The fifth and final exception is the one where the Order abandons all pretense of subtlety.

  The Order derived the term from two meanings, a word that means, “one who receives guests”, and the word that means “enemy.” Combined, the intent and meaning becomes clear, those who receive our enemies.

  It pertains to the names of the Hosts — the group each conclave dispatches to strike at enemies, aid allies, or enact retribution.

  As with all the exceptions, the names of the Hosts of each region are well known within the Order and although the language change, the meanings stayed the same.

  For Land of Fire, they would send forth the Host of Flame, scouring the land clean. The Jade Expanse commands the Host of Blades, striking swift and true. The Lotus Dominion would command the Host of Circles, binding their foes and taking them alive.

  The Southern Dominions wield the Host of Sky, reflecting their preferred method of attack. The Frostwind Realms deploy the Host of Ice, freezing all who stand against them in everfrost and shattering them.

  The Savanna Kingdoms march with the Host of Sand, masters of terrain and battlefield control. Amazonia, for their devastating mastery over flora, commands the Host of Thorns, whose power to command the very forest rivals the gods themselves.

  The Western Domains summons the Host of Spurs, a reflection of their heritage. Andalusian, Friesian, and even the mighty Percheron horses are well known. Many of their ranks form bonds and ride spirit beasts shaped like steeds, trampling all beneath their charge.

  The Misty Isles commands the Host of Waves, mirroring their Japanese brethren across the sea in terms of destruction. The Iron Dominions would send forth the Host of Crowns, once composed largely of noblemen’s second and third sons — the uncrowned princes marches to glory beyond inheritance.

  More recently, the Eagle and Maple Banner, having acquired the king-class wind spirit, renamed their force to the Host of Winds, synchronizing their strength to amplify storms, tornadoes, and typhoons.

  And lastly, the Desert Crowns, would unleash the most feared of all — the Host of Bones. Its deployment is rare, for this host does not herald annihilation like the rest, but something far, worse. Even in this modern era, tales of the old hosts deeds have spread as myth, burned into the psyche of the people.

  -excerpt from the personal lecture notes of Rami Abdallah, Teacher, and member of the Order.

  ========================================================================

  It was a mild spring evening in Paris, the kind of spring day where the air feels like a soft breath on your skin carrying the scent of fresh flowers from the nearby gardens. Arnault Fran?ois de Martine, was a man with a quiet presence but a mind that wandered often, found himself strolling along the banks of the Seine.

  Under the orders of his father, they were to patrol the city. Every member of his conclave who didn’t have anything important to do had to patrol. This was in response to the incursions their enemies had over the months.

  The olden city around him seemed to hum with the pulse of history, and yet it felt distant, almost like a dream to him. Since he didn’t have a significant other, he pretty much wanted to sleep with a good book in hand. Add in some wine and that would be a fun day for him.

  He sighed.

  He had been up since seven in the morning and had walked the entirety of the city, three times already. Being an Archon of the Order normally he would have been with his partner, but with the amount of area they had to cover, his partner had been sent to Rouen as that was their assigned area. That left him with no one to talk to.

  He sighed again.

  It was 5:00 PM on April 15th, and he stood there, before the grand Notre-Dame de Paris, gazing up at its ancient, intricate fa?ade. The cathedral, majestic and timeless, loomed over the Place du Parvis. He had been here many times before, even in his youth, but today it felt—different, somehow.

  Maybe it was the light, slanting across the stone with a golden hue, or perhaps it was the growing sense of solitude in a city that often thrummed with activity. Arnault was a man who could blend into any crowd, his face just another in the sea of tourists and Parisians alike.

  With no particular plan today other than to patrol, he slowly made his way towards the bench near the cathedral’s grand entrance, a spot he’d found years ago during a trip when he and his brother decided to sneak away from the family. It turned into a lesson both had never forgotten.

  The bench was worn and weathered, its wood creaking in places, but the metal bars holding it together were still going strong. It was perfect for moments like this. As he sat, he exhaled letting the day's tension release and ooze out his body. The familiar buzz of the city felt distant here, and he could almost hear the whispers of history that surrounded him.

  But as he settled, the moment of peace was interrupted.

  A group of four men, dressed in light clothing and jeans, appeared from the shadows of the cathedral’s towering walls, walking with purposeful strides toward him from several directions. They moved as though they were part of the same colorful rhythm of Paris, but something in their collective demeanor caught his attention, an unspoken intensity hanging in the air between them.

  Mana? Ah! So, they’re probing here as well? He thought as he felt their intent wash over him.

  He sighed for a third time.

  They stopped just a few paces away from him, their presence now occupying the space around the bench. Then he sensed more, and more which made him certain.

  No—this wasn’t a probe.

  Arnault looked up, his eyes meeting the gaze of the man at the center. The leader, perhaps, with sharp features and a gaze that held something unreadable. His eyes narrowed slightly, like he was sizing Arnault up. The others, two men flanking the leader and one behind and to the left, stood in silence, a lookout, their postures slightly tense but controlled.

  Arnault felt a shift in the atmosphere, a subtle warning that wasn’t immediately explainable.

  “Excusez-moi,” the leader said, his voice smooth and friendly, but firm, with just a hint of something foreign in his accent. “We need to speak with you.”

  Arnault glanced around, as if checking for some hidden meaning in the request. The air seemed to grow thicker, and he wondered if this was a moment to walk away, but his curiosity kept him rooted.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know you,” Arnault replied evenly, his voice calm despite the instinctive tightness in his chest. There was something about these men that felt—off. Not the normal kind of pressure he was used to feeling. But considering the group he was facing, maybe off would be the best way to describe them.

  For now, they were not aggressive, not yet, but, they were like a quiet storm gathering somewhere in the distance.

  The leader’s lips twitched into something that could have been a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s not a matter of knowing, Monsieur de Martine. It’s a matter of—necessity.”

  The words hung in the air for a long beat, and Arnault’s heart skipped a beat. How did they know his name? He had never seen these men before in his life. The quiet of the evening suddenly seemed like an illusion. Ah, so it is true—the traitor still lives and intel on us had been given.

  s

  He sent a message not through links member of his conclave share but to their resonance stone. A stone that acted like a receiver and would redistribute his message to others attuned to it. Hopefully on time. It was standard protocol, in case their mental links could be traced.

  Surrounded. Message came with a dagger. 26, maybe more. Estimated strength around C1 to B2.

  He stood slowly, a careful motion, as he assessed them—each of the four men, their faces blank but their bodies taut with some hidden tension.

  “We’re not here to cause trouble,” the man continued, his voice softening a fraction. “But we need you to come with us. It’s important.”

  Arnault felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The situation had changed. This was no longer a random encounter. He had to make a decision. Could he walk away? What would happen if he followed them?

  Then a question struck him, would they even dare start something in broad daylight? As his eyes darted from one face to another, something told him that walking away might not be an option. Ah, his mind was starting to wander again, he thought to himself. The answer was obvious. The hustle and bustle of the crowd around them continued without noticing, uncaring.

  He took a step back with a smile and straightened his suit. He had worn a good pair today, grey and cream, and he didn’t much appreciate if they would do him the discourtesy of ripping it to shreds.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  The leader’s gaze flickered for a brief moment, and then his hand moved, gesturing to the man behind him. The other men, who had been standing in stillness like statues, now shifted, their eyes flicking toward Arnault. It was subtle—an almost imperceptible shift—but it was enough to make his pulse quicken.

  The leader spoke once more.

  “Then, perhaps, you should reconsider.”

  But, before Arnault could decide whether to continue standing his ground, or entertain the small talk, a fifth one appeared behind him. Right hand cocked back, a sword of blue light emanated from his wrist and poised to thrust on the back of Arnault’s head.

  Arnault sneezed and a gust of wind exploded outward, shaking the square like a sudden storm. The force rippled through the air—umbrellas turned inside out, leaves scattered in spirals, and those nearest, especially his would-be assailants, stumbled back, shielding their eyes from the dust and grit that whipped around them.

  Arnault darted into the crowd, weaving between startled pedestrians like a whisper on the breeze. He brushed past no one, left no footprint, no echoes, only the faintest distortion in the air. A moment later his pursuers caught up. He knew he needed to buy some time.

  Normally, I could take on those C5-ranks no problem, but taking on 3 B2-rank opponents would be cutting it close. One wrong move, and I could lose a limb or worse. Where would be a good place? Wait I know!

  Montparnasse Cemetery, was relatively quiet this day, with no soul in sight. The iron bars creaked as he jumped over them, the world inside steeped in an eerie calm as he landed with no sound.

  Just as planned. Arnault thought, grinning as he came to a stop among the weathered tombs.

  His five pursuers also stopped, fanned out and encircled him.

  The leader in the center took one step forward, raised his right-hand palm facing Arnault and said, “Boundless Field: Space.”

  The world folded in on itself. The wind died. The sky vanished. In its place was a hollow, sunless plane. No breeze, no echo. Just them. Arnault and his pursuers were completely cut off from the outside world. Their intent was clear.

  At least that saves me the trouble of setting up my own field. Arnault mused, amused despite the situation.

  “Gentlemen, certainly we can come to an—arrangement?” he said his smile wide, his tone playful. Inwardly however, he was readying himself. He was already gathering power from his mana-wellspring and pumping it throughout his body. His flesh turned to living metal. Limbs becoming energized that a single blow could demolish a tank and send it flying.

  “You’ve had your chance,” the leader said with feigned sadness while shaking his head.

  “Well, had to try,” Arnault said joyfully with a shrug.

  The ground cracked beneath his feet as he launched forward, faster than sound. His opponents reacted an instant later, shouting in unison, “Mana-breaker: Edge!”

  Searing blue blades erupted on wrists and forearms, then without hesitation all charged at Arnault.

  The two at his back were the weakest and as he reached the three in front Arnault ducked, twisted, and jumped back, narrowly avoiding three slashes aimed at his head.

  Using the momentum of his jump he turned around and lashed out with his right hand. In an instant it ignited, fire roared along his arm, coiling into a serpent of flame that he swiped in a sideways arc toward the weakest of the group, catching both off guard.

  The man barely raised his guard before the impact sent him flying backward, crashing through the air like a burning comet. His body smashed through the edges of the boundary, the sound of the crash reverberated strangely in the sunless void. A moment later an explosion rocked the field, showering the space with stone, dust, and a smear of orange light that died as quickly as it flared.

  The second attacker barely managed to lower the forearm he'd used to shield his face before Arnault’s left hook landed like a piston on the man’s face, jaw snapped back, knees folded, and he crumpled to the ground.

  Two down, three to go.

  On instinct, Arnault turned around, raising his right hand to cover his face, only for it to catch a blue blade, it punctured through flesh and armor and ripped through his arm. Searing pain coursed through him as blood sprayed from the open wound.

  Two blades converged from opposite sides while the man who’d stabbed him lunged to clamp the wounded limb, trying to pin Arnault in place. On his left hand Arnault, formed a bead of mana and threw it on the ground, simultaneously, he raised a foot and planted a kick thrust on the man’s chest, sending both of them flying in opposite directions.

  The bead struck the ground and exploded leaving behind a fog of black smoke, swallowing shapes and cutting line of sight. The other two attackers skidded to a standstill, uncertain if it was a trap or not.

  It bought Arnault a few seconds as he got up and inspected the damage to his arm. He gritted his teeth as the pain from yanking his right arm hit. A shower of blood fountained on the ground as he tried to move it but it still hangs limply.

  A hand was raised “Gust.” The three remaining opponents stood unfazed, their stances unbroken, their auras bright and eager.

  “My, my. You truly are strong, Arnault de Martine. The Order must be proud,” the leader said as bluish bands of light sealed the tear in Arnault’s arm.

  “Flattered,” Arnault replied, flexing the now-healed limb to test it. “But if you’re here to drag me back, you’ll need more than words—and a few flashy tricks.”

  “Of course, that is what we had intended, besides,” the leader said with a sneer. “That was merely the warm up.”

  Then with his nod, Arnault’s three opponents spoke as one.

  “System Command: Load Arcana Overboost Level 3.”

  After that a flurry of skills was activated by Arnault’s opponents, blessings, wards, and augments layered over them in an instant.

  Benediction: Magnificat!

  Benediction: Angelus!

  Benediction: Gloria!

  Greater Strength!

  Greater Speed!

  Greater Will!

  Greater Force Armor!

  Guardian’s Aegis!

  Indomitable Will!

  Arcane Ward!

  Safety Wall!

  Bulwark Stance!

  Kyrie Eleison!

  Ironclad Skin!

  Ignis Veil!

  Lightning Clad!

  Lights shimmered and coalesced into sigils that spun and interlocked across their bodies and limbs. Power hummed in visible threads as their bodies were transmuted into living forces. One of fire, one of stone, the other of lightning.

  But, Arnault didn’t flinch he simply grinned. He’d been raised to fight fair and to strike an unprepared man was the height of discourtesy—even when that man had just tried to stab you.

  Wait, something about this fight doesn’t feel right. He wondered to himself.

  “Hmph,” the leader muttered, electricity arced and pulsing through him. “You watched us prepare and did nothing. Arrogant.”

  Their blessings, augmenting spells and skills locked into a complex weave. Runes climbed his opponent’s body like armor, and from Arnault’s perspective the weave looked stable, precise—an almost-perfect lattice of defense and offense. Arnault was impressed at the kind of power their enemies wielded

  Arnault’s eyes, however, wavered to the ground, to the tombstones, to the thin line where world and void met. He could brute-force a break, but three B2s, each amplified, meant attrition could kill him.

  As he considered his next move, a familiar vibration pulsed deep within his chest. His Domain, his inner world—stirred, and the spirit within called to him. She was so eager.

  A slow smile creased his face. He let the faintest tremor of mana leak from his soul—a whisper of spatial discord—barely enough to register.

  “Alright then,” Arnault said, eyes blazing with inner light. “Let’s see who collapses first, shall we?”