When Tara had first mentioned it would only be a temporary party membership, Vaan hadn’t thought twice about it. He himself was waiting for his friends Ronald, Tal, and Risa to catch up anyway after which they would start a party themselves. Besides, teaming up with a princess came with obvious upsides—money being the least of them. She hadn’t even bothered to haggle over Remy’s debts, covering them outright without so much as blinking.

  She'd also mentioned he could bunk in one of the smaller adjoining rooms next to Gregor, who, thankfully, was hardly ever there. Gregor had not been particularly thrilled by that arrangement. From the way he tensed whenever Vaan was around, it was clear the knight still viewed him as an intruder, not a party mate.

  Tara had been helpful though. She had even spoken to the guild clerk — the surly George — on his behalf, securing a partial refund of his inn fees. It wasn't a great sum by her standards, but it was the thought that counted.

  Still, Vaan couldn't shake a gnawing guilt. He hadn’t told them everything — not about the Veldrane House. He kept telling himself that it was a personal grudge, and besides, the princess didn’t seem the sort to air her own secrets either. She had let him into her party far too quickly to be purely coincidental. She was always unfailingly polite, her smile just on the safe side of condescending though she often eyed the grotesque sheath at his side, no doubt disgusted, schooling her expression too quickly whenever he caught her looking.

  That conversation was bound to happen, and it happened later after a full day had passed since his recruitment. They hadn’t done much.

  When Vaan asked about their next move, Gregor—stiff as a ceremonial pike—had replied, "Await the Princess’s word," as if Vaan were some hired retainer instead of an independent ally

  It was late at night when Tara found him.

  Vaan leaned against the low stone fence at the edge of the vacant training yard, arms crossed.

  She came alone — no Gregor glaring, no Lyra trailing like a bored cat. Just Tara, her steps quiet, unhurried.

  "You don’t like waiting," she said as she stopped a few paces away.

  Vaan shifted his weight but didn’t look at her right away.

  "Does anyone?"

  A corner of her mouth tugged up, amused. "No. But patience is an underrated virtue."

  He huffed a breath, more acknowledgment than agreement.

  Tara let a few seconds pass before she spoke again, voice lower. "I need to know what you can do. Not just the sword you carry. Your class. Your gifts."

  Vaan tensed, sharply, at her words.

  Just as he had guessed… The implication was clear — she knew.

  Maybe not the whole truth about the grotesque sheath he bore, but enough. Enough to explain why she had been so quick to admit him into her fold.

  She watched him without pushing. "I’ll tell you mine first," she offered, almost gently. "You may Inspect me if you wish."

  Vaan scoffed. He had already inspected her many times but something about the way she had said it made him hesitate. She stood loose-limbed, hands visible, no sign of weapons or wards. Offering trust — real, or very good at faking it.

  He hesitated, then triggered [Inspect].

  Vaan blinked. Inspect had never shown him this much before — usually, just a blurred sense of class, sometimes a guess at the level if he focused hard enough.

  Through Trust, deeper layers have been revealed.

  [Inspect] has leveled up! (Lv.4→ Lv.5)

  He dropped the skill, unsettled. Tara had laid herself bare — stats, abilities, vulnerabilities — like it was nothing. It was reckless. Dangerous. Especially for a princess of Ashwa like her.

  Vaan swallowed against the tightness in his throat. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, unsure how much to say.

  Tara caught the hesitation flickering across his face.

  "My Scry can reach through barriers, glimpse through statuses and sometimes even numbers," she said and waited for a beat, then added, gentler, "But I'd like to hear about your class and skills from you. In your own words."

  Vaan's fingers loosened their grip on the fence. He hadn't even realized how tightly he’d been holding it.

  "Orderly Blade," he said, voice rough at first. "In the class ceremony, it was the Order stone’s flair that chose me though I don’t know what all of it really means. Garix told me my class was about control... And balance?”

  “Garix?”

  “Garix Redbones. My father”

  Vaan hesitated for a breath but something in Tara’s quiet, steady presence loosened the knot inside him. Slowly, awkwardly at first, he found himself sharing more — about the nature of his class, his skills, the soulbound sword. He told her how he got the sword, how Erik Veldrane was after him for that. He spoke of Garix, his father, murdered now thanks to him. He spoke of his guilt on having used his skill on an unforged sword which had somehow tied the duskiron sword to himself. He told her about Priscilla Veldrane— how he'd killed her. Saying it aloud to Tara, even haltingly, lifted the guilt he hadn't realized he was even carrying.

  Tara raised her hands gently, fingertips hovering near his chest in silent question. He nodded.

  [Soothen], she spoke aloud for his benefit, and he felt a sense of calm and continued.

  He spoke about his friends, about how he had used his skills so far. He told her about the shady herbalist from whom he got the grotesque sheath to conceal his sword — a sheath that now fed on his mana like a living thing.

  The words tumbled out in no particular order, a messy confession, raw and unfinished. But when he stopped speaking, there was a strange lightness, as if some invisible burden had shifted, leaving him with the cool night air and the space between them.

  Tara had never interrupted.

  When he finished, the yard felt quieter, the torchlight throwing long shadows across the fence.

  "Thank you," she said simply.

  Just two words, heavy with meaning.

  Tara lingered a heartbeat longer, as if weighing some last unspoken thought — then turned and drifted back toward the gathering dark, leaving him alone.

  Dawn had barely broken when Gregor unceremoniously shoved the bundled armor into Vaan’s chest, the impact knocking him half-awake.

  It was a rugged half-plate set layered over reinforced leather — clearly used, showing scuffs and wear, but undeniably well-made.

  "Decent enough," Gregor grunted, his expression betraying little enthusiasm.

  The armor’s design echoed the Imperial style, but it lacked the intricate rune markings that signified enchantments. There was also no trace of the Ashwan imperial crest. Instead, it was a plain, unmarked standard issue — purely functional. Vaan recognized it as likely taken from a supply chest, worn down by past battles and drills. The dents and scratches told their own story, but the craftsmanship beneath it all promised durability. Gregor had clearly scavenged it from his father’s garrison. Lyra had told him that Gregor’s father, Hendrick Steelborn, was one of the commanders at the local garrison.

  Armor like this would fetch a couple of silver shards — a considerable sum for basic protection, but a fraction of the price of the ornate, rune-etched sets worn by elite soldiers like the one Gregor himself wore. For all Gregor’s noble disdain, Vaan didn’t mind. This armor was more than practical; it was on par with the gear used by Wragford’s watch back home.

  "Hope you're worth it," Gregor muttered, his tone dripping with dismissal as he turned away.

  As he knelt by the rune-etched hearth in their common meeting room, the magical flames within crackling with a costly, steady warmth, meticulously adjusting the fit of the hand-me-down armor, Lyra Veyne sauntered over with the fluid grace of a hunting cat. She dropped onto a plush if slightly worn, velvet stool across from him, her fingers idly spinning a wickedly sharp dagger.

  "So," Lyra drawled, her gaze sweeping over the newly acquired plates, "Gregor finally decided to gift you some imperial's worn-down shinies, eh? Shame, though. I liked the scrappy look. Gave you character." A slow, sharp smile flickered across her lips.

  Vaan grunted, tightening a leather strap across his chest. "Wasn’t planning on making fashion statements. Just trying to stay alive."

  "Good," Lyra replied, her eyes glinting. "Save the statements for the battlefield. We’re moving soon." She flicked her dagger, embedding it point-first into the ornate wooden arm of the stool beside her with a satisfying thunk.

  Tara had apparently picked their next quest. They were to join the scouting parties in the wastelands, offering assistance to the patrols. There had been reports of northern incursions slipping through unpatrolled regions, particularly the wastelands. This specific quest was ranked from iron to silver, as the border forces were always in need of reinforcements and could assign adventurers to specific ranks as necessary. It was surprising that this contract had bled out from mercenary guilds, who usually handled border-related issues. It meant they needed more manpower than they had on hand.

  The ladies ganged up and argued with Gregor that it was safer than it seemed. The group leaving the guild for this mission was already substantial.

  “Relax, Greg.” Lyra leaned back in her chair, balancing it on two legs. “It’s basically a scenic tour of the ashlands—lava, salamanders, the occasional ember fiend sunbathing. Romantic. You, me, and the princess,” she winked.

  “Don’t. Call me. Greg.”

  “Knight Gregor,” Tara interjected smoothly, “it’s the safest way for Vaan to learn our tactics. The outer ashlands are crawling with iron-rank creatures—perfect for his leveling.”

  The ashlands and molten fields served as natural defenses, teeming with fierce, heat-bound creatures like ember fiends and molten salamanders. At the heart of it, all rose volcanoes, ringed by creatures of pure fire affinity—too dangerous to dwell among, too volatile for any army to cross safely. Together, they formed a genuine barrier against the marauding forces from the north. The outer regions, however, were home to weaker, iron-ranked beasts with a flair for fire-based attacks. The farther a creature strayed from the core of the Ashland—their true habitat—the weaker it became. These outskirts offered the perfect hunting grounds for Vaan to level up.

  Gregor’s eye twitched. “So, we’re babysitting now?”

  “And!” Tara continued, “we’ll rendezvous with Elara. She’s training near the volcanoes.”

  “Elara’s… there?”

  Lyra’s grin turned wicked. “Ohhh, suddenly interested? Greggie you bad boy! And with the princess and me already with you, you insatiable rascal. I’ll tell her you missed her.”

  “I—! That’s not—!” Gregor’s face flushed crimson. “She’s an Awakened mage with a fire flair! Of course, she’s fine in the ashlands.”

  “So, you do think she’s stronger than you,” Lyra sing-songed.

  Gregor looked like he might combust faster than the ashlands. “When did I say that?!”

  Vaan, wisely, stayed silent—though the strap he’d been adjusting on his new armor conveniently needed another tug just then.

  “This is ridiculous,” Gregor growled, pacing like a caged wolf. “No royal escort? Just us, some imperial grunts, and him?” He jabbed a finger at Vaan.

  Lyra stretched, catlike. “Greg, if you’re scared, just say so. I’ll hold your hand when the scary fire lizards show up.”

  “I am not scared—! Nor am I dumb to see that you are changing the subject. I just don’t want to waste our time on a quest, power-leveling him!” Gregor replied, his arms crossed. The quest didn't offer any special rewards, other than the usual pay that patrol guards received according to their rank. Someone of Gregor’s status wouldn’t be interested in those paltry rewards.

  "Look at it this way, Greg old boy," Lyra smirked, earning another glare from Gregor. "The quest is relatively safe. We’ll likely march back and forth along the perimeter with the imperial forces, so there's little chance of us accidentally being pushed beyond the awakening milestone," Lyra explained.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "Even so—" Gregor protested, his voice tight.

  "We'll follow the patrol routes," Tara replied. "There are signal towers all along the perimeter. We’ll leave word at each post so that Elara can catch up easily. This way we will have our party mage! This is one of those rare quests that both iron and bronze ranks can pair up."

  Gregor's mouth twisted. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, pacing in agitation. "Traveling without full royal escorts? You’re asking for trouble. We’re talking about the Princess’s safety here. I can’t believe you’re even considering this for his sake.”

  Tara, who had been silent until now, spoke up. “For our sake. If we are serious about the trial! The royal guards are unnecessary for this mission, Gregor. We’ll be sticking to the borderlands, and the imperials will be alongside us. It’s not like we’re going into the heart of enemy territory.”

  Gregor shot her a look of disbelief. “You really think I’m just supposed to trust that this won’t turn into something far worse? You’re talking about risking your safety and power-leveling a commoner.”

  Lyra opened her mouth to answer—but Vaan beat her to it.

  “If you’re half the knight you pretend to be,” he said, leaning back against the hearth, “then keeping Princess Tara safe should be easy.” A pause. “Or is that shiny armor just for show?”

  The room went dead silent.

  Gregor’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide—not with anger, but genuine shock. Even Lyra’s smirk froze mid-formation.

  Tara hid her face behind her hand.

  For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then—

  Gregor straightened. His gauntleted hand went to the sword at his hip—but instead of drawing it, he slammed it back into its sheath with a clang.

  “Fine.” His voice was eerily calm. “But when the first ember fiend knocks you flat, don’t crawl to me crying.”

  Vaan blinked. Wait. That actually worked?

  “Hold on—seriously?” Lyra asked indignantly. “This is what finally shuts him up? A rookie’s backtalk? What about my opinion!”

  Tara stepped in smoothly. “All right. Nice talk! We will meet up at the stables after stacking up the supplies.” The door swung shut behind her with suspicious haste, cutting off any potential rebuttal.

  They left behind the bustling roads near Darven’s Roost and turned eastward, crossing the fertile plains of Kanwa. Instead of heading straight north, which would have taken them closer to Wragford, they veered east and planned to detour northward. The direct route would have led them to the imperial capital, SilverBell, but that was not their destination.

  Vaan had been reluctant to take a ringhorn from the imperial stables at the Garrison, but Gregor and the Princess had access to them. The iron-ranked beast he rode was a finely trained creature, known only by its number—42. It was far faster than the Quickstride he’d ridden earlier, and it was already at level 19. The cost had made Vaan hesitate, but Gregor had grudgingly taken care of it, muttering, “Don’t want you slowing us down.” It was clear the mount had come from Gregor’s father’s Garrison. Despite the level gap, the ringhorn was so well-trained that Vaan had no trouble riding it. It also knew the routes, allowing them to cover the ground swiftly.

  Vaan gripped the reins firmly, and somewhere along the way, his [Steady Grip] skill leveled up. Between the rat-cleaning stunt and the riding he’d done so far, it had already reached level 3. Unfortunately, the grotesque sheath at his hip had also apparently leveled up through sheer spite. It pulsed occasionally, a faint hunger that hinted at its growing need for mana. That would be another problem for another day.

  By noon, they reached the heart of the Kanwa plains. Rice paddies stretched to the horizon, and farmers hunched over flooded fields.

  Tara explained that the land surrounding the Ashland was surprisingly fertile due to the unique volcanic activity in the region. The periodic flows of molten minerals from the nearby volcanoes had enriched the soil, nourishing it with essential nutrients that allowed crops to thrive. However, once they moved into the outer ashlands, the fertility would diminish. The wastelands beyond were almost entirely infertile, with the ashlands covering only a quarter of them. The rest of the land was rugged and uneven, where even ringhorns below level 10 would have great difficulty navigating. This was another reason Gregor had insisted that Vaan ride a strong, reliable mount.

  As they rode on, she also spoke about the Irzhanic Order, a sect of monks who were the only ones, aside from a few scattered settlements, to venture into the wastelands. “They’re strange,” she said. “The monks of the Irzhanic Order follow the path of the First Saint Irzhan, the Unshaken. Some say they still adhere strictly to his teachings, but others believe their faith is far more private. What’s odd is that they thrive in those barren lands, while most others would never dare go near them.” She paused for a moment. “The Imperials don’t bother them, though. The monks follow no king, no god, and no allegiance to any kingdom. Their presence in the wastelands forms a natural protection. It’s one of the reasons the northern marauders are reluctant to venture too far south—they respect the monks, even if they don’t understand them.”

  After a full day of travel, the group finally reached a small farmhouse by the roadside. The owner, a wiry man with rough, calloused hands, offered them shelter in exchange for a few coins. His farmhouse served as a modest inn for passing travelers, and tonight, it was their stop.

  Vaan gratefully dismounted from his ringhorn, working stiffness from his legs as his boots met the hard earth. He caught Lyra's smirk as she tossed him a waterskin. "Walk it off, new blood. You'll get used to the chafing."

  Nearby, Gregor consulted Tara over his map, tracing routes to the signposts with a calloused finger, his ringhorn still tethered and stamping impatiently beside them.

  They set up their camp outside, near the rice paddies, the breeze warm and the distant murmur of the land comforting. As the group settled down for dinner, the sky above them turned to crimson. It was peaceful—until Gregor broke the silence.

  "You!" He jabbed a finger at Vaan. "You ride like a merchant's fat wife at market day. This isn't some leisurely tour. We have a schedule to stick to."

  Vaan's teeth ground together. He had been pushing his ringhorn as fast as it could go, but it was hardly a match for the others. "Your mounts are level twenty-four, Gregor," he shot back. "Mine’s level nineteen. There’s a damned difference."

  Gregor's lip curled into a sneer. "It's Sir Gregor, or Mister Knight to you. I don't want to hear you complaining. You're riding a ringhorn for free. If you want a faster mount, you can rent one yourself."

  "Oh my," Lyra chimed in with bright, predatory interest. She leaned forward as if savoring the tension. "Are you two going to squabble like fishwives over a market stall? Or—" Her eyes gleamed. "—are you actually going to fight? Some good old sparring to pass the time."

  Gregor’s gauntlet clenched. "Gladly. I’ll show the boy how to hold a blade properly—and teach him a lesson he won’t forget."

  Vaan smirked. "The only lesson you’ve got to teach is how to polish armor until it blinds people."

  Gregor’s sword hissed halfway from its sheath—

  "Enough!"

  Tara’s voice cut through. "Lyra, stop it." Her glare moved to Gregor. "And you—stop rising to every hook she dangles." A beat. "If you need to measure swords, do it against something that actually threatens us."

  And then she looked at Vaan.

  "He started it," Vaan muttered, then cringed at his own petulance.

  Gregor's sword point dropped to the dirt. "You sniveling—"

  "Gentlemen." Tara pinched the bridge of her nose. "While I'm... touched by this display of masculine vigor after a full day's ride… perhaps we could weaponize this enthusiasm into a challenge?"

  Gregor's hand flew to his hilt—

  "Oh for—" Tara threw up her hands. "Not everything needs steel, you over-armored—" She caught herself, exhaling sharply. " I meant a challenge that doesn’t end with me writing casualty reports."

  She motioned to the fields surrounding them, the rice paddies stretching in all directions. "See these fields? Notice anything odd about them?"

  Vaan followed her gesture. At first, the fields seemed perfectly normal—neatly arranged rows of rice, swaying gently in the breeze. But then, as his gaze sharpened, he saw it—twisted patches of sickly, green weeds sprawling out across the crops. They spread erratically, choking the life out of the plants around them. It wasn’t just their shape—there was something off about the way they grew. Unnatural.

  "See that infestation?" she said. "Mana-warped weeds. Nasty little things. They leech off magical runoff from the fields and spread like a plague."

  Vaan looked at her, then at Gregor, who was already looking more than a little irritated. Tara’s smile widened, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Simple task. Whoever clears more of them by the first moon wins."

  Vaan’s gaze flicked to Gregor, who straightened, ready for the competition. Lyra, sitting off to the side, stifled a laugh. Tara’s eyes twinkled as she addressed Gregor directly. Gregor bristled at the challenge, his shoulders squared. "Fine, it is no challenge to me but if it helps the farmers..." he muttered. He glanced at Vaan. "I’ll give you a head start."

  The farmer, seeing the tension and excitement of the challenge, couldn’t help but grin blatantly. He fetched two small baskets of weeding tools—bladed sickles, curved and sharp, perfect for slicing through the invasive weeds. He handed one to Vaan and the other to Gregor. “Good luck to you both,” the farmer said, his voice full of amusement at the turn of events.

  Vaan gripped the sickle. He strode toward the nearest patch of weeds, his mind already calculating how best to tackle the task. Gregor, of course, was already working at a fast pace, his movements precise and quick. Whatever the fuck happened to his headstart. Some knight he was!

  Vaan scowled and went on with it.

  As the minutes ticked by, Vaan focused on the task before him. The real challenge was distinguishing them from the crops themselves. Instead of rushing into the task like Gregor, he studied their pattern of growth. The weeds were unlike anything he had ever encountered. Their sickly green tendrils were clearly choking out the rice. He could see their distorted shape. Each weed was like a shadow, creeping in between the rice, trying to blend in. It was easy to imagine slicing through the wrong stalk, destroying the very crop they were trying to save.

  The task required precision—Vaan knew that much. But as he worked, he found something strange. His focus sharpened. The weeds that had once seemed indistinguishable from the rice stalks now stood out in even starker contrast. It was as if the line between them became clear the moment he concentrated. He could see exactly where to cut, where the weeds met the ground, and where to strike without harming the rice.

  But why? The sensation was odd, like a tug at the back of his mind. He glanced up for a moment and found Tara watching him closely, her gaze quiet but knowing.

  Vaan paused for a moment, looking up at her with a puzzled expression. He hadn’t expected her to be paying such close attention, but now that he saw it, he couldn’t help but wonder. She seemed to know something he didn’t. Something about the way she looked at him made him feel... seen. A glance of silent understanding passed between them.

  He shook his head and returned his focus to the task...

  Gregor, of course, was still working fast, his blade cutting through the weeds like a scythe through wheat. He had the advantage, both in vigor and finesse. However, Vaan wasn’t too far behind. He’d cleared whole patches of weeds with precision, his focus on the task sharp and unwavering.

  Gregor finished first, wiping the sweat from his brow as he surveyed the field. He glanced over at Vaan’s work, eyes narrowing. He said nothing at first, his chest heaving from the exertion. But then, after a moment of silence, he gave a grudging nod.

  Vaan said nothing, his chest still heavy from the effort, but the nod felt like a small victory in itself.

  “Not bad,” he muttered, the words almost begrudging, “But I won as I knew I would. If I had been a farmer, I would have been a better one than you. But of course, since I am a Knight, such a situation arising would be absurd.”

  Once an arsehole…

  Tara stood quietly for a moment, observing both of them. She then turned to Gregor with a thoughtful smile and said, “Sometimes, it’s not just about winning. It’s about effort with the right intentions.”

  Gregor nodded, slightly surprised but respectful, as though her words had triggered some profound enlightenment. What the fucking kind of roleplay fetish was this man into?

  As he walked away, Vaan caught Tara rolling her eyes in exasperation—but she noticed him watching. She didn’t say a word, though a mischievous glint flashed in her gaze before she turned away. Vaan couldn’t quite place it, but it was clear that Tara had noticed something.

  Something that had shifted within him during that challenge. But as the stars began to take their places in the sky, he couldn’t help but feel a quiet sense of accomplishment. Only then was his gained insight acknowledged by the weave almost like an afterthought.

  Skill Unlocked: Severing Cut

  The blade hums with an unseen force, cutting through that which persists unnaturally.

  Fascinating though that was, Vaan didn’t know how he could use his expert weeding skills in battle. Had the princess noticed?

  The morning was crisp and the fire's warmth had already faded as they packed up camp in a quick, practiced motion. The last remnants of the embers crackled and disappeared into the cool air, leaving only the faintest scent of wood smoke in the breeze. They moved with purpose, the plains of Kanwa stretching out before them. Instead of continuing along the eastern road toward the city, they veered northward, the land around them slowly morphing with each passing hour.

  The ringhorns' wide hooves carried them across changing terrain as the hours passed. Vaan could feel the shift through his mount's gait - the fertile soil beneath them grew harder, the grasses sparse. The once gentle breeze now carried a dry, uncomfortable heat though the ringhorns plodded through dutifully. As they moved north, the land around them became jagged and unforgiving. The smooth, rolling plains of the day before were replaced by rocky terrain and brittle, sparse vegetation.

  As they continued further on, a faint haze began to rise from the horizon, distorting the view ahead. There were no bright greens or lively colors here—just shades of gray and brown that stretched out endlessly. The once fertile plains had become a hostile, lifeless border—an empty wasteland marked only by the occasional charred stump of a tree.

  They dismounted as the terrain grew too rough, leading the sure-footed ringhorns by their reins. That was when they encountered it.

  From a cleft between shattered rocks slithered a creature — a level 8, salamander, as per his [inspect]. This beast's body was long and serpentine, scales shimmering like molten bronze where the light caught them. Heat shimmered from its form in visible waves. Spines of obsidian jutted along its back, and its eyes were pits of smoldering ember, watching with predatory intelligence. Clawed limbs propelled it forward with surprising speed, and its breath carried the dry, baking heat of a kiln.

  Gregor grinned and cracked his knuckles, clearly eager.

  "Watch and learn pup," he said and stepped forward without hesitation, plate armor hissing as it met the blistering air. He moved like a bulwark, shield raised high, spear braced low. His style was measured, every step a planted promise of force. As the salamander lunged, he deflected the swipe with his shield and retaliated with a thrust that gouged deep into its side.

  Lyra circled left, blade flashing. Where Gregor was steadfast, she was relentless as the master of arms who adapted mid-fight, exploiting the salamander’s overextensions with quick, brutal slashes. Her strikes sought joints, tender gaps where the creature’s natural armor faltered. Each movement flowed into the next, her balance unbroken even as the cavern shook under the beast’s fury.

  Tara remained behind them, focus unwavering. When the salamander’s tail lashed out, breaking stone and sending a shockwave through the ground, Tara lifted her hand and cast Verdant Aegis. A barrier of vibrant green mist shimmered into existence, absorbing the worst of the impact against the party. Vaan caught the subtle timing: Gregor never even glanced back. He fought on without hesitation, certain Tara’s shield would be there—and it was.

  Moments later, she extended her hand toward Gregor, murmuring an incantation. Luminous Boon wrapped him in a golden light, sharpening his reflexes and empowering his strikes. Gregor’s next spear thrust struck with enough force to stagger the salamander, forcing it to rear back in pain.

  Vaan watched, frozen. They moved so fluidly, each anticipating the others’ actions without hesitation. It was like watching a single living being with many limbs — efficient, lethal, and beautiful in its way.

  The salamander adapted in turn, spitting gouts of flame, and thrashing with savage force. When a clawed sweep threatened Tara, she invoked Manifold Step—her form blurring into sudden motion, evading the strike with unnatural grace.

  Strike after strike, shield meeting fang, blade cutting into scorched hide, pulse magic hammering at the beast’s endurance—the trio pressed their advantage.

  Despite the salamander’s strength and the Ashland empowering it, the battle should have already been over.

  Unless...

  "You going to watch all day, Vaan?" Gregor barked without looking. "We didn’t drag you here to get pushed straight into Awakening. We brought you to get some levels—enough so you’re not dead weight!"

  "Gregor!" she said, her tone steady and firm even. "We brought him to learn how to fight with us. Not to intimidate him. Vaan. Together. Now!"

  Vaan swallowed, the weight of her words anchoring him. He nodded stiffly and stepped forward, hand closing around the hilt at his side.

  As he drew his sword, the parasitic sheath resisted a hungry pull trying to leech his strength. But at his intent, the soulbound blade stirred—thrumming with power. The sheath recoiled, falling docile against his belt.

  Sword raised, Vaan caught a flicker of shock in Gregor’s eyes. The soulbound status must have flared across Gregor’s ‘Inspect’ screen for a heartbeat.

  Gregor mastered his reaction almost instantly, refocusing on the battle, shield, and spear pressing the salamander into the corner between a jagged outcrop.

  Vaan rushed in without missing a beat, sword raised and ready.

  He swung high—too high—and the salamander easily twisted aside. His blade whistled through nothing but hot air.

  Gregor’s grunt of disapproval rang in his ears, sharp and cutting.

  Flushing with shame, Vaan gritted his teeth and invoked his skill—Orderly Judgement—almost on reflex, his heart hammering against his ribs. His sword thrummed in response, the faint outline of the soulflame mark igniting along the blade’s edge.

  His next strike was clumsy, a rushed slash that barely nicked the creature’s flank. A thin flicker of bluish flame marked the hit—one stack.

  The salamander lashed out with its tail; Vaan stumbled back, barely keeping his footing. He thought he heard Lyra groan behind him—or was it Tara?

  Desperation clawed at him. He surged forward again, off-balance but determined, scraping another shallow hit against the beast’s thick hide—two stacks.

  The salamander shrieked, molten jaws gaping wide as it spun to face him.

  Vaan knew he wouldn’t get another clean shot.

  With a strangled cry, he heaved forward, pouring everything he had into a reckless thrust. His blade drove deep, punching through scorched scales.

  Three stacks.

  Detonation.

  For an instant, the salamander froze—then bluish soulflame erupted violently from the wound. The beast convulsed once, twice, before collapsing into a steaming, crumpled heap.

  Vaan staggered back, panting, half-disbelieving he was still alive.

  Gregor snorted and ambled up, spear resting lazily across his shoulder.

  "Moron," he said, voice rough and amused. "Fire tricks. On a lava lizard."

  "It’s soulflame," Vaan wheezed, wiping soot from his face.

  Gregor blinked, then deadpanned, "What the hell does that even mean?"

  Vaan opened his mouth, closed it, then sputtered, "Well—it's—it’s not real flame... more esoteric, obviously." He remembered the word from one of Elijah’s books, but the certainty drained out of him under Gregor’s unimpressed stare.

  Lyra gave him a pitying look, sheathing her blade with a slow, almost sorrowful motion.

  Tara diplomatically offered a smile so fake it belonged in a traveling troupe's comedy act. "Well done, Vaan," she said with exaggerated cheer. "You… uh… could only do better the next time. Let's go"

  Vaan flushed deeper, unsure if he should feel proud, humiliated, or both at once. That could have gone a lot better.

  However, the results did speak for themselves, one can argue.

  Level Up! (Lv. 7 → Lv. 8)

  ****