Chapter 520

By the time they reached the port town, the sun had climbed high enough to burn off the last of the morning haze.

The docks were already alive, sailors shouting, carts rolling, fish stink and salt mixing into something that clung to clothes like a curse. The Lionsguard camp sat on the edge of it all under the cover story of “summer training,” but even from a distance Ludger could see the small movements that meant people were awake and watching.

And Rathen was there.

Waiting near the approach like he’d either been doing rounds… or someone had run ahead and whispered they’re back in exactly the kind of tone that made a man with responsibilities start walking quickly.

He spotted them immediately, three figures, a stone cart, a sealed earth container, and an air of

wrongness

that didn’t belong to any normal expedition.

Rathen stepped forward, brows drawn. “What happened?”

Ludger didn’t answer. He didn’t even slow.

He just kept pulling the cart down the packed road, stone wheels grinding, shoulders tight, expression carved into that annoyed calm that meant his temper had already been used up and replaced with something colder.

Rathen opened his mouth again… Then saw Ludger’s face properly.

Whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat. His gaze flicked once to the container, then to Viola, then to Luna, and he went quiet like a man who’d learned the hard way that some problems weren’t solved by demanding updates in the street.

Ludger passed him without so much as a nod and headed straight for the camp where the trainees were stationed.

Viola slowed just enough to stop beside Rathen. She kept her voice even, controlled.

“Don’t mind him,” she said, a little too casually to be casual. “He’s got a lot on his mind.”

Rathen’s eyes stayed on Ludger’s back as it receded. “Clearly.”

Viola drew a breath and met Rathen’s gaze. “I’ll explain. About Lucius.”

That got his full attention. “He’s alive?”

Viola nodded once. “Yes. But… it’s complicated.”

Rathen’s jaw tightened, the political side of him waking up. “Then start at the beginning.”

Viola glanced after Ludger for half a heartbeat, watching the way he marched toward responsibility like it was something he could strangle into obedience, then turned back.

“Alright,” she said. “But we should talk somewhere private.”

When Ludger reached the camp, the trainees were still at it.

Sweat, sand, bruises, routine violence dressed up as “training.” Spears in motion. Shields taking hits. Mages practicing controlled output instead of flailing. The kind of disciplined repetition that built real fighters instead of dead heroes.

A few of them noticed him first and straightened instinctively.

“Vice Guildmaster—”

Others followed, stopping mid-drill to greet him, eyes flicking to the stone cart and the sealed container like it was a new type of punishment.

Ludger lifted a hand.

“Continue,” he said.

The tone left no room for ceremony. No warm welcome. No “how was your trip.” Just an order that meant

keep improving while I’m gone.

They hesitated half a second, then snapped back into motion, because they’d learned. Some lessons were taught softly. Ludger didn’t teach softly.

He walked through the camp with measured steps, listening to breathing, footwork, impact timing. He didn’t interrupt unless something was dangerously wrong. Most of it wasn’t.

Good.

He paused near the edge of the drills and let his awareness dip inward, checking his Guildmaster skills, the quiet system feedback that tracked what mattered.

Name: Ludger

Level: 114 (2,450 / 11,400)

Current Job: Guild Master (Lv 40 – 620 / 4,000)

Current Class: Geomancer (Lv 134 – 1,300 / 13,400)

Health: 4.060 / 4.060

Mana: 23.680 / 23.680

Stamina: 5.550 / 5.550

Strength: 758

Dexterity: 945

Intelligence: 1899

Vitality: 406

Wisdom: 2368

Endurance: 555

Luck: 373

Classes & Skills

Berserker Lv 26 (+6 STR, +4 VIT, +2 END / level)

Skills: [Rage Flow Lv. 31]

[Blood Rush Lv. 11]

[Crimson Howl Lv. 11]

[Frenzy Guard Lv. 11]

[War Cry Lv. 11]

[Pain Tolerance Lv 05] - Decreases pain according to the level of the skill nullifying its damage equal to the level of the skill.

Runic Mage Lv 21

(+5 INT, +5 WIS, +5 DEX)

Skills: Wordweave Lv.31

Rune Echo Lv.21

Layered Rune Lv 12

Quick Rune Lv 01 -Increases speed when summoning runes.

Runic Engravement Lv 01- Improves quality of engraved runes.

Guild Master – Lv. 40 (All Parameters + 3 per level.)

Skills: Morale Lv. 25

Shared Insight Lv. 25

Collective Cognition

:

Lv. 25

Enduring Line Lv. 25

Shared Vitality Lv. 25

Fortunate Momentum Lv. 25

Shared Recovery Lv. 25 - Increases

Health Regeneration

of all guild members by

+10% per skill level

Shared Mana Regeneration Lv. 25 - Increases

Mana Regeneration

of all guild members by

+10% per skill level

Shared Stamina Regeneration

Lv. 25 - Increases

StaminaRegeneration

of all guild members by

+10% per skill level

The numbers told him what he wanted to hear. They’d been working hard.

The trainees’ discipline had risen. Coordination improved. Risk tolerance stabilized instead of spiking into stupidity. The guild’s overall readiness… climbed.

Ludger exhaled slowly.

Some of the tightness in his chest eased, just a fraction. Not because the problems were gone, but because at least one part of his world was doing what it was supposed to do. He looked up.

Beyond the camp and training yard, down toward the docks, his ship sat in the water, still half a skeleton of timber and rope, but visibly closer to being real. Men moved along its deck and around its hull, hammering, tying, checking lines. Final preparations.

His ship. His responsibility. His next risk.

Ludger raised his voice, not a shout, but loud enough to cut across drills and waves and idle chatter.

“We depart tomorrow.”

The camp’s rhythm stuttered for a moment. Heads turned. Eyes sharpened. Then drills resumed with a different edge, less routine, more intent.

Ludger’s gaze swept them once, cold and practical.

“Don’t drop your guard,” he added. “The sea is a dangerous place.”

He let the words sit for a heartbeat, then finished with the kind of blunt truth that kept people alive.

“One mistake and you’ll turn into sea monster food.”

No heroic speeches. No promises. Just reality, delivered clean.

And for the first time since leaving the other side, Ludger felt the stress shift into something he could use.

Preparation. Motion. Work. The only things that ever made the pressure bearable.

Ludger moved away from the camp and found the beastmen where he expected them, away from the trainees, away from the human noise, close enough to the docks that the salt air mixed with the smell of hot metal.

Raukor had claimed a corner like it belonged to him. A portable forge setup, anvil scarred from work, tools laid out in the neat, brutal order of someone who didn’t tolerate nonsense. The big lion beastman blacksmith was hammering a blade blank into shape with slow, heavy strikes, each hit deliberate, each rhythm controlled. The kind of forging that looked almost lazy until you noticed how perfect the angles were.

Nearby stood the three scouts of the Primal Groves: Harkun, Ragan, and Sivra.

They weren’t lounging. They were watching. One leaned against a tree with arms folded, eyes scanning the camp like he was counting exits. Another sat on a crate but held himself ready to spring. The last stood still enough to be mistaken for decoration, until you met her gaze and felt the quiet threat behind it.

Ludger approached without fanfare.

Raukor’s hammer didn’t pause.

The scouts’ eyes tracked him anyway.

Ludger stopped a few steps from the forge and let the heat roll over him. “Did they cause trouble while I was away?”

Raukor’s ears flicked. He kept hammering. After a moment, he shrugged, broad shoulders rolling like it was nothing.

“Trouble means different things,” Raukor rumbled. “To beastkin. To humans.”

Harkun’s mouth twitched faintly, like he found that amusing. Ragan didn’t react. Sivra’s gaze stayed on Ludger, sharp and assessing.

Ludger huffed once. “Fair.”

Raukor finally glanced up, just a brief look under heavy brow. “You found Lucius?”

“Yes,” Ludger said.

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t offer the story. Didn’t spill the mess.

Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “And a whole bunch of trouble as well.”

Raukor stared at him for half a second, then went back to his work like that was the most normal update in the world. He didn’t ask for details. He didn’t push.

He simply resumed forging, hammer striking metal with the same steady rhythm as before, as if “trouble” was just weather, unpleasant, expected, and not worth discussing unless it broke something important.

Ludger watched him for a moment longer, then shifted his gaze to the three scouts.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “We move.”

Their posture tightened a fraction. Not fear, focus.

Raukor’s hammer rang again, louder this time, sparks jumping into the air like brief, angry stars.

Ludger watched Raukor’s hammer fall a few more times before deciding he couldn’t just stand there.

He’d been simmering since the bridge, politics, Lucius, the Regent, Ironhand, the lake, the fact that the guardian

healed.

All of it pressed behind his ribs like trapped steam. Work was better than steam.

Raukor didn’t ask for help, but Ludger stepped closer to the forge, eyes tracking the whole process the way he tracked a battlefield, heat, timing, material state, waste.

Then his mind jumped back to the other side.

That underground lake hadn’t just been “mana-rich.” It had been stable. Consistent. Like the environment itself maintained an ideal condition without oscillation.

A source didn’t spike and crash. It held. That idea clicked into place with forging.

Most forges were messy. You overshot temperature, you compensated, you cursed, you quenched too fast, you warped the edge, you fixed it by brute force and pride. Even good smiths fought entropy every step of the way.

Runes could take entropy by the throat. Ludger exhaled, and began to write.

Not big, flashy runes. Small ones. Process runes. The kind you layered into workflow until the whole operation became…

quiet.

A faint geometric glow flashed under his fingers as the first rune locked.

Constant Fire.

He pressed the rune to the furnace frame and fed it with his mana.

The forge’s heat

settled.

Not cooler. Not hotter. Just… steady. The roar of the flame sounded the same, but the

feel

changed, less chaotic, more controlled, like the furnace had stopped arguing with itself.

Raukor’s hammer paused mid-air.

His ears angled forward. He stared at the furnace like it had betrayed him.

“What did you do,” he rumbled.

“Stopped it from being stupid,” Ludger said, already writing the next rune.

He moved to the quenching trough and etched another symbol into a flat stone plate, then slid it under the waterline.

Cold Balance.

The water’s surface smoothed. The little jittering currents that always danced around heat exchange… calmed.

Raukor frowned hard enough to crease his brow ridge. “Water is meant to bite.”

“It can bite evenly,” Ludger replied.

Then he started layering the “boring” runes, the ones that didn’t impress idiots but made experts go quiet.

Raukor’s eyes followed every stroke. Not interfering. Just… watching with the wary distrust of a craftsman seeing someone mess with sacred routine.

When Ludger finished, the forge area felt different. Sharper. Cleaner.

Like the entire process had been dragged one step closer to “manufacturing” instead of “art.” Still skill-dependent, still requiring judgment, but now the environment stopped sabotaging you.

Raukor lifted the blade blank, turned it, then shoved it back into the furnace.

The heat rune kept the heat perfect. No flare-ups. No dips. When he pulled it out, the metal color was

exactly

where it needed to be.

He hammered.

Raukor quenched.

The cold rune kept the bite consistent. No sudden warping. No angry hiss-spikes that meant uneven cooling.

Raukor stared at the piece for a long moment.

Then he looked at Ludger, expression unreadable.

“I don’t like runes telling my forge what to do,” he growled.

Ludger shrugged. “Then consider it your forge telling the runes what to do.”

Raukor’s frown deepened.

But he didn’t remove them.

He just resumed forging, hammer falling again, except now the rhythm was faster, cleaner, and slightly less angry.

And that, for Raukor, was basically applause.

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