The profound, ringing silence in the training hall was an oppressive weight, far heavier than any battle cry. It hung thick and still, heavy with disbelief and the acrid scent of pulverized stone from the wall where Sascha had slammed. The legendary hero, wielder of Excalibur, had been vanquished in less than two blinks of an eye.
Guildmaster Elara, however, was not among the stunned. Her face, though grim, held no surprise—only a look of grim confirmation, the kind one wears when a predicted, painful outcome finally arrives. She had known. She had truly known. Without a wasted second, she strode purposefully towards the cloud of dust still clinging to the wall, ignoring the frozen, gaping faces of the crowd. There was no time for explanations, no spare breath for the clamoring masses. Her only focus was the crumpled form of her stubborn, headstrong champion.
Reaching Sascha, Elara knelt quickly, her movements precise and practiced. She immediately began assessing his injuries, her trained eyes scanning for the most critical points. Sascha lay slumped against the wall, a grotesque parody of his usual heroic stance, utterly devoid of the fire that usually defined him. His armor was askew, a thin trickle of blood seeping from beneath it and staining his usually gleaming shine. His breathing was shallow, ragged. To his credit, despite the brutal impact, his hand, even in unconsciousness, was still locked around the hilt of Excalibur. The legendary sword, though no longer blinking its ominous blue, rested on the ground beside him – a silent testament to his unwavering grip.
Elara let out a weary sigh, a sound of profound exhaustion and exasperation. "Stubborn to the last, aren't you, Sascha," she murmured, a touch of reluctant admiration in her tone. Her assessment was swift: his ribs were likely bruised, possibly cracked, and a severe concussion a near certainty. But he was alive. Barely.
Straightening up, Elara's voice, now amplified by some unseen magical resonance, cut through the stunned silence of the hall. "The match is concluded! Sascha, the challenger, is deemed unable to continue!" Her declaration echoed, sharp and final. "The training hall is closed! Everyone, disperse! Now!"
The command, though simple, broke the collective trance of the crowd. A sudden, chaotic murmur erupted, quickly escalating into a confused flurry of motion as people began to heed her words, backing away, whispering furiously to each other, their betting slips forgotten.
The sheer, overwhelming force of Aiden's single move had shattered their expectations, and now they were left with only questions and the chilling reality of what they had witnessed.
At Elara's signal, the healers who'd been standing by the wall immediately sprang into action. Their movements were swift and efficient, their faces etched with professional concern. They rushed towards Sascha, pouches already open, hands glowing with soft, restorative light, reaching him moments before the rest of the White Eagle Party.
Arianne, Lucille, Sona, and Miriam pushed through the dispersing crowds, their faces a mixture of horror and profound worry. They arrived just as the healers began their urgent ministrations, carefully checking Sascha's vitals, gently removing his armor, and beginning to apply salves and binding spells to his bruised body.
"Sascha! Oh, by the Light, Sascha!" Sona cried out, her voice trembling with genuine distress. She knelt beside him, tears already welling in her eyes, her hands hovering uselessly. Her magic was for healing, but not for such blunt, massive trauma. "Are you alright? Say something! Oh, look at him, Guildmaster, he's barely breathing!"
Lucille surveyed the scene with a grim, calculating expression. Her eyes darted from Sascha's inert form to the slightly dented stone wall, then back to the healers. "Concussion, definitely," she stated, her voice tight. "Likely cracked ribs, maybe internal bruising. That was… an impressive amount of force for a simple throw. He barely moved." She looked at Elara, a question in her eyes. "You knew, didn't you, Guildmaster? You knew this would happen."
Elara met Lucille's gaze, her expression unwavering. "I had a very strong suspicion, Lucille. The Pathfinders don't engage in petty duels. When they accept a challenge, it's always a lesson. A painful one, if necessary." She watched the healers work, her jaw tight. "He'll recover physically. But the lesson… that's up to him."
Miriam, surprisingly subdued, knelt beside Sona, her usual playful smirk completely gone. Her eyes, usually so keen and mischievous, were wide with a dawning awe and perhaps, a hint of genuine fear. "Holy… that was… instant. He didn't even get to swing. Not even a dodge. Sascha, the mighty hero… just got tossed like a ragdoll. I've never seen anything like it. Not even from a giant." She paused, then added, her voice barely above a whisper, "My ten gold feels like blood money now."
"Miriam, now is not the time for bets!" Sona wailed, tearing up.
Sascha, barely conscious, stirred slightly. His eyes, unfocused and glazed, flickered open. He tried to speak, a guttural sound escaping his lips, but no words came out.
"He's still clutching Excalibur," Arianne observed softly, her voice filled with a profound understanding. She knelt gracefully beside Sascha, her hand resting gently on the sword. "Even unconscious, his grip is true. That, Sascha, is why the sword chose you. It is a powerful bond." She looked at Elara, her gaze questioning. "Is he truly alright, Guildmaster? That impact looked… severe."
"He'll live," Elara confirmed, watching the healers apply a glowing poultice to Sascha's chest. "He's durable, for all his foolishness. The healers will stabilize him." She then looked around the immediate area, checking that the last of the crowds were truly dispersing, leaving only the White Eagle Party and the medical staff.
Right after the healers finished their initial first aid, stabilizing Sascha and wrapping him in glowing bandages, a subtle shift occurred in the air. Not a sound, not a ripple, but a profound change in pressure, a prickle on the skin. Every member of the White Eagle Party, and even the healers, suddenly felt a presence. A cold awareness, like a shadow falling where there was none.
Without a sound, Aiden was simply there, already behind them all. He stood perfectly still, a silent, dark sentinel. He hadn't walked up; he had simply coalesced from the shadows, a presence rather than an arrival.
He was waiting. His helmeted head was tilted slightly, a silent observation, as if he knew that despite his brutal efficiency, Sascha was still conscious, still clinging to the thread of awareness.
Then, Aiden spoke. His voice, though muffled by the helmet, carried clearly, resonating with a strange, almost ancient cadence. It was calm, devoid of triumph, merely stating a fact. "He is still holding Excalibur, even in defeat." His gaze, unseen, seemed to rest on Sascha's hand, still clutching the sword. "It's a distinct trait. From the first Wielder to the last before him. And now, Himself. It is… commendable." The compliment, delivered without emotion, somehow carried more weight than any shouted praise—a stark, profound recognition from a being of immense, ancient power.
As he finished speaking, Aiden reached into one of the small, almost invisible magical pouches at his belt. He extracted a tiny, obsidian vial, no bigger than his thumb. It contained a liquid shimmering with an inner, ethereal light, like condensed starlight. He then extended his hand towards Arianne, who stood closest, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and profound understanding.
"Make him drink this," Aiden instructed, his voice low, even, and utterly calm. "He'll be completely functional again. His physical injuries will heal. But his spirit?" He paused, a subtle shift in his tone, almost an inflection. "Well, that depends on Sascha himself."
He waited for Arianne to carefully take the vial, her fingers brushing his gloved ones. She clutched it like a precious, fragile gem.
"I will be waiting in the war room," Aiden stated, his final words hanging in the air, a quiet directive.
And with that, Aiden turned. He walked away from them, towards the same shadowed corner from which he had appeared. As he stepped into the deeper gloom, his form began to dissipate, to unravel—not fading like smoke, but simply disappearing into the unseen layers of reality, presumably back to the War Room Beta. The silence Aiden left in his wake was far more unsettling than any noise, for the very air where he had vanished still crackled with an unseen energy, a testament to the impossible display they had just witnessed.
The Guild healers, recovering from their shock, quickly resumed their work on the still-slumped Sascha, their faces a mixture of professional focus and bewildered awe. Sona wrung her hands, her eyes wide with worry, while Lucille and Miriam stared at the empty space, trying to reconcile what they'd seen with everything they knew.
Arianne, however, held the small, obsidian vial Aiden had given her with a reverence bordering on the sacred. Its contents shimmered with a soft, ethereal light, like liquid starlight captured within glass. She brought it closer to her eyes, her ancient elven sight capable of discerning far more than human vision. She rotated the vial slowly, examining the subtle arcane glyphs etched into its surface, barely visible to the naked eye. Her eyes widened, a flicker of profound recognition passing across her serene features.
"This is… this is no ordinary potion," Arianne whispered, her voice filled with quiet awe. "By the ancient spirits, it's an elixir! And not just any elixir. This is a creation of the Pathfinder Order."
Lucille's head snapped up. "A Pathfinder elixir? Arianne, are you certain? I've never even heard of such a thing."
"Oh, they exist, Lucille," Arianne replied, her gaze distant, as if sifting through centuries of forgotten lore. "I've heard whispers of them, deep in the archives of my Paladin Order, from when I was still in active duty, holding sword and shield in defense of the realm. Tales of elixirs that could mend grievous wounds in moments, restore lost vitality, even defy the ravages of time. But they were always legends—never something truly seen, never something… so real." Her fingers trembled slightly as she clutched the vial. "They were said to be incredibly rare, often requiring ingredients from places no mortal could reach, infused with magic so pure it verged on the divine."
Sona, tears still tracking paths down her cheeks, looked up. "So, he can really heal Sascha just like that? It's not a trick?"
"No trick, dear Sona," Arianne assured her, her voice resonating with deep conviction. "This is an act of profound capability, a testament to their mastery. This isn't just magic; it's an understanding of life itself that few could ever hope to achieve." Without further hesitation, Arianne immediately moved to Sascha's side. She gently but firmly took his face in her hands, carefully raising his head.
"Sascha, my friend," she murmured, her voice soft yet insistent. "Drink this. Trust me."
She unstoppered the vial and, with practiced care, poured the shimmering liquid onto Sascha's lips. The elixir glowed faintly as it trickled into his mouth, then down his throat.
The effect was instantaneous.
A soft, golden light pulsed from within Sascha's chest, spreading rapidly through his body like a tide. His ragged breathing smoothed, becoming deep and even. The trickle of blood vanished, and the visible bruises on his skin faded with astonishing speed, as if erased by an invisible hand. Within seconds, Sascha's eyes snapped open, clear and focused, his gaze intelligent and completely lucid. He pushed himself up, groaning slightly—a groan of stiffness, not pain. He moved his limbs, feeling no lingering discomfort, no throbbing pain from the impact that should have crippled him for days. His armor, still askew, was suddenly the only thing out of place.
"W-what… what just happened?" Sascha stammered, his voice hoarse but strong. He looked at his hands, then at his now unblemished arm, then at the wall he had just been slammed into. He felt… perfectly fine. No, better than fine. He felt invigorated.
The healers, who'd been performing their own lesser healing spells, stared, mouths agape, their glowing hands frozen mid-spell. Their best efforts wouldn't have achieved this in hours, let alone seconds. It was simply… impossible.
"You're… you're healed?" Sona whispered, tears still in her eyes, but now of sheer relief and disbelief. "Completely?"
Sascha flexed his shoulders, testing. "Completely. Not even a bruise. It's like it never happened." He looked at Arianne, then at the now empty vial in her hand, a profound shock replacing the stubbornness in his eyes.
Arianne smiled gently. "Such is the power of the Pathfinder's craft, dear Sascha."
The party now had time to reflect on the dizzying sequence of events. The immediate danger was past, Sascha was miraculously whole, and the full weight of what they'd witnessed began to settle in.
"He just… tossed you, Sascha," Miriam stated, her voice quiet, almost awed. "Like a sack of potatoes. And then healed you. With a sip of glowing liquid." She shook her head, a slow smile finally spreading across her face, not of mockery, but of genuine, stunned wonder. "That's… that's quite a party trick. Maybe I should put all my gold on him next time."
"It wasn't a trick, Miriam," Lucille interjected, her voice sharp. Her earlier irritation at Sascha had dissipated, replaced by a deep, thoughtful silence. "It was a demonstration of absolute, effortless superiority. He didn't even try. He simply acted. And then, he offered a kindness that defies our understanding of magic. We were so busy judging him by our own standards, our own limitations." She looked at Sascha, her expression unreadable. "This changes everything, Sascha. Your perception of power. Of heroism. Of what true allies can be."
Sascha, for the first time in perhaps his entire life, was truly speechless. He looked at Excalibur, still firmly in his grasp, and then at his uninjured body. The reality of the blow, the utter helplessness he'd felt, was still fresh in his mind, but his body felt as if it had been reset. He remembered Aiden's words: "He is still holding Excalibur, even in defeat. It is… commendable." And then the simple, almost offhand, "It won't be necessary," when asked about a weapon. The truth of that statement now resonated with a chilling clarity. It hadn't been arrogance; it had been an objective fact. He had been so wrapped up in his own bluster, his own limited worldview, that he couldn't see the true power standing before him.
A wave of profound, humbling realization finally, finally, dawned upon Sascha's thick skull. It wasn't just Excalibur that was ashamed; he was ashamed. Ashamed of his towering arrogance, his profound ignorance, his stubborn refusal to see beyond his own narrow definition of heroism. He had challenged a legend, a guardian of profound ancient order, and had been put in his place with an ease that bordered on terrifying. His world, which he'd always seen in stark, heroic terms, had suddenly expanded to reveal vast, unfathomable depths.
"He… he called me commendable," Sascha murmured, his voice barely audible, his gaze distant. "And he said… it depended on me, in spirit." He looked around at his party, his expression raw, exposed. "I… I was an idiot. A complete, utter idiot. My sword tried to warn me, Arianne tried to tell me, and I just… I wouldn't listen, I should've listen... I was so arrogant. So blind." His jaw clenched, not in anger, but in profound self-reproach. "He could have crushed me. Broken every bone in my body. And he just… threw me. And then he healed me." A shiver ran down his spine. "He did it to teach me. And he hadn't even needed to touch me. Just… a pinch on my sword... I should have known." The memory of Aiden's effortless movements, his silent speed, was a stark contrast to Sascha's usual boisterous fighting style.
"It is a harsh lesson, Sascha," Arianne said softly, her hand still resting on Excalibur, which now hummed with a quiet, calm strength. "But perhaps, a necessary one. True strength, true wisdom, often lies in knowing when to listen, when to yield, when to trust paths beyond our own understanding."
"Well, hero boy," Miriam said, her tone softening, a rare empathy in her voice. "At least you learned it without losing an arm or two. And you've still got the sword. Excalibur's not ditching you just yet. So that's something." She clapped him on the shoulder, a rare gesture of genuine comfort.
Sona, seeing him coherent and whole, finally allowed herself a small, relieved sob. "Oh, Sascha! I was so worried! But… but it's okay now. And maybe… maybe we can all learn from this."
Lucille nodded. "We certainly have a great deal to learn. About Pathfinders, their capabilities, and how we ourselves approach the unknown. This mission just became infinitely more complex, and infinitely more dangerous if we don't adjust our understanding."
The Guildmaster, who had observed this entire exchange with a keen eye, stepped forward, her voice cutting through their reflection, pulling them back to the immediate task at hand. "Alright, White Eagle. Enough reflection for now. The training hall is cleared. Sascha is functional, thanks to our… enigmatic new ally." Her gaze flickered to the spot where Aiden had vanished. "Remember his last words. Aiden is waiting in the War Room. He expects us there. And I suggest we do not keep him waiting. He has already proven his patience has limits, and his capabilities are beyond anything we've encountered before. We have a mission, and a new understanding of our allies. Let's go now."
Elara turned and strode towards the exit of the training hall, leaving the White Eagle Party to gather themselves, Sascha still grappling with the full implications of his humbling defeat and miraculous recovery. The very air in the hall seemed to vibrate with a new, profound respect for the silent Pathfinder.