The roar of the battlefield had been replaced by a roar of a different kind: the collective, jubilant voice of a city that had looked into the abyss and survived. Throughout the winding streets of Drakov, the "Victory Fever" was infectious. Commoners and merchants poured into the plazas, embracing guardsmen whose armor was still caked in the dried, gray blood of the Vile-Hounds. Even the sixteen-year-old boy in the dented, mismatched plates found himself surrounded by a group of elderly citizens who pressed warm bread and watered wine into his trembling hands. To them, he was a hero of the Southern Gate; to himself, he was simply the boy who had finally learned which way to step when the world started to burn. He walked the streets, looking for the man who had changed his outlook of life.

  The inner sanctum of the Duke’s mansion was a stark contrast to the mud and sweat of the trenches. It was a massive office of dark, polished mahogany and silver-veined marble, illuminated by alchemical lanterns that emitted a steady, flickerless glow. The air here was filtered and cool, smelling of old parchment and expensive tobacco, a far cry from the metallic tang of ozone that still clung to Azuma’s skin.

  Duke Valerius Drakos stood behind his desk, his presence as heavy and immovable as the limestone walls of his city. He was a man of sixty, with hair like hammered iron and a chest broadened by decades of wearing plate armor. He watched as the five foreigners entered.

  Azuma led the way. He hadn’t bothered to change or wash; his tunic was stained with the dust of the Southern Breach, and the katana at his hip looked like a predatory animal resting in its cage. Beside him, Anneliese walked with effortless poise, her eyes scanning the room. Elowen, Caelum, and Kairah followed, their presence filling the opulent space with a palpable, lethal weight.

  The Duke stepped around his desk and shook hands with each of them—a gesture of rare equality for a man of his station. "On behalf of the city of Drakov," Valerius said, his voice a deep baritone, "I would like to personally thank each one of you with your assistance in helping with her defense. The Southern Gate would have been a tomb if not for your intervention."

  Anneliese inclined her head slightly. "It wasn't just us, Your Grace. Your guards, the area fighters, and the guild hunters also assisted. They held the line until the end and deserve the recognition of the city as well."

  "Yes, I am aware," the Duke replied, a small, weary smile touching his lips. "They will be recognized. However, it was the two of you that defeated the last wave. A wave that our defenders could not have handled... where are my manners, I am Duke Valerius Drakos. I assume you are an eastern noble?"

  Azuma offered a shallow, professional bow. "I am Azuma Jin and this is my clan."

  "Clan?" Valerius repeated, the word rolling strangely off his tongue. "I apologize, but I'm not familiar with that term."

  "No apologies needed," Azuma said, his tone clinical and direct. "In the east, what you call great houses, we call clans."

  "Oh, I see!" the duke replied excitedly. "This is my first time meeting an eastern noble. I believe this is the first time any western kingdom has ever met one. I assume you're travelers wishing to see our western kingdoms?"

  Azuma nodded once. "Correct. This is my wife, Anneliese. My adopted sister, Elowen. And my clan brother, Caelum."

  The duke looks over to Kairah, who was leaning against a marble pillar. "I'm not actually with them or part of their house," she said bluntly. "I just met Azuma at the Iron Hand tournament, during the final bracket."

  The duke’s eyebrows shot up as he looked back at Azuma. "Oh, so you are the Iron Hand champion! I had heard the final bracket was a display of power unlike anything we have seen in years. It seems the rumors were understatements."

  A sharp, rhythmic knock interrupted the conversation. A scout from the Hunter’s Guild entered, his chest heaving. His boots were scuffed from high-speed travel—a Craft user specialized in rapid transit who had clearly pushed his physical limits.

  "Report," Valerius commanded.

  "Your Grace," the scout panted. "As suspected, the stampede wasn't a natural migration. I found the origin point. It’s a group of Spell Weavers in the Blackwood Canyon area, about two days out on regular horseback. They are forcing the monsters to attack the city."

  The Duke's face darkened. "Spell Weavers? People born without Crafts trying to play with the powers of the heavens... Where exactly?"

  "I followed them to the canyon," the scout replied. "They are using massive arrays to channel energy. I returned as fast as my Craft would allow."

  "I see... thank you for your great work," the duke said. The scout bowed and left, and Valerius turned his gaze back toward Azuma and his group.

  "It would seem we have trouble," the Duke admitted. "I would prefer our city handle such problems, but we do not have many high level craft users available after the breach that happened a few years ago. I would hate to ask another noble for assistance, but your house seems to be all sovereign level craft users. If you can assist us again, I am willing to offer a lucrative compensation. We are not a poor city, in fact we are one of the richest cities in the Zemlyost kingdom."

  Azuma didn't offer a speech about justice or duty. He looked at the Duke with a clinical, mercenary eye. "How much?"

  The Duke didn't flinch. "5000 gold pieces. Half now, half when the threat is neutralized."

  Azuma glanced at Anneliese. She met his eyes and offered a single, almost imperceptible nod. Azuma turned back to the Duke. "Deal."

  As their hands met, Azuma's mind was already processing the term Spell Weavers. While the Duke saw heretics using "magic" sigils and runes, Azuma saw something different. To him, they were like hackers. Without natural channels—the biological "login" of a Craft—they were using external runes and physical sigils to brute-force commands into the automated system that seems to govern this world.

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  As the group exited the mansion into the cool night air, Kairah stopped at the base of the stone steps. The streetlamps were flickering to life, casting long, soft shadows against the limestone.

  Azuma turned to her. "I'm assuming you have other business to take care of, but if you're interested in this mission, let me know. I'll pay for your services."

  Kairah adjusted her mask, her dark eyes unreadable. "Yes, I have other things to do, but thank you for the offer, Azuma. I need to... locate someone."

  Azuma didn't pry. He simply nodded and bowed to her, a gesture of respect between two warriors. Kairah offered a final nod before vanishing into the darkness of a side street, her footsteps silent as the grave.

  As they made their way through the city, heading toward the high-end lodging district, a familiar figure appeared from behind a merchant's stall. It was the young boy from the gate, his mismatched armor rattling as he ran.

  "Sir... lord noble... uh champion, i've been looking for you," he panted, stopping in front of Azuma.

  Azuma looked down at him. "Something you need?"

  "Yes sir," the boy said, his eyes filled with a desperate kind of hope. "I saw you fighting out there against the monsters. You are amazing. Can you... uh... can you teach me?"

  Azuma didn't answer immediately. He looked at the boy’s grime-streaked face. "Where are your parents, kid?"

  The boy looked down at the mud on his boots. "I don't have any... i'm an orphan."

  "How have you been managing to survive?" Azuma asked.

  "I take whatever jobs i can find," the boy whispered. "Cleaning stables mostly. Sleeping in the hay."

  Azuma looked over his shoulder at Elowen and then at Anneliese. He saw the same reflection of his own past in their eyes—They both nodded their heads once in silent agreement.

  Azuma sighed, but his voice softened. "What's your name, kid?"

  "I uh, don't have one, sir. I don't remember ever having one."

  Azuma paused, closing his eyes for a second as if consulting a internal database. "If you're going to be traveling with us, you'll need a name. How about... Kaien."

  The boy’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. "Kaien, sir?"

  "Yes, that's your name now. Do you not like it?"

  "Yes, sir I like it!" Kaien said, his voice cracking with emotion.

  "Good. Now stop calling me sir. My name is Azuma."

  "Yes, sir... i mean azuma sir... I mean..."

  Elowen giggled and stepped forward, playfully messing with Kaien's hair. "I always wanted a little brother!"

  "Hey!" Kaien said, trying to flatten his hair, though he was grinning.

  Caelum crossed his massive arms. "They're acting like siblings already. Kid, as your big brother, nothing here is free. You work like the rest of us, understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Caelum sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Stop it with the 'sir'!"

  "Uh, yes, brother sir."

  "Ugh," Caelum groaned, while Anneliese smiled.

  Azuma turned to face Anneliese. "Anne, how much did we make at the Iron Hand Circuit?"

  "2000 gold purse and 4000 gold on the wagers," she replied expertly.

  "Nice. You and El take the kid shopping. Get him some clothes. Like usual, preferably black or dark. It’s better for perception—people associate dark clothing with nobility." Azuma looked at the boy’s shaggy hair. "...and a haircut. Then meet us back at the Black Sable."

  "Yes," Anneliese replied. She and Azuma shared a quick, firm kiss before she led Elowen and Kaien toward the marketplace.

  Later that evening, the group met back at the Black Sable, the city's most prestigious lodging. Azuma had purchased another room for Kaien, a concept that seemed to confuse the boy entirely. He stood in the doorway of his room, staring at the silk sheets and the hearth as if he were in a dream. To him, the room was massive. Almost like a mansion.

  "Don't worry Kaien, you'll get used to it," Elowen told him as she passed by. She remembered the same feeling of overwhelming comfort when she first became Azuma's 'sister' back in Tsvetov.

  Once they were settled, Azuma called the group together in the main suite. "So, from my understanding, 'spell weavers' are people who were not born with crafts. They access the system by using runes, sigils, and 'enchanted' items, correct?"

  "Yes, from what i understand, that's exactly it," Caelum replied, his armor clinking. "They use sigils as a bridge to create crafts for themselves."

  Azuma leaned back. "Then if they weren't born with crafts, then they have no natural channels to access the energy and power from the core. That makes them weaker than craft users in a direct fight. In other words, they're similar to hackers. They are using external hardware to manipulate a system they don't belong to."

  Everyone looked at him confused. He used words and terminology they have never heard of before.

  "Hackers?" Caelum asked, confused.

  "Never mind," Azuma said, dismissing the term. "We'll make this easy... I don't care why they're doing this. I don't care whose orders they're acting for. We don't need any intel, that's not our job. We just stop the threat. Understood?"

  Everyone nodded in unison. "Yes."

  They left the Black Sable an hour later. The transformation was total. To the citizens of Drakov, they were the embodiment of high-born status. Azuma wore his suit, vest, and overcoat draped over his shoulders. Anneliese and Elowen wore their black gowns that moved like liquid shadow. Even Kaien, with his hair trimmed and wearing clean black attire, looked like a different person.

  Caelum, however, still wore his Norveg warrior clothing and armor. The fur-lined leather and heavy steel stood out, but Azuma would never ask him to change. Caelum was who he was.

  "Caelum, i take it you'll be eating at the tavern?" Azuma asked.

  "Of course Azuma. Fine dining.... bah. Give me a hearth and a pint of ale."

  Azuma smiled. "Ok, we'll be off then."

  As the four of them walked toward the coliseum to reach the Gilded Lily, the reaction of the street was instantaneous. Whispers followed them—not the fearful whispers of days earlier, but the hushed, reverent tones of people who had seen them standing on the ramparts. Guards at the base of the grand staircase stood at a rigid, formal salute as they passed.

  When they reached the entrance of the restaurant, the Head Maitre d’—a man usually known for his cold, aristocratic indifference—nearly sprinted to meet them at the door. He bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the velvet carpet.

  "Lord Azuma, Lady Anneliese," the man said, his voice thick with genuine emotion. "It is the greatest honor of my career to welcome the Saviors of Drakov. Please, come this way."

  As they were led through the dining room toward a prime table overlooking the arena, a strange thing happened. The wealthy merchants and minor nobles already dining there stopped eating. One by one, they stood up. There was no cheering—this was a high-end establishment—but there was a collective, respectful silence followed by the sound of rhythmic, polite clapping that rippled through the room.

  "Your table, my Lord," the waiter said, pulling out chairs for the ladies. "The owner has given strict instructions. Tonight, and for as long as you remain in our city, your meals and wine are entirely complimentary. It is the least the Gilded Lily can do for those who kept the monsters from our doors."

  Anneliese offered a graceful smile. "That is very generous. Thank you."

  When the food arrived—rich meats and spiced vegetables—and the wine was poured, Kaien tentatively reached for a glass. Elowen immediately swatted his hand away. "You aren't old enough!"

  "Neither are you!" Kaien argued, rubbing his hand.

  "I'm older than you."

  "But not by much..."

  Anneliese smiled as she watched the two bicker like they had been born of the same house. "Clan Azuma" was growing, and for the first time, the city felt like a home rather than a battlefield. Azuma, on the other hand, was just enjoying his wine while watching the empty arena below, the moonlight reflecting off the limestone floor. Tomorrow would be the mission. It was best to relax now and enjoy the peace they had bought with their own hands.