The tension in the room slowly eased after that, but the air wasn’t so heavy anymore. Torvares leaned back in his chair, Luna relaxed a bit, and Viola, finally exhaling, leaned an elbow against the armrest.

“So,” she said, her tone lighter now, “how are the twins? Still screaming like they’re possessed?”

Ludger gave a small smirk. “Causing plenty of work for my parents. Mostly my father—he’s still convinced you can intimidate babies into behaving.”

Luna snorted. Torvares chuckled under his breath.

“But,” Ludger added, straightening a little, “I’m the only one who can calm them down a hundred percent of the time.”

That got Viola’s eyebrows up. “Oh really?”

“Every single time,” Ludger said, dead serious but clearly proud. “Mother’s second best, but she admits she’s not great with them. Says it’s because I never made trouble when I was a baby.”

Viola snorted, unable to hold it in. “You? Not causing trouble? That’s the biggest lie I’ve heard all week.”

Ludger frowned mildly. “You think I was difficult?”

“I think you probably came out scowling and scheduling construction work,” she said, grinning. “Your poor mother never stood a chance.”

Even Torvares cracked a smile at that, while Luna covered a chuckle behind her hand. Ludger just sighed—the long-suffering kind—but didn’t deny it.

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But at least I’m good with the next generation.”

“That,” Viola said, still smiling, “is the only miracle I’ll believe in today.”

The laughter that followed wasn’t loud, but it filled the old room better than any fire could—brief warmth before the next storm inevitably found them.

Lord Torvares let the laughter fade before speaking again, his tone returning to something lighter but edged with curiosity.

“And what about Freyra?” he asked. “Will she be difficult to manage? The northerners don’t exactly have a reputation for taking orders.”

Ludger leaned back slightly, the hint of a smirk crossing his face. “I’ve had plenty of experience managing difficult kids—thanks to Viola—so it shouldn’t be much of an issue.”

Viola narrowed her eyes immediately. “Excuse me?”

“Freyra’s not that different from you,” Ludger continued, ignoring her. “Just imagine if you’d been raised in the north. Among dire wolves. With less impulse control.”

Torvares chuckled quietly. Luna chuckled a bit. Viola groaned, burying her face in her hands.

“So she’s as charming as the current Viola,” Ludger finished dryly.

Viola glared at him over her fingers. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Little bit,” he admitted.

Torvares’s grin widened, his amusement barely hidden. “Well, if she’s anything like my granddaughter, then at least she’ll be interesting. Difficult, but interesting.”

Ludger nodded. “That’s one word for it.”

The room filled with quiet chuckles again, the tension from earlier long gone. For a few moments, it almost felt like family instead of politics.

Once the talk wound down, Ludger decided to head back before night settled.

The path from the Torvares estate to Lionfang wasn’t long by horse, but he chose to run. It was good exercise—and it helped level his Courier job. Still, as his boots hit the dirt road in steady rhythm, he couldn’t help thinking it was a bit much. Running tens of kilometers just to deliver or receive information made sense in a world without proper communication magic, but it was starting to feel archaic.

The wind bit cold at his face, and his thoughts wandered. The image of the rune-grenade launchers came back to him—compact, precise, frighteningly efficient. That kind of craftsmanship required more than simple mana control; it meant someone had cracked the problem of stable mana transmission through sealed circuits.

“If they can make that,” he muttered under his breath, “why not something smaller? A way to talk across distance.”

Maybe it wasn’t impossible. With the right rune lattice—communication through sound or even thought—it could be done. A mana-based network, or message conduits keyed to specific frequencies. It would take absurd precision, but the concept wasn’t far from the launchers’ rune-link triggers.

He kicked up a small burst of dust as he ran, lips tightening in a half-smile. “A cellphone in a world like this,” he mused. “Now that’d make courier work boring.”

Then again, maybe somewhere out there—across the mountains, in one of those mage-ruled nations with deeper magical infrastructure—it already existed.

The thought lingered as Lionfang’s torchlights appeared ahead. The town was quiet, the walls steady, the night cold. Ludger slowed his pace, catching his breath, already running plans through his head. If no one else had built that kind of tool yet… maybe he would.

The next morning, Ludger found Yvar exactly where he always was—buried behind a wall of scrolls and ledgers, quill scratching fast enough to qualify as combat training. The man looked up as soon as Ludger stepped into the office of the guild.

“Welcome back, Vice Guildmaster,” Yvar said, voice clipped but genuinely pleased. “Nothing catastrophic happened while you were gone—unless you count Freyra’s people trying to turn the labyrinth into a brawl pit.”

Ludger raised a brow. “Define brawl pit.”

Yvar sighed. “Her underlings thought the frost skeletons were ‘too slow,’ so they tried dragging a few into the deeper zones. Got themselves boxed in by paladins. We had to pull them out before they joined the dead.”

“Anyone dead?”

“No, just bruised and terrified. Lesson learned—hopefully.”

Ludger leaned against the desk, quiet for a moment. His gaze drifted toward the window, unfocused. Yvar noticed immediately. “You’re thinking too hard. What’s bothering you this time?”

Ludger glanced back. “Something I discussed with Lord Torvares and Luna yesterday. We’re forming an information network—covert, small-scale. Luna suggested using a team of traveling healers to collect intel while disguised as medics.”

Yvar hummed, intrigued. “That’s new. And risky.”

“Everything worth doing is,” Ludger said simply. “Torvares agreed to find the right people. But I’m thinking ahead—how to make it sustainable.”

Yvar set his quill down. “Why not start nearby? Plenty of kids in the local villages looking for work beyond farming. Especially after the wars here—too many orphans with nowhere to go. Train them early, build loyalty.”

Ludger shook his head immediately. “No. That won’t work.”

“Why not?”

He crossed his arms, expression cooling into the tone Yvar recognized from strategy briefings. “Because I’m working with the northerners now. The guild’s mixed—imperial men and Kharnek’s warriors under the same banner. Given that they became orphans because of the northerners, they might cause trouble or try to infiltrate to make things complicated from inside.”

Yvar frowned slightly. “So you’d rather train from within the existing alliance?”

“Exactly,” Ludger said. “We use northerners, Lionsguard, and a few Torvares hands already trusted on both sides. Fewer people, but cleaner lines. No gossip. No suspicion.”

Yvar leaned back in his chair, considering. “Complicated.”

“Everything here is,” Ludger said dryly. “But I’ll take complicated over bleeding the alliance to death with politics.”

Yvar smirked faintly. “You’re starting to sound like Torvares.”

Ludger gave a small, humorless smile. “Then the old bull’s been a bad influence.”

Yvar watched Ludger as the boy left the office, the door clicking softly behind him. For a while, he just sat there, quill tapping absently against the table.

It was strange, he thought. Ludger had always been the type to stay clear of trouble—to observe from the edges, fix what was broken, and walk away before the flames spread. Yet the more problems that found him, the deeper he waded in. He didn’t just survive chaos; he organized it. Every time the frontier threw him a storm, Ludger tried to build a dam.

And the pattern worried Yvar. The kid couldn’t stop fixing things. He didn’t know how.

He looked down at the scattered reports—northerner integration, labyrinth runs, political movements, draught shipments—and sighed. “Muddier waters every week,” he murmured.

Pretending nothing was wrong wasn’t an option anymore. The Empire’s reach, the hidden trade networks, the fragile alliances—all of it demanded someone who could think three steps ahead. And somehow, that someone had ended up being a ten-year-old with too much mana and too little childhood.

Yvar rubbed his temples, exhaustion seeping into his voice. “He’s doing the right thing,” he muttered, “but gods, that’s too much work for a kid.”

Then he picked up his quill again. If Ludger insisted on diving into the mud, the least he could do was make sure there were fewer knives waiting under the surface.

About an hour later, Yvar found Arslan in the guild’s training yard, overseeing a few soldiers as they sparred. When the last pair finished, Arslan gave them a nod and turned toward Yvar, reading the look on the scholar’s face instantly.

“Something on your mind,” Arslan said.

Yvar hesitated, then sighed. “It’s Ludger.”

That earned no visible reaction—Arslan just crossed his arms, waiting. Yvar pressed on. “He’s taking on too much again. Every problem that lands near him, he tries to solve it. He’s building networks, juggling politics, managing both sides of the alliance—he’s ten, Arslan.”

The swordsman didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the practice grounds, on the blades catching light. Finally, he said, voice calm but firm, “That’s just how he is.”

Yvar frowned. “You’re not worried?”

“Of course I’m worried,” Arslan said, quiet now. “But telling him to stop wouldn’t change a thing. Ludger doesn’t move because he wants praise or power—he moves because someone has to. He’s too young for it, but that’s never stopped him before.”

He paused, rubbing a hand over his jaw, expression turning distant. “I’ve thought about telling him not to carry it all. To let me protect the family, to stop thinking so far ahead. But my sword only reaches so far, Yvar. It can’t cut through politics or spies or the Empire’s games. He sees that, and he fills the gap I can’t.”

Yvar looked down, voice low. “You could rein him in. Force him to rest, stay put for once.”

Arslan shook his head slowly. “That wouldn’t solve anything. It’d be easier, sure—keep him close, safe, small. But that’s just clipping his wings so I don’t have to worry about him flying too high.”

He gave a tired smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And that’s not protection. That’s just fear dressed as love.”

The two men stood there in silence for a while—the clang of steel echoing around them, the smell of dust and sweat filling the air. Both knew Ludger wasn’t slowing down anytime soon. And neither of them could decide whether that was admirable… or tragic.

Arslan’s expression softened a little, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll stop him when the time comes,” he said quietly. “If his choices start wearing him down too much, if I see him breaking under the weight—then I’ll step in. I won’t let him fall apart carrying all that alone.”

He crossed his arms, gaze drifting toward the open window and the distant rooftops of Lionfang. “He’s strong, but even stone cracks under its own pressure. When that happens, it’ll be my turn to carry the load for a while.”

For a few seconds, silence hung between him and Yvar. Then Arslan let out a short laugh, the sound dry but not unkind.

“Though honestly, the only thing that could wear Ludger down is his own sharp tongue. That boy could cut himself with it before anyone else gets close.”

Yvar couldn’t help but grin at that. “That’s one way to put it.”

Arslan chuckled again, shaking his head. “He got that from his mother, I swear. Is she hearing this somehow? I can feel her wrath…”

The laughter faded, replaced by a quieter determination in his eyes. “Still,” he added, voice steady again, “if the world tries to crush him, it’ll have to go through me first.”

And for all his humor, there was no doubt in Yvar’s mind—Arslan meant every word.

When Yvar finally left the training yard, the quiet that followed sat heavy on Arslan’s shoulders. He stood there for a moment, arms crossed, watching the dust settle where the recruits had been sparring earlier.

He could go home now—the day’s guild business was done, reports filed. Elaine would probably have dinner ready, the twins half-asleep by the time he arrived. The idea of a quiet evening was tempting.

But just as he turned to leave, he caught sight of a familiar group entering through the gate. The recruits—Ludger’s group—carrying a heavy burlap sack between them, the dull clink of metal inside giving it away. It would be a good idea to train them to make sure that Ludger’s burden would decrease.

Arslan paused. “Back from the labyrinth already?”

Rhea straightened up, wiping frost from her gauntlets. “Yes, sir. We brought the froststeel haul to deliver.”

She hefted the bag higher, and Arslan saw it bulge with shards—more than he expected. Thick, clean cuts of ore that shimmered faintly even in the afternoon light. He whistled low. “That’s a good day’s work.”

Taron rubbed the back of his neck. “ Captain, Ludger taught us a few tricks for dealing with the skeleton knights. Worked better than expected.”

Arslan walked over, taking the bag himself to test the weight. Solid. Heavy enough that his arms adjusted automatically. “You’ve all come a long way.”

The recruits exchanged glances, a mix of pride and exhaustion. Arslan smiled faintly—he saw the spark Ludger had been nurturing in them. Rough edges, sure, but real potential.

He could go home. Or he could make sure that spark didn’t fade.

“Hold on,” he said, setting the sack down. “Since you’re here, I might as well polish you a little more before Ludger gets the chance to scold you again. I will teach you one amazing technique called Overdrive.”

Rhea groaned softly. “Sir, with all respect—”

“Relax,” Arslan said with a smirk. “No shouting. Just a little training. You’ve proven you can fight frost skeletons. Now let’s see if you can fight properly.”

The recruits straightened instinctively. Arslan’s calm, commanding tone had that effect.

He gestured to the training ring, drawing his sword with a smooth motion. “Let’s see what the Vice Guildmaster’s prodigies have learned.”

The recruits glanced at each other, unsure what Arslan expected. Rhea scratched her cheek. “Uh… right now, sir?”

Arslan just nodded once, resting the flat of his sword on his shoulder. “Unless you’re saving your energy for bedtime stories.”

That got a nervous laugh. Eventually, Rhea stepped forward, squared her stance, and clenched her fists. A faint hum filled the air—mana condensing, limbs tightening with focus. Blue light rippled under her skin, subtle but controlled.

Arslan’s brows furrowed. “That’s… Overdrive?”

The others followed her lead. Taron ignited his right arm; a shimmer of mana pulsed faintly under the glove. Mira’s bow arm flexed, mana flowing steady and smooth. Even Derrin, had that focused look of someone channeling energy through every tendon.

Arslan lowered his sword slightly. “Where did you learn that?”

“Vice Guildmaster taught us,” Rhea said, almost proudly. “Said it’d help us stay alive longer.”

“Vice Guildmaster…” Arslan echoed, still processing. He blinked. “You mean Ludger?”

Taron nodded. “Yes, sir. He ran us through it a few nights ago. Said it’d take a few weeks to master, but we’re getting there.”

Arslan just stared for a moment. Less than two weeks. He hadn’t even known Ludger was teaching them Overdrive—let alone that they were this far along.

His son was too many steps ahead of him. Again.

Arslan exhaled, almost a laugh, half pride and half disbelief. “He taught you that in under two weeks.” He sheathed his sword slowly, shaking his head. “When I was your age, I could barely use mana at all.”

Rhea smiled sheepishly. “He’s a good teacher.”

“I’ll say,” Arslan muttered. “If he keeps this up, I’ll be the one asking him for lessons.”

He crossed his arms, still watching the faint glows fade from their limbs. Pride warmed his chest, but underneath it was something else—a quiet reminder that his son was growing into something far bigger than he’d ever planned for.

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