After a full month of traveling between minor territories, taking sculpture requests, and “accidentally” destroying and rebuilding a few noble estates with flawless precision, Ludger’s plan finally began to show results.
The pattern had become predictable:
A noble acted demanding → Ludger nodded politely → Ludger tapped his foot a little harder → a courtyard, tower corner, or wall section collapsed like wet sand → Ludger rebuilt it better than before → the noble apologized and paid early.
A strange cycle, but undeniably effective. By the end of week four, Ludger received a letter from Torvares delivered by a Lionsguard courier. The seal was still warm when he cracked it open, unfolding the neat handwriting inside.
Ludger,
The complaints have stopped almost completely.
Whatever you’ve done, keep doing it. Nobles are now sending letters of gratitude instead of threats.
—Torvares
Ludger exhaled through his nose. “Finally.”
No more nobles accusing him of raising a secret army of children. No more mentions of “suspicious immigration” from other territories. No more rumors about him creating supermages, assassins, or political sleeper agents.
Torvares’ territory, the entire northern border, really, had returned to its normal level of chaos.
On top of that, the sculpture business was thriving. Nobles were getting exactly what they wanted: ego-stroking monuments with mild stat boosts, or heavily romanticized images of their ancestors. And then came Fendrel’s letter.
The old merchant, had taken the job of selling a few of Ludger’s sculptures in the capital to “test the waters.” Apparently, the waters had turned into a roaring river.
The letter said:
Vice Guildmaster Ludger,
We need more.
The sculptures you made sold out overnight. Overnight.
Capital nobles are asking about commissioning you personally. Even the academies are curious.
The Lionsguard’s reputation makes everything sell twice as fast.
Please send more pieces. Anything. Even small ones.
—Fendrel
Ludger folded the letter and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had started making sculptures to sell. Then to silence nobles. Now he was unintentionally fueling a cross-territory art craze.
Typical.
He sat on the guild’s roof that evening, overlooking Lionfang while children practiced Splash in the training yard below. The faint glow of torches flickered on the streets. The distant clang of Raukor’s forge carried through the cool night air.
Fendrel wanted more sculptures. Torvares wanted fewer headaches. Nobles wanted glorified statues of themselves doing heroic poses. The capital wanted prestige items. And his Teacher job was leveling at an absurd pace thanks to the close to a hundred kids rotating through literacy and magic classes. Ludger tapped his chin thoughtfully.
“Figurines…”
Small. Portable. Cheap. Fast to make.
And if they had tiny buffs, barely noticeable but still valuable, they’d sell like wildfire without needing monumental effort.
He imagined sculpting little versions of the Lionsguard:
Arslan with his sword stance, Elaine radiating fury, Maurien cloaked in wind, Kaela holding a pair of knives upside down for absolutely no reason, Yvar adjusting his glasses, Gaius lifting a boulder, and…
He paused.
“Who the hell would want a figurine of me?”
Then he frowned deeper when he remembered how many kids pretended to be him during training. …People would definitely buy those.
He slumped back slightly, staring at the sky. Great. Now he had to decide if he wanted to mass-produce tiny stone versions of himself. He sighed.
“At least figurines won’t require me to demolish someone’s mansion first.”
When the number of students finally pushed past the one hundred mark, Ludger knew it was time to reorganize.
The training yard was starting to look like a festival ground, kids packed shoulder to shoulder, arguments breaking out over practice spots, and a constant background noise that made even the second squad twitch like overworked babysitters. It wasn’t chaos yet, but it was getting close. Too close.
So Ludger gathered them all one morning, letting their chatter fade as he scanned the crowd. He already knew who stood out, the ones whose mana had grown fastest; the ones who could form stable water streams; the ones who could read basic words without squinting like they were solving ancient runes.
He called them forward, twenty-two kids in total, lined up awkwardly in front of the rest. Some looked proud. Others confused. A few nervous.
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Ludger folded his arms behind his back, assessing them with a silent nod.
“You’ve all made a lot of progress,” he began, voice carrying through the quiet yard. “Your mana control is good. Your reading is decent. And you’ve shown you can focus.”
A ripple of smiles broke across the line. A few chests puffed up. One boy tried to look serious but failed instantly when he spotted his friend waving from the back. Ludger continued.
“So I’m giving you a chance to do something new.”
He paused, letting the anticipation build just enough.
“There’s work available on the fields north of Lionfang. Farmland waiting for irrigation.” He pointed northward. “With your water magic, you can handle the job easily, and improve while you do it.”
The group murmured among themselves. Some traded excited looks. Others bounced on their heels. Working on fields wasn’t glamorous, but in a border town, it was stable work, rare, valuable, and respected.
“And,” Ludger added casually, “the pay is two times what you make doing odd jobs in town.”
Every kid in front of him straightened as if someone had yanked a rope tied to their spines. Two times. For families barely scraping by, that was a fortune. For orphans, it was life-changing. Even the shy girl who never spoke above a whisper sucked in a sharp breath.
“Y—you mean… double?” one boy stammered.
“Two times,” Ludger confirmed with a nod. “Consistent pay. Reliable work. And training for your magic at the same time.”
It was like tossing oil on a spark. The kids nearly burst with excitement, wide eyes, big smiles, some of them clutching each other’s shoulders as if confirming they weren’t dreaming.
The boy at the far left pumped a fist into the air. “YES!!!”
The rest laughed, and even the normally solemn ones couldn’t hide their grins. Ludger raised a hand, quieting them again.
“You’ll still come for lessons,” he said. “But mornings will be for reading and magic. Afternoons—you work. You get paid. You improve.”
Every single one of them nodded vigorously. This wasn’t a demotion, it was a promotion. A chance to earn real money, build a future, and lighten the load on the overcrowded training grounds.
And, of course, it conveniently trimmed the daily class size back down to something manageable. They didn’t need to know that part.
“Report to the guild tomorrow for assignments,” Ludger ordered. “Don’t be late.”
“Yes, Vice Guildmaster!” they answered in unison, loud, eager, and proud.
As the promoted group ran back into the crowd, greeted by cheers and envy from the others, Yvar walked up beside Ludger with an exhausted sigh.
“You’re turning into a town administrator,” he muttered.
Ludger shrugged.
“I’m turning into someone who doesn’t want two hundred kids screaming every morning.”
Yvar nodded gravely. “Ah. Pure self-preservation. A wise motivation.”
Ludger said nothing, but the small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth said everything. His plan was working. The guild was stabilizing. The kids were growing stronger. And the future was, slowly, shifting into something better. All with a little organization, a lot of magic… And double pay.
Once the promoted group left, running north with the excitement of kids who had just been handed a better future, Ludger turned his attention back to the newcomers. These were the ones who had trickled in from nearby towns over the past week, freshly curious, freshly nervous, and freshly eager to see what the Lionsguard “teacher boy” would do next.
He started with the basics: showing them the letters, forming the first grooves in the dirt, adjusting their hands. It was routine now, slow, meticulous, controlled. A rhythm he’d grown used to.
But halfway through demonstrating the proper wrist angle, someone stood up. A shadow fell across the group, a tall figure rising from the back. The half-northerner boy. The one from Ragdar’s village. Ludger noticed immediately. His presence carried weight even when he was silent, a quiet determination that echoed Kharnek’s people. The boy raised a hand.
“Vice Guildmaster,” he said, voice steady. “I have a question.”
Ludger felt something inside him tighten. He knew, he knew, exactly what was coming. He almost considered pretending he didn’t hear, but the rest of the kids were already turning, eyes big, ears open.
“Speak,” Ludger said.
The boy met his gaze with earnest seriousness.
“How can we join the Lionsguard?”
A ripple went through the group, dozens of kids straightening, leaning forward, whispering, all suddenly imagining armor, swords, glory, or whatever heroic nonsense their towns had filled their heads with. A few even puffed up their chests as if standing taller would make them look more recruitable. Ludger resisted the urge to rub his temples.
Of all questions… and from him.
He exhaled, slow, controlled, and let the silence sit long enough to make sure every kid was paying attention.
“Anyone can join the Lionsguard,” Ludger began. “But not immediately. Not because you show up here. And not because you say you want it.”
The smallest children leaned closer.
“You join when you prove yourself reliable. When you prove you can be trusted. When you train consistently, when you work without causing problems, when you improve your magic and your discipline.”
The half-northerner boy nodded slowly, absorbing every word. But Ludger wasn’t finished.
“If you keep practicing,” he continued, “if you help the town, work honest jobs, strengthen your mana, and stay out of trouble, then, over time, you’ll have opportunities. The guild always needs people who are strong, smart, and not idiots.”
A few kids coughed awkwardly.
“But listen carefully,” Ludger added, scanning the whole group. “Joining the Lionsguard isn’t the only path. It’s not even the best choice for everyone.”
The boy frowned in confusion.
“There are plenty of places that need the skills you’re learning here,” Ludger explained. “Merchants need literate workers. Farms need water mages. Construction crews need people with control. Caravans need scouts. Even small towns need people who can read and count.”
He pointed at the ground where letters were scratched and faint water droplets shimmered.
“These things, reading, writing, control, focus, they open doors. Not just Lionsguard doors.”
The kids quieted, thoughtful now instead of starry-eyed. Ludger gave a small nod.
“If your goal is the Lionsguard, fine. Work for it. But don’t build your whole future on a single option. Build skills first. Build character. The rest follows.”
The tall boy straightened, a serious resolve settling over his features.
“…Understood.”
The rest of the kids nodded too, some disappointed, some relieved, all finally grounded. Ludger turned back to the dirt, drawing another letter.
“Alright. Enough questions. Keep practicing.”
The yard filled with groans and renewed scratching in the dirt. But beneath it all, Ludger could feel their mana, small, flickering, hopeful. Growing. Like seeds.Not all of them would join the Lionsguard. But some would. And others would build Lionfang itself. For now, they just needed guidance. And Ludger… was getting very, very good at giving it.
