Chapter 107

The kingdom's east. It was the day they set out for the Grand Guild Headquarters.

Carriages had lined up at the main gate since early morning.

Mikhail tossed his bag into one of them, climbed aboard, and flipped through the suppression campaign participant roster he'd obtained.

Manufacturing, research, exploration, and academia…. A roster of influential figures from every field.

Every name was familiar—with the exception of one newly added group.

Verte Fischer. Plus six others….

Mikhail studied the cluster of unfamiliar names and turned it over in his mind.

Looking purely at advantages and disadvantages for what lay ahead, Verte's participation in the campaign was a double-edged sword.

On the upside, it helped resolve the main storyline's challenges. Every extra combatant they could field against the massive magical beast that would appear at the climax was welcome.

The downside, however, lay in the scoring. The campaign's results needed to end with Salvator taking the highest score, and more teams competing for points was never good news.

"……"

Mikhail tilted his head in thought for a moment, then let a quiet laugh slip.

Well, it's nothing I can't manage.

Besides, he'd have to face Verte sooner or later regardless.

Mikhail set the roster down.

"Yip."

Ul let out a soft bark. Mikhail looked up to see Lloyd leaning against the doorframe with a lazy grin.

"Are these little furballs your travel companions? At least you won't get bored. Anyway—mind if I take the seat across from you?"

Instead of answering, Mikhail asked a question of his own.

"Weren't you riding with Ethan's group?"

"Too many people over there."

Mikhail knew it was an excuse, but he nodded without pressing. There was no reason to refuse, and no particular need to.

"Sure. Sit down."

Lloyd hopped up in one fluid motion and dropped into the opposite seat.

Han and Ul padded over like tiny interrogators, sniffing him up and down. Mikhail turned his head toward the window and waited for departure.

Students' voices outside grew louder and more chaotic by the minute.

One by one, the carriages filled to capacity and began rolling down the road.

"Mikhail."

They'd just cleared the harbor town. Mikhail responded to Lloyd calling his name.

"What."

Lloyd folded his arms and spoke with deliberate cheerfulness.

"Not nervous? This campaign could end up being your debut stage, you know."

Mikhail shifted his gaze from Lloyd to the scenery outside the window and replied with perfect indifference.

"Nerves are for people who aren't confident."

"Oh? The fighting spirit to crush everything in your path? Not a bad mindset."

"No. That's not what I mean."

Mikhail paused for a beat, then tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I'm saying—why would I flinch when all I'm doing is claiming what's already mine?"

A beat of silence passed before the snickering broke through.

Lloyd ducked his head and nodded without a shred of disagreement.

"Yeah. Fair point. Can't argue with that."

After the echo of agreement dissolved into the air—

Lloyd let the laughter die down like the last embers of a fire, then added in a voice that had settled like ash.

"Mikhail. Call it overcautious, but let me say this."

Mikhail looked across at him.

Lloyd had straightened his posture, fingers laced together and resting on his knees, his expression tightening as he spoke.

"At the Guild headquarters, you might run into people who refuse to treat you as the rightful heir of the North. Every little thing they do might get under your skin. But don't let anger be your first response. As someone who wields power, proving yourself comes first."

Mikhail held steady against a voice that rang like a verdict.

Sunlight angling through the window cast shadows across Lloyd's face, lending him a gravity that bordered on severe.

For a moment, he looked every bit the head of the kingdom's First Noble House—Cloelle, the restorer.

Mikhail held Lloyd's gaze without wavering and spoke.

"I know. That's the duty of the great noble who governs Eterny—the guardian."

---

Meanwhile, at that same hour.

The third-floor sparring hall of the Grand Guild Headquarters.

A state-of-the-art facility outfitted with the latest magic tools, designed to maximize user safety, mana circulation, and training efficiency.

Across the wide, elongated hall, a flash of mana blazed and a sharp crack of impact rang out.

"GAAAH!"

A figure clad in protective gear sailed through the air in a wide arc, slammed into the wall, and slid to the floor.

Those watching from the sidelines let out quiet groans, then turned their heads toward the person who had just cast the spell.

Every gaze converged on a single figure standing alone in the middle of the vast hall.

Verte Fischer.

"Hff…."

Verte exhaled and straightened his stance, then addressed the opponent dragging himself upright.

"Good work, Platz. Let's set up the next duel."

The shock erupted from the spectator seats. The group seated there blurted out their disbelief in unison.

"Hey, Verte! Again? It's been six hours straight."

"Yeah? Then swap Platz out and send Noen in."

"Ah… of course the one time I step out to grab bread, I get called…. No, wait, that's not the point!"

One of the group edged forward from the seats and spoke up cautiously.

"Um… Verte. Don't you think it's okay to take a break? If you push this hard before the campaign even starts, you might burn yourself out by the actual day. And also…."

The speaker stole a glance at Verte's expression before continuing.

"That, uh—the Senit heir who's supposedly coming. I did some digging on the rumors. Apparently he's totally selfish, was practically on the verge of getting expelled for being useless? People say he's changed a bit recently, but…."

Verte maintained his silence throughout.

The commentary continued after a single clearing of the throat.

"I mean, come on! Some bottom-feeder suddenly crams for a few exams and bumps his grades up—so what? He probably just got chewed out hard by his father! And if he were actually talented, we'd have been hearing about him ages ago. So what I'm saying is… the gap in skill is already obvious. You don't need to go this far…."

"No."

Verte cut him off in a tone that bordered on a growl.

Then he clenched the hand hanging at his side until blue veins stood out across the back of it.

"What I want isn't some simple pecking order."

"……"

"I'm going to put an overwhelming gap on display for everyone to see. No matter how desperately he thrashes, I'll crush him down again and again until the name Senit means nothing."

The corner of Verte's mouth twisted, and a low threat spilled from between his teeth.

"Our humiliation. Our disgrace. A boy who only ever learned about it through worthless scraps of print… deserves exactly that kind of welcome."

The sparring hall fell so silent that not even a breath could be heard.

Verte's companions didn't dare speak, their eyes fixed on his face.

Creeeak.

"Hey—are you serious? You had to walk in right now with bread in your—?!"

One of the group snapped their eyes toward the opening door, ready to scold—

But the reprimand died mid-sentence.

Every one of them shot to their feet and bowed toward the person stepping through the entrance.

"Good day, Lord Germain!"

The head of the Guild Alliance.

Germain Lowell strode across the polished floor alongside his aide, entering the sparring hall.

"Ha ha. Looks like everyone's been working hard. Wonderful! Great to see, great to see."

Germain offered the group warm encouragement, then walked over and stopped in front of Verte.

Verte took a deep breath to cool the heat in his face, then dipped his head toward Germain.

"It's an honor to meet you, Lord Germain."

"The pleasure's mine, Lord Verte Fischer. The rising star and most promising talent of this campaign, I hear? I have high expectations for your performance."

"You're too kind."

Germain smiled at Verte's measured reply, then stroked his chin as he glanced around the hall.

"It seems you're pouring heart and soul into this campaign. As the host, nothing makes me happier than seeing that kind of enthusiasm. However."

The conjunction he'd tacked on at the end landed with weight.

Germain leaned close to Verte's ear and spoke in a low, deliberate voice.

"Just make sure you don't lose your sense of moderation and take things too far."

"……"

"Everything within reason, within proper bounds, and within the established rules. You understand that, yes?"

Verte glanced up at Germain but quickly lowered his head in a deep bow.

"Of course, sir."

"Ha ha. Good to hear! Best of luck going forward! And if anything about your accommodations is inconvenient, don't hesitate to come talk to me."

Germain clapped Verte on the shoulder with a hearty pat, then straightened up and headed for the exit.

As he walked, he called back in a carrying voice.

"Come to think of it, the sparring hall could use a cleaning. Would you mind clearing out for about two hours? In the meantime… oh, I know! You should try the hot springs."

"Hot springs? There are hot springs here…?"

"They're not normally open to outsiders. But campaign participants are special—we want you at your absolute best when it matters, so we've made them available. Just head downstairs from here. Wonderful for relieving fatigue and restoring energy. They say it smooths out the body's mana circulation too, which helps with mana recovery."

Germain waved an easy hand at the group—whose eyes had lit up—and offered his farewell.

"Well then—I hope to see you all again soon. Elites of the Magic Research Institute."

THUD.

The sparring hall door closed. The group, who'd been staring after Germain's retreating figure, shifted their eyes to Verte.

Verte had been staring after Germain's departing figure, but he pulled his gaze back and addressed his companions.

"…We're done sparring for now."

A small cheer erupted. The group grabbed their belongings and filed out of the hall in a rush.

Creeeak.

"Wh—huh? What? Why's everyone leaving…?"

"Oh, shut up. Just move. Hurry up and go."

The one who'd walked in with bread clamped between his teeth got swept up in the tide of bodies and carried right back out the door.

Verte stood behind the stampede of retreating footsteps, then crossed the hall to the window.

Through the glass, the view below came into focus.

"……"

Carriages were pulling up to the headquarters' main entrance.

A procession bearing the crest of Salvator Academy.

---

Mikhail stepped down at the Grand Guild Headquarters' main entrance and swept his gaze across the open vista.

Above the wide, Romanesque buildings stretching before him, the sky blazed so vividly blue it looked as though someone had poured paint across it.

"Once your luggage is unloaded—! Come this way for the tour—!"

Mikhail left behind the swelling crowd—a tangle of gasps and shouts growing louder by the second—and turned his thoughts to what needed doing.

Roughly five days remained before the campaign officially began.

In that case… there were a few things worth taking care of in the meantime.

I've officially stepped into the main storyline's proper progression, so sub-quests should start appearing.

FLASH!

Mikhail looked at the system message that materialized before his eyes.