Chapter 25: Trio of Kin

The sun hung lazily in the sky, its golden rays filtering through the floating towers of Section 5, casting long, shifting shadows across the city's roads. The morning breeze was crisp, but to Geschicht, it might as well have been the burning breath of a fire drake.

Sweat dripped from his brow, his breath ragged, his legs screaming for rest—yet he kept running.

A massive rock was strapped to his back, its weight pressing down on him like the expectations of a world that didn't even know he existed. His arms trembled from gripping two open books, one in each hand, the words blurring with each pounding step. He had been doing this for two weeks now, but no matter how much he pushed himself, his body still resisted.

However…

He could tell he was getting faster. His steps were steadier, and his breathing lasted longer before his chest felt like it would collapse. The first time he tried this, he barely managed a few minutes before his legs buckled. Now, though his body still ached, he could keep going. 

It was an improvement.

Not that it made him feel any better.

"Hahh… haah…" His breath came in harsh bursts as he tried to focus on the texts before him.

The left book, a historical account written centuries ago, described an empire's noble conquest as a righteous and glorious expansion. The right book, a modern retelling, called the same event a brutal invasion driven by greed and cruelty.

Both books described the same war. Both had been written by scholars. And yet, their truths were completely different.

Geschicht gritted his teeth. This was the third day in a row he had been running with these specific books. Zarysha had told him he couldn't stop until he truly understood both perspectives, but—was there even an answer to this?

His foot caught on a loose stone. His body lurched forward—

"Tch!" He barely managed to adjust his balance, forcing himself forward instead of collapsing.

From the floating tower ahead, a figure stood on the balcony, sipping tea.

Zarysha watched him as if she were watching the morning tide roll in—calm, relaxed, completely unbothered. The contrast was almost insulting.

Geschicht dragged himself forward, legs burning from his brutal five-kilometer run. The massive rock strapped to his back felt heavier than ever, and balancing two books in his hands while running had done his coordination no favors.

"Still can't get used to this…" he muttered between gasps, wiping sweat from his brow. Two weeks of this hellish routine, and while he had gotten stronger, his suffering hadn't lessened in the slightest.

Just as he was about to collapse on the grass, he noticed something unusual nearby.

Near a large oak tree, three people were stacked on top of each other, balancing precariously as the topmost one stretched toward a tree branch.

At first, Geschicht wasn't sure what he was looking at. Were they...playing? No, wait—

A fluffy white cat sat on the highest branch, completely ignoring the person trying to reach it.

The little girl standing nearby looked deeply concerned.

Geschicht squinted. The three men had strangely familiar features—and then he noticed it.

They all had bear ears.

He stopped in his tracks.

At the bottom of the stack stood a massive man, his broad shoulders straining under the weight of his two brothers. He looked as solid as a mountain, feet planted firmly in the dirt like tree roots. His amber eyes remained steady, even as his arms trembled slightly.

"Hold steady." His deep voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable warning in it.

The middle brother, though leaner, still had the raw power of an Ursanari. His gray eyes flicked up toward the one above him, keenly observing. His balance was near perfect, though his flat expression suggested he was not enjoying any of this.

"You're heavier than before." His tone was completely neutral.

At the top, a slender young man with chestnut-brown hair and hazel eyes reached for the cat, fingers barely brushing its fur.

"I'm the same weight as always!" he huffed, clearly offended. "Maybe you just lost muscle, Aren. Have you been skipping meals again? I keep telling you—"

"Focus, Roen." The middle one—Aren—sounded utterly unamused.

"Yeah, yeah. Almost got it!" Roen wiggled his fingers, making little kissy noises at the cat. "Come here, little guy! Come to Uncle Roen!"

The cat flicked its tail and scooted further up the branch.

"Oh, come on! Traitor!"

"You're the traitor if you drop us." Aren's grip tightened on his older brother's shoulders.

At the bottom, Halden, the eldest, let out a slow sigh.

"Halden, your arms are shaking. Are you actually struggling?" Roen teased.

"You want to switch?" Halden rumbled.

"Nope. You're doing great."

Geschicht, who had been watching all of this unfold, was now completely invested.

The little girl beside them clutched her hands together, looking up at Roen with wide, hopeful eyes.

"Misters, can you actually save Mrs. Fionne?" 

"Of course! Uncle Roen never fails!" Roen shot a confident grin down at her.

Halden rolled his eyes. "Since when were you an uncle?"

Aren, still stone-faced, muttered, "Don't encourage him."

Just as Roen finally grabbed the cat by the scruff, the cat yowled, kicked off his arm, and leapt onto Aren's face.

"?!"

The stack of brothers toppled.

Halden, still bracing, caught both of them before they completely hit the ground—but not before Roen's flailing arms smacked Geschicht straight in the face.

"AGH—!" Geschicht stumbled back, tripped over his exhausted legs, and collapsed onto the ground with a loud thud.

Roen groaned, lying sprawled on top of Aren, who was lying sprawled on top of Halden, who looked absolutely done with both of them.

The cat, meanwhile, landed gracefully beside the little girl and rubbed against her leg, as if nothing had happened.

Roen tilted his head up, looking at the dazed Geschicht.

"Oh. Hey there." He grinned, completely unbothered by the mess he'd just made. "You need help, or are you just enjoying the view?"

Geschicht groaned as he rubbed his face, still recovering from the surprise attack by a flying Ursanari limb.

Roen, still sprawled on top of Aren, propped himself up on his elbows and looked at Geschicht like he had just discovered a new species.

"So, who's the poor soul we just flattened?" Roen asked, grinning.

Halden, who was still holding up both of his brothers, shook them off with an exasperated sigh.

"You didn't flatten him. You hit him in the face and tripped him."

"Which is basically the same thing." Roen sat up, dusting himself off. His hazel eyes glinted with amusement as he extended a hand toward Geschicht.

"Well, since we've already gotten physical, might as well introduce ourselves!" He smirked. "The name's Roen Orvik—tailor, enchanter, and all-around genius of House Dreifang."

Geschicht, still lying on the ground, blinked. "...Dreifang?"

"We do jobs that are given by the Sage Association and occasionally sew pants." Roen wiggled his fingers dramatically. "And these two big guys? My wonderful brothers—Halden, the quiet grump over there, and Aren, our very own walking shadow."

Aren, as expected, did not respond. He simply brushed off his coat, gave Roen a glance that could kill a lesser man, and stood silently beside Halden.

"...You could at least nod, man," Roen muttered.

Halden, arms crossed, finally turned his sharp amber gaze toward Geschicht.

"You?" He asked simply.

Geschicht took a second to sit up properly, still feeling a little dizzy from Roen's surprise slap attack.

"Geschicht Snow." He dusted himself off before gesturing vaguely at the massive rock still strapped to his back. "Currently dying."

Roen laughed. "Oh, we can see that. Who the hell has you doing… that?" He pointed at the books still clutched in Geschicht's hands.

"Someone who thinks this will make me smarter and stronger."

Halden raised an eyebrow. "And does it?"

Geschicht opened his mouth to say "no", but then hesitated.

"…Sort of."

Roen grinned. "Ah. So, the painful kind of learning."

Geschicht nodded grimly. "The worst kind."

As the Orvik brothers and Geschicht exchanged introductions, a subtle shift in the air drew everyone's attention.

From the towering structure looming overhead, a figure descended—not with the reckless speed of a fall, nor with the clumsy weight of a jump, but with a precision so exact that it seemed gravity itself bowed in respect.

Zarysha landed.

Not a speck of dust rose from where she touched down, no crack marred the stone beneath her feet. It was an impact so smooth it felt unnatural, like she had merely stepped forward from another plane of existence.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then—

"WHAT IN THE—?" Roen was the first to break, stumbling back, his tail bristling in pure disbelief.

Halden, who had never looked shocked in his life, actually blinked. Even Aren, usually unreadable, stared for just a second longer than necessary before quickly looking away.

Geschicht, still sitting on the ground, slowly tilted his head up to see Zarysha standing there, completely composed, as if she hadn't just plummeted from the heavens.

She took one look at him, then at the rock still strapped to his back, and gave the simplest greeting possible.

"You're late."

Zarysha's gaze shifted from Geschicht to the three Ursanari brothers. Her dark abyssal eyes studied them for a moment before a faint smirk touched her lips.

"Aren't you guys from House Dreifang?" she said, her tone calm yet assured. "Looks like I'm in luck."

The three brothers stiffened—not out of fear, but from sheer realization.

Roen, the most expressive of the three, widened his hazel eyes before quickly nudging Halden's arm. "Wait—hold on." His voice carried a mix of disbelief and awe. "You're—you're her, right?"

Halden's piercing amber gaze narrowed, scanning the woman before him. The fin-like ears. The abyssal eyes. The striking presence.

Then it clicked.

Zarysha Tidescar.

A Grade 3 Ident.

One of the most well-known figures in the entire Section 5 of the Sage Association.

The woman who had single-handedly taken down a middle Phalax.

The scholar who had deciphered more ancient texts than most scholars would in their entire lifetimes.

Even Aren, usually uninterested in recognizing people, had the faintest look of acknowledgement in his sharp, gray eyes.

Roen's ears twitched as he took a step forward. "Okay—wait a minute. What's someone like you doing here?" His voice still held its usual playful energy, but there was an undercurrent of genuine curiosity.

Halden exhaled slowly, his arms crossing. He wasn't one for excessive words, but the way his stance shifted showed that he now saw this meeting as far more important than before.

Even if Aren remained silent, there was no denying it.

They were standing in front of someone legendary.

Zarysha, still perfectly composed from her dramatic landing, tilted her head slightly and gestured toward Geschicht.

"After this Junge right here finished his run," she began, "I was going to find someone for him to spar with."

She crossed her arms, her abyssal-dark eyes scanning the Ursanari brothers.

"I was supposed to train him myself," she continued, "but it seems like I'm too strong for his training."

With that, she pointed directly at Geschicht.

"Would any of you mind having a sparring match with him?"

Geschicht, still hunched over and trying to catch his breath, immediately snapped his head up in protest.

"Wait—what?" His voice cracked slightly from exhaustion. "I don't think I have the energy to be swinging fists right now!"

He gestured weakly at himself—his sweat-soaked clothes, the straps of the boulder he had just unfastened, and the two books still clutched in his hands.

"You see this? This is what exhaustion looks like!"

Roen, who had been watching with quiet amusement, finally spoke, his voice gentler than expected.

"I get where you're coming from," he admitted. "You've been working hard, and I'm sure anyone would be worn out after all that."

Geschicht blinked. That… was not the response he expected.

"But," Roen continued, "I also see why Zarysha's asking us. She wants you to experience a real fight, not just training drills. And if she's too strong for that, well…"

He glanced at his brothers. "Even one of us would probably be too much for you in your current state."

Halden gave a small, gruff nod, not arguing the point.

Roen turned back to Geschicht, his expression thoughtful, not mocking.

"You've got endurance, that's for sure," he said. "But pushing yourself like this? Sparring right after such intense training? That's… a bit much."

"Exactly!" Geschicht threw up his hands. "You get it!"

Roen offered a small chuckle. "I do. But I also get that sometimes, when you're aiming for something bigger, you don't get the luxury of pacing yourself."

Zarysha, completely unbothered, took a sip of the tea she had somehow brought down with her.

"Struggle builds strength," she remarked simply.

Roen nodded. "That's true. But knowing your limits is important too."

He turned to Geschicht. "If you're serious about sparring, we can go easy on you. Make it more about technique than power. But if you're too exhausted, we can wait."

Geschicht hesitated. This… wasn't what he expected. No teasing, no mocking—just an honest, reasonable offer.

He glanced at Zarysha, who merely raised an eyebrow, waiting for his answer.

"…Do I actually get a choice here?" he asked cautiously.

Roen smiled slightly. "Of course. But think about what you'd gain from this."

Zarysha's fin-like ears twitched slightly at Roen's words, and a small, knowing smile played on her lips. She took another slow sip from her tea cup—as if all of this was nothing more than an idle discussion over breakfast—before setting it down with deliberate care on the ornate silver tray beside her.

Then, she turned her gaze back to Geschicht as if she were weighing his worth like a merchant judging the cut of fine silk.

"You have thirty minutes to gather yourself," she announced, her voice steady, almost casual. "Then you will choose an opponent from House Dreifang to spar."

Geschicht's shoulders slumped instantly. "Thirty minutes?" He let out a heavy sigh, staring up at the sky as if it might somehow grant him a reprieve. "That's barely enough time to breathe properly!"

"You should learn to breathe faster then," Zarysha quipped smoothly.

The Ursanari brothers exchanged glances, Halden and Aren remaining impassive, while Roen seemed the most amused.

"Thirty minutes is fair," Halden rumbled, his deep voice carrying the weight of someone who had spent a lifetime pushing past exhaustion. "A hunter does not choose when the prey appears. Neither does a warrior choose when battle comes."

Geschicht groaned. "You people have no mercy."

Roen chuckled. "It's not about mercy," he said, crossing his arms. "It's about whether or not you can stand and fight when the time calls for it."

Zarysha nodded, lifting her teacup again. "Your body protests, but your mind still functions. A lesson in resilience is just as important as one in strength."

"Resilience," Geschicht muttered, flopping onto a nearby flat rock, still catching his breath. "That's just a fancy word for suffering."

Aren, who had been silent the entire time, let out a low, almost imperceptible snort.

Roen sat down beside Geschicht, stretching out lazily as if he had all the time in the world. "You know," he said, idly twirling a loose thread from his sleeve, "we could make this interesting."

Geschicht narrowed his eyes. "Define 'interesting.'"

Roen grinned, his hazel eyes glinting with mischief. "Pick me to spar, and I'll go easy on you. Pick Halden, and he'll make sure you never forget the fight."

Halden merely nodded once, solemnly, as if he had already accepted the role of Geschicht's executioner.

"And Aren?" Geschicht asked hesitantly.

Roen's smile widened. "Oh, you really don't want to pick Aren."

Geschicht glanced at the silent, brooding figure standing just a few feet away—Aren's deep gray eyes unreadable, his presence still and watchful like a shadow waiting to move.

"I'll…keep that in mind," Geschicht muttered.

Zarysha set down her empty tea cup with a soft clink. "Choose wisely, Junge," she said, standing up and stretching her arms, her swordfish-like silhouette catching the light. "Your opponent will determine the kind of lesson you take from this."

Geschicht leaned back, staring at the sky once more, trying not to think about how much his legs hurt.

Thirty minutes.

Not much time at all.

Thirty minutes passed in what felt like the blink of an eye.

Geschicht stood in the center of the clearing, his breath steady but his legs still sore from the grueling training. He lifted his journal from his side, fingers brushing over its cover, and in a single practiced motion, he called upon its power. The ink bled from the pages, twisting and shifting in the air, forming the distinct shape of a sword. The blade solidified in his grasp.

It was a simple-looking weapon—no ornate carvings, no excessive flourishes—but there was an undeniable weight to it. A sword forged from his own will pulled straight from the pages of his experiences.

Roen, standing opposite him, rolled his shoulders, his expression relaxed.

"Materializing weapons now, are we?" he mused. "Not bad, not bad."

Then, with a fluid motion, he reached behind him and unraveled his [Seelen]—a long, flowing scarf woven in striking black and white.

The fabric drifted in the air like a living thing, its edges rippling as if sensing the tension in the space between them. And then, with a flick of Roen's wrist, the scarf split into countless razor-thin threads, each one far stronger than steel, gleaming in the midday light.

Geschicht swallowed hard.

"…That looks ridiculously sharp."

Roen smirked. "It is."

The threads shifted subtly, stretching and coiling like a mass of serpents waiting for the command to strike. There was no doubt in Geschicht's mind—if he lost focus for even a second, those threads could easily cut straight through him.

Roen tilted his head slightly, observing Geschicht's stance. "So, before we begin—what's your Ident Grade?"

"Grade 5," Geschicht answered.

Roen blinked. Then, he let out a short laugh. "Huh. Same as me, then."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Roen twirled his scarf idly "Been a Grade 5 for about two years now. You?"

"…I got mine a little while ago."

Roen raised an eyebrow. "Fresh, huh?"

Geschicht tightened his grip on his sword. "That a problem?"

Roen chuckled. "Not at all. It just means this will be interesting."

His fingers flicked, and the razor-thin threads tightened around him, coiling like the strings of a marionette just before the performance.

The air split apart as Geschicht's sword clashed against Roen's razor-sharp threads. Sparks flickered in the space between them, the sound of steel grinding against something even sharper ringing through the clearing.

Roen sidestepped a downward slash with an almost lazy elegance, his scarf twisting in midair and lashing out like a whip. Geschicht barely managed to parry, but the force behind it sent him skidding back.

"You're too focused on dodging," Roen commented casually, flicking his wrist. His scarf snapped outward, the black-and-white threads weaving together into an intricate net before lunging toward Geschicht like a hungry beast.

Geschicht threw himself to the side just in time, the ground where he had stood moments before sliced into ribbons.

"You know," Roen mused, keeping his stance relaxed as his scarf coiled back into place, "since I want this spar to last more than a few notes, I suppose I should explain how my ability works."

Geschicht barely had time to react before Roen thrust his hand forward.

The scarf's threads unraveled, splitting into countless thin strings, each shooting out like arrows from Roen's fingertips.

Geschicht raised his sword in time, the ink-forged blade managing to deflect a few, but one of the threads curved midair, striking his sleeve and slicing it cleanly. He pulled back, eyes widening.

"These aren't just ordinary threads," Roen said, spinning his scarf around him like a shield, the fabric hardening into something stronger than steel. "My [Seelen]—Schwarzweißfäden—isn't just a weapon. It's a fabric of absolute control."

Geschicht tightened his grip on his sword. "Schwarzweißfäden?"

Roen smirked. "The Black-and-White Threads. It can change its density, its sharpness, its flexibility—whatever I need it to be, whenever I need it."

With a casual flick of his wrist, the threads shifted again, now coiling around Roen's arm like a tightly wound gauntlet.

"Right now, my scarf is as soft as silk," he continued. "But if I want…"

The threads suddenly stiffened.

Roen drove his fist forward, and the moment Geschicht raised his sword to block, the scarf hardened like solid iron, smashing against the blade with a force that nearly knocked it out of his hands.

"It becomes harder than steel," Roen finished with a grin.

Geschicht gritted his teeth, stepping back. "That's… a bit much for a spar, don't you think?"

"Relax, I'm holding back."

Geschicht barely had time to process that before another wave of threads lashed out, this time from behind. Roen had redirected them while talking.

Geschicht twisted his body, barely avoiding a cleaving arc of threads that cut through the air where his neck had been moments ago.

"I can slice, I can pierce, I can bind," Roen continued, twirling his scarf around like a conductor's baton, his threads forming shifting geometric patterns midair. "If I feel like it, I could even weave you a nice jacket while fighting."

"…That doesn't make me feel any better."

"Well, don't worry," Roen cracked his knuckles, the scarf shifting again into a whip-like coil. "It's not perfect."

Geschicht raised an eyebrow. "What's the catch?"

Roen spread his arms dramatically. "Ah, so you're the type to listen for weaknesses. I like that."

Then, with an amused grin, he said "Well, let's just say that my threads, for all their flexibility, still follow the rules of weaving."

Geschicht frowned. "Meaning…?"

Roen's smile widened. "They can tangle."

Geschicht blinked.

"Let's say I overextend—if I create too many overlapping movements in rapid succession, I might create a knot."

"…A knot?"

"Yes. A big, ugly, impossible-to-untangle knot."

Roen snapped his fingers. His threads suddenly twisted unnaturally, momentarily locking in place before he smoothly unwound them again.

"If that happens, I can't attack properly. In the worst case? I might end up binding myself by accident."

Geschicht stared. "That's… oddly specific."

Roen shrugged, his threads curling and uncurling like living tendrils. "Every master craftsman knows their own flaws. And I'm a master, you see."

Geschicht exhaled. "So basically, if I push you into overextending, I can make you tangle yourself up?"

Roen nodded approvingly. "That's the idea. Of course, you'd have to force me into that situation, which is easier said than done."

Geschicht took a deep breath. His sword shimmered, ink-like tendrils rippling along its surface as he tightened his stance.

"Alright," he muttered. "Then I'll just have to make you mess up."

Roen's smirk deepened.

"Now that's the spirit."

Roen's scarf twisted and snapped in perfect harmony with his footwork, his movements fluid, precise, and unshakably confident. Every flick of his wrist sent razor-thin threads whipping through the air, cutting deep grooves into the ground, slicing apart stray leaves before they could even touch the dirt.

Geschicht, for all his effort, was barely keeping up. His sword clashed against the threads in rapid succession, but every time he thought he had found an opening, Roen's scarf shifted seamlessly—becoming a shield, a whip, a noose—countering each attack with surgical precision.

"Still keeping up?" Roen asked with a grin, his scarf snapping out to bind Geschicht's wrist.

Geschicht yanked himself free before the threads could tighten, breathing heavily.

Roen watched him carefully, his hazel eyes shifting between green and gold, as if reading Geschicht's next move before he even made it. "You're analyzing everything, aren't you? Trying to find a way through."

Geschicht gritted his teeth. That was his strength. Observe. Understand. Adapt.

And yet—

He let go of the thought.

The realization struck him like a hammer to the skull. His body moved before his mind could catch up.

Instead of weaving around the threads, instead of calculating Roen's next strike—he abandoned all caution.

He charged.

Roen's eyes widened in genuine surprise. "Wait, what—?"

The scarf lashed forward like a guillotine, the threads hardening into a bladed wall—an impenetrable defense.

Geschicht didn't stop.

His sword swung downward in a wild arc—

A deep ink-like ripple erupted at the point of impact.

"CRASH!"

A thunderous force exploded outward.

The ground beneath them shattered, dust and debris flying in all directions as Roen's threads buckled under the sheer pressure. The shockwave tore through his defenses, forcing him back as Geschicht's blade came to a halt just inches from his throat.

Silence.

The world seemed to still.

Roen, stunned, blinked down at the edge of the blade.

Then, slowly, he let out a low whistle.

"Well. That was unexpected."

Zarysha, watching from the sidelines, sipped her tea—completely unfazed—while Halden and Aren exchanged a glance. Roen himself looked down at the sword near his throat, then back up at Geschicht, his expression a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

"Did you just ignore everything I said about my abilities?"

Geschicht, still panting, stared at him. His brain was struggling to process what he had just done.

"…Yeah. I think I did."

Zarysha finally spoke, her abyssal eyes glinting with interest. "A bold decision. Not a smart one, but certainly bold."

Roen chuckled. "You do realize that was the worst possible response to my ability, right? I told you I could slice, pierce, and bind—and you jumped straight at me?"

"I don't know what happened." Geschicht was still catching his breath. "I just… did it."

Roen took a step back, rubbing his neck as he examined the ink-like impact mark on the ground. "That's not just any attack. That had weight behind it."

Halden spoke. "That wasn't just raw strength. It was an accumulated force."

Roen's brows furrowed. "Yeah… The power behind that swing wasn't just yours. It was something else."

Aren, silent as always, merely nodded.

Zarysha exhaled, setting down her now-empty cup. "A week into training, he started showing signs of it. Every time his sword struck hard enough, an ink-like ripple formed."

Geschicht's eyes snapped to her. "Wait—you knew about this?"

She smirked. "Of course. I was waiting for you to notice."

Roen hummed in thought. "So you've been storing power without realizing it… and when you stopped overthinking, you finally let it all out."

Geschicht frowned, looking at his sword, the ink-like shimmer still faintly lingering on its surface.

He tightened his grip. He didn't fully understand it yet.

But one thing was clear—

Zarysha's training was paying off.

As Geschicht was still catching his breath, Zarysha approached him with her usual air of detached amusement. She reached into her coat and pulled out a folded letter, its edges slightly crumpled, as if it had traveled far.

"Before you collapse," she said, tossing it toward him. "This came in earlier. Another letter from the Champion Association, Section 9."

Geschicht instantly knew what that meant. His expression flickered between exhaustion and wariness as he caught the letter midair.

Roen, now leaning lazily against a nearby tree, perked up. "Oh? Who's it from?"

Geschicht sighed, already dreading whatever nonsense was waiting for him. "It's from… a certain hero-wannabe I know."

"Ah." Roen nodded sagely. "That explains the crumpled state."

Zarysha crossed her arms. "Read it."

Geschicht rolled his eyes but obliged. With his arms still aching from the spar, he awkwardly unfolded the letter and began to read the first lines aloud.

"Hey Geschicht, did you improve? I punched some kids today."

Silence.

Aren blinked. Halden's amber eyes narrowed. Roen choked on air trying to suppress a laugh.

Zarysha, completely unfazed, simply gestured toward the letter. "Continue."

Geschicht, deadpan, slowly looked up at the group, then back at the paper in his hands.

"…I don't know if I want to."