The heavy doors of the council hall opened with a metallic creak.
Arald and Ifryt stepped inside, and instantly, the atmosphere grew denser.
Around the vast circular table, four imposing figures were already waiting.
The first, seated closest to the King, was Thorak—a tall black high orc with a colossal frame. His muscles looked carved from stone, and his piercing yellow eyes seemed to cut through souls. Despite his terrifying presence, he wore a noble dark outfit and calmly read from a large book resting in his massive hands. His very existence demanded both fear and respect.
To his right sat Lancelot, a knight of average build, but with a posture so perfect and a gaze so sharp it spoke of unshakable discipline. His short brown hair framed a face marked by years of war. Not a single piece of armor was out of place. His aura suggested a contained strength, ready to strike at any moment.
Further down the table leaned Nora. Her short black hair fell neatly around her face, and her deep green eyes locked onto the entrance. Her athletic, finely sculpted body spoke of relentless training. She was beautiful… dangerously beautiful. Even seated, the air around her seemed to tremble, as if the room itself feared her movements.
Finally, resting his thick arms on the table, sat Thalgrimm—a stocky yet intimidating dwarf. His brown beard was as wild as his messy hair, and his calloused hands rested atop the handle of a massive war hammer carved with old runes. Despite his size, he radiated raw, mountain-like power.
At the end of the table, King Éldric observed Arald and Ifryt enter, then spoke with a deep, commanding voice.
King Éldric: "Gentlemen… and lady… we have urgent matters to discuss."
All eyes turned toward the two newcomers.
The air grew heavy—almost suffocating.
The six strongest warriors of the kingdom were finally together.
The moment Arald's gaze met Nora's… his world shifted.
He froze. His eyes sparkled like jewels, his cheeks turned red, and a foolish grin spread across his face.
He dashed forward, almost slipping, stopping on one knee beside her as if kneeling before a goddess.
Arald: "NORA… OH, MY SWEET NORAAAA! Your beauty has grown even brighter since we last met! Let me offer you my heart, my sword, my very soul!!"
Nora gave him a flat look, then kicked him square in the chest, sending him flying back two meters.
Nora: "Move, insect."
Thalgrimm, without lifting his eyes from his mug: "Heh… another flight."
Lancelot, sighing: "Can we start the meeting? Or should we wait for Arald to crawl back?"
Ifryt: "Ignore him. He does this every time…"
Flat on the ground, Arald weakly lifted a trembling thumb.
Arald: "I… I still live… and my love for her… is eternal…"
Nora rolled her eyes, a faint, wolfish grin appearing on her face.
The King raised his hand, calling for silence. His deep, steady tone sliced through the laughter.
King Éldric: "Enough. If we are all gathered today, it means things are worse than expected. The next wave of creatures is approaching… far sooner than we thought."
Thorak closed his book slowly.
Thorak: "How long do we have?"
King Éldric: "Four months… maybe less."
Lancelot, frowning: "Impossible. Our forces have barely recovered from the last attack."
Thalgrimm, chuckling nervously: "Then we do what we always do—hit harder than them."
Thorak, sternly: "Lack of preparation means death. We need more than brute force this time."
Nora, crossing her arms: "Strategy or not, wait too long and we'll be surrounded."
Lancelot: "Rushing into every fight won't save us either."
Nora, smirking: "Oh, forgive me, Master Strategist. I forgot you prefer hiding behind maps instead of getting your hands dirty."
Lancelot, snapping: "And I forgot you can't tell the difference between bravery and stupidity!"
Tension spiked.
Thalgrimm: "Hey, if you two wanna fight, take it outside. Save the table from breaking."
Ifryt sighed. Arald, meanwhile, looked delighted—especially every time Nora raised her voice.
King Éldric, slamming his fist on the table: "ENOUGH!!!"
The room froze. Even Arald went silent, eyes wide.
King Éldric: "We're here to protect this kingdom, not feed our egos! If you want to test each other, do it after the war… if you survive."
He paused, voice calming slightly.
King Éldric: "Before we think of attack, we must ensure our new recruits can survive the first minute of battle."
Thalgrimm, sipping from his mug: "The first minute? That's generous."
Nora: "They wouldn't last against a sick goblin."
Lancelot: "What she means… is that they lack discipline and technique."
Ifryt: "Then we split the work. Each of us teaches them what we do best. Four months isn't long, but it'll have to do."
Thorak snapped his book shut.
Thorak: "It's not enough… but it will have to be. We'll push them past their limits."
Nora: "No, give them to me. As the master-at-arms, I'm the most suited to train them."
Silence fell. Everyone—including the King—knew what that meant.
Giving recruits to Nora was like sending them straight to their graves.
King Éldric, rubbing his temples: "…We'll discuss that later."
Then, regaining his composure:
King Éldric: "Tomorrow morning, you begin. You have three months—no more."
Arald, whispering to Ifryt: "That means three whole months… of seeing Nora every day."
Nora, without turning her head: "And three months of you ending up in the infirmary."
Thalgrimm, laughing: "At least we'll have free entertainment."
The King raised his hand once more, his tone sharp as a blade.
King Éldric: "Rest for tonight. Tomorrow… hell begins."
The air was cool, but the sunlight struck hard against the pale stone courtyard.
The four heroes stood in a straight line at the center.
Their clothes still bore marks from the previous day, and none looked fully recovered.
Before them stood the six knights of the kingdom—their presence alone enough to silence any complaint.
The silence stretched. Then Nora broke it by stepping forward.
She examined the heroes like one inspects weapons on display… or livestock before slaughter.
Without a word, she raised her hand and pointed at Réhann.
Nora: "You. You're with me. You've got potential… but you think too much, and you already imagine yourself strong when you're not. Move."
Réhann flinched slightly, jaw tight, but said nothing.
Nora walked a few steps more, her sharp eyes landing on Anthony.
Nora: "And you. You're the worst of them all. Too weak, lacking everything. But… I'm the only one who can teach you your weapon."
Anthony instantly began to sweat. His heart pounded.
Why… why did it have to be her? he thought silently.
Nora caught his anxious look and smirked.
Thorak stood tall like a mountain, his gaze sweeping over Max and Matheo before pointing at the biggest of the two.
Thorak: "You there. You look tough. Let's see who's tougher."
The heroes barely held back laughter at his oddly serious tone—but a cold shiver ran down Matheo's spine.
Finally, Ifryt raised his head, his calm but piercing eyes landing on the last one.
He stared at Max for a few silent seconds, measuring him, then lifted his hand.
Ifryt: "Move. Quickly."
In the back, Thalgrimm crossed his arms, a grin tugging at his lips.
Thalgrimm: "I give it ten minutes before one of them breaks."
Lancelot: "I just want to see who gives up first."
— Ifryt's Side —
The hot desert wind swept across the training grounds, lifting waves of golden dust.
Ifryt walked ahead, hands clasped behind his back, his shadow stretching across the burning sand.
Max followed, breathing hard, eyes fixed on his master.
Ifryt stopped abruptly and turned his head slightly.
His piercing gaze glimmered with something almost inhuman.
Ifryt: "Here, the sand is your worst enemy. It slows your steps, swallows your strength.
If you learn to master it… you'll move faster than anyone who stands against you."
Max simply nodded.
He knew words meant nothing. Ifryt never listened to excuses—only to progress.
Without warning, the knight vanished from sight.
A gust of wind. A shockwave.
Ifryt's fist slammed into Max's shoulder, sending him flying into a cloud of dust.
Max rolled, groaned, then pushed himself back up, sand clinging to his skin.
Ifryt stood motionless, watching him.
Ifryt: "Get up. Don't make me wait."
Max clenched his fists, raised his guard again.
Ifryt struck once more—faster, harder.
Every move was sharp, deliberate, inhumanly precise.
Max blocked when he could, dodged when he managed, endured when he couldn't.
Each blow rang like iron on iron.
But he stayed standing.
Always.
A series of strikes shook his arms. A final kick dropped him to his knees.
He spat sand, breathing through gritted teeth.
Max: "I'm not giving up…"
Ifryt watched in silence, then nodded once.
Ifryt: "Good. You endure. But taking hits isn't enough. Hit back. Breathe through the pain."
Max steadied himself, drew a deep breath, and raised his guard again.
This time, his eyes burned with focus.
When Ifryt charged, Max scooped up a handful of sand and threw it at his face.
A trick.
Ifryt closed his eyes for half a heartbeat—just long enough.
Max struck.
Two quick hits—
A hook to the face, a straight punch to the chest.
Ifryt blocked them both with one arm, unfazed.
A faint smirk crossed his face.
Ifryt: "Not bad. You're starting to think like a survivor."
Before Max could react, Ifryt grabbed his wrist, spun, and hurled him into the sand.
Dust exploded around them, falling like golden rain.
Max lay there a moment before forcing himself up again.
His breath came ragged, his muscles trembled—but his gaze never wavered.
Ifryt: "Keep using your head… but remember this: cunning alone won't save your life. Speed and power must follow."
Max nodded faintly, body aching, eyes burning with resolve.
Under the blazing sun, his true training had only just begun.
The metallic sounds of training echoed outside, but inside the great vaulted hall, only Nora's voice reigned.
Around her sat about thirty apprentices, cross-legged, their weapons laid neatly in front of them. Rehann was among them, still covered in dust and sweat.
Arms crossed, Nora paced the room like a predator surveying her territory. Her long red hair flowed behind her, and her boots struck sharply against the stone floor.
Nora: "Listen carefully, rookies. You're here to learn what it truly means to be a weapon master. And let me make one thing clear right now—if you think holding a sword properly is all it takes to earn that title, you can leave this room."
Her gaze swept across the group, freezing the air around them. No one dared move. Even Rehann, who was rarely intimidated, stayed silent.
Nora: "A weapon master can wield any weapon—sword, spear, bow, whip, mace… it doesn't matter. But there's one simple rule: the more you try to learn, the longer it takes. The more you try to master everything, the worse you'll be at each."
She stopped abruptly, grabbed the sword of a nearby student, and spun it between her fingers. The blade whistled through the air with surgical precision.
Nora: "Learn too many weapons, and you'll be mediocre. Learn only one, and you'll be a specialist… but never a true master. A true weapon master knows his limits, chooses wisely, and adapts his weapon to the enemy."
She threw the sword down, the tip stabbing the ground just a few centimeters from the student's foot. The boy froze, trembling.
Nora: "And make no mistake—uncommon weapons demand more time, more sweat, and more sacrifice. A scythe, for example… can take years before you learn to wield it properly."
A heavy silence filled the hall. Rehann raised his hand, his eyes shining with a hunger to learn.
Rehann: "But… if you take the time to learn, can a weapon master really become… unbeatable?"
Nora laughed—a dry, hollow sound.
Nora: "Unbeatable? No. A weapon master is like a Swiss army knife. Useful in every situation…but there will always be a blade stronger than the rest. You can aim for perfection, but never expect to master everything."
Then, without warning, she drew her sword and threw it toward Rehann. The steel buried itself in the floor a few centimeters from his knee.
Nora: "You, for example. You have confidence… too much. That will kill you."
Rehann swallowed hard, the nervous smile wiped from his face.