So it was back to the circle. The damned circle, surrounded by his fourteen fellow trainees. It was the final day of his week of training, and the bruises of that second day had all but faded from his body. He was much faster now, able to predict and intercept most blows as they were launched. His main problem, however, was that he could not see in all directions, and so was delayed in reacting to some attacks from people behind him. Which most of them seemed to be.

“I don’t know how you’re able to keep doing this,” A voice from behind him said. Eric, still jumpy from all the attacks launched from that position, flinched and whipped around.

The trainee who had approached took a step back, his hands held out peacefully. He grinned slightly and shook his head. “Sorry, wasn’t trying to startle you.”

“It’s fine,” Eric grumbled. “Just a little jumpy is all. Putting up with what now?”

The trainee gestured to where the circle had just broken up several minutes ago. “Fighting fourteen at once. I’d be terrified of two at once.”

Eric studied him thoughtfully. He’d been one of those who was obviously experienced, either from several jobs in the Guild, or else actual combat in the war that had just ended. Even the metal armor he wore had seen some use, but had the look of care, as if he’d owned it for quite a while. His sword was of similar quality, nothing more than a simple leather grip and steel crosspiece.

“Matthew Ciayol,” the trainee said, holding out a hand. Eric took it and shook it firmly. “Know your name, of course. You’re the talk of the other trainees.”

“Am I?” Eric asked blankly, thrown by this news. He’d passed out early every night, too tired to stay up and talk with the others. He simply assumed that they treated him suspiciously, casting his sleeping form dirty looks. People who stuck out were usually reviled, in his experience.

“Of course!” Matthew said, laughing at Eric’s obvious disbelief. “You’ve got one of the Masters of Issho-Ni training you specifically. Not any master, either. He’s a direct descendant of the God of War’s adopted son!”

“Oh,” Eric replied quietly, turning away so that Matthew couldn’t see his face flushing with embarrassment. “‘I just lucked out with Kahle’s choice of my trainer.”

“If you say so,” Matthew said with a sigh, stretching for a moment. “Well, I’m off to get some grub. See you on the obstacle course.”

Eric smiled grimly as Matthew walked away, joining with half a dozen other trainees. Most of them hadn’t bothered to wear armor, or else had removed it the instant the training session had ended. Matthew alone kept his on. Even the way he moved, with his left hand always close to the hilt of his sword, gave the impression that he was waiting for a fight to break out at any moment.

Eric enjoyed a decent meal at the mess hall with the other trainees, deciding to join in on the loud conversations between his fellows for once. The talk was mostly complaining about the stiff and strict requirements that Instructor Kahle was putting on them. One of the others mentioned that his appointment to this post was a rather recent event. Apparently, he’d been promoted within the Maravino, and part of his job was to oversee training exercises for other fighting forces.

“Strange he’s giving you so much trouble,” One of the others said, leaning forward to peer down the table at Eric. “From what I’ve heard, he usually sticks to standard practice. As long as we don’t mess up, he leaves us well enough alone.”

Eric only shrugged, keen to get the topic of conversation away from himself and back to the training. But another trainee leaned forward now, his eyes bright with interest. Just by looking at him, Eric could tell that he was one of those that Sergeant Moran had warned against. Thin, soft-faced and with little muscle, not to mention the fine quality of his clothing, he was clearly one of the many noble sons trying to pay his way through promotions within the Guard’s Guild.

“I heard a rumor about you,” the youth said, leaning on his elbows. “They say that you’re a student of that Issho-Ni warrior, and also learning from Archmage Bragg.”

He said it boldly, like a statement, but the curiosity was evident enough on his face. Several of the others murmured with interest, also turning their heads to Eric’s reply. Again, he only shrugged in reply, wishing fervently that the others would spare him from talking about himself. The last thing he wanted was to let it slip that he was an outsider, and have doubt and suspicion cast upon him.

“Where are you from?” The trainee who had first spoken asked him suddenly. “You sound a little different, and you don’t look like you’re from any of the families nearby.”

“I’m from Welsik,” Eric said before he could think about it. Then, seeking to forestall any further questions, he added, “I’m no good with the craft, so I turned my hand to fighting.”

“You don’t sound like a Welsik either,” another trainee said. He had a distinct German accent. “I’m from the main island. You lived in the south, then?”

Surprised by the quick reply, Eric nodded again. Thankfully, none of the others challenged his answer. Instead, they were turning to the one who’d identified himself as a Welsik. Matthew leaned forward from where he sat and grinned across the table at him.

“I thought your sword was fine craft. Did your family make your gear, then?”

“Yep,” the Welsik trainee said, his chest swelling with pride. “I’m part of the Royal family, the best crafters on the island. I’m getting pretty good myself. I’m Mikel Welsik.”

There was a stir of interest from the others at the name. Even Eric understood this point. A member of another nation’s Royal Family slumming it in this line of work outside his own land was strange, no matter what world you were from. It was like seeing Queen Elizabeth mowing your own lawn. But perhaps he wasn’t close to the throne, Eric thought. Some royal families were massive, with certain members being eight, ninth, or even twentieth in line. The Ciayol clan was a perfect example of this.

“Why’d you choose to be a guard in Milagre then?” Eric asked, trying to drive the conversation further away from himself. “If you’re good with a forge, then surely you can make a better living on that.”

“Oh, I’m going back,” Welsik assured him. “But I got a goal in Milagre. I need connections to get my hands on some Acquite.”

“Acquite?” Erick queried. “What’s that?”

“It’s a legendary metal,” Matthew interjected, not surprised that Eric was confused. “Very few know about it, but it’s one of the strongest substances out there. It’s bloody expensive and nearly impossible to get, though. What makes you think you can get some?”

“I inherited my family’s skill,” Welsik said. He pulled a lump of metal from his pocket and gripped it tightly, tugging on it to stretch it before their eyes. “If I can get some Acquite, I might be able to learn how to work it, even replicate it.”

Matthew let out a snort of derision, drawing the eyes of the others. “You can’t replicate Acquite. It’s holy metal, treated by secret magicks that nobody but the creators know. It’s called the Gifted Metal for a reason.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Welsik said with a shrug, crumpling the metal back into a ball and returning it to his pocket. “My family’s got some good magic on their side, and we have quite a few copy mages.”

“Copy mage?” Another trainee asked. “I thought only Archmage Bragg knew that kind of magic. Him and his students.”

Eyes once again switched to Eric, who shook his head firmly. “I’m no mage.”

“That’s true enough,” Matthew agreed with a laugh. “You’re a damn good fighter for someone so new. Can’t imagine you have any time to study magic.”

“The College ain’t the only ones with copy mages,” Welsik said smugly. “I bet every nation’s got some now. I mean, Bragg invented the spells nearly two hundred years ago, didn’t he?”

“Aye,” the noble trainee agreed. “Along with several dozen other types of unique magic. He’s the best mage in the world.”

“Zaban has the wild mages,” Matthew put in.

“Bragg beat their best centuries ago. They can’t touch him now.”

“What about the Sanctuary?” Another threw in. His features were distinctly Japanese, which meant he was from Nihon-Ja. “They’ve got Masters of every school of combat with em.”

“True,” Welsik agreed hesitantly. “But they don’t care about war. They only get involved if something really bad goes down. Remember the stories about that god that went berzerk eighty years ago? That’s the last time they acted.”

“That can’t be true,” Eric said. “They killed a god?”

“Yep,” Welsik said, clearly enjoying Eric’s befuddlement. “He’d made his way to the Sanctuary, see. Well, the Grandmaster there, he kicked the god off a mountain, and the others took care of him when he hit the bottom.”

“Bragg was in that fight too, if I recall,” Matthew said quietly. There were several nods of agreement. “That’s what the legends say, anyway.”

Just how much had Samuel accomplished in his centuries of life, Eric wondered if he had all these legends about him? As for this elusive Sanctuary that was mentioned, their involvement didn’t sound false. The God of War had mentioned being a member of that organization, and his power was undeniable. If there were a dozen people as strong as him, they could probably take on a god.

A loud bell sounded before the conversation could continue, and they all reluctantly rose from their seats. That bell had signaled the end of the dinner hour, which meant they had ten minutes to report to the obstacle course. Several of the trainees complained loudly about the upcoming exercise, but Eric hung back, his head still full of thoughts about gods, legends, and Samuel Bragg. He only got up himself when Matthew called out to him, reminding him that they didn’t have much time.

He jogged to catch up with the others after putting away his tray, and approached Matthew. “You said you’re part of the Ciayol family, right? What branch?”

“The second branch,” Matthew said. “I’m of draconic descent, but my blood’s a little muddled. I don’t have any of the aspects, but I can use the rage, which is useful in a fight.”

“Aspects?” Eric seized on the word. “What’s that?”

“Well,” Matthew explained. “Some of the draconic descendants can take on part of a dragon’s form, you know. Most breath fire, but some have increased strength, and a lucky few have wings.”

Eric vaguely remembered seeing some people around Milagre with oddly bulky cloaks, and nodded slowly. Though he’d never actually seen wings on someone before, it didn’t sound so strange. Ahya had already proven to be a veritable hoard of strange sights and people, so he couldn’t doubt the idea that some people could breath fire or have dragon wings. Maybe it was that bloodline that lent the Ciayol family so much strength.

“Last time we have to do the obstacle course,” Matthew said with a grin, as Eric fell silent. “After this I’m back to work. What’s your plan?”

Eric shrugged slightly, thinking that it was becoming his key gesture. “Not sure. My last crew got broken up when the boss got arrested, so I gotta find a new contract.”

“Well, with skills like yours, I’m sure you’ll be moved up to C-tier no problem. Maybe even B-tier if you’re lucky. Kahle seemed impressed.”

Which was not a comforting thought, so far as Eric was concerned. He wanted nothing more than to keep his head down and avoid notice while he got some training in. There would be plenty of time for annoying attention once he started fulfilling his purpose. But sadly, his luck didn’t seem to be heading in that direction. Maybe he should move to another country, and try to start over, and keep a lower profile.