Arslan leaned forward on his knees, his usual grin dulled into something heavier. “The border didn’t fall, but it was close. Too close.”

Selene and Aleia crossed their arms, their jaw tight. Harold just stared at the ground, unusually quiet. Cor polished his spectacles, though the motion looked more like a distraction than habit.

“The barbarians…” Arslan shook his head. “They don’t fight like us. No formations, no lines, no strategy worth a damn. Just raw muscle and a kind of madness that ignores fear and pain. You can cut one down and his brother will still charge through the blood, screaming like he’s already dead.”

Viola’s smugness vanished, replaced with wide eyes. Elaine, who had stepped into the courtyard quietly, clutched her shawl tighter.

Arslan gestured with one hand, voice steady but grim. “That lack of coordination should’ve been their weakness. Should’ve been easy to exploit. But when hundreds fight like wild animals, throwing themselves at you with no thought of retreat… even seasoned soldiers buckle under it.”

He looked over his shoulder at his companions. “We held thanks to Aronia. Her support magic kept us on our feet when we should’ve fallen. Wounds that would’ve taken weeks to heal, she closed in hours. She was the pillar holding the line when no one else could.”

Selene nodded once, curt but honest. “Without her, we wouldn’t be standing here.”

Harold grunted in agreement. “Aye. She’s still there. Said she couldn’t leave until the wounded could walk again. Stubborn druid.”

Ludger’s eyes narrowed. Arslan and the others looked battered but whole. But it wasn’t luck—it was because someone else was still bleeding herself dry on the battlefield.

“So you came back,” Ludger said flatly. “And she stayed.”

Arslan met his son’s eyes, the grin long gone. “She stayed. The war isn’t finished yet, Luds. Not by a long shot.”

The courtyard was silent, save for the faint sound of Viola shifting uneasily, the weight of those words pressing down on them all.

Arslan exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “We didn’t leave because we were tired. We left because we were ordered to. Directly from your grandfather.”

Viola blinked. “Grandfather? But he’s still at the border, isn’t he?”

Selene nodded stiffly. “He is. And he’s pushing hard. Too hard.”

Arslan leaned back against the steps, staring up at the courtyard sky. “The old man doesn’t just want to hold the line. He wants the war over. Months of fighting, and now he’s demanding a decisive push. Sending letters, barking orders, demanding reinforcements. He wants to crush it before winter.”

Ludger narrowed his eyes, voice cutting through. “Rushing a war that’s already been dragging for months? That’s not a good idea. Pressing harder when your troops are worn down just gets more of them killed.”

Arslan gave him a tired smile, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Hnh. You’re right. And the soldiers know it too. They grumble, but when Viola's grandfather gives an order, no one questions it. Not unless they want their heads cut off.”

He shrugged, though the gesture was heavy. “Even I don’t know why he’s so desperate to end it fast. Maybe he’s got word from the capital. Maybe he’s just impatient. Or maybe he’s trying to prove something before his enemies back home can use this war against him.”

Selene muttered under her breath, “Or maybe he knows something the rest of us don’t.”

Ludger’s smirk was thin, but his mind worked fast. If he’s rushing, he has a reason. And it’s not just pride.

The courtyard fell quiet again, the weight of Lord Torvares’ unseen hand pressing over them all.

Elaine’s embroidery slipped from her hands, the needle clattering against the stone. “Lord Torvares is still there? Pushing himself into battle at his age?” Her voice trembled with a mix of worry and anger. “Does he mean to throw his life away?”

Arslan winced, rubbing the back of his head. “Elaine, you know how he is. The old bull would rather die swinging a sword than sitting in a chair. He thinks it’s his duty to see it through.”

“That’s not duty,” Elaine snapped. “That’s stubbornness. He’s not young anymore—” Her voice faltered, her gaze flicking to Viola and Ludger. “And we’re not so helpless that he has to carry the world alone.”

Viola clenched her fists, torn between pride and unease. “Grandfather isn’t going to lose. He’s too strong. He’ll crush those savages.” But her words rang hollow, and even she seemed to hear it.

Ludger, meanwhile, leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing. His gaze slid across the courtyard to Luna, who stood just behind Viola as always. Calm. Still. Her face unreadable.

She knows something, he thought. She always knows more than she says.

But when his eyes lingered on her, Luna turned her head away, expression never breaking. Silent.

Ludger smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Of course. If she’s not talking, then it’s something I’ll have to drag out on my own.

The fire of Elaine’s worry filled the courtyard, but under it ran a colder current—questions, secrets, and a war that wasn’t nearly as simple as the stories being told at home.

Dinner was loud—Arslan booming about “real meat” compared to field rations, Harold demanding a third helping, Selene scolding him, Cor quietly sipping wine. Viola bragged about her “genius” training while Elaine hovered, fussing over her husband’s bruises.

But exhaustion weighed heavier than food. By the time the plates were cleared, Arslan slumped back in his chair and began snoring like thunder. His companions retreated to their rooms, grateful for silence. Elaine fussed over blankets. Viola pestered Luna about hair braiding.

Eventually, the house quieted.

Ludger waited until the hall went still before slipping from his room. He found Luna where he expected—by the window in the corridor, moonlight catching her pale profile. Always watchful, even here.

He crossed the floor without a sound, Silent Steps muffling his approach. She didn’t startle when he leaned against the wall beside her.

“You knew,” Ludger said flatly.

Luna didn’t look at him. Her gaze stayed on the courtyard below. “Knew what?”

“That Viola’s Grandfather’s rushing the war. That there’s more to it than orders from the capital. You went quiet earlier.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her hand brushed the curtain, fingers tightening slightly, then loosening. When she spoke, her tone was as calm as always. “Even if I did know something… would it change what’s happening at the border?”

Ludger smirked, though his eyes stayed sharp. “Maybe not. But it would change how I prepare.”

Silence stretched between them. For a moment, it seemed she wouldn’t reply at all. Then, finally, she exhaled through her nose. “Lord Torvares has reasons he hasn’t shared. Reasons I’m not at liberty to speak of. That is all.”

Ludger studied her profile, the slight tension at the corner of her jaw. She wasn’t lying. But she wasn’t giving him the full truth either.

He clicked his tongue softly. “Fine. Keep your secrets. Just don’t think I won’t find out myself.”

For the first time that night, her eyes flicked toward him, calm and steady. “I never doubted it.”

They stood in silence after that, two shadows in the moonlight, the weight of unspoken truths pressing between them.

Luna’s shoulders rose and fell with a quiet sigh, her calm mask slipping just enough to show the weight behind it. “The truth, then… The states near the border are bleeding strength. Men, coin, supplies. Every week of this war drains them further. And if they falter, if their soldiers break or their coffers run dry… the families ruling those territories will fall with them.”

Her eyes hardened, though her voice stayed level. “When that happens, the capital will swoop in. Titles and lands will be stripped from the border lords and gifted to others closer to the Emperor’s reach. Those who bled will be ruined. Those who stay safe will grow fat.”

Ludger rubbed at his temple, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Politics. Always politics.”

The pieces clicked together in his head—the urgency, the reckless push, the desperation to end it fast. Lord Torvares wasn’t just fighting barbarians. He was fighting the clock, fighting vultures waiting to pluck apart the border like carrion.

“So it’s not about winning the war,” Ludger muttered. “It’s about who gets to keep their chair when it’s over.”

Luna’s silence was confirmation enough.

He leaned back against the wall, smirk tugging bitterly at his lips. “And here I thought things were finally simple—kill the ones in the shadows, train, get stronger. But no. It always comes back to greedy bastards in tall chairs.”

Luna glanced at him, her expression unreadable, then back out the window. “That is the nature of power. Blood on the borders, politics in the courts. One feeds the other.”

Ludger snorted, running a hand through his hair. “Then I’d better make sure I don’t get eaten by either.”

Luna’s words lingered after she left, but Ludger wasn’t the type to brood for long. If politics was the game, then waiting around as a pawn was suicide.

Time to think long term.

He wasn’t anywhere near Lord Torvares’ level. The old man could command soldiers, swing whole states with a single order. Ludger was just a boy, with coin tricks and a system in his head. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t start. Influence wasn’t just banners and armies—it was roots. Quiet ones, dug deep before anyone noticed.

And he had just enough coin to plant the first one.

Twenty gold coins. Months of saving, schemes, and squeezing every copper until it bled. Enough to buy a tavern in the city. On the surface, a modest investment. In practice, a foothold.

Elaine had already agreed to oversee it, her protective instincts shifting neatly into management. Ludger almost smirked imagining her terrorizing lazy staff into shape. If she treated the tavern like her home, the place would run smoother than most noble kitchens.

He figured he could recover the cost in two years. Maybe one, if Elaine leaned into her natural efficiency. But the coin wasn’t the real prize. The real prize was within reach.

A tavern was a crossroads. Merchants, mercenaries, travelers—all of them passed through, all of them talking, drinking, spreading rumors. Information would flow through those walls like wine.

And Ludger planned to sweeten it further. He’d show up now and then, playing the part of the helpful boy with curious talents. Offer free healing spells to the right patrons—an aching shoulder here, a deep cut there. Not enough to make him stand out, just enough to make people remember.

Make them feel indebted. Make them think kindly of the family. When something happens, they’ll hesitate before turning against us.

He leaned back on his bed that night, hands folded behind his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

I might not have her grandfather’s armies or his authority. But I can build something of my own. Quietly. Sooner than anyone expects.

The next morning, Viola was busy swinging her sword under Arslan’s encouragement. Elaine watched from the porch as she got ready to move to the tavern, already scolding them both for making too much noise. Perfect cover.

Ludger slipped out with little more than a flask of water and his armguards strapped tight. His legs hummed with restless mana as he hit the streets, his pace picking up until the city gates shrank behind him.

Then he let Quickstride and Dash carry him.

The world blurred into a rhythm of pounding steps and sharp bursts of speed. He pushed through dirt roads, across rolling fields, past startled farmers who barely caught sight of a small figure vanishing in the distance. The wind whipped at his hair, his breathing heavy but controlled.

Six hours by horse, he thought, the memory of dusty caravans and slow escorts flashing in his mind. But horses pace themselves. I don’t need to.

Quickstride kept his strides efficient, conserving energy where his bursts left him gasping. Dash cut the distance in violent flashes, skipping minutes in heartbeats. Every time fatigue started to creep in, he forced himself into the rhythm again—burst, recover, burst.

The sun had barely shifted two fingers across the sky when the trees thickened, the air cooling. The faint, unnatural pressure pressed at his skin. The dungeon’s aura.

Ludger slowed, dropping into a steady jog, then finally stopped. He exhaled hard, hands on his knees, sweat dripping down his brow. His lungs burned, his calves ached, but his lips curled into a faint smirk.

He had made it.

Not in six hours. Not even close. Barely over one and a half. Faster than he’d dared expect.

Two hours? No. Less.

A long breath escaped him, part relief, part satisfaction. For the first time, the dungeon stood before him not as a distant challenge, but as something within his reach.

Steam drifted faintly off his skin, his body radiating the heat of overclocked muscles and burning mana. Ludger rolled his shoulders, sucking in deep gulps of the damp air that clung to the dungeon’s entrance.

His smirk thinned into a line. Too much burn. I reached it fast, but not fast enough. If I go inside like this, alone, I’ll just collapse halfway through a fight.

He straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his armguards. Every step had shaved minutes off the trip, but his legs trembled faintly from the strain. His body wasn’t ready to fight the dungeon and cover the return trip in one go. Not yet.

I need more stamina. More speed with less waste. Quickstride is working, but it’s still sloppy. If I want to make dungeon runs a habit, I need to get there fresh, not steaming like a roast pig.

He let his eyes linger on the dungeon gates a moment longer, the oppressive aura seeping out from the stone, before finally turning his back.

“I’ll be back soon,” he muttered under his breath. “When I can go in and walk out alive.”

The road stretched ahead, and this time he didn’t sprint. He set into a controlled pace, letting the rhythm carry him back toward the city. His breathing slowed, his mind already dissecting the run. Which bursts wasted too much mana. Where he should’ve cut corners tighter. How many sprints his legs could realistically endure before his lungs gave out.

The numbers weren’t good enough yet. But they would be.

By the time the city walls came into view again, Ludger’s body ached, but his grin returned.

Soon. Just a bit faster, a bit stronger. Then the dungeon won’t just be reachable—it’ll be mine.

By the time the city gates came back into view, Ludger had steadied his breathing and wiped most of the sweat from his face. He slipped through the streets with Silent Steps—not for stealth this time, but for subtlety. Moving like he belonged, blending into the crowd, so no one would think twice about a boy walking home.

The house walls loomed soon after. Ludger slid through the back entrance, careful to time his steps between the shuffle of servants. By the time he pushed open his door and dropped onto his bed, the house was alive with the same background noise as always—Elaine humming faintly in the kitchen, Arslan’s booming laugh shaking the walls, Viola shouting something about landing a clean hit.

No one had noticed he was gone. Ludger let out a slow breath, smirk tugging at his lips. Good. That’s how it should be. But as his calves twitched from the strain, another thought sparked in his head. He tapped his shin guards absently, the metal still warm from the run. What if I add weight?

Dash and Quickstride made him faster, but if he trained with heavier legs, every step without them would be even sharper. He imagined running the roads with weights strapped tight, each stride dragging like lead—then removing them and feeling his body fly.

His smirk widened. “Yeah… weighted training. Push harder now, move freer later.”

The idea settled in like iron. Tomorrow, he’d find a way to slip some lead or dense stone into the guards. If he was going to reach the dungeon and fight fresh, he needed more than speed. He needed endurance carved into his bones.

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