When the lecture finally ended, the room emptied in small clusters rather than as a whole.
Conversations sparked almost immediately—some animated, some hushed. Louis fell into step behind John and the others without much thought. The group moved through the corridors together, their voices echoing faintly against the stone.
It didn't take long before the topic shifted.
Someone—John—brought it up with an offhand remark, the kind said too casually to pretend it wasn't intentional. Nightly companions. The palace's hospitality. The way things were handled here.
A few laughed.
A few spoke openly.
He listened in silence, his expression neutral, though his thoughts weren't. The conversation brushed uncomfortably close to something he'd rather not think too deeply. By the time they reached the dining hall, he had already checked out of it mentally.
Dinner passed without incident.
Afterward, they parted ways.
Louis returned to his room alone.
Inside, the room felt quieter than before.
He sat on the bed, then lay back, staring at the ceiling. His mind replayed fragments of the day—the lecture, the questions about skills, the casual confidence of others, the undercurrent of expectation he hadn't been able to put into words.
He waited.
For a knock.
Time passed.
Morning came instead.
Louis woke to light spilling across the room, confusion flickering briefly before understanding settled in.
The knock never came.
No disturbance. No visitor in the night.
He sat up slowly, letting out a breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding. Whatever conclusions he might have drawn, he pushed them aside. Overthinking wouldn't help.
Not now.
It wasn't long after that when a knock finally sounded—firm, polite, unmistakably official.
Louis answered.
A maid stood outside, posture straight, expression composed. She informed him that he was being requested at the palace's training facility and that he should prepare himself.
After a quick bath, Louis dressed and left his room.
The corridors were already active—maids moving briskly, guards stationed at intervals—but no one paid him particular attention. He followed the directions he'd been given until the space opened up.
And then he saw it.
The training facility stretched far beyond what he had expected. The structure alone dwarfed anything he'd seen within the palace grounds so far. Wide, reinforced walls enclosed an open interior vast enough to swallow sound. By rough estimate, it was as large as five football fields placed side by side.
Sections were clearly divided.
Some areas were open and flat, marked for sparring. Others held reinforced platforms, obstacle layouts, and weapon racks. The ceiling arched high above, supported by massive beams, allowing plenty of space for movement—and destruction.
Louis slowed his steps without realizing it.
Waiting near the central area stood several familiar figures.
Luke Redfox was impossible to miss. He stood relaxed yet solid, armor fitted close to his frame, posture straight without being rigid. He looked like someone who belonged there—someone who had spent more time in places like this than anywhere else.
Nearby stood the paladin.
Her silver hair caught the light, armor polished but clearly worn from use. Two priests stood with her, positioned slightly behind, their presence quiet but unmistakable.
Louis didn't approach them directly.
Instead, he moved toward where the others were gathering.
One by one, the summoned heroes arrived, filtering into the hall. Conversations started, then stopped, as people instinctively grouped together. Some gravitated toward familiar faces. Others stood alone, uncertain, scanning the space.
Louis chose a spot among the rest and waited.
As more arrived, the structure of the day began to reveal itself.
Groups formed—not formally announced yet, but naturally. Those with similar roles clustered together. Fighters near fighters. Casters near casters. A few hovered on the edges, unsure where they fit.
Louis remained where he was, watching.
After Luke's brief explanation, training began immediately. It started with running.
They were ordered to run laps around the vast hall—one lap, then another, then another. The hall was so large that each lap felt endless, the stone floor echoing with hurried footsteps and labored breathing. Before long, complaints began to rise.
Some were quiet mutters under the breath. Others were louder—especially from those with support-oriented classes. Healers, buffers, casters. A few openly questioned why they were being forced to run when their roles were meant to be behind the lines.
Luke didn't stop walking as he answered them.
His voice carried clearly across the hall as he told them that battles didn't care about roles. That no one would politely wait for them to finish chanting. That if they couldn't move, couldn't endure, couldn't survive on their own even for a short while, then their skills would mean nothing.
So they kept running.
They ran until legs gave out. Until some collapsed to their knees. Until even the loudest voices went silent, replaced by ragged breathing and trembling exhaustion. Only when no one was left standing comfortably did Luke finally call a halt.
After that came the next phase.
It was explained briefly, that mages were not limited to skills alone. Those who learned the words, the structure, and the chants could cast basic spells without relying on their skill slots. Support-oriented heroes were directed toward this path, guided toward learning fundamentals.
Warriors were handed weapons.
The sound of steel cutting through the air soon filled the hall as practice swings began. Structured. Repetitive. Brutal in their simplicity.
Louis hesitated only briefly before stepping forward.
Luke and the paladin were speaking nearby when Louis approached. Luke looked at him with mild surprise when he asked if he could join the weapon training.
Louis explained himself plainly.
He told Luke about his unique skill—Resilience. About how it wasn't something that could simply be left alone. That if he didn't train it, didn't expose it to strain and pressure, then it would be wasted.
For a moment, Luke stared at him.
Then he laughed.
It wasn't mocking. It wasn't dismissive. It was loud, genuine, and approving. Without another word, Luke handed him a sword and told him to start swinging.
So Louis did.
Practice swings. Again and again. Hours passed that way—arms burning, grip weakening, breath steady but heavy.
Louis wasn't the only one who noticed what he was doing.
As he practiced his swings alongside the knights, glances began to drift his way. Warriors. Melee classes. Even a few heroes who had already settled comfortably into their roles. Their expressions ranged from mild confusion to open surprise.
A druid, holding a sword.
No comments followed—at least not aloud—but the looks were enough. Curious. Skeptical. Some amused. Others faintly dismissive.
John glanced at him once from across the hall, brows lifting slightly, but said nothing. After a moment, even he turned back to his own training.
Luke noticed.
With a sharp clap of his hands and a raised voice, he ordered everyone back into formation. His tone left no room for distraction. Training resumed immediately, the rhythm of steel and movement swallowing the murmurs before they could form.
It worked.
The attention faded. Louis became just another body moving, another figure sweating beneath the vaulted ceiling. Luke stayed close enough that the noise never fully returned, shielding him from the background without making a spectacle of it.
Soon after, the castle knights began to arrive for their own drills.
Veterans. Squads moving with practiced coordination. The atmosphere shifted—less chaotic, more disciplined. Training overlapped, rhythms intertwined, and the day pushed forward without pause.
By the time evening approached, the hall had emptied in waves.
Louis washed, changed, and made his way to the lecture hall reserved for support classes.
Inside, the tone was different.
No shouting. No steel. Just controlled voices and diagrams etched in light and chalk. The lecture focused on battlefield awareness—positioning, timing, reading movement. When to advance support. When to hold. When to drop skills without exposing oneself.
Buffs and blessings alike, placed correctly or wasted entirely.
Louis listened.
Halfway through, he felt it.
A gaze.
Not heavy. Not obvious. Just… present.
He glanced sideways.
A woman stood near the edge of the hall, arms folded, posture straight. Plant-green robes marked her as the instructor's assistant, though her expression was anything but gentle. Her eyes were sharp—assessing, not admiring.
When their gazes met, she didn't look away.
Instead, her lips pressed into a thin line.
Whatever she thought of him, it clearly wasn't flattering.
Then, just as calmly, she turned her attention back to the lecture.
Louis frowned faintly, then refocused on the instructor's words.