“Wh... what?” Steve stammers, his face a picture of confusion.

  “What is their favourite pastry?” Finn repeats, his tone firm.

  “Uh... Uhm, apple pie?”

  “Are-you-sure-about-that?”

  “No—no, wait! Let me think!”

  Finn’s patience wears thin. “You have five seconds. Five...”

  “Cherry tart?”

  “Four! Three!”

  “Pear pie! Oh, by the Queen, I don’t know!”

  “Two! One! Time’s up!”

  “Don’t kill me!” Steve pleads, his voice trembling.

  Finn’s expression remains unreadable. “Actually... I don’t know either.”

  Steve is flabbergasted. “Then—then why did you ask?”

  Finn raises an eyebrow. “What kind of husband and father doesn’t know his family’s favourite pastry?”

  Steve’s shoulders slump, his head bowing in defeat. The weight of Finn’s words sinks in, and he feels utterly defeated.

  Finn tosses the stick aside and steps in front of him. “Anyway, that’s enough to prove you’re who you say you are. But it doesn’t explain why you were tailing me.”

  It only takes a quick glance for Finn to figure out that the person in front is obviously Jimmy’s father because Jimmy looks like his younger clone.

  “I wanted to find out who you are. It’s not every day a stranger comes to town, buys all our fruits, asks my son to show him around, and even visits my house,” Steve admits, his tone still subdued.

  “I thought you were out hunting? Why are you still in town?”

  “I hurt my leg a few days after leaving with my hunting group. They went on without me.”

  “Your family doesn’t know?”

  Steve sighs. “It was my first hunting expedition. I couldn’t face them. How could I admit that I got injured and missed the whole hunting season?”

  Finn’s eyes narrow. “Are you a swordman? What magic do you know?”

  Steve responds honestly, “I’m a Gladiator. I can only harden my sword and my fists. That’s about it.”

  Judging from Steve’s broadsword embedded with magic vault, he is clearly a swordman that can manipulate magic. As predators can only be slain with magic, either through spells or enchanted weapons. Although they’re not immune to physical attacks, magic is a far more efficient way to kill them.

  Like there’s a ranking for predators—there are five corresponding ranks for swordsmen and magicians. For swordsmen, the ranks are Disciple, Gladiator, Swordmaster, Provost, and The Great Swordmaster. Magicians follow a similar progression: Disciple, Scribe, Wizard, Elder, and The Great Magician.

  And those who fight with bare fists? They’re known as madmen—a name coined by the regent who restructured and simplified the ranking system.

  Finn’s eyes gleam with interest. “You’re still looking to join a hunting group, right?”

  Steve blinks in surprise. “Are there still groups recruiting?”

  Finn puffs out his chest. “Yes! I’m recruiting new members!”

  Steve’s eyes light up. “Really? What rank are you? Are you a magician or a swordman?”

  “I’m a disciple magician. If you join me, there’ll be two of us!”

  Steve’s enthusiasm deflates.

  Finn notices his disappointment. “Oh, don’t look down on a Great-Magician-Wannabe! Don’t forget who just defeated you!”

  Steve mumbles, “You mean by sneaking up on me?”

  “That one was a recruitment trial! Ha ha!” Finn laughs awkwardly. He then quickly switches the topic. “It’s settled then! Meet me at the inn tomorrow morning. I’m sure others will be eager to join once they see my profile!”

  Steve looks puzzled. “Because of your magic skills?”

  Finn’s grin widens. “No, because I can cook and talk well!”

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  —

  The following morning, Finn wakes up feeling refreshed and energised. He heads downstairs, curious about what John, the inn’s chef, has prepared for breakfast.

  Steve is already there, having eaten earlier after helping Jimmy deliver fruits early in the morning.

  “So, did you tell Emma that you’re joining me on this hunt?” Finn asks between bites.

  Steve nods. “I left out the part about my injury. I told her I met you on the outskirts of The Forest and decided to join your group.”

  Finn leans back, visibly impressed. “You’re considerate, Steve. Didn’t want them to worry, huh?”

  A faint blush appears on Steve’s cheeks as he scratches the back of his head.

  “By the way, do you know someone called Risa?”

  “Risa? Who?”

  Mira, the innkeeper, finishes cleaning a nearby table and approaches them. “Hey! You two know each other?”

  Finn nods enthusiastically. “Not just that, we’re about to heading out on a grand hunting adventure!”

  Mira’s eyes light up. “You’re moving fast, huh? Oh, by the way, a girl in a hood came by looking for you last night. I told her you weren’t around, and she said she’d be back this morning.”

  Finn’s whole face brightens. “See? Told you—people are already lining up to join my team!”

  Mira laughs, her usual cheerfulness evident. “Good luck, you two!” she says before returning to her duties.

  Finn finishes his breakfast and picks up a newspaper, his eyes skimming the headlines.

  Meanwhile, Steve sits nearby, carefully polishing his family heirloom—a broadsword passed down through generations. He wipes it gently, paying attention to every detail, as if the blade carries not just steel but memories.

  A man in patched clothes approaches them. “Are you Finn, the disciple magician?”

  Finn looks up from his newspaper. “Yes, that’s me. And you are?” Steve pauses his polishing, his gaze shifting towards the stranger.

  “I saw your post about forming a hunting group. I want to join. Name’s Frank, a gladiator.” Frank's reply is short and sharp.

  Finn sizes him up with a quick glance. Frank stands tall and firm, his posture steady. But there’s one glaring detail—he’s missing an arm.

  Finn’s face remains neutral. “Ah, thanks for your interest. But…” He pauses just long enough to let his words sink in. “There are quite a few people eager to join. I can’t just take anyone who asks.” His tone is polite, but his eyes are sharp.

  Frank’s expression doesn’t change. “I understand.”

  Finn’s lips curl into a half-smile. “How about this? Steve here is also a Gladiator. Why don’t you two have a sparring match? I’ll decide after that.”

  Frank nods without hesitation. “Fine by me. When do we start?”

  Steve glances at Finn, then at Frank. After a brief moment, he agrees. “We can go to the vacant lot near my house. It’s quiet there.”

  On the way to the field, Finn breaks the silence. “So, Frank, how old are you?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Near the Sanctuary.”

  “Got a family?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wife and…?”

  “Daughter.”

  "Do you know anyone by the name of Risa?"

  “...No.”

  Finn continues the small talk, his curiosity unrelenting. Frank’s answers are curt but polite, unfazed by the barrage of questions.

  They arrive at the edge of town, where an open field lies untouched and secluded. No one passes by, making it the perfect spot for an uninterrupted duel.

  Steve and Frank stand on opposite sides of the field, weapons ready. Finn positions himself in the middle as the referee. “This is a friendly duel to showcase your swordsmanship. Stop the moment I say so. Understood?”

  Both men nod, their faces stoic, eyes locked on each other. Their bodies tense, ready to strike at the first signal.

  Finn raises his hand. “Three… Two… One… Start!”

  They burst into action, moving so swiftly they seem to vanish from sight.

  From the sidelines, Finn watches intently.

  Steve, despite his leaner build, fights with grit, guarding with his broadsword, keeping his torso shielded behind its broad, hardened surface. He isn’t flashy—but every block is deliberate, every strike purposeful.

  Frank, meanwhile, moves like wind. Taller, broader, yet fast on his feet. He circles, tests, dives in and out with quick jabs. For a while, they’re evenly matched.

  But time wears on, and it starts to show in Frank’s movements. Shoulders heavier. Breaths shorter.

  Frank tries to end the fight quickly, his attacks becoming more aggressive. But Steve’s defence holds strong. Though Frank’s blade manages to graze him a few times, Steve doesn’t allow any hits near his vital spots.

  Frank’s movements become sluggish, his strikes less precise. In one decisive move, Steve blocks his attack and counters with force, knocking Frank to the ground and pointing his sword at his neck.

  “Stop!” Finn’s voice cuts through the air as he steps between them. “Steve wins.”

  Steve offers Frank a hand, helping him to his feet. Frank’s expression remains unreadable, his face a mask of indifference. He gives a slight bow before turning to leave.

  “Wait!” Finn calls out, a grin spreading across his face. “Let’s welcome Frank to the team!”

  Frank freezes, his impassive facade cracking slightly. “But… I lost.”

  “I never said I’d only pick the winner, did I?” Finn chuckles.

  Steve steps in, his eyes sharp with curiosity. “You lost your arm recently, didn’t you? Your technique is still adjusting from using two hands to just one.”

  Frank nods. “Last hunting season. That’s when I lost it.”

  Finn claps his hands together and says, 'Well then, let’s go grab some beers to welcome our new member!’

  Steve chimes in with Finn, their enthusiasm impossible to resist. Frank gives in, and together they make their way to a cozy tavern Steve swears by. The night soon brims with laughter and tales, the kind of easy camaraderie only a round of beers can spark among men like them.

  Back at the inn, a hooded girl waits patiently from morning till evening. As twilight settles, Mira approaches her. “Oh dear, I don’t think the gentlemen are coming back anytime soon. Would you like to leave them a message?”

  The girl hesitates, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her cloak. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  With that, she leaves, her figure vanishing into the shadows just as the first stars appear in the sky.