The sun beamed down at the back of Zethir's face. Below, the man stared at the latter's shadowed face, his indifferent ruby pupils staring at him with boredom.

  For a moment, feeling the sharp edge of a sword touching the knot in his throat, he thought Zethir was going to kill him.

  However, Zethir merely parted his pale lips. “Surrender, I've won,” he spat, though his face told a soundless sentence; ‘Is that all you've got?’

  The man gritted his teeth. However, he didn't do anything else but do as he was told. He lost, shamefully at that.

  Both he and Zethir were elite swordsmen—hell, he was ranked higher than Zethir! He was a rank 8 swordsman, while Zethir had only recently become an elite.

  “Hmph,” Zethir snorted, withdrawing his blade.

  Then, a third party came in.

  “Henry,” Earleon called out, receiving the gaze of the two hot-blooded men.

  “Earl…” Henry sighed, sitting up from the ground and massaging his aching temples.

  As an elite, he obviously had abundant experience. He threaded the fine line between life and death—otherwise he wouldn't have gotten this far.

  He used to think he'd be indifferent to the grim reaper’s scythe, but no.

  Zethir overpowered him with three simple moves. But with each move, he felt suffocated. His heart pounded on his rib cage to escape, air leaving his lungs in a heartbeat. His fingers went cold, and as he gazed into those fiery eyes, his teeth couldn't help but clatter.

  “Ha…” Henry shook his head.

  For the first time in a long while, he remembered what fear felt like.

  “Henry, are you okay?” Earleon closed their distance, crouching a little and patting Henry's shoulder. Then, he offered a hand.

  Looking at Earleon's outstretched palm, Henry shook his head and grabbed it. As soon as he stood, he straightened up his shirt and patted off the dirt on his pants.

  Earleon watched him with narrowed eyes. “It's okay.”

  “Ah?” Henry looked at Earleon, eyes questioning.

  “The difference between ranks 6 to 9 aren't much. Even if you've lost, don't let it…”

  Henry smiled, waving his hand to stop Earleon's sentence.

  “I'm fine. I know this, worry not. When I challenged him, I was prepared to win and lose,” Henry glanced toward Zethir, who went back to leaning against a tree.

  Ranking up didn't mean you would be stronger than the previous rank—excluding every ‘bottleneck’ rank.

  Ranks 1 to 4 can defeat and be defeated by each other. These ranks were known as ‘growth’ ranks, with each rank representing a higher level of potential. However, a rank 5 would overwhelm ranks 1 to 4, unless it was a newly promoted rank 5.

  Rank 5s are aiming to break through their limits, but until they do, they'd remain as rank 5, accumulating vast amounts of energy and experience. However, not all can break their limits, forced to stay at this ‘bottleneck' rank for eternity.

  This cycle repeats after breaking through the green rank and entering the elite rank, and so on.

  “He's good. Will he leapfrog to the next tier?” Henry looked at Earleon in askance.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  However, Earleon simply shrugged.

  ‘Leapfrogging’ tiers literally meant skipping ranks and entering the next tier. It wasn't unheard of for ranks 1 to suddenly enter the elite tier, though it was rare.

  Seeing Earleon unable to answer, Henry turned to look at Zethir. Then, raising his voice, he said, “Let's have a rematch in the future.”

  Then, he turned around to walk away.

  Zethir half-opened his eyes, glancing at Henry as the man limped away. With a scoff, he looked at Earleon, who was walking toward him.

  “Zethir,” Earleon wore a serious face. “Leave those energy cores be. Absorbing an energy core leaves many flaws inside the body. Not to mention…”

  “I know what I'm doing,” Zethir shifted his sight away, pressing a hand at the hilt of his sword.

  Earleon flattened his lips. “May I ask tou something?” He stood beside Zethir, putting his hands on his pockets.

  Zethir remained silent, which Earleon took as an agreement.

  “You have a peculiar talent. Your method is crude, but somehow, you make it work,” he looked at the clouds smiling at the bundles of cotton in the sky.

  The clouds slowly fluffed up, as though returning his smile.

  Zethir on the other hand, frowned. “If you want to insult me, just say so. I'm no king with an oiled tongue.”

  “I didn't mean that,” Earleon chuckled. “Energy cores. You eat them, correct?”

  “... I've seen many others do the same,” Zethir's brows slightly furrowed.

  Earleon almost laughed. “Are you sure they weren't doing it for fun?”

  “Why would you eat an energy core for fun?” Zethir looked at the man beside him. “Energy cores are essential for growth—”

  “Because energy cores can work like nutrition pills or candies,” Earleon looked at Zethir in the eye. “If you don't absorb the energy inside, it's an exotic, edible organ.”

  Zethir zipped his mouth shut. Needless to say, it was his first time hearing about energy cores being candy, of all things.

  “If you ignore the energy inside the energy core, it would be filtered out by your body and released as… many things. Gas, liquid, solid…”

  Earleon cleared his throat, a bead of sweat running down his face. “However, once you start absorbing the energy inside the energy core, it cannot be stopped or undone. Once upon a time, countless warriors fell because of this.”

  “What are you trying to say?” Zethir furrowed his brow.

  “Don't you get it?” Earleon raised an eyebrow, looking at him.

  “If you want to know how I do it, then you'd be disappointed. I don't know, I didn't even know it could be eaten for fun,” he stretched out the last word, lacing it with a painful punch of sarcasm.

  Earleon shrugged. “I don't need to learn it, I've no reason to. I'm just warning you. Don't show this method to others, nor should you do it for the time being,” he dusted the front of his robes, before walking toward the camp.

  “Your body is not fully healed, you will die if you heed not my advice.”

  Zethir scoffed. “As if you know anything about me,” he lowered his head, closing his eyes to rest.

  “Trust me, O’ warrior.” Earleon sighed.

  Looking at the clouds, he once again sent a smile, meekly waving a hand at the sky. Not long after, the blazing sun was blocked by swaths of thick, white, fluffy clouds.

  By the time Zethir returned to the camp, it was time for dinner. The group roasted dozens of fish, and Zethir couldn't help eating six portions despite himself.

  None of the others poked fun at him, as they also ate the same amount, if not more. After supper, they all retired for the day, with some gazing at the night sky.

  This included Zethir, who was sitting beside three others. He didn't call them to sit together, they approached him first.

  Originally, he was planning on sleeping as soon as his stomach flattened a bit, but now, he needed to stay.

  Why?

  “Hey, have you heard about that one guy at the mercenary union today?”

  Why else, but to gossip!

  Like sipping tea, Zethir quietly closed his eyes, breathing calmly as he strained his ears. Next to him were Earleon, Hans, and Gerald, another swordsman.

  Gerald was a chunky guy who used broadswords and daggers, and he liked wearing fitted clothes. As a result, it looked as though his clothes would burst at the next second.

  “What is it?” Hans, surprisingly, quietly asked, his eyes twinkling brighter than the stars above.

  “It says that there's this green mercenary who wants to clear an elite rogue’s name,” Gerald whispered, and Zethir almost opened his eyes.

  By the side, Earleon exclaimed softly, but said nothing.

  “Why?” Hans scratched his head.

  ‘Indeed, why?’ Zethir was also curious.

  Rogues were mercenaries who went against their mission or disobeyed the mercenary code.

  “Why… what? Why try to wash the rogue or why the rogue became a rouge?” Gerald asked back.

  “Both,” Hans looked at Gerald, his eyes flooding with thoughts of smacking Gerald's head.

  Zethir scoffed inwardly. ‘Stop bickering and continue!’

  Gerald coughed. “I'll start with the rogue. During a mission, his client died. However, instead of returning as usual, he went ahead and killed people—nobles at that!”

  “Ho~” Earleon glanced at the two.

  “Wow,” Hans almost clapped. “What a brave guy. I wonder where he is.”

  “You wanna kill him?” Gerald asked the brute of a man, forgetting himself.

  Hans quickly defended himself. “Hey, mitos is mitos. There's not enough money in anyone's pockets.”

  “True… but anyway, the green mercenary is saying that the rogue did it for a just cause.”

  “Pfft,” Zethir scoffed, and the three looked at him. However, Zethir still had his eyes closed, as if nothing happened.

  To Zethir, that was true. He didn't realize he scoffed aloud, instead of inwardly.

  Slowly turning their gaze away, Gerald resumed his small tale. “The staff obviously didn't listen. The mercenary code stipulates that outside of missions, you can't kill unrelated people.”

  Hans nodded.

  This rule was created long ago in an effort to curb the threat of mercenaries to ordinary folk. It worked wonders, but occasionally, there'd always be rule breakers.

  For example…

  Gerald and Hans peeked at Zethir, before quickly averting their eyes.

  “Anyway, why did the rogue become a rogue?” Hans asked.

  Although the rules were set, the mercenary union often made exemptions. Zethir was a living example of this. Elites didn't come like roaches, after all. Each one was an asset.

  “Well, that rogue has no backing. He only recently became an elite, with no achievements whatsoever.”

  “Like, nothing?” Hans was baffled.

  The journey to elite-hood was arduous. In the first place, a person can't become an elite without both hardwork and talent. Likewise, becoming an elite meant building a reputation along the way, as each elite was a celebrity at some point.

  A celebrity to militaries and mercenaries, of course. Civilians didn't care about this pugilistic circle.

  “Nope. The rogue is plain through and through,” Gerald shrugged.

  “What a weird guy… was it their first offense?” Hans looked at the buff man.

  “It was,” Gerald sighed, followed by Hans.

  Zethir quietly opened his eyes, looking at the two young men sighing like the elderly.

  ‘Fools. Grey hair will visit you early,’ he mocked inwardly.

  Not long after, when the torches died, and when the crickets started their hymn, the camp became silent, dreams penetrating their slumber.

  Tomorrow, they'll start their mission.