The bar was alive with noise—a mix of clinking mugs, laughter, and the occasional shout of triumph or complaint. The smell of smoke and roasted meat mingled with the sharp tang of alcohol, weaving through the air like an invisible curtain. It hit differently than I remembered; rougher, warmer, more alive. The scent alone spoke of countless stories, fights, deals, and celebrations that had taken place here.

  I glanced at the menu overhead, its letters bold and slightly faded, yet easy to read. Today’s Stew, the daily special, promised a hearty concoction, likely a medley of whatever leftovers the kitchen could spare.

  Alongside it were simpler fare, skewers of meat, sausages, eggs fried to order, slabs of bread, chunks of cheese and butter, and fruits for anyone feeling adventurous or cautious. For those willing to wait, whole roasted items sat behind the counter, ready to be served golden-brown and steaming, but their preparation would take time that I believe no one can wait for that long.

  Despite the crowd, the rowdiness didn’t seem to faze Lord V or Lord William. Lord Vi waved a hand dismissively. “This much? This is tame. And at least there’s seating,” he said, reclining slightly in his chair.

  His brother mirrored his calm, taking in the chaos with an easy shrug.

  “Some places back home,” Lord William said casually, “the capital city could get rowdier than this. Smells are about the same, though,” he added.

  Lord Vi’s sharp gaze swept the room. “We can still turn back,” he suggested casually. “If anyone feels uncomfortable, we can find another place.” There was no trace of concern in his tone—only an observation.

  The group exchanged glances, silent deliberation passing among them.

  Lord Trayn broke the tension, flexing a shoulder with a small tired grin. “After that training we did,” he said, “this place will do fine. So long as the food is clean.” His words carried both reassurance and practicality.

  As I suspected, they were tired, hungry, and ready for something simple and filling. The tours of the forge, the fighting pen and the sparring—it had been a full morning. Their appetites, both literal and metaphorical, were keen.

  We eventually found two tables and pushed them together near the left side of the room, a compromise between space and convenience.

  As everyone settled, I leaned in slightly and lowered my voice. “Everyone, the stew is almost always made from a combination of leftovers from last night,” I warned. “It’s usually fine, but—well, there’s a reason the skewers, sausages, bread, cheese, and fruit are the safest bets.”

  Lord Arthur nodded thoughtfully, scanning the menu from our table. “Understood. I think we’ll stick to those,” he said. The others, tired and hungry, inclined to follow suit. Even Lord Vi’s attention flickered briefly to the menu, though I suspected his decision would be influenced more by curiosity than caution.

  A few moments of quiet passed as our orders were taken, broken only by the hum of conversation and the occasional roar of laughter from the bar proper. For now, the chaos of the Free-Blade hall and the weight of training seemed to melt away, leaving only the warmth of food and the subtle thrill of being somewhere alive with energy.

  I had taken the liberty of ordering at the counter, since I was the one who had the money, and I kept an eye on the bustle around us, to be safe.

  The sausages had arrived first, sizzling slightly on the wooden platters, releasing a smoky, savory aroma that made everyone’s stomachs growl. Since the meat skewers would take longer, instead of waiting, we quickly ordered some eggs, as well as some bread and cheese to round out the meal, simple but filling.

  After our meal had arrived, we turned our attention to our drinks. The bar offered an assortment: ales, ciders, and a few darker brews that steamed faintly from the mug. The other boys looked hesitant, glancing at the mugs like they were curious but wary of some unknown danger.

  “So, your country has an age limit for beer, ale?” I asked Lord Takashi, raising an eyebrow. “Even mead or rum?” The thought of being restricted from something so commonplace seemed absurd.

  “Yes, any alcoholic beverages,” he replied seriously. “In Japan, you have to be twenty-one. No exceptions.”

  “And it’s enforced strictly,” Lord Shunsuke added, nodding.

  “What about your country, Lord Vi?” I asked, turning to him. His small amused smile suggested he found this line of questioning mildly entertaining.

  “Yes…and no. There is a drinking age,” he said, letting a faint chuckle escape. “But in theory. Once you reach higher education, the leash is off.” He said it with a touch of pride, as if he had experienced the freedom himself.

  The contrast was startling. The laws in his country were strict on paper but bent constantly in practice, while the others’ countries adhered rigidly to rules, leaving little room for deviation. And yet, the strictest law—the drinking age—meant that most of them could not legally drink until their twenties.

  How did they blow off steam, or even survive adolescence with such restrictions?

  “Oh, not everyone follows it to the letter,” Lord Vi said with a sly nod toward Lady Reika, who huffed in indignation and stuck her tongue out in response.

  “What about this country, Lady Celestia?” Lady Reika asked, curiosity lighting her eyes. “Does it have a drinking age limit?”

  “No,” I replied. “At least, there’s no official enforcement. The common consensus is that boys may drink when they’re around fourteen cycles old, and girls at fifteen. My grandfather was shall we say, doesn’t follow conventions, he allowed me to drink wine when I was around 13.”

  Lady Reika’s eyes sparkled with triumph. “Ha! Yes! Finally, some freedom! I won’t be punished for drinking now, Ae!” She waved a finger at Lord Vi, clearly enjoying the rare sight of him frowning and looking a bit defeated. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do!”

  “I didn’t exactly think she had that kind of personality,” Lord Shunsuke muttered, shaking his head as Lady Reika continued her small victory dance in her seat.

  “In truth, I’ve always thought she had a quirk or two hidden,” Lord Hanzo said with a smirk. “Just… not this one.”

  “Congratulations,” Lord Arthur said dryly, rubbing his temple. “But be that as it may—what are we actually having?”

  “Do they have water?” Lady Shizuku asked hopefully, her tone the exact opposite of Lady Reika’s enthusiasm.

  “They do,” I replied, choosing my words carefully. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  That single sentence dashed her hopes entirely. Lady Shizuku’s shoulders sagged a little, while the boys exchanged uneasy looks. None of them seemed eager to follow Lady Reika straight into the unknown.

  “Since it’ll be their first time,” Lord Vi said, slipping smoothly back into control of the situation, “something sweet. Light. Not too strong. Will your funds survive that?”

  “Not to worry, Lord Vi,” I replied. “That’s covered. I’ll ask what they have.”

  He nodded, then turned to the group with an air of ceremony. “To help convert you all from water-drinking, boring sober plebeians into fun-loving alcoholic aristocrats,” he declared, earning a round of snickers, “I’ll make you all a drink once we’re back at the castle.”

  “Ae! Make wine!” Lady Reika said immediately, beaming.

  “Fine, fine,” he waved her off. “I’ll do it. Mostly so we can finally make our girly-girl Shizuku smile—OW! I’m on your side!”

  That earned another round of laughter as Lord Vi rubbed his shin. Lady Shizuku wore an expression caught halfway between a frown and a smile—no doubt the result of a well-placed kick from under the table.

  I found myself watching him more closely after that. His skill was meant for cooking. Brewing was… adjacent, perhaps. Still, the idea of what sort of drink could make Lady Shizuku genuinely smile sparked an unexpected curiosity.

  Halfway through the meal, I stood and made my way to the counter. Fortunately, they offered a light honey mead—sweet, diluted, and traditionally served to young adults after passing their Free-Blade examinations. Safe. Symbolic. Fitting.

  By the time I returned, the conversation had taken on an easy, unguarded rhythm. The usual people, Lord Vi, Lord Arthur and Lord Trayn always joking and making us laugh.

  “When you start yapping too much in a conversation,” Lord Trayn said, then resting his chin on the back of his hand and started imitating a woman. “She starts doing this pose.”

  “What does that mean?” Lord Arthur asked with a straight face. “Genuinely I’ve never talked to a woman.”

  Ripples of snickers erupted from our table.

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  “Guys, what if she's tweaking on the floor?” Lord Vi continued. “Then she keeps shaking and bubbles from come out of her mouth?”

  It’s always the nonsensical and crazy with Lord Vi, but another round of snickers erupted from our table. We laughed, joked, traded stories—small victories, strange customs, half-remembered embarrassments.

  Around us, the bar breathed with life. Some patrons left, others arrived, greeting friends with loud voices and louder slaps on the back. The noise swelled and receded like a tide. For a while, we were simply part of it—no titles, no expectations. Just another table in a crowded bar, lingering longer than planned, letting the city slowly, inevitably, pull us into its rhythm.

  Though, from the corner of my eye, I spotted someone I knew. Or perhaps, more accurately, someone I used to know.

  He sat alone at the back of the bar, directly opposite our table, positioned as if the rest of the room barely concerned him. One boot was raised and crossed atop the table, casual to the point of rudeness, while three blades lay neatly arranged beside it— two were clean, well-maintained, and deliberately visible.

  The last one was a longsword and was sheathed. He wore a long, dark brown coat over a black shirt, the kind of clothing chosen not for fashion but for function, and worn by someone who expected trouble rather than feared it.

  There was a chance he had noticed us. It would have been hard not to, given our number and the noise we’d made earlier. But since he made no move to acknowledge us, I did the same. I had heard rumors that he’d become a free-blade. And among free-blades, for all their openness, there existed an unspoken rule: if someone chose silence, you respected it.

  Pry too much, and you get answers you might not like.

  Eventually, our talks came to a stop as everyone noticed the time. Everyone had brought their phones—still strange to see such devices in this world—and apparently the front part or the screen, can tell the time as well. Everyone told me it was already half past three in the afternoon. Such a convenient device to have, I mused. But for now, it should be time for us to meet Captain Godwin in the plaza.

  I stood and paid for our meal at the counter. When I returned to the table, the door to the guild bar swung open hard enough to make it creak in protest.

  A band of free-blades—around thirteen strong—entered loudly, laughing and shouting over one another as if the place already belonged to them. Their gear was a mismatched collection of armor and leather, some pieces dented, others overly polished, all worn with the careless confidence of people who believed strength alone excused bad manners. The smell of road dust, sweat, and old ale followed them in like a second presence.

  The mood in the bar shifted almost instantly. Conversations dulled, laughter thinned, and more than a few patrons turned their heads only briefly before looking away again.

  They ordered drinks without sitting, their voices overlapping. Some slapped the bar counter hard enough to rattle mugs and draw a sharp look from the bartender. One of them kicked a stool aside to make room and didn’t bother to set it right. Another spat on the floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Lord Vi didn’t react outwardly, but his gaze moved—counting, measuring, noting exits and distances the way someone does without realizing they’re doing it. Admittedly that was not a normal reaction.

  “All right,” he said quietly, pushing his chair back just enough to signal intent. “We’ve stayed long enough.”

  Lord Arthur nodded in agreement and began to stand, subtly gesturing for the others to do the same. No one argued. Even Lady Reika, still buoyed by drink and laughter moments ago, sensed the shift and rose without complaint.

  We had barely taken two steps when one of the free-blades laughed—a low, ugly sound.

  “Oi,” he called out, blocking the narrow space between tables. His eyes slid past the boys and settled squarely on Lady Reika, then Lady Shizuku, lingering far longer than was polite. “Where you lot think you’re goin’?”

  “We’re just leaving,” Lord Trayn replied evenly. “We’ve finished our meal.”

  Their gazes finally fell on me and most of them grinned, slow and deliberate.

  “Yeah? Then leave. Just not with the girls.”

  A few of his companions chuckled, spreading out without seeming to, closing off the path toward the door. The bar grew quiet enough that I could hear the crackle of the hearth.

  “I don’t really see what’s funny about that,” Lord Arthur said cooly.

  “Well, you’re not supposed to see what’s funny, you’re supposed to hear it!” one of the men replied to the cheers and jeers of the others.

  “That’s true, this one’s a bit slow,” the other man continued, still smiling. “Put simply, I just thought the girls might wanna stay. Have a drink. Talk.”

  Before any of the boys could speak, a chair scraped softly against the floor at the back of the room.

  The man in the dark coat stood.

  He moved unhurriedly, one hand lifting his foot off the table, the other gathering the three blades and sliding them back into their sheaths with practiced ease. When he spoke, his voice carried—not loud, but steady, cutting through the tension like a drawn line.

  “Easy there friends,” he said, stepping just enough into view to be seen. “They’re just passing through. No reason to make this ugly, now.”

  Several heads turned toward him, surprise flickering across a few faces. One of the troublemakers scoffed.

  “And who’re you supposed to be?”

  “Does it matter? Let them go,” the man replied calmly. “Drink, laugh, forget this happened. That’s the better choice. Else, that lady over there,” he nodded to me. “Might decide to burn down the place.”

  For a moment, it seemed like it might work. The tension wavered, stretched thin.

  Then the one who seemed to be the leader spat onto the floor and laughed.

  “Don’t care,” he said. “Sit back down, bum. This don’t concern you.”

  The man’s expression didn’t change—but something in the room did. The air felt tighter, heavier. And I knew then that whatever happened next, it would not end with words alone.

  “Take it outside!” someone yelled.

  Nobody moved.

  “So, let me get this straight,” Lord Vi said, tilting his head as if genuinely pondering the situation. “Fists are allowed, so long as you don’t kill your opponent.”

  “Or maim them, or damage them too badly,” I replied quietly. Even as I spoke, a thin thread of unease tightened in my chest.

  “Ohhh,” the leader sneered, mock quacking in fear. “Is the pig thinking of taking on this great beast?”

  “Oh yeah,” Lord Arthur shot back without missing a beat. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself.”

  The free-blades blinked.

  There was a beat of silence.

  “How would that even work?” one of them asked, frowning.

  Lord Arthur frowned too, then glanced sideways at us. “Wait. Why are our insults not working? They understand the word fuck, but not ‘go fuck yourself’?”

  “Probably different idioms,” Lord Vi murmured, then brightened. “Wait—I have an idea.”

  He slipped his phone out with practiced ease, tapped rapidly, then pressed it into my hands. “Don’t lose it, okay? And you three—step back.”

  Lord Arthur and Lord Trayn moved immediately, instincts honed faster than thought.

  “Taka, take off your glasses,” Lord Arthur added as the others also unloaded their phones.

  “But I don’t want to do this,” Lord Takashi protested, already lifting them off anyway. “I haven’t been in a fight.”

  The free-blades eyed the phones warily, some curiosity flickering there, but their leader only scoffed.

  “Boss,” one of them muttered, rolling his shoulders, “these kids aren’t just slow. They’re outright dumb. Why don’t we teach ’em a lesson?”

  “That’s a good idea,” their boss said, stepping forward.

  He never finished the motion.

  Lord Vi moved. For someone of his stature, he crossed the distance shockingly fast. His foot slammed into the ground, body twisting with clean, practiced momentum, and his right fist drove straight into the leader’s face.

  The sound was dull but solid. The man’s head snapped sideways, expression frozen in confusion. Then, almost gently, he fell forward and hit the floor.

  For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

  “Look!” Lord Vi said brightly, raising his fist as if he’d just confirmed a hypothesis. “Our punches work!”

  “Harrgh!”

  “Raaggh!”

  “Graggh!”

  Three of them surged forward at once, fury replacing shock, aiming to tackle him in revenge for their fallen leader. The rest broke formation and rushed the others, and even my acquaintance, who had already shifted his stance.

  From the phone still clutched in my hands, sound burst forth—fast, upbeat, foreign. The rhythm pounded through the bar, completely at odds with the medieval chaos unfolding. And then in a language I didn’t know, the singing began.

  {Lord I can’t cha-a-a-a-nge}

  The scene had descended into chaos.

  Lord Vi ducked under a wild swing, driving two sharp punches into a man’s chest and ribs. The attacker stumbled back, winded, but Vi didn’t pause. He pivoted and ducked just in time to catch another by the thigh. The man’s elbow slammed into Vi’s back, in retaliation, he lifted, flipping the man over.

  Another opponent lunged, but Vi met him with a brutal headbutt. He laughed as his fist caught yet another free-blade square in the jaw. The man staggered backward, clutching his face, and Vi’s grin widened—a mix of amusement and delight.

  Lord Arthur met his adversary head-on, tilting his head back just enough to evade the blow, it connected to his shoulder before he countered with a punch to the gut that made the man double over. Beside him, Lord Trayn moved in support—fast, efficient, unrelenting. A kick of his leg sent one attacker sprawling, and a shove against another slammed him into a table, sending mugs and tableware tumbling and scattering on the floor.

  Lord Takashi hesitated a fraction of a second, then clenched his teeth and threw himself into the fray. His blows were raw, lacking polish but fueled by sheer determination. A punch cracked against his face, sending him sprawling. His attacker loomed over him, foot raised to stomp, but Lord William intervened, shoving the man into another locked in combat with Lord Shunsuke. Both tumbled over. Takashi’s eyes burned with frustration, but he scrambled back to his feet, unwilling to stay down.

  Lord Shunsuke now free, lunged towards Lord Yuuto, who was pinned by two men. With a swift tackle, Lord Shunsuke sent one to the floor, fists swinging. Freed from one, Lord Yuuto pivoted, exchanging rapid blows with his remaining attacker, while another assailant clutched Lord Hanzo from the front. Lord Hanzo’s strikes rained down on his opponent’s back, as his opponent drove him to a table.

  Lord Vi’s chaos continued unabated. One man grabbed him from behind while another came at him full force. He kicked with both feet, throwing the second off balance, then jerked his head back sharply, into the face of the first and shaking off his grip. The second man recovered and tried to lunge at him again. Pivoting on one foot, he delivered a crushing kick to the chin of his would-be attacker. The man collapsed backward, out cold. He said something that sounded like “Sweet chin music,” with a laugh before two more goons tackled him simultaneously to the ground.

  His laughter was wild and unapologetic, and it cut through the cacophony like a bell, drawing both attention and disbelief.

  Through it all, my acquaintance moved with quiet certainty. No flourish, no shouting—just precise, deliberate motion. He stepped between two free-blades, redirecting a strike with minimal effort, sweeping another’s footing so smoothly the man barely realized he had fallen, and sending him sprawling across the floor.

  Most patrons had scattered as tables and chairs toppled, mugs shattered, and someone crashed into the bar. The bartender’s shout was lost in the din, barely audible over the chaotic rhythm of fists, tackles, shoves, kicks, shouts and the pounding music.

  The music from Lord Vi’s phone, now a pulsing, driving beat, seemed to energize the fight rather than interrupt it, some patrons bobbed their heads to the tune, strangely detached from the brawl erupting around them, as if the rhythm itself lent focus to the chaos. I admit, it was catchy. Lady Reika, Lady Shizuku, and I watched intently, tense for any sign of a hidden blade.

  The fact that they were holding their own, other than Lord Vi, was a testament to their stats and status as heroes. But seeing them in action was something else entirely. I just never thought that I would see them fight in a pub brawl.

  Lord Vi, in particular however, seemed to dance on the edge of recklessness, his energy and sheer—joy—was bordering on madness. And yet, I can’t help but think despite the chaos, there was an order to it—a brutal lesson being written in bruises, each strike and counterstrike an instruction in— well, I would say, skill and precision.

  Even as the clash raged on, I realized something.

  I am at a loss on how will we explain this.