Meanwhile, at Starcrest Academy…
"You don't look like you're in the mood for jokes. How sad."
The voice boomed through the Dean's office like thunder, deep and resonant enough to rattle the windows in their frames.
Dean Doran Escaro looked up from the documents scattered across his desk to see a giant of a man ducking through the doorway.
Roland Thestus stood well over two meters tall, built like a castle wall given human form. His white hair was swept back from a face that looked like it had been carved from granite with a dull chisel—all hard angles and old scars.
He wore simple clothes despite his noble birth—a practical tunic and trousers rather than the elaborate court fashion most aristocrats favored. A longsword hung at his hip, the leather of its scabbard worn smooth from decades of use.
Roland's eyes—sharp and blue as winter ice—drifted immediately to Doran's empty right sleeve, pinned across his chest.
The Dean saw the look and narrowed his eyes dangerously.
"Roland, watch your mouth," Doran said quietly, his voice carrying a warning edge.
"Just having your head still attached and your family alive is a blessing from His Majesty the Emperor. I suggest you remember that before you make light of Imperial justice."
The rebuke was sharp but necessary. The Empire's power structure was absolute, with the Emperor at its apex. Since Ashen Primiller—the legendary Sword Saint—had pledged his loyalty to the Imperial family, the throne's authority had reached heights unprecedented in the Empire's long history.
The Third Prince had been injured. Under different circumstances, the Academy could have been abolished entirely. Every faculty member's family could have been executed as a warning. The fact that Doran had survived by trading merely an arm was, in the grand scheme of Imperial punishment, extraordinarily merciful.
The former instructor's entire family was likely already dead, their names struck from records, their properties seized. Doran have escaped with his life and his bloodline intact.
He considered it the greatest fortune of his entire existence.
Roland's expression shifted slightly, the hint of mockery fading. He raised his hands in a placating gesture.
"Oh dear—my apologies, old friend. You're quite right." He moved further into the office, his heavy footsteps making the floorboards creak. "So, tell me. Why did you summon me with such urgency? Your message made it sound like a matter of life and death."
Doran carefully considered his words. He and Roland had known each other for decades—since their own student days at this very Academy. They studied together, fought together during the border conflicts of their youth, and maintained their friendship even as their paths diverged.
But Roland was still a former knight, steeped in the traditions and pride of that order. If Doran's proposal offended him too deeply, it could create complications he couldn't afford.
"How much have you grasped about this incident?" Doran asked carefully, watching his friend's face.
"I know the rumors circulating through the capital," Roland replied, settling his considerable bulk into a chair that creaked alarmingly under his weight. "And I know what His Majesty the Emperor ordered. Hard not to, considering Eclair Dritna read the decree loudly enough for half the city to hear."
Doran let out a deep sigh and picked up the teacup the administrator had prepared earlier. The tea had gone cold, but he sipped it anyway, needing a moment to organize his thoughts.
"I'm considering various options right now," he began slowly. "Restructuring the curriculum. Perhaps… merging aspects of the Swordsmanship Department and the Knight Department."
It was a radical suggestion. The Knight Department focused on ceremonial drills, etiquette, the philosophy of chivalry. The Swordsmanship Department was purely practical—combat training with minimal concern for honor or tradition.
Merging them risked the Knight Department being subsumed entirely, effectively eliminated as an independent entity.
As Doran spoke, he glanced sideways at Roland's face, trying to gauge his reaction. Would the former knight be offended? Angry?
To his surprise, Roland simply nodded thoughtfully, showing no particular displeasure.
"It's not a bad idea," Roland said after a moment. "But does that provide a fundamental solution to the problem? You're addressing symptoms, not the disease itself."
Doran blinked, genuinely surprised. "You're a former knight, yet you view the potential disappearance of the Knight Department positively? How… unexpected. I thought you'd leap to its defense."
"Hahahaha!!" Roland's laugh was explosive, filling the office. "You narrow-minded friend! You keep squawking about practicality like a parrot who learned a new word, but you're absolutely terrible at reading the minds of those close to you!"
Despite the insult, Doran found himself chuckling. Normally, he would have bristled at such words, thinking 'This lunatic is provoking me again.' But now, with his emotions largely detached after everything that had happened, he could understand Roland's true intentions.
His friend wasn't mocking him. He was trying to lighten the mood, to remind Doran that he still had allies.
"I'll be honest," Doran said, setting down his teacup and leaning forward. "Merging the departments is something to be discussed later, once tensions have cooled. For now, my immediate plan is this: we'll select a new instructor from among the knights to appease the Knight Department and maintain appearances."
He paused, watching Roland's face carefully.
"And I'm thinking of inviting a veteran adventurer to serve as an assistant instructor. Someone with real combat experience who can teach the cadets how to actually survive."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Roland's expression shifted through several emotions—surprise, consideration, and finally something that might have been approval.
"That's a more certain method than merging departments," he said slowly. "More logically palatable too. But—" He fixed Doran with a penetrating stare. "Do you honestly think the noble families will accept having their children taught by adventurers? Don't you yourself consider adventuring a lowly profession beneath aristocratic dignity?"
The question cut straight to the heart of Doran's hypocrisy, and they both knew it.
Roland understood his friend's values better than Doran understood himself. Doran Escaro have succeeded as a mage while clinging tightly to aristocratic superiority. He always viewed adventurers as little more than mercenaries—useful tools, perhaps, but not people worthy of genuine respect.
The fact that he was now proposing to bring one into the Academy as faculty was a seismic shift in worldview.
"…My views haven't completely changed," Doran admitted quietly. "But let's just say my values have shifted slightly. Recent events have been… educational. Consider this an unashamed inquiry from someone trying to adapt."
"Learning that much for just one arm, isn't that quite a bargain? Kekeke!."
Roland seized the opening to joke, unable to resist. It was his nature—push until he found the line, then push just a little further.
Most people would have risen to the bait. Would have gotten angry, which was exactly what Roland wanted.
Doran, who have learned hard lessons about controlling his temper, simply ignored the provocation. Instead, he reached into his desk drawer with his remaining hand and withdrew a bundle of papers.
"You know more about adventurers than I do," he said, spreading the documents across the desk. "These are the candidates my administrator compiled based on guild records. Try being helpful to me for once in your life."
Roland snorted, clearly disappointed that his provocation had failed, but began flipping through the documents with genuine interest.
He read quickly, his eyes scanning the profiles with practiced efficiency. After a few minutes, he pulled one sheet from the stack and placed it deliberately on the table between them.
"Out of all these, this one is the least problematic."
Doran leaned forward to examine the profile.
The adventurer in question had over twenty years of experience. He used an axe—an uncommon weapon choice that suggested unconventional thinking. His most distinctive feature was a bright red beard that dominated his identification sketch.
He was a solo adventurer, currently ranked Silver, actively taking commissions.
"'Least problematic?'" Doran repeated, frowning. "He seems perfectly adequate to me. What's wrong with the others?"
"Don't you see why we can't pick anyone else?" Roland asked, sounding genuinely exasperated.
"What's the problem?"
Roland swept his white hair back with one massive hand and squeezed his eyes shut in frustration, as if dealing with an exceptionally stupid child.
'This is why you mages are hopeless…'
He gathered the remaining papers and spread them out for emphasis.
"Here! Look at this one—he appears to be the best candidate on paper, correct? Excellent combat record, Gold-ranked, experienced with training others." Roland jabbed a finger at the profile. "But he's still actively operating with his established party! How exactly are you planning to extract him? Just walk up and ask nicely?"
Doran opened his mouth to respond, but Roland continued, his voice rising.
"And if you somehow force him out—bribe him with enough money to abandon his comrades—do you think his former party members will just stand by quietly? Do you think they'll smile and wave as you steal away their companion?"
The Dean fell silent, realizing he hadn't considered this angle.
"Even most nobles can't casually interfere with high-ranking adventurers," Roland continued, his tone becoming more serious.
"Adventuring is one of the few paths for common-born individuals to achieve something resembling equal footing with aristocracy. These people don't bow and scrape just because you have a title."
He tapped the papers again for emphasis.
"Furthermore, trying to poach just one member from an established party with nothing but money? These people have been together for years—sometimes decades. They've bled together, nearly died together, pulled each other back from the brink more times than they can count. The bonds between party members are stronger than most noble marriages."
Roland's expression grew darker.
"Even if you succeeded in buying one out, you'd create enemies. The abandoned party members wouldn't let it go. Adventurers at Gold rank don't pay much mind to minor nobles. They understand the value of their own strength. If they decided to go berserk, cause a major incident, and then flee across the border to the Federation, there would be no practical way to catch them."
Doran nodded slowly, seeing the situation more clearly now. His academic mind had focused on qualifications and experience without considering the social dynamics.
"I understand," he said quietly. "So this red-bearded fellow who operates solo is the best fit precisely because he has no attachments, no party to complicate matters…"
"Exactly. Are you finally beginning to understand how adventurers actually work?" Roland grinned. "You spend all day buried in books and administrative documents. What do you actually learn from them?"
"Be quiet." Doran reached for a bell to summon his administrator. "Fine, let's proceed with this one. I'll tell the administrator to draft a formal offer immediately—"
"Wait!!!"
The shout was so loud and sudden that Doran actually flinched, his hand freezing halfway to the bell.
"What is it now…" he said through gritted teeth, glaring at his friend.
Roland leaned forward, his expression suddenly serious in a way that made Doran pay attention. When Roland dropped the jovial act, it meant he was about to say something important.
"I can introduce you to a truly capable adventurer," Roland said carefully. "Someone far better qualified than this red-bearded fellow. You've selected from the available candidates, but using someone this… mediocre could lead to another incident. And I believe you'd be rather sad if you lost your left arm as well."
"…" Doran's jaw tightened.
"I'm saying this because I'd be genuinely distressed if my old friend ended up as a limbless torso."
"Stop talking such morbid nonsense," Doran snapped, but there was no real anger in it. Just exhaustion. "Just say what you want. What's your price for this introduction?"
Roland's serious expression cracked, replaced by a mischievous grin. He pointed with his thick fingers toward the display cabinet against the far wall—the one containing Doran's collection of expensive liquors.
Bottles of rare vintage, some of them older than both men combined. Spirits from distilleries that no longer existed. Wines from vineyards that had been destroyed in wars decades ago. Each bottle was worth a small fortune.
Doran had collected them obsessively over the years but had never been able to bring himself to actually drink them. They were too valuable, too rare. He kept them as decorations, as symbols of his refinement and wealth.
"You don't plan on keeping them as decorations until you die of old age, do you?" Roland asked, his grin widening. "I won't drink them alone, mind you. We'll drink them together, you and I, the way we did when we were young and stupid."
"..."
"After all, next time the Emperor's justice comes calling, your neck might be on the line instead of your left arm." Roland's grin became absolutely wicked. "And if that happens, who will drink that liquor? No, wait—even if you survive, your left arm will be gone instead. You won't even be able to open the bottles by yourself! Kuhahaha!!!"
Doran's expression remained carefully neutral, but his face flushed red. Roland's provocation hit its mark with surgical precision.
The Dean took a slow, deep breath. Then another.
Finally, he spoke, his voice deadly calm.
"First, explain who this 'truly capable' adventurer is. Give me a name. Give me qualifications. Give me a reason to believe this isn't just you angling for free liquor." He fixed Roland with a cold stare. "And if I'm not satisfied with your answer, I will personally kick you out of this office and bar you from the Academy grounds permanently."
Roland's grin didn't fade. If anything, it grew wider.
"His name," Roland said slowly, drawing out the moment, "is Ryan. Solo Platinum-ranked adventurer. Twenty-five years old with a decade of experience. The only person in guild history to reach Platinum rank alone without losing any limbs."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"And before you ask—yes, I've seen him fight. That man is a monster."