The overnight journey brought them to Ericus faster than expected. At dawn, an unnaturally sharp, cold wind greeted them, rattling the branches just outside the city walls. And those walls were tall—impressively tall, even by Agrean standards. The bridge over the moat led their carriage straight toward a line of guards in pointed helmets. Clad in cuirasses and puffed trousers, they held massive halberds; muskets hung across their backs.
The moment the guards spotted the ragged-looking coachman, one of them hurried forward, eager to prove himself.
"Stop. Papers. What's your business here?" he barked.
Thornheaven shot him a hard glare before softening. He reached into his coat and produced a rolled parchment.
"Forgive the appearance," he said warmly, handing it over. "But the functionality of this outfit and wagon outweighs even the finest fabrics."
Radion, lying in the back, watched through half-lidded eyes.
"I'm here on several matters of state, and I—"
"Matters of state?" the guard snorted. "What business would a beggar like you—"
His voice died the moment he unrolled the parchment. Thornheaven chuckled—a theatrical little laugh, as if he'd just heard a very good joke.
"M-my apologies, Minister! Please proceed!" The guard returned the document, head lowered in shame.
Radion hid a smile, caught somewhere between embarrassment and amusement.
"It's nothing," Thornheaven said gently. "In your place, I'd have stopped me too. I'm glad you're diligent. Keep it up."
With a nod, he signaled, and the gate swung open.
Ericus opened before them like a storybook illustration. Cobbled roads smooth as temple mosaics. Old buildings with carved pillars and steep roofs interwoven with modern inventions—self-igniting lamps, copper megaphones humming softly as they waited for morning announcements. The contrast should've clashed, yet somehow it formed the unmistakable identity of Agrea's capital—of the Empire's beating heart.
And today, that heart beat louder than usual.
The streets teemed with life: peasants on their way to market, bleary-eyed townsfolk returning from questionable nighttime escapades—likely racing to grab Madame Soileau's warm croissants, whose buttery aroma drifted all the way to the gate—and Tanlian traders setting up stalls where they definitely weren't licensed… though they would negotiate that shortly.
The temple guards' gilded armor clattered as they led the morning Procession of the Holy Scales. Their shields and spears—once ceremonial—looked unsettlingly functional. Fewer priests marched today, yet the procession was no less crowded.
"Funny we arrived just in time for the Thursday procession," Radion noted.
"Especially since it's Tuesday," Thornheaven replied dryly.
"If every day's Thursday now, all we're missing is annual weighing every week," Radion muttered. The coachman only smiled knowingly.
Ericus used to feel like a warm bath on a winter night. Today it feels like stepping straight out of that bath into the cold.
Ericus dazzled—but it could disappoint even faster.
They soon stopped in front of a tavern called Dissonance. The name alone dragged old memories out of Radion: bruises, bets won, questionable acquaintances, and nights that were better forgotten.
Thornheaven works out of this dump?
As if sensing the thought, the professor said, "We'll eat, change, and switch wagons. Plenty of time for nostalgia."
One of the tavern workers jumped onto their carriage and drove it off without a word as soon as he saw the minister.
Inside… the tavern looked exactly like Radion remembered. Holes in the floor. Tables held together with planks. The stale stench of beer spilled long ago. Several patrons slumped over the bar like abandoned luggage.
Charming.
Thornheaven didn't acknowledge any of it. He walked straight to the back. Staff carrying trays brushed past them without a second glance. At the end of the corridor, a door opened to reveal a room that absolutely did not belong in this building.
Ornate chairs. A table set with fruit and steaming dishes. Clothes neatly arranged on a couch. A small, lavish bookshelf. For a moment, Radion's brows climbed; his jaw dropped. His eyes wandered in disbelief.
Who exactly IS Thornheaven?
"When did you become a noble, professor?" he teased.
"Oh, please. Walking through that rat's nest is the worst part of my trips," Thornheaven muttered, dropping into a chair.
Radion realized the man genuinely looked like he'd been holding his breath outside.
"Help yourself," Thornheaven said, gesturing at the spread. He reached for a ripe orange. "We'll rest properly once we arrive."
"So this is just a stopover?"
"Exactly. Visiting establishments of questionable reputation is fashionable among the aristocracy now—they treat it like sightseeing."
"And people actually talk about this in salons?" Radion asked, pulling a plate of chicken closer.
"Sometimes it's all they talk about."
"So you don't have to explain where you go."
"Because I provide them with thrilling tales from the Dissonance," he said, biting into the peeled-but-uncut orange. Radion snorted.
Thornheaven pretended not to notice. Once they'd eaten, he nodded toward the couch.
"I prepared an outfit for you. I hope it suits you—I chose it myself."
"You don't have people for that?" Radion asked.
"There are some things I prefer to do personally."
"Professor, politician… stylist?"
"Well, I'm no professional. But it calms me."
Where does he even find the time?
Radion stood and wiped his hands. On the couch lay a dark coat with an asymmetrical cut—soft, flexible fabric that felt almost tailor-made for movement. Beneath it, a simple white shirt and wide, high-waisted trousers gathered at the ankles. High black boots, a leather belt, and a pouch with a thin dangling chain completed the set.
Simple. Almost humble. Yet the craftsmanship betrayed careful, deliberate attention.
Next to his outfit lay something entirely different—a turquoise, buttonless shirt with a heavy draped collar decorated in silver-and-black patterns, extended all the way to the floor in the form of a robe with three wide slits. The hem repeated the collar's motif, shimmering faintly in lamplight. Beside it lay a thick, soft, brown sash with matching, fitted trousers, glossy turquoise shoes, and a heavy black coat fastened with a single silver chain.
Does he treat everyone like this?
***
Changed and refreshed, they walked back through the tavern. This time, Dissonance showcased its morning charm: sticky tables, beer fumes, and patrons who had clearly lost a fight with consciousness.
A nearly-dead musician sat slumped under a column, clutching a rattling lute. When a tall man with two swords walked past, the musician weakly raised a hand.
"Toss a coin, sir…?" he croaked.
The man didn't even slow. Radion glanced at Thornheaven. The professor just sighed.
Outside, the new carriage awaited them—far more dignified than the potato hauler from before.
I've never left this place looking this tidy.
Inside were soft, plush seats, footrests, neatly arranged documents, and the warm scent of lavender and vanilla. Radion raised a brow—then relaxed, settling by the window. The carriage started moving, and he immediately lost to the comfortable backrest.
He fell asleep in seconds.
***
A gentle shake woke him just as quickly.
"We're here," Thornheaven said. "Time to meet the others."
The carriage stood inside a courtyard, just before the entrance to a mansion. Radion stepped out, still fighting the haze of his brief nap—until he looked up.
His breath hitched.
The residence seemed unreal. Pale stone gleamed in sunlight; rows of tall windows mirrored the sky. A staircase led to a raised terrace and massive ornate doors, all shaped with severe architectural precision.
But the grounds were even grander: a sweep of manicured greenery, hedges trimmed to perfection, a fountain in the courtyard, and a white gravel path leading to the entrance.
Radion stood motionless, struck by a strange mix of awe and caution.
Thornheaven gestured toward the doors with a polite little bow. Radion glanced up instinctively—as if checking for constellations—but no stars shone by day. Something in the air buzzed faintly. He grabbed his wrapped sword and followed the minister.
The moment he stepped forward, a tremor rippled through the ground—as if something massive had struck nearby. The closer they came, the louder the clash of steel became. Thornheaven's brisk pace left no room for hesitation.
A porter opened the doors. The entrance hall stretched before them—wide staircases, dark-wood corridors—yet no time to admire it. The minister strode past, even ignoring the bow of his own butler.
"Minister Thornheaven, you're earlier than expected," said a short, greying man with a grand silver mustache.
"Rufus," Thornheaven acknowledged, hurrying past.
"Young Master Frey," Rufus added, bowing. Radion stumbled through an awkward bow of his own.
What struck him most was the number of people moving through the halls—and none looked like ordinary staff. The sounds of fighting were unmistakable now.
"To summarize," Thornheaven said, approaching a pair of double doors, "welcome to my estate. I'll give you a tour later—they've apparently started without us."
A powerful crash sounded from inside. The chandelier above them trembled. A bead of cold sweat slid down Radion's face.
"With great pleasure, allow me to introduce your new colleagues," Thornheaven said, and pushed the doors open.
Inside was a massive training hall—its floor absolutely wrecked.
Before Radion could react, three sharp whistles cut the air, followed immediately by three heavy thuds. Spears slammed into the walls and floor around the entrance, trapping him in a triangle. He didn't even have time to flinch before they dissolved into nothing.
What the…?!
Three fighters clashed in the center:
A blond man wielding a polearm.
A dreadlocked warrior with a massive shield.
A short-haired blonde woman armed with a spear.
Every time she struck, the shield-bearer covered her openings. The blond man slipped around their coordinated attacks with infuriating ease, waiting for the perfect moment.
Then he struck.
His lucerne hammer swept across the floor, slamming into the shield again. The shield-bearer's eyes flickered blue.
He slammed the rim of his shield into the ground. A concussive boom ripped through the hall, cracking the stone all the way to the wall.
The blond man leapt back—and the woman was ready.
She lunged. But the lucerne twisted, links cascading outward—it transformed into a chain whip that wrapped around her spear.
She released it. Another spear formed in her free hand. She hurled it at him.
He caught it mid-flight with the chain and threw it straight at the charging shield-bearer. It was blocked—but the man froze for a split second.
And that was all it took.
Before the shield-bearer recovered, the woman darted forward—so fast the air seemed to pop—aiming straight for the blond man's heart.
But a moment before impact, the chain snapped back into a solid haft. He swept her spear aside with a single downward motion and brought the hammer's head down in a devastating arc—
—stopping millimeters from her jaw, centimeters from the shield.
"Checkmate," he said calmly as dust settled.
The shield-bearer snarled and tried to bash the unmoving haft aside. The blond man's eyes flashed toward him. The weapon shrank into a dagger that slipped above the shield and came to rest at the man's throat.
"For both of you," he added with a smirk.
Lunatics. They're all lunatics.