The next week settled into a rhythm, one that would’ve broken most adults, but the second squad carried it with the reckless stamina only kids possessed. Every morning, before the sun fully cleared the mountains, Ludger led them back into the first zone of the frost labyrinth. Not for sightseeing. Not for another long lecture. This time, he watched them run it themselves.

  He let them take point. He let them make decisions.

  He let them correct each other’s footing and shield angles, repeating the same drills he had hammered into them until they became instinct. By the third day, they moved through the first corridors in tight formation, shields raised, eyes scanning corners before stepping through them. They yelled less, hesitated less, and burned mana with far more control. Their steps no longer echoed in wild patterns, now they marched, even in the cold, with a seriousness he hadn’t expected to appear this soon.

  While they practiced, Ludger handled the other task he had assigned to himself: collecting froststeel.

  He carved through frost skeletons with minimal effort, stacking shards and chunks of processed ice-metal into the stone crates he shaped on the spot. Sometimes he used fire; sometimes a spike of earth; sometimes he simply crushed the brittle creatures with heavy punches. He worked fast enough that by the time the kids completed one full loop of the zone, he’d already filled half a cart.

  Shipments from Lionfang had been increasing. Froststeel went to Torvares, the recruits, the league, the merchants, everyone wanted it. And Ludger wanted it most of all. He needed enough metal to forge his own gear once he found Torvares’s blacksmith. He needed enough stockpile to experiment, to test, to push the limits of what the Sculptor and Blacksmith class could do with real materials instead of temporary earth shaping.

  Letting the kids train here solved two problems at once: their bottomless energy, and his ever-growing demand for froststeel. A practical solution. Efficient. And somehow, strangely satisfying.

  Of course, they didn’t survive the week without issues. Ludger had to step in more than once when someone overextended their mana. Tali nearly fainted after pushing Splash too far trying to extinguish three frost mages at once. Renn burned through his mana pool pretending he wasn’t tired. Marie took a frost arrow to the shoulder when she forgot to watch the upper ledges. Jorin slipped during a shield bash. Bramm shattered his own shield because he forgot the angle Ludger taught him.

  But none of it was catastrophic. And every time one of them went down gasping or wincing, Ludger stepped in with healing, the practical, no-nonsense application of Druid training he never bragged about.

  “Stop burning mana like idiots,” he said every single time.

  They nodded every single time. And then did it again the next day. Still, each day ended with the kids returning to Lionfang proud, exhausted, and slightly more competent than before. Their progress was slow but visible, steady like ice reshaping under pressure.

  By the end of the week, Ludger had enough froststeel stockpiled for several forging projects.

  And the kids? They were finally learning what it meant to be Lionsguard.

  By the end of the second week, the froststeel reserves in Lionfang’s storage began to look like something Ludger could actually work with. Neatly stacked crates, some shaped directly by his geomancy, others reinforced by the Lionsguard, held enough froststeel to fund half a dozen forging experiments. It still wasn’t plenty by his standards, but it was enough to justify shifting focus. And shifting their training.

  If the second squad was going to handle the labyrinth, they needed a proper ranged spell.

  So he gathered all five recruits in the training grounds the next morning, the air cold enough that their breaths formed a thin fog layer over the dirt. They lined up in front of him, attentive, shields strapped to their backs. Kaela had wandered off somewhere, probably not wanting to watch another “boring, non-explosive lesson. Ludger rolled a small fireball over his palm, letting it grow just enough to be visible without being threatening.

  “This is what you’re learning next,” he said. “Fireball. Basic, cheap, effective. Your first real offensive spell meant for more than scaring chickens.”

  He demonstrated slowly, how to pull mana into the hand, how to ignite it with a focused spark, how to compress the flame so it didn’t flare out and burn unintended targets. He walked them through the grip, the release, the angle, how to avoid singing their own eyebrows. Then he repeated it again from another angle, letting the glowing orb flicker gently above his palm.

  “Control matters more than power,” he said. “A sloppy fireball wastes mana and risks hitting allies. A tight one breaks frost mana shells without costing you more than a breath.”

  When he finished demonstrating, Ludger shaped a massive stone tablet from the ground beside them, flat, tall, and carved with precise letters. He wrote every step onto the slab, each instruction etched cleanly. Mana flow diagrams. Correct finger positioning. Warning signs of overuse. Notes on heat dispersion. Even reminders not to mix Splash techniques with fire spells unless they wanted to explode their own hands.

  “Read this every morning,” he said. “Then practice in the training grounds only. Not inside buildings. Not near anyone. Not when you’re half-distracted. Fire spreads. People burn. Be careful.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  All five nodded in quick, nervous unison.

  Marie raised her hand. “Can we practice today?”

  “When I’m not three meters away,” Ludger said. “Later.”

  He left them staring at the giant stone tablet, already arguing among themselves about who would master the spell first. Tali was certain she’d blast targets from twenty meters away within a week. Renn claimed he would outrank her in pure efficiency. Jorin announced that he would be the first to manage two fireballs at once. Bramm just muttered something about controlling the recoil.

  Ludger ignored all of them as he walked away, scarf shifting in the wind. Now that their basics were done, he needed to focus on his own goals.

  He wondered, again, how long Torvares was going to take with those negotiations. The blacksmith wasn’t exactly the social type, and Torvares had called the man “complicated.” That didn’t inspire confidence. But until the introductions were made, Ludger couldn’t advance the forging path any further.

  At least the second squad was almost ready. The next major step, Overdrive and its elemental variants, would take time. A lot of time. Teaching mana ignition safely wasn’t simple, and one mistake could crack bones or burn limbs. He’d have to plan that training carefully.

  But for now, he’d done what he needed to do. The basics were set. The kids had their spells. And Ludger had froststeel, and questions, stacked higher than ever.

  Ludger was still debating whether he should corner Torvares again, politely, or with the kind of pointed silence that usually made nobles reconsider their priorities, when movement near the main street caught his eye. Elaine was walking toward the guild, the twins toddling at her sides, their small hands wrapped around her fingers. That alone was unusual. Elaine didn’t wander around Lionfang without a purpose. If she was heading to the guild in broad daylight, she either wanted to talk to Ludger, Arslan, or someone was about to receive divine punishment. Ludger decided to spare her the extra steps. He stepped off the path and approached.

  The twins spotted him immediately. Their eyes lit up like tiny lanterns before they dropped Elaine’s hands and ran toward him in a giggling blur. Elle grabbed his left sleeve; Arash grabbed his right. Both immediately pulled in opposite directions as if trying to claim ownership of his limbs.

  “Hold on,” Ludger muttered, though neither listened, clinging to him like overly enthusiastic barnacles.

  He looked up at Elaine. “What is it, Mom?”

  Elaine’s gaze was calm, but her steps were purposeful. She rested one hand lightly on her hip, the other adjusting Arash’s scarf when the boy nearly choked himself trying to climb Ludger’s coat. “I wanted to speak with you before the day gets busy.”

  Ludger raised an eyebrow. Elle started trying to climb him. Arash began swinging from his arm like he was a tree branch. Typical.

  Elaine continued, “Viola’s birthday party is soon. Have you bought her a gift yet?”

  Ludger blinked. Then shrugged. “Please, Mom. My presence there is already a good enough gift.”

  Elaine did not dignify that with even a twitch. She simply stared at him with the unimpressed expression of a woman who had raised a magical prodigy and somehow still expected him to use his brain occasionally. Ludger sighed internally. This conversation was not going to end quickly.

  Elaine stepped closer, adjusting Elle’s hat while pinning Ludger with her gaze. “Ludger, be serious. Viola gave you that green scarf. You wear it everywhere. It was thoughtful, and it meant something to you.”

  Ludger’s hand instinctively touched the end of the scarf resting against his collar. He hadn’t even realized he’d gotten used to its weight. It was warm, steady. He hadn’t taken it off often since the day he got it from her.

  Elaine continued, her tone softening but her eyes still sharp. “So you should think seriously about what you’ll give her. Don’t act like a clueless child.”

  Elle tugged his sleeve harder. Arash tried to climb his arm like a ladder. The wind blew gently, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from the guild kitchens. Ludger exhaled slowly.

  He now had three problems: finding a blacksmith, handling the second squad, and apparently navigating the political and emotional minefield of birthday gifts. Great. Just what he needed.

  Ludger adjusted the twins on his arms as Elaine waited for an answer. He didn’t sigh, but his expression flattened in the way it always did when he was about to say something that made perfect sense to him and absolutely none to anyone else.

  “I was planning,” he began, “to learn forging before the party. Then I’ll make her a weapon. A strong one. Maybe a sword that shoots a golden beam of energy. Something that evaporates anyone who annoys her.”

  Elle gasped like this was the greatest idea in the world. Arash tried to imitate a sword swing with Ludger’s arm. Elaine, however, froze mid-blink.

  “…A golden beam of energy,” she repeated slowly.

  “Yes,” Ludger said, entirely serious. “Something practical.”

  Elaine frowned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Ludger. You do understand that forging a weapon like that requires master-level skill, and years of—”

  “I have two weeks,” Ludger reminded her, absolutely confident.

  Elaine exhaled sharply, silently questioning the universe that had given her this child. And yet… she didn’t outright deny the possibility. If anyone could pull off something ridiculous in such a short time, it was Ludger. That was probably the problem.

  “Just… think realistically, a gift for a girl of her age” she said, even though she knew it was a futile request.

  Ludger nodded as if he agreed. He didn’t.

  Before Elaine could say more, he noticed movement down the road, something that did not fit into Lionfang’s usual patterns. A carriage approached, slow but steady, and even from a distance Ludger could tell something was off. The entire thing was made of iron, solid, welded plates instead of wood, no decorative flourishes, no paint, no crest. Heavy enough that even a team of horses should’ve struggled to pull it.

  Except there were no horses. A single figure hauled the carriage forward, step by grinding step. Tall. Burly. Shoulders like a siege tower. Arms thick enough to bend steel. The metal chains creaked under his grip.

  No reins. No mount. Just a man dragging an iron carriage across frozen dirt as if it were a bad-tempered pet. Elaine followed Ludger’s gaze and stiffened.

  Arash stopped climbing. Elle’s mouth opened in a tiny “O.”

  Ludger narrowed his eyes. This… was going to be interesting.