When Francis demonstrated with the hammer, the courtyard fell into an eerie stillness. The blade sliced through the cold wind, its arc simple yet profound like ancient runes, each movement honed through countless repetitions. Watching the lingering silver trails, Xize suddenly understood: true mastery often hides in the simplest forms.
But when he tried to replicate the motion, the iron block shot out like a meteor. After several attempts, the boy wiped his brow and pointed firmly at the anvil. "There's something wrong with this dark iron."
"Oh?" Francis toyed with his pipe, a teasing smile emerging through the smoke. "Did it grow wings?"
Xize turned away, robes fluttering. If the man insisted on setting obstacles, he'd uncover the secrets himself. As dusk deepened, Moses finally completed his training. Xize, long finished, crouched on the wall counting the seventh iron block that had flown out of the yard.
When Xize invited Moses to stay, Jeff in the shadows tightened his grip on his sword. Riesz had left a tracking mark on the boy before departing—this manor hiding a master magician was far more dangerous than it appeared.
"Is this... where you live?" Moses trembled before the gilded gates. Moonstones embedded in the dome illuminated the castle like daylight, while stained glass windows shimmered with elemental blessings.
Xize snapped his fingers to dissolve the barrier, grinning at the wide-eyed prince. "If you still willingly pay by month's end, I'll crown you a true warrior."
Deep in the night, Xize cast a memory spell over the "Herbology Codex." Pages glowed blue under magic's touch—he needed to make this tome vanish before Claude returned.
At dawn, frost sprites danced on the windowsill. Xize's knock on the guest room door startled ravens roosting on the chandelier.
"Morning training," he announced, dragging a sleepy Moses through the rose maze. Above the training ground hovered observation crystals, magnifying Bevise's disheveled figure—exactly the spectacle Xize wanted to see.
When Xize stepped into the training grounds, the vast arena was already packed with a surging crowd. Two teams of warriors clad in leather armor stood like moving fortresses, their interweaving shadows stretching across the dawn-lit field. The white mist of their breath swirled in the chilly air, momentarily dispelling the early winter's bite.
Hugh stood between the two teams, his deep, resonant voice echoing across the grounds. As his words faded, a fierce fighting spirit ignited in the warriors' eyes. In perfect unison, they struck their breastplates—the clang of metal reverberating like war drums through the crisp morning air.
Squinting, Xize counted the figures—thirteen in each row, the full garrison strength of the castle. The stone fortress housed over fifty residents, nearly half of whom were these rigorously trained warriors. The rest were mostly servants purchased for upkeep, along with a handful of members often away on missions whom Xize barely knew.
At the edge of the crowd, Myron and Bevis stood out. As Xize tugged Moses' sleeve and squeezed through the throng, he overheard Bevis muttering under his breath, "Do you think the Captain can win?"—clearly referring to Robert, the man in charge of his training.
"Who knows," Myron replied in a dismissive, boyish tone, a flicker of impatience in his silver-gray eyes. The boy, carefully groomed by his father Hugh, had little patience for Bevis. In his mind, associating with dullards tarnished one's intellect.
Xize approached with a light rustle of wind. "What's the contest about?"
Myron, spotting Xize after days apart, immediately grabbed his sleeve and explained, "The guards are holding a selection match. The losers stay to defend the castle; the winners get to join Father on the mountain hunt. Would you like to—"
"He can't," Moses cut in sharply, his ash-gold hair gleaming coldly in the morning light. "We have forging techniques to study at the workshop."
"And who are you?" Myron frowned, having already noticed the unfamiliar silver-haired youth.
"Moses Carlos," the boy retorted, chin raised, though his sharp edges softened slightly whenever his gaze fell on Xize. He sensed something perilous lurking beneath Xize's gentle exterior.
As the two bickered, a sudden roar from the training field drew Xize's attention. Watching the two teams square off, he raised an intrigued eyebrow. "Which side are you betting on?"
"Bolton's team, of course," Myron answered without hesitation.
Bevis stared in disbelief, then scowled. "But you just said you didn't know!"
"I didn't," Myron replied, mimicking his father's habit of crossing his arms with an air of maturity. "But Father predicted Bolton's victory last night."
Under Bevis's speechless glare, Xize pressed, "What's so special about Bolton?"
"Father put it this way—" Myron deliberately drew out his words, imitating Hugh's grave tone. "Bolton… excels at cunning tactics."
A glint of interest flashed in Xize's eyes. He'd always had a soft spot for those who defied convention. With proper guidance, such a mind could turn the tide when it mattered most.
Encouraged, Myron grew animated, pointing toward the field. "See? Bolton's team targets the lower body, throws blinding powder—and last night, he lured Robert's men into gambling until dawn…"
Xize followed his gaze and indeed saw one team of warriors, bursting with energy, employing all sorts of underhanded tricks. The other team, clearly sleep-deprived, moved sluggishly. Though Robert's men displayed better coordination, the sheer disparity in condition left most—save for Robert and a few skilled fighters—being steadily pushed back.
Spotting the advantage, Bolton whistled sharply and shouted, "Brothers! Time to reclaim our honor!" Though no match for Robert in direct combat, he deftly countered each move with sly, unpredictable strikes. His unorthodox, almost shameless style drew an appreciative chuckle from Xize. "Instinctive, unrestrained by convention—a rare talent indeed."
"Disgraceful," Moses muttered, turning away in disgust. "You ought to discipline these warriors."
Just then, the battle shifted. Robert, realizing his team was being encircled, reluctantly withdrew after a forceful palm-strike exchange and conceded defeat through gritted teeth.
"Well fought," Bolton grinned, slinging an arm around Robert's shoulder, only to have it shrugged off coldly.
Robert turned to his dejected troops, his voice stern. "If this were a real battlefield, you'd be carrion for the crows! Double drills today!" Amid the collective groans, he saluted Hugh and withdrew. Bevis, catching a subtle nod from Xize, quietly followed the defeated squad.
As the contest concluded, Merlen immediately scurried over to Xize. "Coming along?" he asked, eyes sparkling with anticipation.
Xize rubbed his chin thoughtfully, a sly grin curling his lips. "Of course. Perfect chance to catch a few magical beasts as pets."
Merlen's face lit up instantly. Adventures with Xize always promised excitement, and keeping magical pets was such a novel idea he'd never considered.
Turning to the silent Moses, Xize inquired, "Joining us? Never seen a live magical beast, have you?"
Moses twisted his clothes nervously. His father's warnings about obeying teachers warred with his burning curiosity about magical creatures. After an internal struggle, he stammered, "But our teacher..."
"Leave it to me!" Xize thumped his chest confidently. Signaling the others to wait, he dragged Moses toward the blacksmith's shop.
Standing before the steaming forge, Moses wrung his hands anxiously. "How do we explain this to the teacher?"
"Just watch and stay quiet," Xize whispered with a mysterious wink.
Rhythmic hammering echoed from within. Francis was deeply focused on forging weapons, not bothering to look up as he instructed, "Standard procedure - hundred strikes, then break."
"Teacher!" Xize's clear voice made the hammering pause.
"What is it?" Francis glanced up impatiently.
"We wanted to prepare a gift to honor you as our mentor."
The blacksmith's impatience melted instantly, replaced by a warm smile. "No need for formalities among family."
"Well, if you insist, Moses, let's get back to forging." Xize pretended to leave.
"Wait!" Francis called out exactly as predicted, stroking his beard with feigned seriousness. "Since it's your sincere gesture, I'd be rude to refuse."
"It might take some time to prepare the gift..." Xize trailed off meaningfully.
"Take all the time you need," Francis waved them off with unusual benevolence.
The moment they left the smithy, Moses fretted, "But we don't have any gift!"
Xize couldn't help laughing at his naive companion. Such straightforward youths were rare these days. Patiently, he explained, "We're heading deep into the mountains, right?"
Seeing Moses nod, he continued, "Mountains have rocks and leaves, don't they?"
"You can pick up a rock and call it rare ore, I'll grab a leaf as a magical specimen. Did you really think we'd gift him a hammer?"
"A hammer would be nice though," Moses' eyes brightened.
Xize facepalmed with a sigh. "It's the thought that counts, understand?"
Using rocks and leaves as gifts? Young Moses' developing worldview received another shock.
Though the Benedict Mountains were notorious across the continent for their dangerous magical beasts, to Xize's group, they were just a natural hunting ground.
Watching the guards easily dispatch several fierce creatures, Xize pouted discontentedly. "Uncle Hugh, where are the magical beasts you promised?"
"Beyond this point lies their territory," Hugh warned gravely. "While we won't encounter high-level ones, stay alert."
This expedition wasn't for leisure - its purpose was maintaining the warriors' combat readiness through real battles. When Moses and Merlen grew too exhausted to continue, Hugh assigned two warriors to carry them forward.
Deeper into the mountains, the warriors grew increasingly tense. Ancient trees blocked the sky, tangled thorns barred their path, and the very air hummed with danger.
"Halt!" Hugh suddenly raised his hand.
The formation instantly contracted, shielding the three youths at its center.
"The Benedict Range stretches thousands of miles. We're still in the outer regions," Hugh explained solemnly. "Normally we'd only find low-level beasts here, but you're in luck - we've encountered fifth-level magical beasts in the periphery."
Rustling sounds suddenly emerged from the forest.
"I-Is that a Wind Wolf?" Moses trembled from his guardian's back. It was his first time seeing such a massive magical creature.
Bolton guarded their flank, chuckling, "Correct. Most common magical beasts in these mountains. Their meat's sour and tough - nobody likes it."
"Always thinking about food!" Moses grumbled, remembering their training ground disputes.
The guards burst into laughter. Bolton glared awkwardly at his subordinates, only making them laugh harder. The banter helped ease Moses' tension.
Xize squeezed through the protective circle, gazing up at the legendary creature. The Wind Wolf appeared more formidable than he'd imagined - three meters tall with shimmering azure fur, its emerald eyes glowing in the dim forest.
Five Wind Wolves approached from different directions, their powerful limbs moving soundlessly, only low growls rumbling from their throats.
"Adult Wind Wolves typically reach fifth level, travel in packs, and excel at wind magic," Hugh explained calmly, as if giving a lesson.
As if to prove his point, the wolves suddenly bared their fangs, pale green magical energy gathering between their sharp teeth.
Several wind blades shot through the air, tearing through the atmosphere with piercing shrieks.
Hugh remained motionless, giving Bolton a slight nod. Ten warriors sprang into action, pairing off to engage the wolves. Amid flashing blades and clashing steel, magic and martial arts collided violently, sending ripples of energy through the forest.
Xizer and his companions had been anticipating an exhilarating monster hunt, but reality fell far short of their expectations.
"Can't you even spot the exposed underbelly when the Windwolf leaps? Lunge forward two steps and slash upward—that's how you cripple it!" Bolton stomped impatiently on the fallen leaves, barking criticisms at the warriors in the clearing.
"And you! Do you truly fancy yourself a swordmaster? Why confront it head-on when you're outmatched? Flank it and find an opening! Don't you dare claim to be under my command when we're out in the world!"
Under his scathing guidance—venomous as poisoned arrows—the warriors gradually found their rhythm. Moses had to admit, despite the man's brutish demeanor, Bolton possessed remarkable insight. He always pinpointed the monsters' fatal weaknesses with unnerving precision.
When the last Windwolf fell, the warriors deftly cleaved open its skull to retrieve the mana core. The Grade-Five core gleamed with an eerie luminescence in the sunlight—one of the continent's most stable currencies.