Ludger stopped a few steps short of the forge entrance and turned back.

“You can use the guild quarters,” he said evenly. No authority in his voice—no need for it. “Beds, food, water. Stay as long as you need.”

Sivra inclined her head slightly, wings folding closer to her back. She looked relieved, though she hid it well.

Raukor and Harkun just stared at him.

“If you’re staying,” Ludger continued, tone flattening, “you don’t pick fights. You don’t threaten anyone. You don’t start trouble—verbal or otherwise.”

The words weren’t sharp. They didn’t need to be.

Raukor grunted.

Harkun grunted at the exact same moment.

Same pitch. Same rhythm. Same restrained irritation.

Message received.

Ludger let his gaze linger on them for a heartbeat longer, long enough to make it clear he’d noticed. Long enough to make it clear he didn’t care—yet.

“I’ll talk to you,” he added, already turning away, “about why you’re really here. Not today.”

No objections. No thanks. Just weighty silence and the faint crackle of forge heat behind him.

He walked off toward the guild without waiting for a response.

One day, Ludger thought, steps steady on the stone road. Just one day without something annoying happening.

He hadn’t even unpacked properly. He hadn’t reviewed the guild ledgers. He hadn’t spoken to Arslan about the second labyrinth, or checked Morale’s feedback after being away this long.

And already—

Beastmen envoys. Primal Grove politics. Hidden agendas parked right next to his forge.

He exhaled through his nose.

It was strange how normal it felt.

A few years ago, this would’ve set his nerves on edge. Unknown actors with unclear motives inside his territory would have kept him awake. Now it just slotted itself neatly into the growing pile of things to deal with later.

That realization bothered him more than the beastmen did.

He dismantled crime networks, forced political concessions, and redirected entire factions—and still expected a quiet return home. As if upheaval didn’t leave ripples. As if the world was supposed to wait while he rested.

That’s not how this works, he admitted silently.

Leadership didn’t pause. Power didn’t pause. Consequences certainly didn’t.

He reached the guild doors and slowed, hand resting briefly on the wood.

No day off. No clean breaks.

Just work that followed him home.

And the unsettling thought that, somewhere along the way, he’d stopped finding that abnormal.

Ludger headed straight for the guild.

The moment he stepped into the training yard, he felt it.

Eyes.

Too many of them. Lingering. Tracking. Not the sharp, evaluative looks he was used to—but something else. Curiosity. Awe. Poorly concealed excitement.

Tch.

The trainees had formed loose clusters, weapons half-lowered, drills forgotten. As one, their attention snapped fully onto him.

Like he was… something.

A story.

A rumor that had walked off the page.

So they’d heard.

The capital arena. The matches. The outcome.

Ludger resisted the urge to sigh.

Of all the reactions he could tolerate—fear, respect, even resentment—this one irritated him the most.

Celebrity.

He kept his face neutral and his pace unhurried, stopping at the edge of the yard. No announcement. No theatrics. Just presence.

“That’s enough staring,” he said calmly.

A few of them straightened instantly. Others flushed and looked away, embarrassed.

“The next tests are tomorrow,” Ludger continued, voice even. “Same standards as before. No adjustments.”

That caught their attention properly.

“Some of you will pass,” he added. “Some of you will graduate and become full recruits of the Lionsguard.”

The yard went silent.

“Those who don’t,” he finished, “will know exactly why.”

No promises. No encouragement. Just facts.

He gave a short nod. “Dismissed for today.”

For a heartbeat, none of them moved—then discipline snapped back into place. Salutes, acknowledgments, hurried packing. The yard emptied fast, buzzing with restrained energy.

Ludger turned away before any of them could try to speak to him.

Good, he thought. Focus on that. Not me.

He made his way deeper into the guildhall, boots echoing faintly against stone, and headed for Yvar’s workspace.

Aronia was already there when he arrived, calm as ever, seated with a cup of tea that had gone untouched. Yvar stood over a spread of papers and rune-marked slates, already mid-problem before Ludger even spoke.

“You’re back earlier than expected,” Yvar said without looking up.

“And you brought attention with you,” Aronia added mildly, eyes lifting to meet Ludger’s. No judgment. Just observation.

Ludger exhaled and closed the door behind him.

“Let’s get started,” he said. “Before anything else decides to happen today.”

Ludger leaned against the edge of the table, arms folding as he listened.

“Nothing major happened while I was gone,” Yvar said, tapping one of the slates with a stylus. “Trade stayed steady. No internal disputes worth noting. The northerners broke two stools and paid for three.”

Aronia nodded. “No casualties. No mana incidents. Morale stayed… stable.”

That aligned with what Ludger had expected. Good management. Good people.

“Only change,” Yvar continued, finally looking up, “is the arrival of three beastmen.”

Ludger gave a slight nod. “They’ll be using the guild quarters. Temporarily.”

Aronia’s expression didn’t shift, but her eyes sharpened a fraction. “Intent?”

“Unclear,” Ludger said. “They claim Primal Grove backing. I’ll confirm that myself.”

Yvar grimaced faintly. “That’s what concerns me.”

He set the stylus down and turned one of the slates so Ludger could see the notes already forming.

“The Empire has minimal contact with beastmen,” Yvar said. “Officially, relations are… undefined. Unofficially, most people lump them together with foreign powers and hostile borders.”

Ludger already knew where this was going.

“If word spreads,” Yvar continued, “people will talk. And not quietly. A young guild master hosting beastmen, right after embarrassing major factions in the capital?”

He shook his head. “Some will say you’re negotiating with outside powers. Others will claim you’re building leverage for yourself rather than the Empire.”

“And the worst ones,” Aronia added calmly, “will say you’re being used.”

Ludger’s jaw tightened slightly.

“Working with other countries. Selling influence. Preparing an exit,” Yvar listed. “None of it needs to be true to stick.”

Silence stretched for a moment.

“They won’t cause trouble,” Ludger said finally. “I made that clear.”

“I believe you,” Yvar replied. “Rumors don’t.”

Aronia folded her hands. “Then the question isn’t whether the beastmen are dangerous,” she said softly. “It’s whether their presence can be justified before it’s explained.”

Ludger stared at the slate, at the branching lines Yvar had already started mapping.

So that was the cost this time.

Not blood. Not combat.

Perception.

“Keep it quiet,” Ludger said. “Limit who knows they’re here. No public meetings. No visibility.”

Yvar nodded immediately. “Already planned.”

Ludger straightened, expression settling back into calm neutrality.

Every move creates another angle to attack, he thought.

And this time, the blade wasn’t aimed at his throat—but at his name.

Eventually, Ludger left the guild.

The sun was already sinking, casting long shadows across Lionfang’s streets as he walked. The town was alive in that quiet, end-of-day way—people heading home, shutters closing, the distant clang of Raukor’s forge carrying on the air.

His thoughts didn’t slow.

They didn’t come here by accident.

Three beastmen, backed by the Primal Groves, arriving right after the capital incident. Help offered. Information promised. That kind of thing was never free.

But it didn’t have to be one-sided either.

They wanted access. Protection. A foothold.

He could give that—on his terms.

Used properly, they weren’t liabilities. They were leverage. Proof that Lionsguard wasn’t just a frontier guild swinging swords and clearing dungeons, but something broader. Connected. Relevant beyond the Empire’s usual borders.

The trick was making that visible without making it threatening.

And that brought him to the second problem.

My image.

Right now, most people saw him as a fighter first and everything else second. A prodigy. A walking disaster wrapped in politeness. Useful in a crisis—uncomfortable everywhere else.

That reputation had carried him far. Too far, maybe.

It attracted challengers. Enemies. Opportunists. And it made every decision look like a power play, even when it wasn’t.

If he wanted the guild to last, he needed to be more than the blade at its center.

Teacher. Organizer. Stabilizer.

Symbol.

His hand brushed the edge of his cloak as he walked, and his thoughts drifted—inevitably—to the newest weight on his shoulders.

Guild Master.

The job wasn’t about command. Or strength. Or even authority.

It was about alignment.

People moving in the same direction without being pushed.

Trust that held when he wasn’t there to enforce it.

If there were answers to how he should use the beastmen—and how he should reshape how others saw him—they wouldn’t come from fighting harder.

They’d come from understanding what the job actually demanded of him.

Ludger stopped in front of his home and looked up at the door.

No day off.

But maybe, finally, a direction.

He stepped inside, already planning the next move.

The next morning, Ludger ran the test.

Same structure as always. Physical trials first. Endurance. Control. Decision-making under pressure. No surprises—by design. He didn’t want excuses. He wanted to see who showed up when it mattered.

As usual, motivations split cleanly.

Some of them wanted to join the guild. They watched the veterans with a kind of hungry focus, already picturing themselves in Lionsguard colors.

Others just wanted a name on paper. Proof of competence so they could find work elsewhere. Caravans. Town guards. Independent delvers.

A few were honest enough to admit they planned to go home.

Ludger respected that more than false ambition.

When it was over, he scanned the yard out of habit.

The number of trainees hadn’t dropped.

If anything, it had grown.

So more came while I was gone, he noted.

Word traveled fast. Capital rumors traveled faster.

He set the thought aside. Overthinking it wouldn’t help, and the reasons didn’t really matter. People came. People left. The guild endured.

He turned his attention to the next step—organizing the follow-up training for those who’d passed.

That was when movement on the edge of the yard caught his eye.

The half-northern kid shifted his stance.

Not dramatically. Not incorrectly. Just… deliberately. Feet wider. Weight lowered. Spine aligned to absorb impact instead of deflecting it.

It wasn’t something he’d been taught here.

Ludger stopped.

An idea clicked into place.

“New recruits,” he said, voice carrying without effort. “All of you.”

Those who’d passed straightened immediately, stepping forward. No chatter. No confusion. They could feel it—something different.

Ludger raised one hand.

The ground in front of him responded.

Earth surged upward in clean, rectangular slabs. Six of them. Smooth surfaces. Sharp edges. Mana compressed, layered, hardened until the blocks carried the dull sheen of worked iron.

A few recruits swallowed.

Ludger didn’t look at their reactions.

“State your name,” he said, lifting the first block.

One by one, they did.

As each name was spoken, Ludger’s fingers traced across the block’s surface. Mana sank in, precise and controlled. Letters formed as if carved by an invisible chisel—deep, permanent, impossible to erase without breaking the block itself.

He handed each slab over when he was done.

Heavy. Solid. Real.

“This is yours,” Ludger said. “You earned it.”

They took them carefully, expressions shifting as the weight settled into their arms.

“This isn’t a symbol,” he continued. “It’s a reminder. You’re not trainees anymore. You’re recruits. What you do from here on reflects on the guild—and on each other.”

His gaze swept across them, pausing briefly on the half-northern kid.

“Training resumes shortly,” Ludger finished. “Don’t get comfortable.”

No cheers. No speeches.

Just acknowledgment.

As they moved to comply, Ludger turned away, already adjusting the next session in his head.

Different backgrounds, he thought. Different strengths.

Good.

If he was going to build something that lasted, it wouldn’t be made from identical pieces.

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