Without a word, he turned and fled, tears streaming down his face.

The robed man turned to the bartender and dropped a small pouch onto the counter. "I’ll pay for his drink and the damages," he said flatly.

The bartender nodded quickly, his hands trembling. The man turned toward the door, his massive weapon slung over his back. Gathering my courage, I called out to him.

"A-are you Bruce?" I asked timidly.

He stopped, turning his piercing gaze on me. My breath caught, and for a moment, I regretted asking.

"How do you know my name?" he asked.

I swallowed hard. "D-Dante wants to speak with you."

He nodded once and walked out without another word.

When I joined Ivan outside, he gave me a small wave. "Nice job," he said, his tone as steady as ever.

We scanned the area for Bruce, but he was nowhere in sight.

"Where did he go?" I asked, confused.

Ivan pointed skyward. "He flew back to the Band."

My jaw dropped. "Wait, what?! He can fly?"

Ivan nodded, his calm demeanor never wavering. "Yes. Bruce can fly. So can I, Rodrick, Dante, and Voly."

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "Why didn’t you mention this earlier?!"

Ivan smirked faintly before lifting off the ground, hovering effortlessly. "Flying isn’t as simple as it looks. It’s a skill, and not everyone can master it. For flying-type users, it’s instinctual. For the rest of us, it’s a challenge."

"Can you teach me?" I asked, dropping to my knees in dramatic desperation.

"Not now," Ivan replied firmly. "Your focus should be on training. Once you’ve improved and grasped the basics, I’ll consider teaching you."

"Fine," I said, standing and brushing off my knees. "I’ll train hard, I promise."

Ivan nodded, a small smile breaking through his usual stoicism. "I know you will."

"I know you will," Ivan said, his voice calm yet teasing. "You always did better than me or Rodrick at any game. But, as of right now…" He paused, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You’re technically our worst soldier. I mean, we’ve never before accepted a level one noob."

"Geez, thanks," I replied, shooting him a glare. "Your faith in me is inspiring."

Ivan chuckled softly, his expression returning to its usual composed state. With that, we made our way back to the Band.

The camp buzzed with activity when we arrived. Soldiers trained in the distance, the rhythmic clash of weapons echoing through the air. Strategists hunched over tables, their faces lit by the glow of maps and tactical displays. Even in its busyness, the camp radiated a quiet determination, as though every person here understood the stakes of what lay ahead.

We found Rodrick lounging near the edge of the camp, already in the middle of a spirited conversation with some soldiers. His boisterous laughter carried across the space, and as soon as he spotted us, he waved us over enthusiastically.

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"Finally back, huh?" he said, clapping me on the shoulder. "How’d it go with Bruce? Did he scare the pants off you?"

I rolled my eyes. "Let’s just say he made an impression."

Rodrick laughed. "Yeah, he’s good at that. Don’t worry—you’ll get used to him."

After exchanging a few more words, I excused myself to find Dante. The leader of the Band was easy to spot, his commanding presence drawing the attention of everyone nearby. He stood at the center of the camp, deep in discussion with a group of lieutenants. When I approached, he turned to me, his expression softening slightly.

"Dante, I’ve got about eight hours in real life, which translates to eight days here," I explained. "Before I head back, I want to use that time to train."

Dante regarded me thoughtfully for a moment before nodding. "Understood. You’ll spend two days with each member of the Seven Endeavors. Learn everything you can from them." He handed me a sword—a sleek, balanced weapon that felt sturdy yet light in my grip. "Familiarize yourself with this. By the time you leave, I want to see progress."

"Yes, sir," I said, gripping the hilt firmly. This was my chance to prove myself.

The first two days were with Ivan, and as expected, his methods were meticulous and demanding.

On the first day, he focused on the basics. "Before you can fight, you need to understand the game’s foundation," he said, leading me to a quiet area away from the main camp. He showed me how to summon money, explaining the economy of the game, and broke down the mechanics of special and ultimate moves.

"These aren’t just flashy attacks," he said, holding up a card with a glowing blue droplet. "They’re tools. Learn when to use them—and more importantly, when not to."

He quizzed me relentlessly on class types and their interactions, using flashcards with symbols that I quickly learned to recognize. "What’s this?" he asked, holding up the card with the water symbol.

"That’s water!" I shouted confidently. "It’s strong against fire and ground but weak to grass and electric!"

"Good," Ivan replied with a nod. "But don’t forget: type advantage isn’t everything. The player matters just as much as the class."

By the end of the first day, my head swam with information, but I felt a strange satisfaction. Ivan’s teaching style was strict, but his focus on strategy made me feel sharper, more prepared.

The second day shifted to combat strategy. Ivan taught me how to read an opponent’s movements, anticipate their attacks, and find opportunities to counter. We sparred in the afternoon, with him using water-based abilities to test my reactions. The way he controlled the water was mesmerizing—streams of it twisted and darted around me like living serpents, making it nearly impossible to get close.

"Come on!" he called, his voice sharp. "Think outside the box!"

I tried everything—feints, rushes, even desperate lunges—but nothing worked. The water seemed to have a mind of its own, batting me away at every turn. Though I failed to land a hit, Ivan pointed out that my stamina and movement had improved. By the end of the day, I’d leveled up to Level 2—a small but meaningful victory.

The third day brought me to Rodrick, and the contrast couldn’t have been starker. Where Ivan was precise and methodical, Rodrick’s approach was raw, intense, and utterly exhausting.

"Hand-to-hand combat," Rodrick announced with a grin as we stood in a dusty training pit. "Because sometimes, you’re gonna lose your weapon. And when that happens, you’ll need these." He held up his fists, his grin widening. "Ready?"

I barely had time to nod before he lunged, his fists flying. For hours, we sparred under the unforgiving sun. Rodrick’s strikes were relentless, each one a test of my reflexes and endurance. "Get up!" he barked whenever I fell, his voice ringing in my ears. "You think the Demon Army’s gonna wait for you to catch your breath?"

By the end of the first day, I was drenched in sweat, my muscles screaming in protest. Rodrick, meanwhile, looked as fresh as ever. He patted me on the back with a laugh. "Not bad for a first-timer. But tomorrow, you’d better bring your A-game."

The second day was even more grueling. Rodrick pushed me harder, his speed and strength a constant reminder of how far I had to go. But I refused to quit. I studied his movements, learned his patterns, and by the afternoon, I managed to land a grazing hit on his cheek.

Rodrick froze, his hand brushing the faint mark. For a moment, I thought I’d made a mistake. But then he broke into a wide grin. "Well, I’ll be damned," he said, laughing. "You actually got me."

The acknowledgment felt like a trophy—a sign that my efforts were paying off.

"Don’t let it go to your head, though," he added, ruffling my non-existent hair playfully. "You’ve still got a long way to go."

Despite the exhaustion, I couldn’t help but smile. Training with Ivan and Rodrick had shown me two very different sides of what it meant to be an Endeavor. And while I still had miles to go, I felt a spark of confidence I hadn’t had before.