Three days passed since the meeting with Evard.
Days too silent to be mistaken for tranquility.
Isaac remained discreet during that period. He did not return to old places, did not seek previous contacts, did not test the limits of what he still could or could not do. He simply observed, walked, adjusted schedules and routes like someone mapping unknown terrain before committing to it.
The city continued to function around him, indifferent to his presence—which, at the moment, was exactly what he needed.
When he arrived at the agreed-upon establishment on the third day, the environment was the same as before. Neither too refined nor too decadent. An intermediate space where no one asked too much and no one expected deep answers.
Evard was waiting near the entrance, hands clasped behind his back, expression neutral but eyes alert.
"He accepted," he said as soon as Isaac approached close enough for discreet conversation.
Isaac waited. He knew Evard well enough to recognize when there was more.
"But," Evard continued, confirming the expectation.
"But what?"
"The father wants a test. Nothing theatrical. Nothing public." Evard paused. "A controlled fight."
"Against whom?"
"The family's veteran guard. A competent man. He won't kill you, but he won't pretend he's fighting either."
Isaac considered this briefly.
"When?"
"Now," Evard replied. "He's waiting."
Isaac nodded once, without visible hesitation.
They left together.
The streets changed gradually as they walked—the kind of subtle transition only noticeable with deliberate attention. Commerce became more organized, less chaotic. Buildings grew more solid, architecture more uniform. The presence of guards was less ostentatious but more… institutional. Regular patrols instead of isolated soldiers.
They were not entering magical territory, but neither was it common ground.
It was territory of influence. Where minor noble families consolidated power through money and connections rather than magic or ancient tradition.
The Kormann family residence occupied an entire corner—strategic positioning that allowed visibility over two main streets. It was not a centuries-old palacete with a glorious history, nor a modest construction trying to hide.
Well-maintained light stone. Straight lines, functional design. Impeccable upkeep without unnecessary ostentation.
Recent money, but managed with discipline and long-term vision.
They were received without delay—a servant recognized them immediately and led them inside with silent efficiency.
The young noble was waiting in a side room, apparently absorbed in documents spread across a dark wooden table. When he noticed their presence, he stood with a fluid movement—trained politeness, not affectation.
"So this is the man," he said, looking at Evard before turning his eyes to Isaac.
He was perhaps in his early twenties. Regular features, correct posture without rigidity. Clothes of obvious quality without being flashy.
"He is," Evard confirmed simply.
The young man stepped a few paces closer, assessing Isaac without hostility but also without automatic deference. Intelligent eyes measuring more than physical appearance.
"You don't look like a legendary veteran," he commented after a few seconds. There was no provocation in his voice. Just honest observation.
Isaac remained still, waiting.
"That's a good thing," Evard replied for him, with a faint smile. "Guards who look like walking legends attract exactly the kind of trouble they're meant to prevent."
The young man thought for a moment, then nodded as if it made perfect sense.
"My name is Henrik Kormann," he said, extending his hand.
Isaac shook it with appropriate firmness—neither too weak nor a display of strength.
"Before anything else," Henrik continued, withdrawing his hand, "I need to make it clear this isn't personal. My father requires a competence test for any sensitive position."
"Understandable," Isaac replied. "Prudent, actually."
Henrik seemed to relax slightly at the direct, resentment-free response.
"Good. Then let's get this over with." He gestured to the servant who had received them. "Take them to the training courtyard."
They were led through an internal corridor—clean walls, natural light from skylights—to a heavy door that opened to the exterior.
The training courtyard was surrounded by high stone walls, acoustically isolated from the rest of the property. The ground was compacted earth, marked by countless footprints, repeated grooves, dark stains where sweat had fallen innumerable times.
It was not an ornamental space meant to impress visitors.
It was a place of real work.
At the center of the courtyard, a man waited.
Older than Isaac—perhaps in his early forties. A lean, defined body, without a gram of unnecessary fat. Every movement seemed economical, as if wasting energy were a personal offense. Old, well-healed scars marked his forearms and hands—testimony to decades of real combat.
His eyes evaluated everything before any broader movement.
A veteran. Not by title, but by survival.
"Rules," he said, his voice deep but not threatening. "No weapons. Fight until clear surrender or inability to continue. No deliberate lethal blows. Controlled, but real."
Isaac nodded, removing his coat and handing it to Evard.
Henrik and Evard stepped back to the edge of the courtyard, giving ample space.
No additional words were necessary.
The fight began without formal warning.
The veteran simply advanced—fast, direct, without telegraphing intent.
Isaac reacted by trained instinct, blocking the first strike and rotating his body to keep his balance. Immediately, he perceived the fundamental difference: it wasn't about brute strength or raw speed.
It was timing. Positioning. Experience translated into economical movement.
The man was always half a step ahead, applying constant pressure, forcing Isaac to respond instead of act. Every opening was illusory—bait for a mistake.
Isaac remained defensive at first, absorbing the rhythm, understanding patterns.
They exchanged short, rapid blows. Testing distance. Seeking weaknesses. Trying to break the established tempo.
Isaac compensated for lesser technical experience with rapid movement reading and abnormal physical endurance—the legacy of everything that had happened since his return. Each attempt to advance was measured. Each mistake corrected almost instantly.
For a few moments, the balance seemed genuine.
Henrik watched with contained focus, tension visible in the way his shoulders remained slightly raised. Evard stood motionless like a statue, experienced eyes absorbing every technical detail.
Then the veteran changed.
Not dramatically. Just a minimal adjustment—a slightly different advance, an angle altered by imperceptible degrees.
Isaac responded, but half a second late.
Half a second was enough.
His weight was poorly distributed for a fraction of a moment. The veteran rotated his body with surgical precision, using Isaac's own strength and momentum against him.
In the next instant, Isaac was on the ground, his arm immobilized in a lock that applied pressure without damage—absolute control.
He tried to move, to test an escape.
The pressure increased exactly as much as necessary to communicate: useless.
"Enough," the veteran said calmly.
Isaac stopped resisting, releasing his breath slowly. He accepted the defeat without dramatization or mental excuses.
The man released him immediately, offering a hand to help him up.
Isaac accepted, pulling himself back to his feet.
The veteran stepped back a few paces, wiped his hands on his clothes, then addressed Henrik and Evard.
"He loses due to difference in experience," he said directly. "Not due to recklessness. Not due to panic."
He turned slightly toward Isaac.
"You still think like someone trained to obey military structures. You expect patterns. You look for rules." He paused. "But you learn quickly when faced with a different reality. That's rare. Rarer than raw talent."
Without further words or additional evaluation, he walked toward a side exit, disappearing with the same silent efficiency with which he operated.
Shortly afterward, Isaac was led back inside the house—this time to an office on the second floor.
The space was large without being empty. Organized without being obsessive. Functional above all—accounting books, commercial maps, documents arranged in precise stacks.
No decorative excess. No attempt to impress through luxury.
Behind the solid desk, a middle-aged man waited. Hair beginning to gray at the temples, eyes carrying the weight of difficult commercial decisions, posture relaxed but alert.
Joshua Kormann. Patriarch of the family.
"My guard has already informed me," he said as soon as Isaac entered, wasting no time on empty formalities. "I don't need to see you fight personally."
Isaac remained respectfully silent, waiting.
"You lost," Joshua continued, fingers interlaced atop the desk. "But you were not humiliated. You didn't panic. You didn't invent excuses."
He slid a document across the wooden surface.
"Standard contract. Personal bodyguard to my son Henrik. Clearly defined duties. Authority limited to his immediate security. Contractual loyalty for the duration of the agreement."
Isaac took the document, reading with genuine attention—not a performance of reading, but careful analysis of each clause.
Fair terms. Reasonable compensation. No evident legal traps. Clear termination clauses for both sides.
He took the offered pen and signed with clear handwriting.
Joshua retrieved the paper, checked the signature, then filed it in a specific folder.
"From today on," he said, meeting Isaac's eyes directly, "you answer to my house while you are in Henrik's service. Your success is our success. Your failure, our failure."
Isaac nodded, understanding the real weight behind the formal words.
"Understood."
Outside the office, Henrik waited in the corridor, tension visible in the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot.
When he saw Isaac emerge with Joshua just behind him, he exhaled in obvious relief.
"So… we're settled," he said, extending his hand again—this time not as a formal introduction, but as confirmation of partnership.
Isaac shook it firmly.
"We are."
Henrik smiled—genuine, young, relieved.
"Good. Because honestly, the idea of meeting more candidates was giving me a headache."
Evard, who had remained discreetly apart during the entire interaction with Joshua, finally stepped closer.
"My work here is done, then," he said with mild satisfaction. "Henrik, you have a competent guard. Isaac, you have a stable position." He paused. "Everyone benefits."
They parted efficiently—handshakes, brief words.
Isaac left the Kormann residence with a new official role.
He walked through streets he now knew better, feeling the different weight of that additional identity.
There was no sense of victory.
Nor of defeat.
Just the formalization of another layer.
Another socially acceptable position that granted him mobility, access, a justification for being in specific places.
While, beneath all those carefully constructed surfaces, he continued to observe.
To learn.
To wait for the right moment.
Because now he knew, with growing clarity that solidified each day:
He would not conquer the world by confronting it directly with brute force or poorly understood divine power.
But perhaps—just perhaps—he could learn to move within it with sufficient precision, infiltrate its structures deeply enough, until the system itself began to reveal its fundamental flaws.
And when those flaws became too evident to ignore…
Then, and only then, would he know exactly where to press so that everything would collapse in the right way.
Isaac turned a corner, disappearing into the afternoon crowd.
Just another bodyguard in another noble family.
Nothing worthy of special attention.
Exactly as it should be.
For now.