"H-Hey… he's still going. It's been hours," one of the guards said, disbelief etched across his face.
The older guard beside him exhaled heavily, leaning against the parapet. "He's a monster, alright. And it's got nothing to do with being a mage. Since he moved in a week ago, he's been doing this every single day."
Both men stood atop the manor's outer wall, gazing down into the courtyard below, the pristine training grounds of the foreign "emissary" they were assigned to protect. Although, at this point, protecting might've been a stretch.
Down below, Asta was flat on his back, hammering out sit-ups with the intensity of a soldier possessed. His body moved in a steady rhythm, his calls echoing through the courtyard, "Eight thousand nine hundred seventy-two! Eight thousand nine hundred seventy-three!"
It wasn't the exercise itself that unsettled the guards. It was the sheer, impossible endurance of it all. The man had already completed twenty thousand push-ups, twenty thousand squats, and was now approaching nine thousand sit-ups, all without breaking stride.
The younger guard finally shook his head, his tone half-wonder, half-fear. "Are we sure he's a mage, sir? I've never heard of one like this."
"You and me both, soldier," the senior guard replied with a wry smirk. "In fact, I doubt there is another mage like him anywhere. Between you and me, I wouldn't be surprised if he could outmatch even Lady Fiora Laurent herself."
The younger man's eyes went wide. "You mean THE Fiora Laurent? Demacia's best duelist? That's… that's impossible! How could you even guess that, Captain?"
The older guard's grin turned smug as he crossed his arms. "I heard it from Merek himself, my sister's husband. He was stationed at Castle Wrenwall when the foreign mage challenged Garen Crownguard to a duel."
The younger guard nearly choked on his breath. "THE Garen Crownguard? Leader of the Dauntless Vanguard? Why in the Light would he do something so foolish?"
The senior guard chuckled, shaking his head. "You wouldn't be calling it foolish, boy… not after hearing who walked away from that duel still standing."
"What?" The younger guard turned sharply toward his superior. "You mean…?"
The senior guard gave a slow nod, his expression grim. "Garen Crownguard was defeated, easily, and without even a hint of effort." He shook his head, still sounding faintly disbelieving. "There's a reason we were told not to interfere with him. We're not here to protect the foreign mage. At best, we're just here to make things look official. At worst…" His eyes drifted down to the courtyard. "We're the first shields thrown into the grinder if things ever go south."
The younger guard exhaled sharply. "By the Winged Protector…" he murmured, his gaze shifting to the other figure in the courtyard, a young boy lying a few paces away from the foreign mage, struggling through sit-ups at a snail's pace compared to the man beside him. "What about the other one?" he asked, pointing toward him.
"Ah. Darryl," the senior guard said, a faint, pitying smile tugging at his lips. "Good lad, that one. Shame about his affliction. At least he's not in the MageSeekers' dungeons. Light only knows what horrors go on down there."
The younger guard frowned, confusion creasing his brow. "What are you talking about, sir? The MageSeekers are keeping us safe. They're the ones catching all those rebels working with the King Killer."
The senior guard's gaze hardened, and for a moment, he looked far older than his years. "You're young," he said quietly. "Still seeing the world through a polished lens. But you'd best clean that lens soon, boy, before it blinds you. Otherwise…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "You'll end up doing something you'll regret for the rest of your life."
The younger guard stared at him, uncertain. "Sir?"
The senior guard started walking, his boots echoing lightly against the stone wall as he resumed his patrol. "No matter what flows through our veins," he said over his shoulder, voice low but firm, "we're all Demacian. Remember that."
The younger guard watched him go, the words hanging in the air long after the older man disappeared down the ramparts. Slowly, his gaze returned to the courtyard, to the foreign mage and the boy, both still at it, one tireless, the other barely keeping up.
His jaw tightened. "Mages are no Demacians," he muttered under his breath, gripping the hilt of his sword as the morning sun glinted off his armor.
---
Darryl lay flat on the stone courtyard, arms spread, lungs burning. Sweat pooled beneath him, soaking through his thin training shirt. Every muscle in his body screamed, yet Asta stood above him, barely sweating, his grin as bright and infuriating as ever.
"Come on, Darryl! You've only done seventy!" Asta barked, hands on his hips. "You've still got thirty more to go!"
"My stomach." Darryl wheezed, rolling onto his side. His arms trembled like twigs in the wind. "Is it still intact? It feels like there's a hole in there and my food's about to fall off…"
Asta laughed, a loud, cheerful sound that somehow made Darryl both encouraged and miserable. "Hahaha! You're nowhere near your limits yet Darryl. Don't think I haven't noticed that it's getting easier for you. You reached fifty a few minutes earlier than yesterday." He crouched beside Darryl, eyes gleaming. "We'll be starting next week with two hundred reps of everything!"
Darryl groaned, dragging himself up with shaking arms. The courtyard stones were warm beneath his palms, the Demacian sun unrelenting. His breath came in short gasps, and yet, somewhere inside, he didn't want to stop.
He glanced at Asta, who stood watching him with folded arms, sunlight reflecting off his silver badge, the emblem of an Emissary.
"I can't believe… you just did twenty thousand sit-ups. I can't even count that high. Will I really have to do this every day?" Darryl muttered between gasps.
"Every day and then some!" Asta said, clapping once. "Now, thirty more sit-ups, then we'll move to running laps around the courtyard. You'll thank me later."
"You're evil Captain…" Darryl grunted but began again. His body protested, yet a strange warmth spread through his chest, something that wasn't exhaustion.
Determination.
Asta's shadow stretched beside him, solid and steady.
From the balcony above, unseen by Darryl, soldiers whispered among themselves. But down here, on the hot stone courtyard, there was only the sound of Darryl's ragged breathing, Asta's steady encouragement, and the slow but certain rhythm of progress.
---
Within a lavishly furnished office, the air was thick with incense and quiet tension. Two women knelt on the polished marble floor before a violet-haired woman. A golden mask obscured half of her elegant face, leaving only one sharp, calculating eye visible.
She was Wisteria, a high-ranking officer of the MageSeekers, and personal student of Eldred himself.
"Well?" Wisteria's voice was calm but carried the kind of weight that made the two women kneeling before her instinctively bow lower. She stood, turning slightly toward the tall window behind her, taking in the gleaming white spires of the city. Like every true Demacian, she admired its beauty… even if her duties often forced her into its shadows.
Behind her, the first kneeling woman lifted her head hesitantly. Her short, dark hair brushed her jawline as she spoke. "The past few days, we've done as instructed, adding ground petricite into his drinks. He's consumed every one without fail…"
She paused, her expression uncertain. "...Including the boy's portions."
Wisteria's gaze shifted sharply, her visible eye narrowing. "Pardon? What do you mean by the boy's portions?"
The dark-haired woman swallowed hard. "It's as I said, my Lady. Each time the drinks were served, he would take both his and the boy's cups. There's a chance he realized something was wrong with them, and that he's been shielding the boy."
A soft sigh escaped Wisteria's lips. "That much is obvious. What I want to know is how he detected the petricite, and what became of him after consuming so much."
This time, the second kneeling woman, a younger one with soft brown hair tied in a loose braid, answered nervously. "He's shown no reaction at all, my Lady. For four days, he's ingested concentrated petricite and remains unaffected. He continues his strange regimen, training from dawn till dusk, pushing both himself and the boy far beyond ordinary limits."
For a long moment, silence hung in the air. Then Wisteria turned back toward them fully, the faintest trace of a frown curling beneath her golden mask.
"Interesting," Wisteria murmured, her voice low and thoughtful as she tapped a gloved finger against the edge of the window. The faint chime of her golden ring echoed in the quiet office.
"The petricite seems ineffective on him," she continued, her gaze lingering on the distant towers of Demacia. "That alone lends some truth to his claim, of not possessing magic, despite his title as a Magic Knight Captain." she spat the last word with vitriol.
She turned back to the two kneeling women, her single exposed eye gleaming with restrained curiosity. "Continue your observation. If petricite cannot weaken him, then we must learn what can."
The two women bowed their heads low, murmuring their assent before hurriedly retreating from the office. The sound of the door closing echoed like a faint whisper through the chamber, leaving Wisteria alone with her thoughts.
For a moment, she said nothing. The room was silent save for the soft rustle of her robes as she turned back toward the window. Below, the capital spread in perfect order, gleaming marble, patrolling guards, banners of blue and gold swaying gently in the wind.
To most, it was the picture of peace.
Wisteria's gloved fingers trailed absently along the glass, her reflection merging with the horizon. "A Mage who cannot be affected by petricite…" she murmured, a note of amusement threading through her voice. "How quaint."
She turned from the window, her expression hidden behind the half-mask, though her tone betrayed her intrigue. "Perhaps he truly isn't a mage… or perhaps," her voice darkened, "he's something else entirely."
Her gaze shifted toward the far end of the room where a table stood, covered with neatly stacked reports, sealed scrolls, and a faintly glowing shard of raw petricite. Wisteria crossed the room with measured grace, lifting the shard between two fingers. Its pale light bathed her mask in a cold sheen.
"Eldred will want to hear of this," she said softly, though there was no urgency in her tone. "Having to deal with this now, in addition to Sylas. Rayn better not disappoint."
---
Darryl's legs felt like lead, his breath rasping in short bursts as he pushed himself through yet another lap. The cobblestone ground seemed endless, the walls around him blurring from exhaustion. Every time he thought he'd collapse, a familiar, annoyingly cheerful voice would cut through the haze.
"Faster, Darryl! You've got one more lap to go!"
Asta's voice carried over the courtyard like a drumbeat, unrelenting and bright. He jogged alongside the boy effortlessly, barely winded, his grin never fading.
"You said that two laps ago!" Darryl yelled before coughing. "I-I can't…" Darryl wheezed, clutching his side. "I think… my lungs are on fire…"
Asta glanced down at him with that same maddeningly carefree expression. "Then you're doing it right! Pain means you're getting stronger!"
"Pain means I'm dying," Darryl muttered, his words lost under Asta's laughter.
When they finally reached the end of the lap, Darryl collapsed face-first onto the ground, limbs splayed. He lay there for a long moment, staring up at the pale blue sky, sweat dripping from his chin onto the stone beneath him.
Asta crouched beside him, wiping a bit of sweat from his own brow, more out of habit than necessity. "Not bad, Darryl. You lasted three laps longer than yesterday."
"Yesterday I nearly passed out in the fourth lap…" Darryl groaned.
"Exactly! That's called progress!" Asta said, beaming.
Darryl gave him a sideways glance, torn between admiration and disbelief. There was something about Asta, something more than the impossible stamina or the inhuman energy. It wasn't just that he was strong. It was that he believed, with absolute certainty, that anyone could be.
Even him.
"Hey, Captain…" Darryl began after a long pause, his tone quieter now. "Do you really think someone like me can change things here? In Demacia, I mean."
Asta tilted his head. "Change things?"
"Yeah. People like me… like us." Darryl's voice faltered. "Mages."
For the first time, Asta didn't immediately answer. His expression softened, and for a fleeting moment, there was a faint seriousness behind his eyes.
"…I don't know how things work here," he admitted finally. "But I do know this, if you keep moving forward, if you never stop improving yourself, then no one gets to decide what you can or can't be."
He stood and extended a hand toward Darryl. "So yeah. You can change things. But it starts with one more lap."
Darryl stared at the hand for a long moment before sighing and taking it. "Urgh."
Asta grinned. "Your groan better mean "Not yet! I'm not done yet! Young man."