Sarion sat in silence, the word echoing in his mind like a solemn oath.
Revengers.
A fitting name. Harsh, simple, and filled with grief.
Revenge against the Black Tower, he thought, gripping his knees without realizing it. Klein—no, the Shadow Assassin—he lost his wife and unborn child to them… that pain, that fury… it makes sense. But...
His gaze dropped, unfocused, lost in thought.
What about Jon? He was kind to me—so calm, so gentle. He didn't seem like someone fueled by vengeance... but maybe he hides it well.
Leif, my teacher... he didn't say much. But even he—could he also have been scarred by them?
Then, a new face entered his thoughts.
The Silver Sword... Big Sis Nin. She's a legend, someone strong enough to smile like nothing could ever hurt her. But people like that... they always carry the deepest scars, don't they?
His mind drifted finally to the cloaked old man. That piercing gaze, the way he looked at Sarion—as if he could see right through him.
And him. That old man... Was he, too, marked by the Black Tower? Did they take something from him as well?
Sarion's fists clenched tighter.
This wasn't just a group of strong people living in secret. It was something else entirely.
This was a gathering of the wounded. Of those who had lost everything. Of those who couldn't let go.
And now... maybe he was one of them.
Sarion slowly looked up at Mell, the flickering fire behind her casting a soft glow on her serious face.
"…Are you part of it?" he asked, his voice low, cautious.
Mell nodded, her smile fading into something firmer. "Yeah," she said. "I am."
She took a step closer, her eyes locked onto his. "And so are you now."
Sarion blinked. "What…?"
But Mell didn't let him question it. Her expression turned solemn—no more teasing, no soft edges.
"You're one of us, Ion. Whether you like it or not. You lost your family. You survived. You made it here." Her voice grew sharper, more mature than he'd ever heard it before. "That's enough. You're already one of us."
She crossed her arms and tilted her head.
"But being part of the Revengers isn't just about joining some secret club. It's about facing the truth. It's about training. Every day. Nonstop. Bleeding, struggling, growing."
Her gaze hardened. "You're young. But that doesn't matter. The Black Tower didn't care about your age when they took your sister. We don't care either—not because we're cruel… but because we can't afford to."
She let the words hang for a second, heavy in the air.
"If you want to get strong," she said, "if you want revenge... then you'll have to give it everything."
Without hesitation, Sarion nodded. Just once. Firm and full of resolve.
No words were needed. That one nod said everything.
Mell stared at him for a beat longer, and then—finally—her expression softened.
Not a smirk. Not a mischievous grin. But a real, honest smile.
It was the same smile she gave when she looked at Klein earlier in the backyard—quiet, gentle, almost vulnerable. The kind of smile that didn't need words to be felt.
She let out a small sigh, brushing her bangs aside as if trying to hide the emotion from showing too much.
"…You're not half bad, Ion," she mumbled, glancing away.
It wasn't a grand declaration. It wasn't even really praise.
But from Mell… it meant a lot.
Sarion caught the shift in her tone, in her stance. And though she was clearly trying to downplay it—typical Mell—he knew she meant it.
He smiled, just a little, and didn't say anything.
No teasing. No clever remark.
He just nodded, accepting it for what it was.
And somehow, that silent exchange said more than anything else could've.
Mell cleared her throat, pushing that fleeting softness back behind her usual cool demeanor. "Alright," she said, voice steadier now. "Let's get back to explaining things."
Sarion nodded and stood quietly, his hands behind his back, attentive.
"You already know the old man's the only Arts User here," she began. "But he's also a Fighter. A terrifying one."
Sarion nodded again. He remembered that part—she had mentioned it just before her story veered into pain and fire and the name Revengers.
"The rest? Fighters," she continued. "All of them. Even me."
She crossed her arms. "But there's one I always skip over."
Sarion tilted his head slightly. He already knew who she meant.
"Jon," she said. "He's not an Arts User. Not a Fighter either."
Sarion blinked. His brows furrowed.
Not an Arts User? Not a Fighter?
Then what was he?
His mind flickered back to the towering man with the kind voice and powerful build. His sheer presence. That wide, calm smile that somehow didn't fit the man's form. That deep, weathered gaze. His strength was obvious. But if it wasn't the Arts… and not fighting…
A thought crept in.
A Disaster?
Sarion tensed.
No. No, it couldn't be.
Jon wasn't a Disaster. He couldn't be.
Right?
He found himself staring at the ground for a moment longer than he meant to, then slowly shook his head. No, Mell wouldn't let someone dangerous like that near her. Or near Klein.
Still…
He looked back at her, curiosity lighting his expression as he waited for her to explain more.
But Mell didn't answer his unspoken question.
Instead, she asked, "What do you know about the Eastern Empire?"
Sarion blinked. "The Eastern Empire?" he repeated, confused for a second—until Jon's face flashed in his mind. His sharp, slanted eyes. The unmistakable look of someone from the East.
Sarion's eyes narrowed slightly, gears turning.
"It's one of the three biggest empires in the world," he said slowly. "A major power. A rival of the Great Empire. It's located in Thantanos, the westernmost continent."
He paused for a moment, lips tugging downward in thought.
"Even though it's called the Eastern Empire… it's actually the farthest west you can go."
He frowned. "I never understood why it's called that."
Mell raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. She just watched him.
Sarion folded his arms. He didn't like being tested, but he could tell this wasn't about facts. This was about something else.
Something personal.
His gaze drifted again toward the thought of Jon.
Was there something more to him? Something tied to the Empire itself?
And why ask now?
Mell leaned back slightly, crossing her arms as she spoke.
"People from the Eastern Empire don't practice Arts," she said. "They are Fighters… but not the same kind as me or Big Bro Klein. Not like Big Sis Nin or the others either."
Her tone dropped a little, more thoughtful now. "That's why no one ever really calls them Fighters."
Sarion tilted his head, brow furrowing. "Then what are they?"
She glanced at him, and there was a small, smug glint in her eye.
"They use something else to fight," she said, voice lowering like she was revealing a secret passed down in whispers. "Something called Monster Pills."
Sarion blinked. "Monster… pills?"
He tried to picture it—a tiny pill somehow used to fight—and his nose scrunched in confusion. The name itself didn't even make sense. Pills made from monsters? Or for monsters?
"What… what does that even mean?" he asked, frowning.
Mell smirked, clearly pleased that he was clueless. It was the tiniest shift in her expression, but for her, it might as well have been a whole laugh.
"You really don't know a single thing about it, huh, Ion?"
He stayed quiet, a little embarrassed, but mostly curious. No teasing came from him. Just that serious, intent look again—the one that told her he was listening.
Mell looked forward, eyes focusing somewhere far beyond the walls of the cottage.
"Well then," she murmured, "guess I'll have to teach you."
Mell leaned forward slightly, her voice taking on a more serious, almost reverent tone.
"There's a forest near the Eastern Empire," she said. "A dangerous one. Not like the Haunted Forest we have here in Rosendar… but still massive. Still deadly."
Sarion stayed silent, listening closely.
"It's not just the size or the danger," Mell continued. "It's the monsters. They're… different. Different from anything else in the world."
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she spoke, focused on the memory. "You know how most monsters are, right? They're just… beasts. Dangerous, yeah. But once you kill them, maybe you get something—fur, horns, sometimes crystals if they're in a dungeon."
Sarion nodded.
"These ones?" She shook her head. "The monsters in that forest… they drop pills."
He blinked. "Pills? Like actual—?"
"Yes. Pills." Mell's voice was firm, cutting him off gently. "Not all of them drop them when they die. But they have them. Every one of those monsters has a pill inside their body. And if you know how—if you've been trained—you can extract it, even if it doesn't drop on its own."
Sarion's eyes widened slightly, the idea forming slowly in his head.
"That's how they fight," she said. "That's what makes them different."
She didn't sound awed or frightened by the idea—just matter-of-fact. Like this was knowledge she had carried for a long time.
Mell didn't give him time to ask more questions before continuing.
"These pills," she said, "They're not just strange little items. They contain abilities inside them. Powers. And once someone consumes a pill, they can use the ability it holds to fight."
Sarion's brows furrowed slightly in awe. "So it's like… Arts?"
"Not quite. It's not Arts. It's something else entirely." She waved a hand, dismissing the comparison. "But yeah, the effect can look just as crazy."
She folded her arms, shifting her weight to one hip. "The thing is, these pills have ranks. Just like monsters do. A Rank 1 monster drops a Rank 1 pill. A Rank 3 monster, Rank 3 pill. You get the idea."
"And let me guess," Sarion murmured, "you can't just eat a higher-ranked pill than your own level?"
"Exactly." She nodded. "If a Rank 1 tries to consume a Rank 3 pill, something bad might happen. Could cripple their body. Could kill them. The limit is always the same—your rank or one rank above. That's it."
He gulped slightly at the thought.
"There are a bunch of other rules and limitations around those pills," she added, rolling her eyes slightly. "But I'm not interested in them right now. If you want to know more, you can always ask Jon."
"Jon uses the pills?" Sarion asked quietly.
Mell nodded. "Yeah. He's a Rank 4. And he fights using Monster Pills. That's why he's not a Fighter, and not an Arts User either."
She paused before finishing, "People who use Monster Pills to fight… they're called Masters."
A thought sparked in Sarion's mind. He leaned forward a little, curiosity sharpening his gaze.
"If those monsters only show up near the Eastern Empire… then why doesn't anyone try to take them? Or take control of the forest?"
Mell gave a light chuckle, the kind that hinted at amusement and pity all at once. "Oh, many have tried. Still are, actually. But the Eastern Empire doesn't just sit back and let them."
She placed her hand on her hip, smirking. "They consider that forest—and the monsters inside it—a national treasure. Their greatest weapon, maybe. They guard it with everything they've got."
Sarion nodded slowly, but the question still lingered in his eyes. She noticed.
"But here's the thing," she added, "Most people don't bother fighting them for it. Becoming a Fighter or an Arts User? That's way more appealing to most people. Less risky, more freedom, more support. And besides—"
She tapped her temple. "—Fighters and Arts Users are better researched. We know how they work, how to train them. Monster Pills, though? They're… messy. Unpredictable. Limited."
"Limited?" Sarion echoed.
"Yeah. You get one ability per pill. Some can be strong, sure, but they're fixed. You don't grow with them like you can with your own skill or arts. So unless you're from the Eastern Empire, most folks just shrug and stick to what they know."
She gave a small sigh. "Not like anyone's ready to start a war with the Eastern Empire over some pills."
Sarion stayed quiet for a moment, his brows furrowed in thought. The whole concept of Monster Pills—it was fascinating, strange… and dangerous. But before he could ask more, Mell let out a soft huff through her nose.
"What, no more questions?" she asked, smirking slightly.
Sarion blinked and looked at her. "I have a lot more, I just… don't want to annoy you."
Mell gave a short laugh. "You've got a long way to go if you think that's enough to annoy me."
He glanced away with a small, awkward smile, not sure if that was a good or bad thing.
Mell tilted her head. "You're more polite than I expected, Ion."
"Is that a good thing?"
"...Let's just say you're not the worst I've met."
He nodded slowly, not knowing how to respond to that. She turned away, but he noticed a faint smile tugging at her lips again—one of the rare real ones, like earlier when she'd seen Klein.
Just then, a voice rang out from outside, warm and steady.
"Lunch is ready. You two, come help set the table!" Jon called.
Sarion stood up quickly, relieved for the break. Mell stretched her arms overhead and sighed.
"Well, duty calls."
They headed toward the dinning room, where Jon was already placing bowls of soup onto the table, his sleeves rolled up. He glanced over as they stepped in.
"You're both just in time. Grab the spoons and plates from the counter."
Sarion nodded and moved quickly to help. Mell walked past him without a word and picked up the tray of bread.
"Everyone else still out?" Sarion asked as he placed the plates.
"They'll be back soon," Jon replied. "We eat early when we train in the afternoons."
Mell glanced over. "You're not gonna pass out halfway through your training, are you?"
Sarion gave a small shake of his head. "I won't."
"Good," she said, then turned away without further comment.
Jon, noticing the brief silence, chuckled under his breath. "Don't mind her. That's just how she talks."
"I noticed," Sarion said softly, but not without a trace of amusement.
Jon smiled. "You'll get used to it."
...
The table was set. Simple dishes—soup, bread, and a few roasted vegetables—were laid out neatly. Sarion sat down between Mell and Jon, the wooden chair creaking slightly beneath him. Across the table sat Nin, her silver ponytail tied high and her expression unreadable. Klein was beside her, arms crossed even as he leaned back slightly in his seat. The old man had taken the head of the table, silent, still, and watchful. Leif sat beside Jon.
No one spoke.
The only sounds were the gentle clatter of spoons against bowls and the occasional sip of soup. Even Mell, who had been teasing and half-smiling just moments before, kept her gaze on her plate, eating with quiet focus.
Sarion's eyes shifted around the table. No one laughed. No one made conversation. It wasn't awkward... but it was strange. There was a kind of reverence to the silence, not forced, but chosen. A routine. A custom.
He looked down at his food, uncertain. Should he say something? Ask a question? He opened his mouth, then closed it again. No... not now.
He was eating lunch with living legends. With the Silver Sword—Big Sis Nin, who even the children in the streets whispered about. With the Shadow Assassin, Klein, whose very name stirred stories of dread and awe. With Jon, who was somehow not a Fighter or an Arts User, but clearly something else, something powerful. And with Mellisa, who might've been the most mysterious of them all.
Sarion took a slow bite of bread, chewed quietly, and nodded to himself.
He would respect their silence. He didn't understand it yet, but he could feel it had meaning.
And so, he ate in silence too.
...
The backyard was wide and open, the grass soft beneath Sarion's boots. The sun hung high, casting warm light over everything, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of summer.
He stood across from Leif, who rolled his shoulders with a grin. "Alright, kid. You ready?"
But Sarion didn't respond.
His gaze was locked on the other side of the yard—on her.
Nin.
The Silver Sword.
She moved like water flowing through steel. Her blade shimmered in the sunlight, cutting through the air with precise, fluid arcs. Every step, every twist of her body was a dance of deadly grace. Sarion couldn't look away.
This was her training. The training of a legend. How could he not be captivated?
"Hey!" Leif shouted, waving a hand in front of Sarion's face. "You training with me or just writing poetry in your head?"
Sarion blinked, pulled from the trance. "S-sorry."
"Tch. Don't blame you." Leif turned his head to glance at Nin. "Hard not to stare at a famous person training. You should wait to see Klein training later."
On the other end of the backyard, near the wooden fence, the old man stood beside Mell. She held a long lasso coiled in her hand, brows furrowed in concentration. A small post had been set up a short distance away as a target.
She swung the rope, let it fly. It hit the post... barely, the end just brushing the side.
The old man gave a short sigh, shaking his head.
"Tch," Mell hissed under her breath, recoiling the rope.
She tried again, and again. Her stance firmed. Her expression sharpened.
The old man remained silent, but his eyes didn't miss a single movement.
Back on their side of the yard, Leif raised his fists and grinned at Sarion. "Alright then, let's see what you've got. Don't think I'll go easy just because you're a starry-eyed fanboy."
Sarion took a breath and nodded. His eyes flicked to Nin one last time, then settled on Leif.
"Let's begin."
Leif exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders once more as he gave Sarion a long, thoughtful look.
"Nin told me a bit about how you move," he said, eyes narrowing slightly, assessing. "And from what she said… I think your mindset fits well with the Black Death Style of Swordsmanship."
Sarion froze.
His body tensed, and his eyes shot up to meet Leif's. The name alone sent a chill down his spine.
"…You know it?" he asked quietly, hesitant, almost as if saying it too loud would summon something dreadful.
Leif smirked, tilting his head just a bit. "I do."
A beat passed, then he added, "What do you know of it, Ion?"
Sarion looked down at the grass for a moment, then back up. "I… I've heard it's the strongest Style of Swordsmanship in the world. As far as I know."
Leif gave a slow, steady nod, arms folding.
"You're not wrong."
Sarion, still wide-eyed, continued slowly, "I also heard… the Sword Master of the Court of Saviors knows it best. The style, I mean. And the one who made it… was called the Sword Emperor."
Leif raised his brows, visibly surprised. "Huh… didn't think you'd know that much."
He smiled faintly, then picked up where Sarion left off. "Yeah, the Sword Emperor was the one who created it. But no one really knows when that was. Just that it was… a very long time ago. Maybe even before the Great Empire existed."
He crouched down, drew a rough symbol in the dirt—a single slash, then another crossing it. "There are supposed to be Ten Steps. Each one more refined, more focused, more deadly than the last."
Leif glanced up, brushing his hand clean on his pants. "The Sword Master in the Court of Saviors has reached Step Seven. That's the furthest anyone's known to go these days."
He straightened. "Me? I only know five. And trust me, that alone was a nightmare."
Sarion stayed silent, eyes wide.
"But listen," Leif added, voice more serious now, "Not everyone can learn this style. It's not just about effort or time—it takes talent. And more importantly, it takes the right mindset."
He jabbed a finger lightly at Sarion's chest. "Most people who try… they break before they even reach Step Three."
Leif tilted his head slightly, as if gauging Sarion's reaction. "Do you know of the Hero of Valria?"
Sarion blinked. "Of course I do. Who doesn't?" His brow furrowed a little. "But… why bring him up now?"
Leif crossed his arms and gave a small shrug. "Well, that Hero once trained at the Court of Saviors."
Sarion straightened at that.
Leif went on. "He begged the Sword Master to teach him the Black Death Style. Kept insisting on it, even when it was obvious the style didn't suit him."
There was a brief pause before Leif continued, voice a touch quieter. "Eventually, the Sword Master gave in. Decided to humor him. It wasn't easy, but the Hero did manage to learn the First Step."
Leif's expression turned thoughtful. "And yet… he stopped there. Never pushed for the Second. Never tried again."
Sarion looked confused now. "He gave up?"
Leif nodded. "Rumors say he left the Court of Saviors not long after. Went back to Valria."
He looked Sarion in the eye. "Even heroes have limits, Ion. That style doesn't care about titles."
Sarion leaned forward, clearly drawn in now. "So… who else knows the style, Teacher?"
Leif rubbed his chin, thinking it over. "Not many," he admitted. "But a few."
He began listing them off. "There were some from ages past—Aron the Knight, for example."
Sarion's heart skipped a beat. Aron the Knight… That name wasn't just a legend to him. As a Transtorn, he was distantly related to the Ankston bloodline—the family that claimed descent from Aron himself. In a strange, quiet way… that made him kin to a legend.
He didn't say anything, though. Just listened.
Leif went on. "And the Honor Knight too. Both of them knew the style, or at least parts of it."
Sarion's mind buzzed with awe, but Leif kept talking.
"As for people alive right now… well, there's the obvious one—the Sword Master of the Court of Saviors. He's the best in the world at it right now."
Leif smirked, tapping his chest. "Me too, of course. I know Five Steps."
Sarion blinked in surprise but said nothing.
Leif's smirk faded a little. "The Hero of Valria technically counts, but barely. Knowing just the First Step doesn't mean much when you don't walk the path."
He paused before adding one more. "And… the Hound."
Sarion frowned. "The Hound?"
Leif nodded. "A Rank 7 Assassin. Used to be with the Crows of Death. Nasty group." He scratched the back of his neck. "Last I heard, he's not with them anymore. Wandering somewhere around Solfia, I think."
Sarion soaked it all in, a growing sense of weight pressing on him. These weren't just stories anymore—he was brushing up against real legends.
Leif furrowed his brow, thinking for another moment. "Mmm… who else…" He trailed off, then shook his head. "Nah. These are the only ones I know about for sure. I'll ask Klein later, though. That guy knows a ton about swordsmanship styles."
He chuckled, amused by the thought. "Hard to believe, but Klein actually trained in the Court of Saviors back in the day. Was on track to become a knight."
Sarion froze. "…Klein?"
Leif raised a brow at his reaction.
"You mean… the Shadow Assassin?" Sarion's voice was low, stunned. "The guy everyone in Decartium hates? The one the whole world's scared of?"
Leif laughed softly. "The very same."
Sarion shot up from the grass slightly, eyes wide. "Did the Sword Master train him?"
Leif shook his head. "Nope. Klein trained under someone else—a different legend from the Court."
He let the name hang in the air for just a second. "The Smiling Monster."
Sarion felt his mind buzz, like static running through his skull. He knew that name. Who didn't? The Smiling Monster—one of the deadliest swordsmen to ever come out of the Court. Unfortunately, details were scarce. The man was a mystery. All Sarion really knew was that the Smiling Monster was still alive… probably in his fifties or sixties by now.
He swallowed hard, glancing down at his own hands.
How was he supposed to stand among people like this?
Sarion let out a quiet sigh, his small shoulders relaxing slightly as he stared down at his hands.
What was he even thinking? He was just seven years old. He wasn't even Rank 0 yet—the bare minimum required to be considered a supernatural being in this world. He couldn't see the First Power, couldn't feel it, couldn't touch it. That invisible current of energy, the very essence that Fighters, Arts Users, and nearly everyone else relied on to grow stronger and fight. It was still far out of his reach.
So then… why was he even thinking about the Smiling Monster? About the Sword Master? About legends that stood at the very peak of strength—Rank 9 powerhouses who could change the course of a war by themselves?
He blinked, then smiled faintly, just to himself.
Then, slowly, he lifted his head and looked over at his teacher.
Leif was watching him closely, brow slightly raised, as if trying to figure out what the boy was thinking so deeply about.
Sarion didn't say anything.
Neither did Leif.
...
Leif finally spoke again, his tone light but focused.
"Even though Nin told me about your way of fighting," he said, arms crossed loosely as he looked down at Sarion, "I still need to feel it for myself. Can't judge it completely secondhand."
He tilted his head and smirked. "So, Ion—come at me. Don't hold anything back."
Sarion blinked. "You want me to attack you?"
Leif chuckled. "Yeah. Give it everything you've got."
...
Sarion lay on the ground, chest rising and falling rapidly, his entire body drenched in sweat. His hair clung to his forehead, and his limbs trembled from exhaustion. He tried to push himself up with shaky arms, only to collapse again with a wheeze.
Leif stood a short distance away, relaxed, not a drop of sweat on him. He laughed and crouched down beside the boy.
"Not bad," he said with a grin. "Not bad at all."
He tapped the tip of his boot against Sarion's shoulder lightly, teasingly.
"You're definitely a good fit for it. The Black Death Style of Swordsmanship. Legendary... and as far as anyone knows, still the strongest in the world."
He smiled down at Sarion, who looked up at him in a daze, breathing hard, a small flicker of pride sparking behind his eyes despite the exhaustion.
Sure, there were other powerful styles out there. The Red Lion, created by the Fierce Lion himself. Or the Raging Fire, born from the hands of the King's Power, blazing fast and elegant, a dance of flames and precision. Both were relatively new, both hailed from Decartium, both celebrated.
And then there was the Savage Struggle Style—wild, chaotic, almost primal. Some even debated whether it truly qualified as swordsmanship or if it was just raw, violent instinct honed to a deadly edge.
But no matter how fierce, how new, how unorthodox these styles were, everyone agreed on one thing:
At the very top, stood the Black Death.
And Sarion—only seven, not even Rank 0 yet—was going to learn it. Not from books. Not from some dusty instructor. But from Leif, a man who had mastered five of the ten known Steps.
Half the style.
That fact alone made Sarion want to sit up, cheer, and scream with joy—if only he could catch his breath. For now, he just lay there, panting on the grass, eyes wide open toward the sky, a grin beginning to creep across his sweat-covered face.
A sharp voice cut through Sarion's thoughts, firm and commanding.
It was the old man.
He stood tall near the shaded edge of the yard, his tattered cloak fluttering slightly in the afternoon breeze. Mell was crumpled on the grass beside him, red hair plastered to her forehead, chest rising and falling as she caught her breath—just like Sarion.
Even Nin halted mid-swing, her silver sword gleaming in the light as she turned calmly toward the voice. Leif, still crouched near Sarion, also glanced over.
The old man didn't repeat himself.
"We need to get something for dinner."
That was all he said.
Sarion blinked. That's it? He'd expected an announcement of training results, a lecture, something a bit more dramatic considering how he silenced the whole yard just for that sentence.
And… wasn't Jon going to make them something for dinner? Like he had for lunch?
Sarion looked toward the house, confused. Was it some kind of tradition? Or maybe the old man just wanted them to learn how to gather their own food. Either way, nobody questioned it.
Not even Nin.
Which meant—he probably shouldn't either.
Leif chuckled as he caught Sarion's wide-eyed, confused look.
"Don't worry, Ion," he said, ruffling the boy's hair. "When the old man shouts like that, it usually means we're going hunting."
Sarion blinked. "Hunting?"
Leif nodded. "Yeah. Forest's not too far from here. Sometimes we go grab a beast or two, make something fresh. It's sort of tradition when we're all gathered."
Sarion stared at him for a moment, surprised. Hunt? As in... go after a real creature? Right now? In the forest?
His breath caught a little, mind spinning. What if it's a monster? What if it was dangerous?
But then he looked around again—the red-haired girl Mellisa slowly pushing herself off the ground, the Silver Sword standing relaxed with her blade resting across her shoulders, and Leif himself, still crouched with that easy grin. And the old man, of course, silent and sharp as ever.
Right. These weren't just ordinary people.
This was the Silver Sword. Leif, who knew five Steps of the strongest swordsmanship style in the world. And even Mellisa was training under that terrifying old man.
So maybe… it wasn't that strange after all.
—End of Chapter.