine. Again.”

They went at it like that for a while, Ludger correcting with minimal words, occasionally dissolving her constructs without warning, occasionally taunting her just enough to keep her from overthinking.

“Too stiff.”

“You hesitated.”

“That was better. Don’t get used to it.”

Viola didn’t get the references. Didn’t understand why he was saying half of what he said.

She just knew he was being annoying on purpose.

“Gods,” she muttered after another failed attempt, wiping sweat from her brow. “You’re unbelievable.”

Ludger watched her try again, expression calm.

She wasn’t quitting. She wasn’t sulking. She was adapting.

And even if she didn’t realize it yet… That was exactly how Lionsguard learned best.

“Again,” Ludger said.

Viola growled. “One day I’m going to hit you with one of these.”

He nodded. “That’s the idea.”

By the time the sun began to dip, Viola finally managed it.

A single magic sword hovered above her outstretched hand, clean, stable, its edge humming faintly as it held shape instead of collapsing into mist. It wobbled once, then steadied as she clenched her teeth and forced her breathing into rhythm.

“Ha… got it…” she muttered.

Five seconds later, her arm shook.

Ten seconds after that, the sword flickered violently, mana bleeding away faster than she could feed it. With a sharp gasp, her focus broke and the construct dissolved into harmless light.

Viola dropped backward onto the grass, staring up at the sky, chest rising and falling hard. “Ugh… gods… that thing eats mana like crazy.”

Ludger looked down at her, arms crossed.

“That’s normal,” he said. “You’re maintaining form, balance, and position at the same time. It’s a constant drain. You need to get used to it.”

He paused, then added, thought. When I first learned it with the system, it felt effortless. The framework handled most of the stabilization. Now I can do it without the system. But only if I stay focused. If my attention slips, the sword collapses just like yours.

That earned him a tired groan. “Great. So it never stops being annoying.”

“No,” he agreed calmly. “It just becomes manageable.”

He crouched slightly, looking at her more closely. “You learned fast. Faster than most would.”

Viola closed her eyes, still breathing hard, one arm thrown over her face. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“It will,” Ludger said. “But only if you practice mana flow every day. Not summoning, flow. The sword is just a test. Control is the real skill.”

She nodded slowly, grass rustling under her as she shifted. “Yeah… figures.”

After a moment, she cracked one eye open and smirked faintly. “Still. Gotta admit, it’s a cool technique.”

She let her head fall back again. “Just… really, really tiresome.”

Ludger allowed himself a small smile. That exhaustion, earned, honest, and shared, was exactly how progress was supposed to feel.

By the time dinner was served, the manor was full again.

Footsteps echoed through the halls. Voices overlapped. Plates clinked. The tension that had lingered since the arena finally loosened into something closer to normalcy. Everyone had returned from their walks, meetings, and errands, bringing the capital’s noise back with them in fragments.

Ludger sat at the table with the others, eating steadily.

There was still a lot in his head, too many threads, too many implications, but the sharp edge was gone. The thoughts were still there, but they no longer scraped. They’d settled into something he could work with.

Arslan watched him for a moment, then spoke.

“So,” he said casually, “what do we do now that we’ve got an extra labyrinth?”

A few heads turned. Viola perked up slightly. Even the twins paused mid-bite.

Ludger didn’t hesitate. “You are the Guild Master,” he said. “You’ll decide.”

The table went quiet for half a second.

Then Arslan shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Sure,” he said. “I am the Guild Master.”

He took another bite and added, “I’m only the Guild Master on paper anyway. You just wanted someone else to deal with the annoying stuff.”

“That’s not…” Ludger started.

“You absolutely did,” Arslan cut in calmly. “Reports, negotiations, complaints, nobles asking for favors, guild politics. You dumped all of that on me.”

Ludger paused, then continued eating. “…You’re good at it.”

Arslan smiled faintly. “Exactly.”

Viola snorted. “So what does real Guild Master Ludger want to do with the labyrinth?”

Ludger chewed, swallowed, and leaned back slightly in his chair.

“You are the real guild master. I will help with the transition in the area it is located,” he said. “We secure it properly. Rotate teams. Use it for training and resources. Still, you are the one who needs to decide the big things.”

Arslan nodded, approving. “No grand announcement?”

“No,” Ludger replied. “Let people forget about it for a bit.”

That earned him a few thoughtful looks.

After a few moments of silence, Ludger spoke again.

“I was thinking,” he said, tone even, deliberate. “For the new labyrinth branch.”

Arslan looked up from his plate.

“Harold. Selene. Cor. Aleia,” Ludger continued. “They could lead it. They are our oldest members and they had been with us through a lot, they deserve that.”

The table stilled just a little.

Ludger didn’t push. “I’m not sure if you agree,” he added. “That’s why I’m bringing it up.”

Arslan leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, eyes unfocusing as he thought. Those names weren’t random.

They were his people. His closest friends. Companions who’d fought beside him, bled with him. Twenty years of shared work, shared failures, shared victories. The kind of bonds that didn’t weaken with time, they simply settled deeper.

The new labyrinth wouldn’t be far. A day’s travel at most using Ludger’s underground tunnels. But it would still be distance. Not just in miles.

In responsibility. In separation. In the quiet understanding that things wouldn’t be quite the same afterward. Arslan exhaled slowly.

“They’re capable,” he said at last. “No question about that.”

His gaze drifted to the table, to the people gathered there, then back to Ludger. “But once they’re there, it won’t be temporary. That branch becomes theirs. And that changes things.”

Ludger nodded. He’d expected that answer. Arslan uncrossed his arms and picked up his fork again, though he didn’t eat right away. “I’ll think about it,” he said. Not a dismissal.

Not agreement. A promise. And Ludger accepted it for what it was.

The twins went back to eating, satisfied with the lack of drama. Elaine watched Ludger quietly, noting the difference, still serious, still carrying weight, but no longer bristling against it.

Dinner continued.

Plans would come later. Decisions would stack up soon enough.

For now, the guild had won. The family was together. And Ludger, for the first time in days, felt like the path ahead was difficult, but clear.

In the end, they stayed in the capital a few days longer.

Not to negotiate. Not to train. Just… to breathe.

They rested, walked the streets, shared meals, and let the tension drain out slowly instead of snapping back into motion the moment the arena fell quiet. It also gave them time to make sure nothing else would surface, no sudden challenges, no political stunts, no desperate last plays from guilds that had already lost.

Nothing did.

Ludger didn’t reach out to Hroth again.

Part of him suspected the man wanted movement, wanted Ludger to shake things, force reactions, expose enemies hiding too close to home. But Ludger wasn’t interested in playing that game while every eye in the capital was still pointed in his direction.

Not while his family was here. Not while his friends were nearby. Big moves could wait.

When the time came to leave, the departure itself turned into a spectacle.

Wagons rolled through the streets in steady lines. Carriages bearing the Lionsguard crest followed behind them, guards walking alongside with calm, professional discipline. People gathered to watch, some curious, some wary, some openly impressed.

Whispers followed in their wake.

From the window of one of the carriages, Ludger watched it all pass by.

He rested his chin on his hand, eyes half-lidded as buildings slid past, the capital slowly giving way to broader streets and open roads. The city looked the same as ever, grand, busy, layered with history and ambition, but to him, it felt different now. Like a place that had noticed him. And wasn’t done yet.

Ludger exhaled quietly.

What will you bring me next? he wondered.

The capital didn’t answer. But he had the distinct feeling it eventually would.

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