Tch, the tab's gone up again. Kain Gardos thought this while setting down his mug of local beer. He only thought it. He didn't actually do anything about it. The Dancing Barrel Tavern was always like this during the day. White light streamed through the window, dimly illuminating the dusty tables. From behind the counter came the smell of simmering meat. A few regular adventurers lounged by the wall, chatting idly. Gardos liked this place. Not too loud, not too quiet either. The food was good. The drinks were cheap. That was enough. His appearance wasn't exactly impressive. He wasn't particularly tall, but his shoulders were broad enough to notice even through his shirt. A slender build with just the right amount of muscle. Except the worn white shirt and black slacks made none of that apparent. His leather boots were slightly scuffed at the toes. His short black hair was a bit disheveled, and his deep brown eyes had a distant, hazy quality. Thirty-eight years old. He looked like a tired old man. On the back of his left hand was an old scar. A thin, pale line running straight across. He wasn't aware of it himself, but he had a habit of unconsciously tracing that scar with the hilt of the sword at his waist. "Gardos, sir. Is that your third glass?" "[sarcastic] Second," The voice came from behind the counter. Dag Hertzen. Fifty-five years old. Former adventurer. His right arm was a prosthetic. With that artificial hand, he was polishing a mug with practiced ease. Fine wrinkles lined his face, creating an oddly likable impression. "It's your third. I saw the whole thing," "[cold] ...It's the second," Dag sighed. He tapped the counter lightly with his prosthetic fingers. "Your tab's already over two silver coins. You should pay up soon," "[sarcastic] I'll pay. Eventually," "You said that three months ago," Gardos tilted his mug slowly. A bite of venison stew. The rich broth spread across his tongue. Delicious. This was fine. He didn't need anything fancy. Just good food and drink. A stack of job notices pinned to the wall fluttered in the breeze from the window. Gardos didn't even glance at them. Voices drifted over from the next table—young adventurers. "Man, the knight order's got it good. They make over two gold coins a month," "Even us silver-rank guys barely scrape together one gold coin," "That old guy's here again," The voices dropped slightly. Gardos noticed but didn't care. "And he's silver-rank but doesn't even look at the job notices," "I heard he used to be amazing back in the day," "Now he's just a drunk," Gardos set down his mug. "[whispers] ...Another peaceful day," A murmur. Barely audible. One of the notices on the wall caught his eye. 'Graunhorn Direction—Bandits Spotted (High Difficulty—Silver Rank and Above Recommended)'. Gardos didn't look at it. People at another table were talking. "Graunhorn again. Ever since the magical tide eighteen years ago, that whole area's been weird," "I heard they've got organized bandits now. I don't want anywhere near that place," Eighteen years ago. The magical tide at Graunhorn. Gardos took another bite of stew. It was good. That was all. --- The commotion started just as lunch was winding down. Shouting came from the street outside. The tavern grew restless. Someone stood up and peered out the window. "Hey, there's some kind of trouble outside," "Someone should stop it," "Not my problem," Gardos put the last of his stew in his mouth. He chewed slowly. Delicious. Looking out the window, a young adventurer was surrounded by men. Five of them. Big guys with swords at their sides. Gardos sighed. Loudly. He pulled out his wallet and checked the coins inside. A few copper pieces and one silver coin. "[sarcastic] Tch. Not worth the trouble," Saying that, he stood up. Dag raised an eyebrow. "Gardos, sir?" "[cold] Keep the food warm," While the tavern patrons watched with bated breath, Gardos shuffled outside. The thug leader turned around. A man in his forties with a scar across his face. Mean-looking eyes. "[angry] What's this, old man? Get lost," The next instant, the air split. A sword flashed—or rather, no one even saw it flash. Faster than sound, faster than sight. It took less than half a second for all five men to hit the ground. They were just unconscious, no wounds. But they were all sprawled out. The surroundings fell silent. Gardos sheathed his sword while looking up at the sky. "[whispers] ...I'm hungry," As he turned to head back to the tavern, the young adventurer he'd saved came chasing after him. Probably around twenty. His face was pale. "[surprised] Th-thank you so much! Who are you——" "[sarcastic] Just happened to be here. My food's getting cold," He scratched the back of his head roughly and pushed the door open. The young adventurer tried to say something, but the door closed and cut him off. Back inside, everyone was staring at Gardos. Even Dag had frozen, his prosthetic hand still. "[sarcastic] What?" "...Nothing, sir," "[gentle] So, my food. And another local beer," "Your tab's going to get bigger," "[cold] I'll pay. Eventually," Dag said nothing. He just seemed to smile a little. Gardos returned to his seat as if nothing had happened. Outside the window, the five men were still twitching. He didn't look at them anymore. --- By nightfall, Gardos was still at the Dancing Barrel. The customers changed. The daytime adventurers left, and the night shift came in. Candlelight flickered orange, and cigarette smoke drifted thinly through the air. Gardos was on his fourth—or maybe fifth—local beer. The door opened. Not in an ordinary way. Carefully, deliberately. And the moment the person entered, the tavern's atmosphere changed. A messenger in a deep blue cloak bearing the royal crest. A man in his thirties, tall. His posture was straight, his gaze sharp. Clearly out of place. The regular adventurers fell silent. Dag frowned. The messenger looked around the room and stopped his gaze on Gardos. He walked straight over. Gardos looked up at him with sleepy eyes, mug in hand. "[cold] You want something from me?" The messenger straightened his posture. "Kain Gardos, sir. By royal decree, you are appointed temporary instructor to the Third Knight Order Blazeforce of the Forsena Kingdom," The words fell into the silent tavern. "[cold] No. Too much trouble," An immediate answer. While tilting his mug. The messenger remained unmoved. "The monthly compensation is three gold coins——" In that instant, Gardos's eyes lit up. A glimmer. Just for a moment, something ignited in the depths of his gaze. Then immediately returned to his sleepy expression. "[sarcastic] ...I might consider it," His tone had changed from before. The messenger continued. "We would be most grateful for your consideration——" "[sarcastic] I'm guessing Silverlame or the Second Order Gardion turned you down," Sarcastically, almost insolently. Gardos set down his mug and finally met the messenger's eyes directly. The messenger paused. "This is a direct appointment by His Majesty. The First Order Silverlame has no involvement in this matter," His voice was quiet. Something drained from Gardos's expression. Just for a moment. His left hand, gripping the mug, unconsciously reached for the hilt of his sword at his waist. It traced the old scar gently. A heavy silence stretched for several seconds. No one in the tavern said anything. "[serious] ...I see," He said only that, then looked away from the messenger. "[cold] I'll think about it tonight. I'll give you an answer tomorrow," The messenger bowed deeply and turned on his heel. The door closed quietly. The tavern's atmosphere gradually returned to normal. Someone coughed. Gardos drained the rest of his beer slowly. His left hand was tracing the sword hilt again. He pulled out the commission letter the messenger had left. Parchment with neat handwriting. 'Issued by: Third Knight Order Blazeforce, Forsena Kingdom. Founded one year ago. Authorized strength: 60 members, current roster: 23——' "[whispers] ...Silverlame, huh," No one heard him. Dag silently brought a fresh mug from across the room. He set it on the table without saying anything and walked back. Gardos took a sip and looked up at the ceiling. --- The next morning. His eyes were dead. Gardos walked slowly down the stone-paved road toward the South District. The back of his head felt heavy, and the light was a bit too bright. He couldn't remember how many drinks he'd had last night. Worn white shirt, black slacks. The same clothes as always, with only the commission letter in his pocket. He hadn't made any real preparations. As he approached the South District, the atmosphere of the road changed. The raw energy of the West District faded, replaced by orderly rows of stone buildings. The clothes of the people he passed were different too. Polished armor with emblazoned cloaks. Soldiers of Silverlame—the kingdom's First Knight Order—heading out for morning training. Gardos didn't look at them. Passersby whispered to each other. "Is that person heading to the knight district?" "That's not a knight, right? An adventurer?" Gardos let the voices wash over him. He didn't have the energy to deny it. The old barracks were at the very edge of the South District. Really at the edge. A ten-minute walk from Silverlame's white granite facilities. The stone pavement gradually became older, and weeds began sprouting between the cracks. When the buildings started to show gaps, the destination came into view. An old two-story stone structure. Cracks ran through the walls in several places. The gate pillar bore the red flaming sword emblem—Blazeforce's mark—but the paint was peeling. A single guard stood at the entrance. "I'm Kain Gardos, temporary instructor," The guard took the commission letter and examined it. Then there was a pause. "Ah... Blazeforce's..." He started to say something, then stopped. Gardos didn't ask. He simply entered the grounds. The training yard was overgrown with weeds. Grass sprouted between the stone pavers. Several old wooden training dummies lined one end, two of them with broken arms. Equipment racks along the wall held swords and shields in disarray, all of them rusty or chipped. Used goods. Very worn used goods. Looking at the building's walls, there were three cracks. Black water stains remained above the fissures. As for the members— A few were leaning against the wall, yawning. Their eyes were vacant. No motivation whatsoever this early. In a corner, four of them were crouched down, rolling dice. They seemed to be gambling, speaking in low voices. Everyone's armor was sloppily worn. Gardos scratched his head. Loudly. "[sarcastic] ...Can I go home?" No one answered. He sighed and surveyed the grounds again. Twenty-three members on the roster, the letter said. But he could see maybe ten, if that. The rest were probably still sleeping. He was about to turn and leave when something caught his eye. Behind the old barracks. In the shadow of the building, a small courtyard in the corner. One person was moving. A woman. Probably in her twenties. She held a wooden sword in both hands, repeating thrust after thrust. The movements were clean. Fifty, sixty repetitions. Sweat soaked her shirt, her bangs stuck to her forehead. Not a single waver. Each swing rang sharply through the air. Her sword form was beautiful. Not just going through the motions—each strike had purpose. Gardos watched from a distance for a while. While the others gambled, leaned against walls, and yawned, this one person worked in silence. He said nothing. He pulled out the commission letter and opened it again. "[whispers] ...The acting commander's name was Valdo Irina, wasn't it," The sound of the wooden sword continued. Seventy, eighty repetitions. It didn't stop. Gardos folde