Two weeks have passed since I was hospitalized. My muscles are still sore, a dull ache settling deep into my bones, but the cuts and wounds that once covered my body have healed, leaving behind only faint scars as proof that it happened at all.

  Time in the hospital feels like an endless blur. The days blend together, marked only by the mechanical beeping of monitors, the muffled footsteps of nurses, and the sterile scent of disinfectant. I lost track of how many times I woke up in the middle of the night, expecting to hear the sounds of battle, only to be greeted by silence.

  At some point during my stay, graduation happened. I missed it.

  I should care more. I should be upset that I never got to stand on that stage, to hear my name called, to walk forward like the others and accept my place in the world. But none of that matters now.

  Because I wasn’t the only one who missed it.

  Jin… Kyu…

  Their names weigh heavy on my mind, like an open wound that refuses to heal. I don’t know where they are, what happened to them after everything fell apart. But I will find them.

  I swear it.

  I clench my fists, feeling the stiffness in my fingers. My body is weak—too weak. If I had been stronger, maybe things would have been different. Maybe I wouldn’t have been the one lying in this bed while they were out there, lost or worse.

  The thought gnaws at me, fuels the fire in my chest. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, testing my strength. My body protests, muscles tensing from disuse, but I push through it. Pain is nothing compared to what I’ve lost.

  I won’t sit here wasting time.

  If I want to keep my promise, I have to be stronger.

  There’s no time to hesitate. No time to second-guess myself.

  I throw the sack over my shoulders, the weight slamming down like a hammer on my spine. Rocks—dozens of them—each one heavy, each one a reminder of my failure.

  And I run.

  The first few steps are easy. The morning air is crisp, cool against my skin. The dirt road stretches ahead, bathed in the dim glow of sunrise. But the weight behind me drags at my muscles, pressing down on my shoulders, pulling me backward with every step.

  Within minutes, my lungs burn. My legs feel heavier, like they’re wrapped in chains. The rope bites into my skin, the rough fibers rubbing against my collarbone. Sweat drips down my forehead, stinging my eyes.

  But I can’t stop.

  Jin and Kyu wouldn’t stop.

  I dig my heels into the ground and push forward, ignoring the sharp pain stabbing through my sides. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my body screaming for relief, but I refuse to listen.

  Weakness is the enemy.

  Weakness is why I ended up in that hospital bed.

  Weakness is why I lost them.

  And weakness is something I will never allow again.

  I push harder. My vision blurs. Every step feels like I’m carrying a mountain, but I grit my teeth and keep moving.

  Because stopping means accepting that I’m not strong enough.

  And I refuse to accept that.

  By the time I reach the base of the mountain, my body is a shaking mess. My knees threaten to buckle, my hands tremble, my breath barely fills my lungs. The sack of stones hits the ground with a dull thud, but I barely feel the relief.

  Because this is only the beginning.

  I place my hands against the jagged rock, my fingers searching for a hold. The stone is rough, uneven, cold beneath my fingertips.

  I tighten my grip—

  And start climbing.

  The first pull is excruciating. My arms, already weak from running, struggle to lift my weight. My fingers scrape against the sharp surface, skin breaking, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

  Higher.

  I grit my teeth, hauling myself up inch by inch. My muscles scream. My arms shake. Every movement is a battle against exhaustion.

  Higher.

  The wind howls around me, sharp and biting. My grip slips—just for a second—but I catch myself before I can fall. My chest is tight, my head spinning, but I force myself to keep going.

  Higher.

  The sun creeps higher in the sky, burning against my skin. Sweat soaks my clothes. My breath is shallow, my vision narrowing to nothing but the rock ahead.

  I climb until my arms feel like they’ll rip from their sockets.

  I climb until I can barely breathe.

  And when I finally reach the peak, I collapse.

  My body hits the ground, and for a moment, all I hear is the rush of blood in my ears, the pounding of my heartbeat against my skull. The world spins around me. I try to move, but nothing responds.

  I’m drained.

  But it’s not enough.

  I still feel weak.

  I close my eyes. Focus. My body may be at its limit, but my mind can’t be.

  I slow my breathing. Inhale. Exhale.

  And I start listening.

  The rustling of leaves. The distant chirp of a bird. The soft whisper of wind against stone.

  I push deeper.

  I need to be faster.

  I need to sense what’s coming before it happens.

  There—a flicker of movement before it begins.

  A shift in the air, a second before the wind picks up.

  The branch bending before the force touches it.

  I almost have it. I almost—

  Gone.

  The sensation vanishes like smoke, slipping through my fingers. My eyes snap open, frustration boiling in my chest.

  I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms.

  Not enough.

  Never enough.

  I force myself to my feet, legs shaking beneath me. My breath is shallow, my body screaming for rest, but I don’t care.

  If my body won’t keep up, I’ll make it.

  I tighten my gauntlets.

  And I start throwing punches.

  One after another.

  Faster.

  Harder.

  Every impact echoes through the mountain air, the force of each strike rattling up my arms. My knuckles bruise. The pain shoots up to my shoulders. My body wants to collapse.

  I don’t care.

  Faster.

  Stronger.

  Again. Again. Again.

  I keep going, ignoring the pain, ignoring the fatigue—ignoring the part of me that wants to give up.

  I can’t give up.

  I won’t.

  And then—

  CRACK.

  Everything stops.

  I freeze, chest heaving, breath sharp and uneven.

  I look down at my hands.

  My gauntlets.

  The metal has fractured, jagged lines splitting across the surface, pieces crumbling away. The weapon I relied on—broken.

  Just like me.

  I stare at them, my mind blank, my breath catching in my throat. I should be angry. I should feel something.

  But all I feel is—

  Empty.

  The last bit of strength drains from my legs, and I sink to my knees. My hands tremble as I reach out, fingers grazing over the ruined metal.

  Everything I’ve done—everything I’ve trained for—

  And I still feel weak.

  My vision blurs. My shoulders tremble. My chest tightens, and before I can stop myself, the first tear falls.

  Then another.

  And another.

  A choked sob rips from my throat, raw and broken. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold it in, trying to stay strong—

  But the dam has already burst.

  The weight of it all crashes down at once. The exhaustion, the frustration, the helplessness, the fear.

  What if I’ll never be strong enough?

  What if I’ll never find them?

  What if I’m just fooling myself?

  I clench my fists, nails digging into my skin, but the shaking won’t stop.

  I am weak.

  I am still weak.

  And I hate it.

  I let out a broken, shuddering breath, staring at the shattered remains of my gauntlets.

  Then, I wipe my eyes, drag in a shaky inhale—

  And stand up.

  Because I have to keep going.

  Even if it breaks me a thousand times over—

  I will not stop.

  Not until I find them.

  I trained until my body couldn’t move.

  The world around me blurred, edges fading like ink dissolving in water. My breaths came ragged, shallow, each inhale scraping against my lungs. My limbs burned, my muscles locking up, but I refused to stop.

  I forced my legs to move, even as they trembled beneath me. I clenched my fists, even as the pain in my knuckles turned sharp, raw. My vision swam, black spots creeping in at the edges.

  Just a little more.

  One more punch.

  One more second.

  I stumbled. My foot barely caught the ground, knees buckling under my own weight. The air around me felt heavy, pressing down like an invisible force. My arms dangled uselessly at my sides, every muscle screaming for relief.

  But I still refused to give in.

  I tried to raise my fists—one more strike.

  My body didn’t listen.

  My legs crumpled beneath me, the world tilting sideways. I hit the ground, the impact barely registering through the fog in my mind. My heart pounded in my chest, erratic and uneven, my pulse roaring in my ears.

  Stay awake.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  I forced my eyes open, but the darkness swallowed my vision. My fingers twitched, barely responding. My thoughts blurred, slipping away like sand through my fingers.

  I have to keep going.

  I have to—

  Everything faded.

  And then, nothing.

  "Mat... Mat... Wake up..."

  A voice drifts through the haze of my unconsciousness, distant at first, then clearer, more insistent. A hand rests on my shoulder, shaking me gently.

  Huh? Who’s waking me up?

  I force my heavy eyelids open, my vision blurring before settling on a familiar face. My father stands over me, his sharp eyes watching with that unreadable expression he always wears. The dim light in the room makes his features look even sterner than usual.

  "It seems like you overdid yourself, huh?"

  His voice is calm, but there’s a slight edge to it—something between disappointment and concern.

  I blink a few times, my mind sluggish, trying to process what’s happening. My body feels like it's been put through a grinder. Every muscle aches, my limbs weighted down as if I’m still half-asleep. A dull throbbing sits at the back of my head, making it harder to think.

  "Huh? I'm at home?"

  I glance around, my eyes adjusting to the dimness of my room. The same walls, the same furniture. My old wooden desk sits untouched in the corner, a pile of books stacked neatly on one side. My training gear is scattered near the door—gauntlets, weights, a pair of running shoes that have seen better days. The smell of faintly lingering sweat and dried blood sticks to my clothes.

  I exhale slowly. This is definitely my room. But… how?

  "You don’t even remember coming back?" my father asks, crossing his arms. His voice is measured, but I can hear the hint of irritation behind it.

  I try to dig through my memories, but everything after training is a blur. What was I even doing?

  Flashes come back in pieces. My fists aching. Sweat dripping down my back. My breath coming in ragged gasps as I pushed myself harder. My entire body screaming in protest, but my mind refusing to listen.

  Then—nothing. Just blackness.

  I rub my temples, trying to shake off the fog in my brain. "I... I guess not."

  My father sighs. "You collapsed."

  I tense.

  "You were out cold in the training yard. Your brother had to carry you back."

  Tch. Of course, he did.

  I clench my jaw, already picturing the smug look my brother probably had while hauling me back here. That’s just perfect. Another reason for him to look down on me, to remind me how weak I still am.

  "How long was I out?" I ask, voice hoarse.

  "A few hours," my father answers. "Long enough for me to wonder if you'd wake up on your own."

  I inhale sharply through my nose. Damn it.

  The soreness in my body is proof enough that I pushed too hard. But I can’t stop. Not now. Not when I still have so far to go. If I let my body decide when to stop, I’ll never catch up to the people ahead of me.

  I grit my teeth and push myself upright. Pain flares through my muscles like fire, my vision going white for a second. My arms tremble, and I have to steady myself with a deep breath. But I refuse to collapse again.

  "I know you're doing this for Kyu and Jin," my father says, his tone softer now, almost weary. "But rest is also important. Don’t forget that."

  I lower my head, clenching my fists. Rest? How can I rest when I wasn’t strong enough? When I had to watch them suffer, powerless to stop it? The memories flash through my mind—the fight, the monster, the pain.

  "I know that, Dad… It's just… if I was stronger…" My voice trails off, frustration tightening in my chest.

  "Stronger? What are you talking about?" My father steps closer, his gaze firm. "You managed to damage a full monster enough for the D.K.F to kill it instantly. I’d say you're pretty strong."

  I shake my head, my nails digging into my palms. "That wasn't even my power… All I remember was my body heating up. And if I was really strong, why couldn't I get back up and save them?"

  The words hang in the air, heavier than I expected. My father stays quiet for a moment, watching me. I can’t bring myself to look at him.

  Because deep down, I know the truth.

  I wasn’t strong enough.

  And that thought alone makes my stomach twist.

  "Not your power? Your body heating up?" My father suddenly lets out a short, rough laugh. "Pahahaha! Don’t make me laugh. Of course that’s your power!"

  I look up at him, confused. He shakes his head, crossing his arms as if I just said the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.

  "That’s the Body Tempering Technique," he says, smirking. "Your body isn’t just heating up for no reason. It’s responding to the way you've trained it. That feeling you had—it’s the first sign that you're starting to unlock it."

  Body Tempering…? My head is still foggy, and my thoughts are slow to catch up, but I can tell from the way he’s looking at me that he’s completely serious.

  Before I can process it, his expression softens just slightly. "And listen, it wasn’t your fault that we lost them. It was ours."

  I feel my chest tighten at his words.

  "If you really know your friends," he continues, "you’d know that they can handle themselves. So stop acting like it’s all on you, and cheer up, kid."

  I understood what my father was saying. The logic made sense. Kyu and Jin weren’t weak, and it wasn’t like I had just stood there and done nothing. But still…

  I grit my teeth, staring down at my hands.

  I still wasn’t strong enough.

  No matter what he says, that fact won't change.

  But there’s something else that won’t leave my mind.

  "What’s Body Tempering Technique?" I finally ask, looking up at him.

  My father raises an eyebrow before letting out a small sigh. "Guess I shouldn’t be surprised you don’t know. That school of yours probably doesn't teach much."

  He pulls up a chair and sits down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Alright, listen up. I’ll explain."

  "Long ago, there was a man named Rheon—a martial artist, or what we now call a Vertius. Back then, martial artists were seen as the weakest warriors, dismissed as useless compared to those who could wield mana. But Rheon refused to accept that. He wanted to prove that martial artists could stand on equal ground with the strongest fighters.

  "So, he dedicated his life to finding a way to strengthen the body beyond its natural limits. He sought out every possible method, pushing himself further than anyone before him. That’s when he made a discovery—under extreme strain, the body begins to heat up.

  "He realized something important: when metal is heated, it becomes easier to shape, but if you just keep hammering it without care, it will eventually break. The body works the same way. But unlike iron, when the body ‘breaks’ under pressure, it rebuilds itself even stronger.

  "This became the foundation of the Body Tempering Technique. By training under extreme strain—pushing the body to its absolute limits—one could force it to break and then rebuild, becoming stronger with each cycle.

  "Rheon mastered this process, enduring it over and over again until he reached the ninth stage, a level no one else has ever attained. Even now, the highest-ranked Vertius using the Body Tempering Technique has only reached the sixth stage. And that’s the absolute limit of our current era."

  "How did he know what stage he was at?"

  "He felt it," my father said simply. "Each time he broke past his limits, it was like shedding an old skin and stepping into something new. He described it as a fresh layer forming over him—stronger, tougher, more refined. It wasn’t just physical, either. His movements became sharper, his senses more refined. It was as if his entire body was evolving with each stage."

  I let his words sink in. A new layer... something tangible yet unseen. If that was true, then—

  "Does that mean I’ve reached the first stage?" I ask hesitantly.

  My father studies me for a moment, then smirks. "You tell me. Have you felt it?"

  I hesitate, thinking back to the battle, the burning sensation, the moment my body moved on its own. Was that the start of something?

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to focus inward. If what my father said was true, then there should be something—some kind of sign.

  I search for it, reaching past the exhaustion weighing down my body, past the lingering soreness in my muscles. I focus on the warmth I had felt back then, the burning sensation that had spread through me in the heat of battle.

  At first, there’s nothing. Just silence and the steady rhythm of my breathing. But then—

  There it is. A faint heat, like embers buried beneath the surface. It’s not the same blazing fire I had felt before, but it’s there, resting within me. And something else, too—a strange sensation, almost like an invisible layer wrapped around my body. It’s subtle, barely noticeable, but the longer I concentrate, the more I can feel it.

  I slowly open my eyes. "I think… I feel something," I say hesitantly. "It’s like a thin layer over me. Like a second skin."

  My father grins. "Then congratulations, kid." He leans back, arms crossed. "Welcome to the first stage of Body Tempering."

  "Thanks… What stage are you even on?"

  My father chuckles, but there's something almost mischievous in his expression. "It's best to not know," he says, laughing.

  Before I can question him further, he suddenly slaps me hard on the back, nearly knocking the breath out of me.

  "Now then," he says, his tone shifting, "that gauntlet of yours doesn’t seem to be working anymore, eh?"

  We both look down at my hands. My gauntlets, once sturdy and reliable, are now riddled with holes, the metal bent and cracked from the strain of my last fight. The mana gem embedded in them flickers weakly, as if barely holding on.

  "Y-yeah…" I mutter, flexing my fingers. Even with the damage, they still feel like an extension of me—but I know they won’t last much longer.

  My father clicks his tongue. "Tch. Looks like it's time for an upgrade."

  He pulls out his phone and dials a number. The moment the call connects, he speaks casually, as if this isn’t the first time he’s made this kind of request.

  "Hey, Keldar. Need a quick favor." He glances at my gauntlets again, shaking his head. "My son's gauntlets are already busted. Make him a new pair. I’ll pay for it."

  There’s a brief pause as he listens to the response on the other end.

  "Yeah… Yeah…" He nods a few times before smirking. "Make ‘em durable. Kid’s got potential, but he breaks things too damn fast."

  I roll my eyes, but I can’t argue. I did push my gauntlets beyond their limits.

  My father continues, "Two days? Fine. Just make sure they’re ready before he gets himself into another mess."

  He ends the call and pockets his phone before looking at me. "Well, that’s settled. You’ll have a new pair soon."

  I exhale, relieved. My gauntlets have been with me for a while now, but if I’m going to get stronger, I’ll need something that can keep up.

  "Ah! Crap, looks like I have to go," my father suddenly says, glancing at the time.

  "Wait, Dad, can I go with you?" I ask quickly. "I wanna see where you work."

  He stops mid-step, turning to look at me with a raised eyebrow. For a second, I think he's going to say no, but then he smirks.

  "You sure? It’s not exactly the safest place for a kid like you."

  I frown. "I literally fought a full monster."

  He lets out a chuckle. "Fair point. But don’t complain if things get rough."

  He grabs his jacket and heads for the door. I quickly follow, not wanting to miss this chance. I've always wondered where my father worked—what kind of place needed someone like him.

  And now, I was finally about to find out.

  "Get in the car."

  We both slip inside, and the engine rumbles to life as my father pulls out onto the road. I watch the familiar streets fade behind us, but soon, I notice something strange—we’re not taking the usual route into the city. Instead, we’re heading toward the outskirts, where the buildings thin out and open fields stretch for miles.

  "Where are we going? Most people don’t come through here," I ask, glancing at him.

  "That’s the point," he replies without looking away from the road. "The D.K.F office needs open space—and, well, not a lot of people."

  I nod, though my curiosity only grows. I always knew he worked for the D.K.F, but he never talked about what he did there. I had assumed he was just another high ranking soldier, another warrior fighting to keep things in order. But if their headquarters was somewhere this isolated, away from the public eye… then maybe his role was more important than I thought.

  I glance at him again. "What exactly do you do there, Dad?"

  For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, with a small smirk, he says, "You’ll see soon enough."

  We slow down as we approach a heavily guarded gate. A group of armed officers stands at attention, their uniforms pitch black, with the D.K.F insignia emblazoned on their chests. One of them steps forward, saluting sharply.

  "Sir! Good morning, sir!"

  I blink. Sir?

  My father nods in acknowledgment, not even rolling down the window. The gate slides open without hesitation, and we drive through.

  Beyond the gate, a massive building looms over us—tall, sleek, and completely black, like a fortress carved out of shadow. Its sheer size is overwhelming, and something about it feels… heavy, as if the very air around it is thicker, charged with something I can’t quite describe.

  I swallow, suddenly aware of just how serious this place is.

  "So," I mutter, staring up at the towering structure. "This is the D.K.F headquarters…"

  My father smirks. "Welcome to where the real work happens."

  As we pass through the gate, the D.K.F headquarters looms before us—a monolithic structure of black stone, standing like an immovable fortress. Its jagged architecture feels less like a building and more like a stronghold, carved from the very foundation of the earth itself. The walls shimmer faintly, not from artificial lights but from mana-infused runes, pulsing in rhythmic intervals as if alive.

  The air around the building is heavy, charged with an unseen force. Barrier formations hum softly, their presence invisible to the untrained eye but unmistakable to those who can sense mana. Towering pillars inscribed with ancient sigils stand like sentinels around the perimeter, forming an intricate web of magical defense that repels unwanted intruders.

  At each entrance, D.K.F warriors stand vigilant, clad in black, mana-woven armor that shifts with their movements. Some hold weapons forged from refined etherite, crackling softly with power, while others simply rest their hands on the hilts of swords that hum with latent energy. High above, faint blue orbs float silently along the walls—mana-sensing sentries, detecting even the slightest trace of an unfamiliar presence.

  As we pull into a private lot, my father steps out first, and I quickly follow. The moment we leave the vehicle, I feel a subtle pressure against my skin—a protective enchantment woven into the very air around us. I can barely see it, but the faint shimmer in the atmosphere tells me it’s some kind of screening spell, filtering out harmful entities or potential threats.

  "Dad," I murmur, still absorbing the sheer presence of this place, "this is… intense."

  He smirks, adjusting his coat. "The D.K.F isn’t just some organization, Mat. It’s a stronghold. A warfront. You don’t want to be inside unless you belong here."

  A set of reinforced double doors, each carved with intricate rune patterns, slides open as we approach. Two guards stationed outside nod respectfully, their gazes sharp but controlled. The instant my father steps past the threshold, the runes on the doors flare briefly, reacting to his presence before dimming again.

  Inside, the D.K.F headquarters is just as imposing as the outside—stone corridors lined with torches infused with perpetual mana flames, their eerie glow casting flickering shadows on the dark walls. The floors are polished obsidian, reflecting the faint blue energy that runs along the veins of the structure. Unlike the outside world, where technology and machinery are common, everything here feels ancient yet powerful, as if the very foundation was built from generations of accumulated mana.

  People move with purpose—warriors, tacticians, and scholars, each wearing insignias that denote their rank and role. Some carry spell-bound scrolls, their surfaces glowing with enchanted text, while others whisper incantations as they work, manipulating mana to adjust defensive wards or strengthen existing enchantments.

  Despite the sheer scale of the place, there is an unshakable silence—not from a lack of activity, but from discipline. Everyone here is focused. Everyone here belongs.

  I swallow hard.

  I knew the D.K.F was powerful, but seeing it with my own eyes makes me realize—this isn’t just a military base.

  This is the front line of survival.

  "Come on," my father says, not waiting for me to gather my thoughts. "You wanted to see where I work? Let’s go."

  I take a deep breath and follow him deeper into the stronghold.

  We both turn right into a dimly lit corridor, the stone walls lined with mana-infused torches casting an eerie blue glow. The deeper we go, the heavier the air feels, as if the very walls themselves are alive with power. At the end of the hallway stands a reinforced door, its surface carved with intricate runes, pulsating faintly as we approach. My father places his hand on it, and with a soft hum, the magic recedes, allowing us entry.

  We step inside.

  The moment we do, a wave of pressure crashes over me. The room's aura is suffocating, thick with the presence of warriors who have long surpassed the limits of ordinary men.

  Inside, a massive war table takes center stage, covered in detailed maps, documents, and glowing holographic-like projections of mana formations. The walls are lined with weapons—some traditional, others crackling with pure etherite energy. The ceiling bears an intricate sigil, swirling faintly with protective enchantments, as if ensuring no secrets spoken here ever leave these walls.

  Three men stand around the table, each radiating a distinct presence.

  The first man I notice is Captain Varek, a towering figure clad in black, mana-woven combat gear, the number 07 imprinted above the D.K.F badge on his chest. His short, grizzled hair and sharp eyes make him look like someone who's seen one too many battles and survived them all. A long-barreled rifle rests against the war table beside him, its black metal infused with glowing silver etherite engravings running along its length. The barrel hums faintly with stored energy, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

  Varek doesn’t speak at first. He merely glances at me, his gaze sharp like a blade, before turning back to the discussion.

  To Varek’s right stands a blonde-haired man, his sharp features and confident smirk making him look more like a noble than a warrior. His D.K.F badge bears the number 04, a ranking that instantly makes my stomach drop—he’s leagues above most soldiers. Draped over his back is a long sword, its silver blade etched with golden mana veins that pulse faintly with power. The hilt is wrapped in black leather, and a faint, constant vibration runs through it, as if the sword itself is alive.

  He leans slightly against the war table, his piercing blue eyes locking onto me for a moment before shifting toward my father.

  "Didn’t expect you to bring your kid here," he muses, his voice smooth but carrying a dangerous edge.

  The third man stands slightly apart, his posture rigid, calculating. His D.K.F badge reads 12, lower than the others, but his presence is no less suffocating. He’s dressed in a high-collared, reinforced coat, his gauntlets glowing faintly with imbued mana sigils. Twin short blades rest at his waist, their edges coated with a sheen that suggests a deadly enchantment.

  Unlike the other two, he doesn’t immediately acknowledge us. Instead, he remains silent, his gaze flickering toward the table, analyzing the information displayed before him.

  My father speaks up, his voice steady and commanding.

  "Where are the others?"

  Captain Varek exhales through his nose, shifting slightly as he leans against the war table. "En route," he mutters, crossing his arms. "You know how it is. Not everyone moves as fast as you."

  The blonde-haired swordsman chuckles, his smirk never fading. "Or maybe they just don’t see the urgency in every little thing like you do," he adds, tilting his head toward my father.

  The unknown figure—the man with the number 12—remains silent, but his eyes flick toward my father, watching, calculating.

  I shift awkwardly under the weight of their gazes. The room is thick with tension, and for the first time, I wonder if I should have stayed home.

  My father sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "We don’t have time to wait around. If they’re late, they’ll just have to catch up."

  Varek nods. "Fine by me." He reaches down and lifts his rifle, checking its ammunition before slinging it over his back. "What’s the job?"

  I blink. Job?

  The blonde-haired swordsman’s smirk grows. "Oh? So you didn’t tell the kid why you brought him here?" He turns to me, eyes sharp with amusement. "You might want to brace yourself, newbie. You just walked into something much bigger than a simple tour."

  I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest.

  What exactly did I just get myself into?