Ludger watched them for a few seconds longer, then spoke again.

“When you’re done,” he said, “take those to Yvar.”

The recruits froze for half a heartbeat, then nodded in unison.

“Tell him,” Ludger added, already turning away, “that the vice guild master told him to put them somewhere in the entrance hall.”

That earned a few confused looks, but no questions. They moved.

By the time Ludger reached Yvar’s office, the man was already rubbing his temples.

“I assume this is you,” Yvar said dryly, glancing at the stack of earth plates now occupying far too much of his table.

“Yes,” Ludger replied. “Temporary.”

Yvar picked one up, eyebrows lifting slightly at the weight and finish. “You do realize these could be used as improvised shields.”

“That’s a feature,” Ludger said flatly.

Yvar sighed. “Of course it is. At the entrance hall means…?”

“Not storage,” Ludger answered. “Somewhere visible, but not ceremonial.”

Yvar paused, then slowly nodded. “Understood.”

Ludger continued, “Also, ask a blacksmith to start forging proper plates. Bronze for new members. Silver later. Gold for senior guild members.”

Yvar looked up sharply. “All with names?”

“All with names,” Ludger confirmed. “Standardized size. Durable. No embellishments.”

“Not rank insignia,” Yvar said thoughtfully.

“No,” Ludger agreed. “Record.”

Yvar leaned back, studying the earthen slabs again, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “This is about identity, not reward.”

“It’s about belonging,” Ludger corrected. “And continuity.”

Another silence passed.

“I’ll handle it,” Yvar said at last.

Ludger nodded once and turned to leave.

As he stepped out, he heard Yvar mutter to himself, “Vice guild master, he says…”

Ludger didn’t react.

If people were going to talk about symbols anyway, he might as well decide which ones the guild carried.

Ludger had never liked ranks.

Not because they were useless, but because they were tempting.

Ranks promised order. Clarity. Control. And more often than not, they delivered something else entirely.

Problems.

Ranks created vertical thinking.

Once a structure existed, people stopped asking who was right and started asking who was higher. Decisions shifted upward. Initiative slowed. Responsibility leaked away from the hands that actually held the danger.

In a labyrinth, that got people killed.

Worse, ranks fed ego.

Strength already warped perspective. Add a title, and suddenly someone wasn’t just capable, they were entitled. Orders became suggestions. Criticism became insult. Teamwork became negotiation.

Ludger had seen it before. Groups that started sharp and lean, then drowned in their own importance. On Earth…

He refused to build that.

And yet… Not giving ranks had its own cost.

The guild wasn’t small anymore. Reputation alone no longer carried information. New members didn’t know who to follow when Ludger wasn’t present. Authority still existed, it just wasn’t visible, which meant it pooled in quiet, unhealthy places.

Invisible power was worse than formal power.

At least ranks could be seen. Questioned. Adjusted.

And then there was the job.

Guild Master.

Morale had made one thing painfully clear: people didn’t rally around orders. They rallied around identity. Around the sense that they belonged to something that recognized their effort and remembered it.

Not rewarded it.

Remembered it.

That was why Ludger didn’t announce titles. Didn’t define tiers. Didn’t hand out authority. He made plates.

Names carved into something heavy. Durable. Uncomfortable to carry. Impossible to fake.

Bronze to gold wasn’t a ladder. It wasn’t a promise. It was a record. Time spent standing when things went wrong.

You couldn’t argue your way to a better plate. You couldn’t demand one. You either stayed long enough, endured enough, or you didn’t.

That distinction mattered.

He was doing it now because the guild had crossed a line.

It was visible. Politically relevant. Watched.

The arrival of beastmen meant perception would sharpen, and chaos would be interpreted as intent. If Lionsguard didn’t define itself, others would do it for them.

And because Ludger himself had changed.

He wasn’t just the strongest person in the room anymore. He was the point of failure the guild would snap around if he disappeared.

Ranks, quiet, restrained, deliberately unglamorous, were how he anchored something that needed to outlast him.

In his mind, the rule was simple.

A rank wasn’t there to tell you how important you were.

It was there to show how much weight you’d already carried, and hadn’t dropped.

That was why he waited.

And that was why he finally started.

Ludger pushed the thought aside.

Details like that could wait.

If he was going to reinforce the idea of responsibility over status, then the real distinction for higher-ranked members wouldn’t be a louder title or a better seat. It would be expectation. And eventually, equipment.

Extra care on enchantments, he noted. Runic ones, most likely.

Not something flashy. Not something that screamed authority.

Something practical. Something that quietly demanded they stay alive longer than everyone else.

Later.

For now, there was work to do.

He turned back to the yard.

“Grab weapons,” Ludger said. His voice cut cleanly through the noise. “Pair up.”

The trainees moved immediately. Practice swords, spears, staves, wood and blunted steel came off the racks. Lines formed, then dissolved into pairs as people found partners by height, reach, or instinct.

No hesitation. No chatter.

Good.

Ludger stepped back, eyes tracking movement, posture, spacing. He didn’t correct yet. He let mistakes form first. Let patterns reveal themselves.

As they began, he reached inward and shifted his focus.

Job Equipped: Guild Master

The sensation was subtle. No surge of power. No dramatic feedback.

Just alignment.

He equipped the skill without a word.

Morale.

It spread quietly, threading through the yard like a low current. No one noticed it consciously. They just moved a little steadier. Recovered a little faster. Hesitated a little less after taking a hit. The kids practiced.

Steel rang. Wood cracked. Footwork scraped against packed earth. Sweat formed. Breathing deepened.

And the skill responded.

He felt it, not as numbers, but as pressure. As resonance. Dozens of small efforts overlapping. Shared strain. Shared focus.

Experience trickled in, steady and unbroken.

[Morale + 01 XP.]

[Morale + 01 XP.]

[Morale + 01 XP.]

[Morale + 01 XP.]

Almost a hundred of them.

Ludger watched as Morale drank it in.

This won’t take long, he thought.

Not because he was pushing them.

But because they were pushing themselves.

And that, more than any command, was exactly what the skill had been waiting for.

The change didn’t come all at once.

At first, it was just… easier.

Footwork that should have been sloppy held. Arms that should have been burning steadied instead of shaking. Blows landed a fraction harder than expected, knocking partners back half a step too far.

Then the yard started to notice.

Wooden swords cracked where they shouldn’t have. Not clean breaks, stress fractures spiderwebbing along the grain. Shields rattled violently on impact, vibrations traveling straight through arm and shoulder, making teeth clack.

A few trainees blinked in surprise when their partner staggered farther than planned.

Others frowned at their own hands, flexing their fingers as if checking whether something had changed.

They didn’t know why.

But they felt it.

Their base strength had been low. Raw. Unrefined. That made the difference impossible to miss. A small increase, layered across weak foundations, felt massive.

Ludger felt it too.

The pressure shifted. Settled.

[Morale has reached level 02.]

The skill locked in.

He stepped forward before excitement could spiral into carelessness.

“Focus,” Ludger said calmly.

His voice cut through the noise without needing to rise.

“This isn’t a reason to swing harder,” he continued. “It’s a reason to control your strength.”

Another crack sounded as a shield split down the center.

“Slow down,” Ludger added. “Adjust.”

The trainees obeyed immediately, breathing deeper, movements tightening as they tried to rein themselves in. Even then, the impacts carried more weight than before. Enough to make bones rattle. Enough to remind them that power without control was just another way to get injured.

Ludger watched closely.

No panic. No loss of discipline.

Good.

Morale had reached the point where it stopped being subtle. Where it crossed the threshold from support to force multiplier.

And this was exactly why it couldn’t be allowed to grow unchecked.

He let the training continue, eyes sharp, already planning the next adjustment.

Power had arrived.

Now it was his job to make sure it didn’t break the people it was meant to strengthen.

Ludger watched another wooden sword split down the middle and made a quiet mental note.

Metal trainers. No blades.

Wood wasn’t going to last at this rate, and more importantly—it wasn’t efficient. His repair skill treated metal like a conversation. Wood like an argument. Fixable, but slow, wasteful, and never quite the same afterward.

Better to switch materials.

He filed it away and kept observing.

The training didn’t stop.

If anything, it tightened.

Mistakes corrected themselves faster. Footwork sharpened. Pairings adjusted naturally as the trainees compensated for each other’s weaknesses without being told to do so. They were still rough—still weak by any serious standard—but they were moving together now.

That was the key.

The pressure built steadily instead of spiking.

Then it tipped.

The resonance surged, deep and clean.

[Morale has reached level 11. ]

[Guild Master ras reached level 05.]

Ludger felt the shift settle into place like a gear locking cleanly into its slot.

And then… Something new unfolded. Not force. Not weight.

Coordination.

New Skill Unlocked: Team Focus: Increases Dexterity of all guild members by +3 per skill level. Applies only during shared activity or coordinated effort

Ludger’s lips curved upward despite himself.

A smirk,small, fleeting, but real.

One hour, he thought.

No artificial grind. No tricks. Just people training together and relying on each other without realizing they were doing it.

At this rate…

I’ll max the job faster than expected.

The realization didn’t make him reckless. If anything, it sharpened his focus.

Rapid growth meant rapid responsibility.

He let the trainees continue, eyes tracking how Team Focus subtly altered timing—how reactions snapped tighter, how distance closed more cleanly, how pairs stopped colliding and started flowing.

Good.

Very good.

Power was coming faster than he’d planned.

Which meant he’d need to stay ahead of it.

As always.

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