Ludger exhaled slowly. If he expelled them, it would look like fear, or guilt. If he did nothing, the situation remained contained… for now.

The truth was uncomfortable in its simplicity. The guild’s openness had helped it grow strong enough to survive this problem. And at the same time, it was the reason the problem could exist here at all. Ludger reached his door and paused, hand resting on the wood.

So forcing an answer won’t help, he thought. And pretending this isn’t happening won’t either.

That left only one option. Adapt around it. Not by closing the guild. Not by breaking its principles. But by becoming good enough, careful enough, that even something like this couldn’t turn Lionsguard into a weakness.

He stepped inside, already planning how to make that true. Ludger let out a quiet sigh as he resumed walking, the sound more tired than frustrated. For now, their presence was a net positive.

They brought froststeel in steadily. They didn’t stir trouble. They didn’t draw attention. If anything, they raised the guild’s overall output while demanding very little in return. As long as they stayed disciplined and quiet, they strengthened the Lionsguard in ways that were difficult to argue against.

That didn’t mean it would stay that way.

Anything tied to imperial blood eventually became a nuisance. Not because of the person involved, but because of everyone else who cared about what that blood represented. Influence had a way of leaking outward, no matter how carefully it was contained.

Ludger didn’t know yet what he would do if that happened.

He didn’t know whether he would confront them directly, tighten oversight, or shift them somewhere less visible. Maybe he wouldn’t act against them at all. Maybe circumstances would force his hand before he ever made a conscious decision.

Speculation didn’t help. What mattered was preparation.

As long as Lionsguard kept improving, numbers, quality, discipline, resilience, then any future complication would have to contend with a guild that was stronger than it had been the day before. A guild that couldn’t be dismissed, coerced, or quietly dismantled.

That was the only constant he trusted. Work as usual. Train harder. Plan deeper.

Ludger reached his home and stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Whatever tomorrow brought, he would meet it the same way he always had. By making sure the ground under Lionsguard’s feet kept getting harder to shake.

Ludger decided to do things properly this time.

No intermediaries. No borrowed leverage. No relying on Torvares’ shadow to smooth over problems that should have been handled at the root.

If Lionsguard and Lionfang were going to survive what was coming, thrive, even, then he would become their influence personally. Not as a symbol alone, but as a system that was difficult to undermine from any angle.

If even the Empire wanted to push back against his goals, it would have to do so openly, expensively, and at political cost. That was the line he intended to build.

He had some ideas, like using Economic Gravity… Make the Guild Too Useful to Disrupt

The first and most reliable form of influence was money, but not in the crude sense of hoarded gold. Ludger understood that economic gravity

mattered more than wealth.

By stabilizing froststeel production, controlling quality standards, and ensuring reliable output from the labyrinths, Lionsguard could become a keystone supplier rather than just another producer. That meant long-term contracts instead of spot sales. Predictable supply instead of spikes. Dependence instead of convenience.

Once caravans, smithies, and military suppliers planned their operations around Lionsguard output, interference would ripple outward. Any attempt to pressure the guild would affect dozens of unrelated parties—none of whom would appreciate being collateral damage.

The goal wasn’t profit. It was entanglement.

Another thing, Ludger had no intention of challenging imperial authority directly. Instead, he would lean into neutrality.

Lionsguard would provide services to anyone who met its terms: escorting, delving, infrastructure repair, monster suppression. No ideology. No slogans. No banners beyond their own. This wasn’t weakness, it was insulation.

Political factions fought each other. Neutral institutions survived them.

By consistently refusing exclusive deals and visibly rejecting partisan alignment, Lionsguard would become the kind of organization that everyone complained about, but no one could reasonably accuse of betrayal.

That reputation took time. But once earned, it was difficult to strip away.

At the same time, most people focused on armies.

Ludger focused on roads, storage, water access, fortifications, and emergency response.

By investing guild labor into improving Lionfang’s infrastructure, reinforcing walls, stabilizing trade routes, maintaining waystations, he could turn the city into a logistical node instead of a frontier afterthought.

When merchants preferred Lionfang’s routes. When refugees fled toward it instead of away.

When military columns relied on its supplies during crises… Then removing Lionsguard influence wouldn’t just be unpopular.

It would be impractical. Infrastructure didn’t argue. It persisted.

Ludger kept writing his thoughts and thought of another one. Numbers mattered, but quality mattered more.

Ludger’s training programs weren’t designed to create disposable fighters. They produced disciplined, adaptable individuals with transferable skills, combatants who could also lead, organize, teach, and rebuild.

That created a problem for any authority that tried to suppress them. You could kill soldiers.

You couldn’t easily replace competent organizers who were embedded in communities, respected by civilians, and capable of keeping things running under pressure.

The more Lionsguard alumni spread outward, working caravans, guarding towns, training locals, the harder it became to paint the guild as a rogue element.

It would look less like a faction. And more like a foundation.

One of Ludger’s mistakes had been outsourcing intelligence. He wouldn’t repeat it.

Instead, he would cultivate horizontal information flow, reports from traders, delvers, instructors, and allied settlements. Not secrets. Patterns. Trends. Small signals that, when combined, painted a clearer picture than any single informant could provide.

No single choke point. No single keeper of truth.

If someone tried to manipulate Lionsguard through silence or misdirection, they would have to suppress hundreds of small observations instead of one messenger. That wasn’t realistic.

The hardest part. Ludger needed Lionsguard to be predictable in its ethics. Not kind. Not soft. Consistent.

Clear rules. Clear consequences. Visible fairness. When the guild acted, people needed to understand why, even if they didn’t like it. That kind of reputation didn’t protect you from enemies. It made enemies hesitate.

Because once moral consistency was established, any move against Lionsguard would have to justify itself publicly. Quiet removals. Framed accusations. Convenient crackdowns. All of those became harder when the target had a record that didn’t match the narrative.

Finally, Ludger accepted the part he’d been avoiding. He couldn’t hide behind the guild forever.

If he became indispensable, not just as a fighter, but as a planner, builder, and stabilizing force, then removing him wouldn’t solve anything. It would make problems worse. The Empire could tolerate powerful individuals.

What it struggled with were linchpins. Ludger intended to become one. He reached the end of the thought and felt something settle into place. This path was slower. More exhausting. Less dramatic than conquest or coercion. But it was resilient.

And if he did it right, if he raised Lionsguard and Lionfang together instead of using one to shield the other. Then even the Empire would have to think twice before pushing against his goals. Not because it feared him. But because it couldn’t afford the consequences.

Ludger thought about freedom as he walked through the guildhall.

Letting people choose their own jobs, work at their own pace, decide how hard they wanted to push themselves, that had always been one of Lionsguard’s strengths. No forced paths. No rigid molds. People stayed because they wanted to be there, not because they were trapped.

He wasn’t about to take that away. But freedom didn’t equal direction.

If he wanted things to move forward at a meaningful speed, he couldn’t rely on chance alignment. He would have to work with that freedom, not against it. Not by ordering people into place, but by shaping plans that made sense to follow.

Plans that people could look at and think, yes, that’s worth my time.

That realization had guided his next steps.

He’d started by quietly selecting trainees who showed the best control with Healing Touch. Not the strongest output, but the cleanest application. The ones who didn’t panic when something went wrong, who adjusted instead of freezing. He didn’t frame it as a promotion or a special unit. Just extra training. Extra responsibility.

Then he went outside the guild’s walls.

Nearby villages. Small towns. Places that didn’t see organized healers unless disaster struck. Ludger bought herbs in bulk, paid fair prices, sometimes more than fair. He listened while he did, what injuries lingered, how often help arrived too late, which routes were hardest to travel in winter.

Patterns emerged quickly. Gaps no one bothered to fill. As he carried the herbs back toward Lionfang, the shape of the plan settled in his mind. He didn’t need to force anyone to join it.

If Lionsguard became the group that arrived early, with trained healers, supplies, and structure, then participation would follow naturally. Towns would start expecting them. Merchants would plan around them. Local authorities would rely on them without ever needing to be asked.

That was influence. Not imposed. Earned.

Ludger stacked the herbs in storage and moved on to the next task, already thinking several steps ahead. If he did this right, freedom wouldn’t slow the guild down. It would carry it forward.

Ludger moved to the fields just outside Lionfang’s walls and got to work.

Earth answered him without resistance.

He smoothed the ground with precision, peeling away stones, breaking compacted soil, shaping shallow channels so water would settle where it was needed instead of running off uselessly. The field widened, leveled, and softened under his control until it was fit for cultivation rather than foot traffic or tents.

Only then did he bring out the herbs.

Roots, bulbs, cuttings, each placed with care instead of haste. Spaced properly. Aligned with the soil’s natural flow rather than fighting it. This wasn’t about forcing growth. It was about not getting in the way.

Once everything was planted, Ludger stepped back and exhaled slowly. Then he switched disciplines.

Plant Growth.

Mana sank into the soil, encouraging expansion without distortion. Roots spread deeper, stronger, anchoring themselves as if they’d been there for weeks already.

Nature’s Breath.

The air shifted. Moisture lingered. The faint scent of green life thickened as leaves unfurled and stems straightened, drawing in what they needed instead of competing for it.

Life Bloom.

That was the final push.

Vitality surged, not violently, but insistently. Shoots rose. Leaves broadened. Flowers budded and opened in accelerated succession. What should have taken months unfolded in hours, growth multiplied tenfold without crossing into instability.

Ludger watched closely, ready to intervene if something warped or burned out. It didn’t. The herbs stabilized, healthy and potent, their life force dense but controlled.

Good, he thought.

This was sustainable.

He wiped his hands on his pants and looked over the field one last time, already thinking ahead. Doing this himself worked, but it wasn’t the point. If Lionsguard was going to scale, he couldn’t be the one maintaining everything personally. 

The next step was obvious. Select people with the right temperament. Teach them Plant Growth, Nature’s Breath, Life Bloom. Let them handle the fields while he focused elsewhere. Decentralize without losing quality.

That was how this became infrastructure instead of a trick. Ludger turned back toward Lionfang, satisfied for now. One field at a time. One system at a time. And soon enough, this wouldn’t just support the guild. It would anchor it.

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