Morton Doyle had crossed paths with Melrose on several occasions, but their meetings had been strictly at royal banquets or grand festivals, always with Morton in full armor and Melrose aptly attired. Therefore, when Morton opened his home's door to find a plainly dressed old man, a flicker of doubt crossed his mind—was this modestly clothed elder truly the world-renowned mightiest mage?
"Mr. Doyle, per His Majesty's wishes, you are to lead the negotiation entirely. So, when shall we depart?" The old man paid no heed to Morton's scrutinizing gaze, speaking nonchalantly as if unbothered.
"Respected Master Melrose, I am completely at the ready. We can set off immediately if you wish," Morton responded, adopting the respectful demeanor one reserves for an esteemed elder.
"Then let’s make our departure now," Melrose retorted without displaying any excess emotion. Morton flexed his fingers, getting a feel for the black robe and armor he carried, and followed Melrose out of the courtyard.
It must be acknowledged—the whole of the royal domain was still in a wartime state and wouldn't ease down in a moment's notice.
Over the past few months, the cost of acquiring and refurbishing ironware and armaments had skyrocketed, even low-tier mages shunned by the Mages’ Guild made a killing enchanting weapons. Within the vast royal domain, a new equilibrium was emerging. But the idea that the king was negotiating with rebels carried its discontents, so Morton and Melrose's mission was shrouded in utmost secrecy until fulfilled.
Turning into an alley a few blocks from Doyle Manor—devoid of windows on either side as sunlight never graced such forlorn corners—Melrose in his white robe and Morton in black had the air of nobility's merchant underlings. They slid into an inconspicuous carriage parked at the alley's mouth, no different from the city's countless other merchants, heading towards the city gates.
On the opposite end of the city, in another alleyway, a young man was adeptly channeling the magical energy within his body, sketching the rudiments of a teleportation circle on the ground.
---
"Thud!"
"Hmph."
Sounds of impacts and muffled grunts converged upon Raventa's ears, fresh back from inspecting the barracks. Pushing aside the tent's entrance, he saw his old friend approaching a metallic figure wielding a wooden stick with measured, rhythmic steps.
To be precise, it was Eleanor clad in a metallic half-plate, looking more like an awkward meerkat standing upright in her ill-fitted armor than a fighting force—ridiculous and almost comical.
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Wielding a sword nearly as tall as herself, Eleanor had her eyes locked on the stick in Arwin's grasp, trying to discern its motion trail.
"Thud!"
Once more, wood collided with metal helmet, echoing through the tent.
"Oof~"
The girl encased in metallic armor seemed on the brink of tears, yet the incident's perpetrator, Arwin, showed no remorse, his face unchanging as if teaching a headstrong child from his own unruly lineage.
"Don't dodge. You can't outpace a blade," Arwin commands coldly. "Block, then counter-attack. Got it?"
The metal-clad girl slightly nodded her helmeted head, and Arwin took a few steps back, signifying a rematch.
Arwin readied his staff for assault, the slightest shift in his stance stirring a breeze throughout the tent. In a blink, the distance between the two had narrowed considerably.
Accelerating from left to right, an ordinary slash from the staff aimed at the girl's neck.
"Clang!"
For the first time today, the wood and the sword made contact, a mere sword's width from Eleanor's neck.
Having taken a significant step forward, Eleanor panted heavily. Despite knowing Arwin was only instructing her in the art of combat, the solemn man's oppressive presence exceeded any fireball or magical blast she'd faced on the battlefield.
Before she could catch her breath, Arwin retracted his staff with swift precision, shifting into a top-down strike.
Eleanor positioned her sword horizontally, time insufficient to transfer her left hand to the blade for a proper block, she clenched the hilt tightly, hoping to withstand the upcoming attack.
Noting her posture, Arwin instantly angled the blow towards Eleanor's left flank, striking fiercely at the sword's pointed tip.
The tremendous force upon Eleanor's hands precluded any defensive recovery; her sword, now fully misaligned, left her defenseless.
The stick that had skewered the sword's direction slithered like a jungle viper along the flattened blade, halting on Eleanor's right shoulder, then came a lightning-fast jab—
A sharp pain radiated from her collarbone throughout her body. Though the metallic armor negated some force, the impact traveled unimpeded into Eleanor, focusing a dull ache centering on the struck area.
Gravity tugged at Eleanor's loosened grip, the sword teetering in her hands as she reeled backward to regain composure.
At just that moment, the stick elevated sharply, colliding with the rim of the girl's helmet. Upward, the metal casing soared, revealing a stunned young face beneath.
"Thud~"
Unprotected, the thud resounded with a muffled echo. The sword slipped from Eleanor’s grasp as she clutched her head, checking for any possible damage.
"Wow, aren't you hitting a little too hard?" Raventa joked, witnessing the scene, his gaze then shifting to the girl now massaging her head. "No hard feelings, huh, kid? If you reckon his methods aren't cutting it, I can teach you—after all, I'm one of the kingdom’s elite academic mages, renowned for my educational ventures."
Arwin’s snorted contemptuously. "You teach? With the scholarly progress you’ve extorted? Or relying on that Raventa family's cold endurance training?"
"Old fool!" It was clear Raventa didn't appreciate his friend’s disparaging remarks, his face clouding with rare seriousness. "I've said it before, only the harshest climates forge the strongest lineages. Bitter winds are but part of honing our will—don't be so narrow-minded…"
Eleanor sat silently, without interjection, accustomed to the cold from her days as a vagrant. If hunger and chills were the path to strength, then perhaps she'd already be invincible...
As the two dukes bantered back and forth about their pedagogical insights, a messenger outside the tent announced: "Sirs, there is a visitor seeking an audience at the camp's edge."