Alistare’s gaze caught the white-violet glow beneath the skin of Kisatsu’s elbow as it died away, his eyes tinged with curiosity.
A Versatile ability that harms the user—a Rage that can identify its own wielder as an opponent?
He turned finally, just enough to glance toward the splintered glass, before looking back at Kisatsu, expression unreadable.
That now…
that’s something else entirely.
He stepped forward deliberately, eyes flicking between Astafa and Kisatsu as he noticed the heavy exhaustion in Astafa’s breath and the slight, insignificant wince in Kisatsu’s expression.
“Do you feel weary at all, Kisatsu?”
Kisatsu turned to Alistare, shaking his head gently.
“Tired?
No.
My insides feel hot, though.”
The man squinted in puzzlement.
“Hot?” From his past trainees, he’d never heard of anyone complaining of internal heat—everyone had been more fatigued than feverish.
“How much Rage have you left, then?”
Kisatsu examined his palm, then held his chin atilt in thought.
“It feels like…” His violet eyes dilated.
Wait…
he mused, reliving how drained he’d felt during the manikin’s rampage.
I don’t feel drained like before.
He surveyed his palm again before turning back to Alistare.
“I feel the same.
I don’t think I feel any different from when I first entered this room.” His gaze tightened with a lingering confusion.
Pretty sure I spent more Rage today than back in the underground chamber.
Did it adapt and increase after that?
Alistare’s brows drew tight in a quizzical suspicion, his fingers running abstractedly across his beard.
“Hmmm.
I can’t say I’ve ever encountered this with any of my lot before.”
“I-Is something wrong?” Kisatsu’s voice wove out with slight unease.
“No, no.
Nothing for you to fret about.”
Rivulet came over as Alistare turned to face the boy.
“Any breakthroughs, then?” His voice carried a whiff of teasing.
“I’m fairly certain mine’s Versatile—a shapeshifting type, though.”
“Oh?
An eagle, was it?”
“Something along those lines—yeah.
But I couldn’t quite manage the full transformation.”
Alistare turned his head to Astafa, giving him a knowing look.
“What’s the largest form you can take?”
“I’ve only had a go at a pteranodon the once,” Astafa answered.
“Care to show us?
Or would you prefer an open field?”
The boy let out a soft huff, pausing.
“Best if you watch from a bit of a distance.
The transformation process is rather destructive, I’m afraid.”
“Wait a moment—just how large a pteranodon are we talking about?” Alistare raised his brow with a twinkle of curiosity.
Astafa scanned the specular chamber, his reflection gazing back from each facet.
“I can’t imagine it fitting in the quadrangle, let alone this chamber.
You’d see nothing but wreckage at this range—in fact, you wouldn’t see a thing through the blinding light.”
“Sounds like a bit of an inconvenience, even for you, eh?
Do you reckon you can control the scale?”
Astafa retraced his gaze to the man.
“I believe the size is fixed, sir.” His voice came out clipped, final.
“I simply can’t transform if I don’t have enough Rage—which always seems to be the case.”
Kisatsu gaped at him, mouth parted slightly.
A pteranodon that could barely fit in that oversized quadrangle…
He gulped.
I’ve fought this guy—someone who could turn into a prehistoric dinosaur—and I’m still expected to catch up to him?
Rivulet raked his eyes between the shattered partitions.
“You both did that?” He pivoted to Kisatsu, heaving a deprecating, small laugh.
“Seems like you’ve sorted quite a few things since we last spoke, Kisatsu.
You’re the ones giving me the task of catching up now, it seems.”
Kisatsu turned to him, a dry huff escaping his lips.
“You’re both still much faster than me—stop trying to flatter me, please.” He let out a breathy, faint chuckle nonetheless.
“Right then, everyone,” Alistare announced, his voice returning with its firm edge.
“You’ve finally completed the first part of your training as members of the Reco Team.”
He marched into the center and faced them, his hands planted against his hips.
“Yes—you heard me right.
This is but an iota of what you’re going to experience throughout the program.” His hands clasped together with a sharp smack at his abdomen.
“Now, now.
I’m not trying to put the wind up you or anything of the sort.
I’m merely stating that you should scrap any expectations of this being similar to the regulars.
But the fact that you’ve been accepted to this Team is reason enough.”
He interlocked his arms, each word echoing with a definitive, firm weight.
“As your overseer, I’ll ensure you each reach your maximum potential.
We’re not about to deploy you out there unequipped.
Remember that you’ve been recommended because of what you each possess—talents that would’ve gone to waste had the Guild overlooked you.”
His eyes sharpened with a predatory, silver glint.
“This is a sign that no matter how much effort other people put into training, as long as you’re putting in the same effort, you’ll always be a cut above them.
There is a real difference, and the Reco was established to emphasize that distinction.”
His voice lowered, though it carried a stern edge.
“That also means your responsibility matches your potential.
And to test that, you’ll be assigned with your first major quest—just the right sort of job for you lot.”
He glanced over Astafa and Kisatsu.
“Astafa and Kisatsu shall take on a quest situated on the Tyvan Coast.” He gave them a slight, knowing smirk.
“Lucky for you two—you’ll finally meet the other two members of the Team, along with a few student knights from the regulars.”
Kisatsu’s eyes gleamed with a quiet, suppressed excitement, while a wave of competitiveness flared within Astafa’s chest, his tangerine eyes burning with a controlled spark.
“Though, you’ll mostly just be observing the work,” Alistare continued.
“This will be more an immersion and less an actual battle.
If the quest seems a bit light, the other two can assign a task to you—I’ll make sure to mention it to them.”
He finally turned his head to Rivulet, the agonizing suspense waiting to unravel at his next words.
“Rivulet will work in the Shriner Palace as part of the entourage for an arriving dignitary.” A string felt as if it had snapped for a beat.
“That’s a job already related to Akasa’s Autocrat himself, though his isn’t a quest as such.”
Rivulet’s gaze darkened for a fleeting second—so brief it almost slipped Kisatsu’s notice.
Without saying anything, he gave an immediate, simple nod, his expression entirely unreadable.
“I’m a tad disappointed you aren’t all deployed on the same quest,” Alistare added.
“Wait, so you’re not the one assigning the quests to us?” Kisatsu asked, his attention flicking back to him.
“I’m simply the Team’s overseer—assigning quests isn’t my job, but that of the Guild’s quest administrators.”
“I see…” Kisatsu suddenly recalled something.
“Since we’re in the Reco Team, does that mean we get to meet the guildmaster in person—Verdetierra’s Autocrat?”
Alistare stroked his dark whiskers in that same predictable, tedious manner.
“In terms of standing within the Guild, you are closer than other knights.
But when it comes to seeing him in person…
I can’t say when—or even if—you actually would.”
I haven’t seen that man myself for a significant duration.
And if we are summoned to a meeting, it usually involves a catastrophic threat he needs our help to tackle.
He exhaled a resigned, soft breath.
Seeing as that’s the case, I’d have far fewer problems with not seeing him for a while yet.
“Lord Khoerskha’s been a bit busier as of late—well, all Autocrats are, particularly since the death of Xavior Ashira,” Alistare said, his voice boring a blunt, uncompromising edge.
Kisatsu dipped his chin with a silent puff, his eyes turning cold, calculating.
I really hope so.
Would’ve been callous of them not to get themselves involved.
A nation’s just been invaded—of course, they should be anything but quiet.
Are there any more questions?” Alistare looked them over before exhaling decisively.
“Session’s finished.
You’re free to clear off.”
As the boys began to leave, Alistare cast one last snarky glance over his shoulder toward Rivulet.
“Oh, and if anyone were to use this as a training chamber in their free time, they’d have to ask for my permission first, wouldn’t they?”
“Yes, yes.” Rivulet waved his hand knowingly without looking.
The door clicked shut, and silence took over.
Alistare reoriented toward the ruined wall of jagged shards and trotted over, his steps deliberate, eager.
That boy…
He remembered the bright glow of Kisatsu’s palms pressed against the glass before it had collapsed into shattered panes.
Did he really just saturate his hand with Rage?
The damage shouldn’t have resulted in something like this.
With a light tap of his finger, the glazed partition fell apart completely, the glass fragments clattering sharply against the floor, leaving a square backdrop of complete emptiness.
His lips tugged into a smirk of amusement as he stared vacantly into the void, like an answer he’d never expected.
I was wrong.
I doubt anyone else could’ve managed what he just did.
Not something of this nature.
He turned his gaze toward the other wreckage of shattered panes where Kisatsu’s plasma blast had hit.
And though it wasn’t as destructive as Astafa’s blast…
His eyes landed on one of the sharp, tapered shards where the edges still glimmered purple.
…It still left something far too questionable to come into contact with.
With that same casual flick of his wrist, the ruins returned to their original form, a quick, ambient nose signaling the deactivation of his ability.
Still, I was right about one thing…
His silver eyes grew keen, his lips pulling back into a predatory, shrewd simper.
…Kisatsu was truly the most interesting candidate among them.
The silence was broken only by the soft, steady buzz of the white-blue globe hovering in the center, the only sound that grew as the hush deepened.
***
150th Day of the Year 1016 — Narranca Abbey, Hirschfeldt County, Blutthal Region
The invasion had occurred four days ago.
After forty-eight hours of drifting in and out of the black, the mattress felt unnaturally deep, swallowing his weight in a way the phantom floor of that other place never could.
The heat of the blankets prickled against his skin still numb from the void.
Then, the crisp snap of a whip bit through the silence, rousing him.
The room tilted sharply as he bolted upright, the sound dragging him back fully into a world he’d never thought to return to.
The room carried the faint, lingering scent of incense and was filled with furniture of ornate hardwood carved with clerical, symbolic engravings.
The sun painted a warm square of gold onto the wooden floorboards, illuminating the dust motes drifting slowly in the air.
Ryurei inspected his missing left hand, now reduced to a deadened, torpid stump.
“A sorrowful sight, is it not?” The voice slithered across the room, cold against the morning warmth.
Ryurei found the priest lurking by the window, clad in a beige soutane instead of his previous black cassock.
“Four days have passed since Xavior Ashira was executed.
By now, the assassins and the saboteurs should have been dispatched, yet the patrol headquarters remains as silent as a tomb.
Does the nation truly harbor no love for its own ‘hero’?” He turned to the boy with that same unnerving smirk, his voice oozing with a coy piquancy.
Ryurei scowled, clenching his teeth.
“Why haven’t you killed me yet?
What is it you’re plotting?” His gaze darted across the room.
“Where am I?”
“You have not moved.
You are exactly where you were.” The priest strutted toward him, his steps agonizingly slow.
“Within the walls of a town the inhabitants called Windenroth—before we saw fit to place them in chains.”
Ryurei instantly recalled his memories with the town’s residents, a sense of intense rage surging within him, yet he remained composed, hopeless.
“If you were only after my father…
why involve innocent people?
This is not what you told me before.”
His voice was dangerously low, level.
Another crack of a whip entered through the window, followed by the desperate, high-pitched scream of a man.
Ryurei flinched at the sound, but his pale canary eyes were too hollow to even show any sign of worry, rising to meet the priest’s sharp champagne ones.
“Who are you?
And why do you do this?” The protest in his voice had finally died out, falling barely above a whisper, but he still tried to solicit at least an answer.