"Dad… was it really wise to send Arin out like that?"
Teun kept his voice low as they stood near the edge of the camp, half-hidden in shadow. The firelight flickered across his face, revealing unease he wasn't bothering to hide. "Those houses still have records of us. It doesn't matter how long it's been—they don't forget. Isn't this just inviting trouble?"
Karl didn't answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the camp for a moment—the movement, the quiet readiness, the unspoken tension that had settled into everyone over the past weeks. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, steady.
"It will bring trouble," he said. "But that was inevitable."
Teun frowned.
"The moment we decided to form our own faction," Karl continued, "we stepped into the open. They would have noticed us sooner or later. This… just moves things along."
He glanced at Teun, a faint smile forming—controlled, deliberate.
"And in the process, we get our money back," he added. "And remind them we're still here."
Teun exhaled slowly, clearly not satisfied. "You're assuming they'll just accept that," he said. "Those Great Houses don't take things lightly."
"No," Karl agreed. "They don't."
But there was no concern in his tone.
"They also don't act without reason," he continued. "They care about influence. Stability. Profit. Not petty revenge."
His expression shifted slightly, something colder surfacing beneath the calm.
"The only reason we ever dealt with them was because of that old debt," he said. "And even then, they pushed too far."
A quiet scoff escaped him.
"Greed tends to do that."
Teun crossed his arms, still tense. "And you're certain they won't retaliate?"
"They won't," Karl said without hesitation. "Not over this."
That certainty was almost unsettling.
"They understand how things work," he added. "Our lines have always had that understanding. We don't interfere unnecessarily—they don't either."
He waved a hand dismissively.
"The only problem will be the ones who don't understand that," he said. "The upstarts. The ones who think they can rise by stepping on us."
"The reckless ones," Teun muttered.
"The loud ones," Karl corrected.
Teun hesitated, then pressed on. "What about the past?" he asked. "What our ancestors did… that wasn't small. We made enemies."
For a moment, the air shifted.
Karl's gaze hardened just slightly.
"We were justified," he said simply.
Then, after a brief pause—
"And I dare them to try."
The faint smirk that followed carried a weight Teun couldn't ignore.
There was no fear in it.
Only confidence.
Teun sighed quietly, rubbing his temples. "Still… we should be careful."
Karl nodded once. "Of course."
That alone was enough to make Teun pause.
"I'll gather the elders," Karl continued. "We'll sit down with the others and discuss our next steps."
He glanced toward the horizon, where the faint outline of construction marked their progress on the portal.
"Arin should be back within the week," he added. "Perfect timing."
"For what?" Teun asked.
Karl smiled—this time more openly.
"To bring him in," he said. "He's strong enough now. But he's still too… detached."
Teun let out a quiet, helpless breath. "He hates that kind of thing."
"Exactly," Karl replied. "Which is why he needs it."
Teun could only shake his head, offering a wry smile.
"Poor kid," he muttered.
Karl chuckled lightly and turned away.
"I'll call the council," he said. "Things are too quiet."
Teun frowned. "Quiet?"
"It's been a month," Karl said, his tone sharpening. "And we haven't faced real resistance."
That alone made him uneasy.
"I don't believe it," he added.
And with that, he walked off toward the elders, leaving Teun alone with his thoughts.
Far from the camp, Arin was running.
The world blurred past him as his body moved with effortless precision, each step covering ground that would have taken minutes before. The wind rushed against him, carrying the scent of earth and distant conflict, and for the first time in days, he felt something close to relief.
"Finally," he thought, a faint grin forming. "Back to something real."
The mission had been clean.
Efficient.
Boring.
This—this was better.
He leaped over uneven terrain without slowing, his body adapting instinctively, his movements fluid and controlled. As he ran, his thoughts drifted, pulled along by the rhythm of motion.
It still felt strange, sometimes.
How easily his family had adapted.
Most people struggled with the shift from civilian life to combat. Some forced themselves through it. Others broke under the pressure.
But his family?
They thrived.
And that was the unsettling part.
It wasn't just that they could fight.
They enjoyed it.
Arin exhaled quietly, his pace never faltering.
"Not surprising," he admitted to himself.
His childhood had made sure of that.
He remembered holding a bow for the first time at four years old—too big, too heavy, and somehow still exciting. Everything had been framed as a game. Shooting targets. Moving unseen. Competing with others.
Always competing.
The adults had been clever.
They never forced anything.
They made it fun.
Made an improvement in something you wanted.
And once that took hold… the rest followed naturally.
Arin smirked faintly.
"We never stood a chance," he thought.
Especially when they were given comparisons—other kids who hadn't trained like they had. It made the difference obvious. Made winning feel earned.
Add competition.
Add praise.
And suddenly, discipline didn't feel like discipline anymore.
It felt like play.
There had been no punishments for failure. No pressure to succeed.
Because that would have ruined it.
"If you want someone to improve," Arin thought, "you make them enjoy improving."
Simple.
Effective.
He pushed forward, the terrain gradually shifting as he neared the frontline.
Still… there was one thing he never fully understood.
"Why keep it up?" he wondered.
Even after the world changed. Even after modern weapons made traditional training seem pointless.
They had continued.
Relentlessly.
Training routines that pushed the body to its limits. Endurance. Precision. Control.
Not everyone stayed.
He remembered that too.
Family members leaving. Partners unable to watch the strain. The pain.
Even Uncle Dennis had walked away.
"…Guess it paid off," Arin muttered.
Now, they were ahead.
Not because of the system.
Not because of borrowed knowledge.
But because they had already built the foundation.
Unlike the chaos that followed the announcement of the trials.
Arin let out a quiet snort.
Those first months had been ridiculous.
Everyone scrambling for knowledge. Searching online for training. Techniques. Anything.
And finding…
"Garbage," he thought bluntly.
Self-proclaimed masters. Elaborate demonstrations. Flashy techniques that looked impressive—but were completely impractical.
He had watched plenty of them.
Some were entertaining.
Most were dangerous.
"Would've gotten me killed instantly," he muttered.
Overextended strikes. Wide openings. Movements that looked good—but failed under pressure.
Against someone competent?
It wasn't even a fight.
It was a mistake.
The worst part?
People believed it.
For about a week.
Then reality hit.
Authorities stepped in. Real demonstrations. Real consequences.
A trained soldier dismantling those techniques in seconds.
Half of Europe had watched.
And just like that, the illusion shattered.
After that, proper training replaced the nonsense.
Structured.
Effective.
Boring.
"Ruined the fun," Arin thought with a faint grin.
Still, not everywhere adapted as quickly. Other regions lagged behind, and he had spent more time than he cared to admit watching the chaos unfold elsewhere.