Chapter 191

The discussion ended there. There was no point in entertaining a deal with people tied to the Hakuen House—not when the Torvares family was both the Lionsguard’s main ally and political supporter. Accepting the offer would’ve been like spitting on that alliance.

Still, Ludger couldn’t help running the numbers in his head. Half the resources from a controlled labyrinth were nothing to scoff at. The money alone could fund expansions, fortifications, maybe even a proper academy wing for the guild. But the more he thought about it, the clearer it became that the job wasn’t worth the cost.

Even with his geomancy and efficiency, a project like that would take

months if not years, even if he worked himself to the bone

, if he couldn’t convince Gaius to lend his expertise. The logistics, the channels, the weight distribution across open ocean—all of it was a nightmare.

And that was assuming he even reached the south. The trip itself would take two weeks one way, at least. Two weeks away from Lionfang, from his family, from the twins. That alone was enough to make his decision for him.

He exhaled quietly, rubbing his shoulder where the old wound still throbbed faintly. “Guess I’m grounded for a while,” he muttered.

For the first time in a long time, he felt the

weight

of his position—how much the guild, the town, and even his family’s stability depended on him staying exactly where he was. Power and responsibility weren’t the same thing, but they sure came chained together.

Maybe that was the real price of the Lionsguard’s success—he’d built something strong enough that he couldn’t walk away from it, even if he wanted to.

Ludger threw himself into other work and let the whole southern bridge ordeal fade from his mind. There were always smaller fires to handle—recruit schedules, labyrinth runs, new trade paperwork, keeping the northerners from breaking more fences. The usual rhythm of Lionfang.

His mother, meanwhile, was still reading the

Healing Touch

manual. Every day, his system pinged him with a small pulsea of Teacher XP—steady, predictable, like a ticking clock—but the numbers didn’t grow fast enough for him to believe she was practicing much. Maybe she just skimmed a few pages before the twins started crying again.

Still, it worked. Progress was progress.

In the quiet hours of the evening, Ludger sat at his desk and began outlining the next set of manuals. If teaching magic really gave him experience, then there was no reason to stop. This time, though, he aimed lower—simple spells anyone could use.

Mana Bolt

for basic offense,

Tinder

for fire-starting, maybe

Mana Wall

if he could simplify the theory behind it.

Utility spells were easier to standardize. No emotion needed, no rare affinities—just mana control, steady focus, and clear visualization. Things that could be taught in writing, without supervision.

As he wrote, he muttered under his breath, “If I can get half the guild casting cantrips, we’ll save a fortune on supplies and healers.”

The pen scratched steadily across the paper, his messy handwriting looping into crude diagrams. Not elegant, but effective—like everything else he built.

Things changed three days after the visit from the other guildmaster.

Ludger noticed it the moment he stepped out of the house that morning—the road leading into Lionfang was busy, and not in the usual, market-day kind of way. A carriage was approaching from the southern route, flanked by a small escort of armored guards riding under polished banners.

The crimson flags caught the sunlight first, and then he saw it—the red bull crest.

His steps slowed. That was House Torvares’s emblem.

Torvares didn’t send carriages for casual visits. When the old bull or his granddaughter wanted to communicate with the Lionsguard, they did it through sealed couriers, never through a public arrival like this. The fact that a personal carriage was rolling into Lionfang meant only one thing—something serious had happened.

Ludger exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing as the carriage drew closer, its heavy wheels kicking up dust.

“Great,” he muttered under his breath. “This can’t be good.”

He could already guess the possibilities—political fallout from the southern offer, border trouble, or something worse. But either way, if Lord Torvares or Viola had come all the way out here in person, the calm stretch of the last few days was about to end.

When the carriage finally rolled to a stop in front of the guild, nearly everyone had gathered at the entrance. Word spread fast in Lionfang—

House Torvares’s carriage

was the kind of news that traveled faster than fire.

Ludger stood near the front steps, alongside his father, Yvar, and several guild members, as the door of the carriage opened.

Lord Torvares emerged first, dignified as ever despite the long journey. His posture alone carried authority; even the guards nearby seemed to straighten subconsciously. The old bull’s sharp eyes swept across the gathered crowd, noting everything with quiet calculation.

Behind him came Viola, her stride confident and familiar, her expression halfway between irritation and resolve—clearly not a social visit.

Then came Luna, stepping down silently from the carriage, her white uniform immaculate, her eyes scanning the surroundings with professional precision. To anyone else, she looked like Viola’s maid—dutiful, composed, and unassuming. But Ludger knew better.

He’d seen how Luna moved before—a stillness that came from training, the kind that only people who lived by the sword ever mastered. She was Viola’s shadow, her blade in disguise. It made Ludger wonder, not for the first time,

where

she’d trained. Or

when.

After all, Viola wasn’t helpless herself. She could duel, lead, and fight with the kind of instinct most nobles never learned. So why did she need someone like Luna watching over her?

Ludger kept those questions to himself as the visitors approached. Whatever had brought them here in person, it wasn’t just business. Something heavier lingered in the air—an undercurrent that made even the chatter of the guild fall silent.

Arslan stepped forward as the carriage door closed behind the visitors. His tone carried the formality of his rank, but the warmth of familiarity.

“Lord Torvares, Lady Viola,” he said, bowing slightly, “welcome back to Lionfang. The Lionsguard is honored by your visit.”

Lord Torvares waved a hand dismissively, his expression relaxed but his eyes sharp as ever. “No need for ceremony, Arslan. You know I dislike wasting breath on titles when there’s work to be done.”

His gaze swept the small crowd gathered near the steps, landing briefly on Ludger before returning to the Guildmaster. “Still, I appreciate the respect. It speaks well of your men.”

Arslan inclined his head. “Then we’ll save the formalities for the ledgers.”

A faint grin tugged at the corner of Torvares’s mouth. “Good. Because we didn’t come for pleasantries.”

The air shifted as his tone turned heavier. Viola crossed her arms, her earlier confidence giving way to restrained irritation, and Luna’s eyes flicked subtly between every guard within reach.

Torvares continued, “We need to talk about your recent visitor—the one from the southern guild.”

The murmur of the gathered Lionsguard died instantly. Ludger’s jaw tightened slightly; he’d guessed this would be the reason for the visit, but hearing it confirmed made the situation feel that much heavier.

Arslan gave a short nod. “Then let’s discuss it inside.”

“Agreed,” Torvares said, straightening his coat as he stepped toward the guild doors. “It seems the south has decided to test how much trouble our little border town can handle.”

They were just about to head inside when the peace shattered—two booming voices echoed from down the street, overlapping like a tavern brawl in progress.

Ludger didn’t even need to look. He sighed, dragged a hand down his face, and muttered, “Of course.”

The rest of the guild turned just in time to see Kharnek and Freyra marching toward them, drawing stares like a pair of misplaced war drums. The northern chieftain was grinning as usual, while his daughter trailed behind him, arms crossed, looking like she’d just lost another argument between their fists.

When Kharnek spotted the gathering by the guild doors, he raised a broad hand in greeting. “Ah! Torvares! How have you been, old bull?”

The guards tensed automatically—one did not just

shout

greetings at a noble lord—but Torvares only chuckled under his breath.

“Arslan,” he said dryly, “forget the formalities. They don’t exist for him anyway.”

Arslan exhaled through his nose, biting back a smile. “Understood.”

Kharnek came to a stop beside them, giving Torvares a hearty clap on the shoulder that nearly made one of the guards reach for his sword. “Good to see you standing strong. Didn’t expect to find your herd this far north.”

Torvares took it in stride. “Age hasn’t dulled your volume, I see.”

“Wouldn’t want it to,” Kharnek grinned. “So—what’s the reason for the fancy carriage and the serious faces?”

Torvares glanced toward the guild doors, then back at him. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he said calmly. “If you’re curious, you may as well join us inside. It concerns the south, and I suspect you’ll want to hear more.”

Kharnek’s grin widened, sharp and eager. “The south, huh? Then I

definitely

want to hear this.”

Freyra just groaned, muttering something about her father never knowing when to stay quiet, as the whole group finally stepped into the guild together.

As the group began filing into the guild, another sort of tension sparked quietly at the edge of the scene.

Viola and Freyra had locked eyes—neither speaking, neither smiling. It wasn’t outright hostility, but something sharper, quieter. Like two wolves circling each other’s presence, testing the air.

They didn’t know each other, yet there was a strange recognition there. Maybe it was the way both carried themselves—chin up, shoulders squared, confidence radiating from a mix of pride and defiance. Two young women who’d grown up surrounded by warriors and learned to fight their own battles rather than be protected.

Ludger caught the look and felt the faintest pang of dread.

Fantastic,

he thought dryly.

Two of the same kind. This won’t end well someday.

Still, neither of them said anything. The silence between them wasn’t the kind that led to fists; it was a quiet acknowledgment. Maybe, in their own way, they realized they were cut from the same cloth—just dyed in different colors.

With a final glance, they both turned away and followed the others inside, their footsteps measured but heavy enough to make Ludger wonder if the guild’s floorboards would survive future “friendly discussions.”

Though the group was larger than usual, they all ended up in Arslan’s office—the only space big enough to hold them and secure enough for the kind of talk they were about to have. No one wanted this conversation overheard by wandering guild members or curious northerners.

Once everyone was inside, Ludger quietly raised a hand and let his mana flow. The earth in the walls thickened and hardened, layering into sound-dampening strata. The faint hum of magic settled through the room as the air grew heavier—any sound from inside would stay there.

When he was done, Lord Torvares gave him an approving nod before turning toward the others. His voice was calm, but his words carried weight.

“Before we begin,” he said, “I owe both of you—Arslan, Ludger—an apology.”

Both father and son frowned, sharing a brief glance. Arslan was the first to speak. “Apology? That’s a rare thing coming from you, sir. What for?”

Torvares exhaled through his nose, expression grave. “Because the guildmaster from the south—the same one who visited you three days ago—also came to see

me

two days later. And he wasn’t alone.”

Ludger straightened slightly, already sensing where this was going.

Torvares continued, “He brought along the heir of the Hakuen family.”

That drew a sharp silence. Even Kharnek’s usual grin faltered.

Slowly, every head turned toward Viola.

She didn’t meet their eyes. Instead, she crossed her arms and looked away, jaw tight. A faint flush touched her cheeks—part embarrassment, part frustration.

Luna, ever the composed shadow beside her, kept her gaze fixed on the floor.

Torvares’s voice softened, though only slightly. “They came to make a formal proposal—to ‘smooth over’ past incidents and reopen negotiations.”

Ludger rubbed his temple, already dreading where this was headed. “Let me guess,” he muttered. “By past incidents, they meant the one where their heir left bleeding from the nose.”

Viola groaned quietly. “

It was an accident,

” she said under her breath.

“Of course it was,” Torvares said dryly. “You accidentally rearranged a noble’s face. Now, they’re pretending to forgive us… and I’m pretending to believe them. You accidentally made your fingers land on his face with plenty of weight behind them. Well, the past is the past.”

The room stayed silent for a moment longer. No one needed to say it—this wasn’t just about a bridge anymore. It was politics. The kind that always came wearing polite smiles and hidden knives.

Torvares leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. “There’s another detail you should hear,” he said, his tone measured. “When the southern guildmaster visited me, he wasn’t the only one with rehearsed manners. The young heir of House Hakuen—Lucius Hakuen—bowed to Viola and asked for her forgiveness.”

That drew several raised brows.

Arslan’s voice was skeptical. “Forgiveness? He’s the one who got his face remodeled.”

Torvares nodded. “Exactly. And yet, he was the one apologizing. Said he’d instigated her first, that his behavior back then was shameful. He played it all perfectly — humble, repentant, almost charming.”

Ludger could already feel the angle forming. “And I’m guessing there was a follow-up?”

“Yes.” Torvares’s tone grew dry. “After his apology, he extended an invitation—to his fifteenth birthday celebration, one month from now.”

The room went quiet for a beat.

Kharnek snorted. “So the pup got punched once and decided he liked the taste?”

Viola groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Don’t start.”

But Ludger’s mind was already turning. A noble heir groveling publicly and then inviting her south—right after the bridge offer, right after their attempt to recruit him? The timing wasn't a coincidence.

The pieces were falling into place, and none of them looked good.

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