The trip to their estate near Koa City took four days. They didn’t waste time—changing horses at every outpost, eating on the move, sleeping only when the animals needed rest. The urgency pushed them like a whip at their backs.

The march north didn’t last long for everyone. Near the crossroads leading toward Koa City, the column slowed, and banners shifted as orders were relayed down the line.

Lord Torvares rode to the front, his voice booming as he divided the household. The bulk of the forces would press on toward the border, while a smaller escort would break away with Arslan and Ludger.

“You’ll take the boy home,” Lord Torvares said, his tone brooking no argument. “The battlefield is no place for him. Elaine would flay us all alive if we dragged him further. While I can’t deny that having him as a healer would be useful…”

Arslan just chuckled, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his nerves. “She’ll still try.”

So they split. Viola remained with the march, grinning like a wolf despite her protests, while Ludger and his father peeled away, riding hard for home.

By the time the familiar walls of their estate rose on the horizon, Ludger’s body ached, his mind dulled from the endless road. But the moment they passed through the gates, all that slipped away.

Because Elaine was waiting.

She stood in the courtyard like a storm given flesh, her dark hair whipping in the wind, her eyes blazing the second she caught sight of her son.

“Ludger!”

He barely had time to brace before she was on him. Her arms wrapped around him like iron bands, squeezing the air from his lungs. Something cracked in his chest, and he wheezed through his teeth, eyes watering.

“Alive,” she whispered fiercely, burying her face in his hair. “My little boy is alive.”

Arslan winced, scratching his jaw. “Careful, Elaine. You’re breaking him.”

“I’ll break anyone who dares take him from me again,” she shot back without loosening her grip.

Ludger groaned, ribs screaming in protest. Some things never change.

But for the first time since the tournament had ended, he felt the tension in his chest ease. Elaine was alive. Home was still standing. For now, that was enough.

The reunion didn’t last long.

After a single night under his own roof, Arslan was already strapping on his gear again, grinning as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Elaine’s fury was volcanic—she tore into him with threats, and the kind of venom that could peel paint from the walls. But even she couldn’t cage him. Not this time.

“War’s calling, Elaine,” Arslan said, adjusting his sword. “If I don’t answer, who else will keep those idiots alive?”

“If you die…” she hissed, her hands clenched white around the doorframe. “I will make you regret dying…”

“And better me than the boy.” His grin sharpened, a rare moment of seriousness flashing in his eyes as he glanced at Ludger. “I’ll keep the storm up north, far from here.”

And then he was gone, vanishing down the road with nothing but a laugh tossed over his shoulder.

Elaine fumed for hours afterward, her aura prickling like barbed wire. Ludger stayed close, not out of choice, but because he knew she needed him. Until she finally collapsed into a chair and pulled him against her with that same bone-crushing force as before.

“You’ll stay here,” she whispered fiercely, her eyes still sharp with unshed fire. “With me. Safe.”

Ludger sighed against her shoulder. Calm her down. Keep her steady. That’s my job now.

And so the days began to slip back into their strange routine. Training in secret when she wasn’t watching. Healing her temper with quiet words and his presence when she was. Pretending the world outside wasn’t on fire while war brewed further north.

For now, Ludger was anchored here, in his mother’s orbit. And though part of him itched to follow the labyrinth’s call, another part knew—if he left her side, Elaine’s storm would shake more than just their household.

After a few days under Elaine’s watchful shadow, Ludger slipped back into old habits. He returned to the city, hoping to pick up the healer’s work that had once filled his coin purse.

But the streets weren’t the same.

The adventurers’ guild was half-empty, its usual rowdy noise reduced to a murmur. Most of the parties he knew by face—loud drinkers, careless braggarts, even the cautious veterans—had already marched north, drawn by coin, contracts, or simply the promise of battle.

The clerks behind the counter barely glanced up as he entered, their ledgers thin and their expressions harried. “No requests,” one said when Ludger asked. “Not here. Everyone who could fight went north. Everyone who couldn’t is hiding at home.”

So much for easy coin.

Still, Ludger didn’t leave empty-handed. If there was no work to heal wounds, then there was information to stitch together. He lingered in taverns near the guild, listening to whispers between cups of watered ale. He spoke to merchants who had traveled from the border, their wagons lighter than usual. He even caught fragments of gossip from soldiers on leave, voices low as if the war might spill into the city itself if they spoke too loudly.

The story was always the same: The barbarians had struck fast, securing the labyrinth’s entrance with brutal efficiency. The empire was massing troops to push them back, but no one knew yet if the tribes would dig in or scatter.

Some claimed the enemy had shamans—warriors who could twist mana with crude, violent rites. Others swore the tribes had already begun exploring the labyrinth, looting it before the empire could send its first scouting teams.

Ludger sat with a cup untouched in front of him, his expression unreadable as he pieced the threads together.

So that’s the shape of it. A labyrinth at the heart of a battlefield. Everyone scrambling to grab a piece before the other side closes their hand around it.

It was exactly the kind of storm he wanted to be in—and exactly the kind of storm Elaine would never let him near.

Ludger didn’t bother taking the rumors home. Telling Elaine would only ignite her temper further, and she was already restless enough with Arslan gone. Better to let her believe the front was far away, that the war was only noise.

Instead, he used the empty days for himself.

When the sun rose, he played the obedient son—sharing meals with Elaine, helping with the house, listening as she vented about Arslan’s recklessness. But when night fell and her exhaustion finally dragged her to bed, Ludger slipped out into the courtyard or the woods beyond the estate.

There, in the quiet dark, he replayed the tournament in his head. Every strike, every parry, every mistake.

The spear thrust that nearly skewered him. The clash of steel against his armguards. The moment he’d poured his mana into his palms and sent a boy flying across the arena. The exhaustion that came too fast when he held back too long. Piece by piece, he broke it down.

He hardened his body—drilling punches and palm strikes against wooden posts until the vibrations no longer numbed his arms. He practiced channeling mana into his hands with precision, not letting it flare wild but focusing it into sharp, controlled bursts. He ran until his lungs burned, then forced himself to keep going, building stamina for the next time a fight dragged too long.

The nights blurred together into sweat and bruises. And slowly, his movements grew sharper. His breath steadier. His control over the glow in his palms more refined. The boy who had been seen as just a clever fighter in the tournament was now molding himself into something harder, something hidden beneath the quiet mask he wore at home.

While the empire marched north and the nobles fought over the labyrinth, Ludger was carving out his own path—one nobody else would see until it was too late.

Night after night, Ludger pushed himself further. The courtyard became his arena, the moon and the stars his only audience.

He started with drills—strikes, blocks, footwork—hammering them into his muscles until they no longer required thought. Each movement was sharp, clean, deliberate. Sweat poured from him, dripping onto the packed earth, but he didn’t stop.

When his arms burned, he shifted to his legs—kicks, pivots, sweeps. Then to acrobatics, forcing his small frame through rolls, flips, and handsprings until his lungs ached and his ribs screamed.

Every stumble was corrected. Every fall was repeated until it was flawless.

And then he layered mana on top of it.

The glow of his Overdrive bled through his veins, fueling his movements. Bursts of speed turned his drills into blurs. Each palm strike cracked the air, each spin cut sharper than the last. He threw himself into motion until the night itself seemed to warp around him.

Steam began to rise from his skin, ghostly wisps curling off his shoulders, his arms, his hair. Heat radiated from him, the proof of a body worked past its limits, yet still refusing to yield. His breath came out ragged, each exhale carrying a faint shimmer of mana in the cool night air.

By the time he finally stopped, the world around him was silent. His chest heaved, his shirt clung to him like a second skin, and steam still drifted upward as if his body had turned into a furnace.

Ludger wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression flat even as his legs trembled. Closer. Stronger. But not enough.

He looked at his glowing palms, the faint thrum still resonating through his bones. Never enough.

Once his body was burned to the edge of collapse, Ludger shifted focus. He sat cross-legged in the courtyard, eyes shut, feeling the steady pulse of his [Spiritual Core] beating like a second heart. The night air was cool against his sweat-slicked skin, but the mana thrummed hot inside him, restless, waiting.

He raised his hands, palms open.

Blue light flickered to life—first a faint spark, then a glow, then the crackling hum of condensed energy. One by one, he called forth his [Mana Bolts].

Two. Four. Six.

They hovered in the air around him, flickering orbs of light, each trembling with restrained power. He inhaled slowly, steadying his breath, and then pushed further.

Eight. Ten. Twelve.

The strain hit immediately. His temples pounded, his veins felt hot, but he forced control, teeth gritted. The bolts spun into formation, circling him like a miniature constellation. Their glow painted his face in shifting shades of blue.

With a sharp motion, he loosed them.

The bolts streaked outward in every direction, splitting the night with trails of light. They shot across the courtyard, slamming into wooden posts, scattering dirt, hissing through the branches of nearby trees. Some soared higher, flashing like tiny stars before bursting into nothing.

The air vibrated with the release, a low hum that rang in his bones. Ludger stood, watching the last few bolts arc out before fading into the dark.

Steam rose from his shoulders again, his breath ragged. But despite the exhaustion, there was a glint in his eyes.

Wider. Faster. Stronger. I can do more.

He flexed his fingers, sparks still clinging to his palms. Out there, armies were clashing over a labyrinth. But here, in the quiet dark, he was carving power for himself—bolt by bolt, night after night.

Weeks bled together with little change. The empire fought its war far to the north, but here in Koa City, life plodded along. No new jobs reached the guild, no urgent summons came from Torvares. The streets buzzed with rumors, but none of them shifted the weight of Ludger’s days.

So he trained.

Every night, he pushed his body until the strain threatened to snap him in two. But no matter how much steam poured off his skin, no matter how sharp his strikes became, there was a wall he couldn’t break: his body was still seven years old.

Two hours. That was the limit. Any longer, and his muscles screamed, his lungs burned, his joints ached with the kind of pain he knew would leave him crippled if he ignored it.

He sat one night in the courtyard, sweat dripping into the dirt, the glow of his palms dimming. Two hours. That’s all this body can give me right now. So what then?

Options circled in his head.

Get a new Job. Level it up. Something flexible, something I can grind while I’m stuck here.

His eyes narrowed, remembering how much even low-level abilities had shaped his progress. Every Job added another edge. And if he played it right, he could build himself up faster without needing to risk his life in a war.

Or…

His thoughts drifted north of the city, toward the area where the goblin dungeon lay. He hadn’t forgotten it—the stink of their blood, the crude weapons, the claustrophobic tunnels. The place was dangerous, but not beyond him anymore.

If I train my stamina first, run until I can circle Koa in a single breath, then I could be in and out of the dungeon in less than a day. Farm coin, push skills, grow stronger…

The idea had weight. Dangerous, yes, but possible.

He leaned back against the post, staring up at the night sky, the stars blurred through the haze of his breath. Another Job… or another dungeon. Either way, I can’t just sit here.

His fingers twitched, restless. The war wasn’t waiting for him, but strength never waited for anyone.

The next morning, Ludger rose before the sun and slipped out of the home while Elaine still slept. The streets of Koa were quiet at that hour, the air crisp and cool. Perfect for what he had in mind.

He started running.

Not a child’s jog, but a relentless push, forcing his legs to pump until the cobblestones blurred beneath him. His breaths came sharp, chest burning, but he didn’t slow. Around the walls, through the merchant quarter, across the bridges—he carved wide arcs around the city like he was mapping its borders with his own steps.

When he finally staggered to a halt, lungs heaving, sweat soaking his shirt, he grinned faintly through the exhaustion. Closer. If I keep this pace, I’ll be able to reach the goblin dungeon and return in a single day. That means training, coin, experience—all without anyone knowing.

The idea steadied him, even as his legs trembled.

But at home, another storm was brewing.

Elaine had grown sharper with every passing day. Arslan had been gone for weeks now, no letter, no message, not even a scrap of word from the front. For all his reckless charm, he usually found time to send something back.

This silence was different.

Ludger noticed the way her eyes lingered in the distance. He knew what that meant.

Elaine’s obsession had never been subtle. If she realized Arslan had died, she would prepare to drag him back from the dead by force, consequence be damned.

Ludger rubbed at his ribs where her last hug had cracked bone. If she goes through with it, she’ll tear the world apart just to bring him back. And if he’s alive, Father’s going to wish he wasn’t when she finds out he made her wait this long.

The thought made him sigh, half exasperated, half anxious. So he trained harder. He ran longer. He pushed until steam poured off his body again. Because the truth gnawed at him: whether in a dungeon or in his own home, chaos was waiting—and he’d need every bit of strength to survive it.

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