"Director Grant! Director!" The man arched an eyebrow at the footsteps and shouts of his name from a pair of hurried and distressed guards advancing to his office. "What now," he thought.

"Come in!" he yelled before the guards even touched the door, rising from his desk with his hands resting upon it. It wasn't yet noon, and this commotion was unusual for this early hour. He exhaled a puff of smoke before stubbing out his cigarette without looking.

"With your permission, Director!" Both guards squared their shoulders, affirming the swords still swaying at their belts.

"With your permission and your apologies, Director. Winston is here! He has refused to wait for approval and has sent his guard to release the prisoners from their cells. He claims to have permission from the Commander-in-Chief of the Anti-Magic Unit."

"Krom? Krom would never allow a return to the barbarism of the previous administration." Grant donned his official coat, pistol, and saber, striding through the corridors at a brisk pace to confront Winston. "Scum," he thought furiously. Both guards followed suit.

Winston was known for his ambition and lack of morals. A snake who not only reveled in torturing enemies but was willing to do anything to climb the ranks of law enforcement and, consequently, political power. Before Grant took over as prison director, the Sergeant, in collusion with the former warden, organized betting in the prison, pitting anyone who wanted some money or glory against inmates. Upon assuming his position, Grant immediately put an end to this practice, informing General Captain Olivander Krom of the corruption in the army and circles of the old aristocracy, leading to a general cleanup of prison personnel. Losing a prisoner every week—since wizards often died in bloody duels arranged to entertain and enrich spectators—meant that the investigation would never progress. This, coupled with Grant's contempt for corruption and Nova Orda's stagnation relative to the rest of the continent, largely due to the negligence of middle management, made him firmly focus on reordering the prison's operations. Winston was thus a symbol of the nation's stagnation and vulgarity, likely maintained in law enforcement through extortion, as he was, among other things, a great gatherer of secrets... But Krom? Could even a national hero become corrupted like this?

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Grant saw him in the distance, in the central courtyard of the prison, as Winston, escorted by six members of the Anti-Magic Military Unit, pushed his way through the guards of the enclosure who tried to contain him. His unmistakable chubby face, his long and dirty beard, his huge and bulging belly—the figure of infamy was contaminating the director's workplace for the second consecutive day.

"Guards! Formation!" ordered Grant to his subordinates, some on the ground after a shove from Winston. This prompted them to quickly straighten up, mostly embarrassed, all with a hand on the grip of their revolver. Sergeant Winston burst into a huge laugh that filled the surrounding area with saliva.

"A bunch of chickens!" shouted the fat sergeant, then turning his gaze to Grant as he approached. "But then again, coming from your subordinates, Director..." he added mockingly.

"You have no authority here, Sergeant," said Grant, his anger contained. "Give me a reason not to seize the opportunity and fill your belly with holes, rat," he added, glancing this time at the members of the prison guard. Winston snorted, gestured to one of his escorts, and grinned from ear to ear, displaying all his yellowed teeth, his gaze almost manic. Winston's escort, who carried a long rifle on his back, pulled a paper from his pocket, raised it, and handed it to Grant. The director could only grit his teeth when he saw the seal of Leopoldo III along with that of General Captain Olivander Krom.

Clouded by annoyance, Grant managed to make out in the dispatch the new training plan for the army of Nova Orda, which in its preparation to face internal or external threats, would come to the prison to train its troops against individuals with magic. Initially through singular combat.

"Son of a..." thought the prison director. If this plan meant progress for Nova Orda, he wouldn't question it morally, and if the order came with the seal of Leopoldo III, he could do nothing but comply, but... Winston? Was there no one else?

"Guards. Assist the Sergeant in whatever he needs," Grant finally said after clearing his throat.

"That's better, Grant. You may withdraw," added Winston with a contemptuous look, spitting on the ground at the Director's feet, who could only clench his fists and take distance in silence.