Fin woke to the distant, rhythmic clang of a ship's bell cutting through the pre-dawn quiet of Frerun, its bronze voice carrying across the harbor. The sound was accompanied by the harsh cry of gulls already circling the docks, their raucous calls a reminder that the port city never truly slept, only shifted from one rhythm of activity to another. The morning light filtering through the inn's grimy window was gray and diffuse, promising an overcast day under the heavy blanket of sea clouds.

He sat up in the narrow bed, his transformed body feeling surprisingly refreshed despite the cramped quarters and the thin mattress that had seen better decades. Across the small room, Soga's bed was already empty, the covers thrown back with haste, but a piece of parchment was stuck to the door with a small knife, the blade buried exactly deep enough to hold the note without damaging the wood beneath.

Fin padded across the cold floorboards, his bare feet silent against the worn planks, and plucked the note free with a gentle tug. The knife came away easily. In handwriting that was surprisingly elegant for someone of such casual irreverence, the note read:

Lasair, Gone to scout the market for some decent breakfast and gather intelligence on today's proceedings. I'll be back in a few hours, and then we'll head to the guild for our little entrance examination. Three rules while I'm gone: Don't leave the inn. Don't burn it down. Try not to attract the attention of any shadow organizations, criminal syndicates, or overly curious government agents. The neighborhood has enough excitement without you adding to it.

- Astar

Fin snorted with amusement, crumpling the note between his fingers. As if he needed such basic reminders about operational security. Still, Soga's protective instincts were oddly touching, even when expressed through sarcasm and theatrical worry.

But the spatial mage's absence also presented an opportunity. Fin had time, precious, uninterrupted time to work on the secret project that had been occupying his thoughts since their arrival in Frerun. His Quantum Leap skill was undeniably a game-changer, offering mobility that few opponents would be able to predict or counter, but its reliance on placing marks in the heat of battle represented a critical tactical flaw. He needed a way to deploy his teleportation anchors before a fight even began, to control the battlefield from the opening moments of any engagement.

He settled cross-legged on the floor. The worn wooden planks were cool against his skin and retrieved the case of perfectly balanced throwing knives from his dimensional storage. The weapons were beauties, their steel gleaming even in the dim light of the room. More importantly, they represented the foundation of his emerging strategy.

In theory, if he could affix a stable, long-lasting mana mark to each knife, he could scatter them across a battlefield before any confrontation began, creating a web of teleportation points that would give him tactical mobility. He could control the entire engagement area, appearing and disappearing at will like some phantom warrior. The problem was durability, a simple mana mark would dissipate within minutes when exposed to the chaotic ambient mana of combat. He needed something permanent, something that would endure. He needed runes.

Pulling his research journal and a well-used inkpot from his dimensional storage, he began to sketch preliminary designs on a fresh page. His Enchanting classes under Instructor Vurg had covered the theoretical basics extensively: Core runes that channeled elemental energies, Structural runes that defined magical functions, and the complex interactions between them that made true enchantment possible.

For his purposes, he would need at least four distinct runic elements working in perfect harmony. An Inscripta rune to store his personal mana signature within the weapon itself, acting as a magical battery that could maintain the mark indefinitely. A Sigil rune to anchor that mark in dimensional space, creating the stable reference point his Quantum Leap skill required. A Vinculum rune to link the entire enchantment to his teleportation ability, ensuring that only he could use the anchors. And finally, a Ward rune to protect the delicate magical framework from physical damage or hostile magical interference that might disrupt its function.

The challenge was one of pure engineering: space. The leather-wrapped handle of a throwing knife offered precious little real estate for such complex work. Traditional runic theory suggested carving four separate symbols, but such an approach would make each individual rune too small, too delicate, too easily disrupted by the violent forces involved in combat. He simply didn't have enough surface area to work with using conventional methods.

But Fin's mind, enhanced by Theoretical Physics Application and informed by memories of a more technologically advanced world, began to approach the problem from an entirely different angle. What if he didn't have to carve four separate runes at all? What if he could combine them into a single, unified structure? What if he could stack them?

His pencil moved with increasing confidence as a new design took shape on the parchment. This wasn't a flat, two-dimensional symbol like the runes he had studied in his classes. This was a three-dimensional matrix, a structure that existed as much in magical space as in physical reality.

It was ambitious to the point of audacity, a microscopic, multi-layered enchantment woven into what would appear to be a single, complex Rune. If it worked, each knife would become a permanent anchor point, a node in a network that would transform any battlefield into his personal domain.

He channeled a careful thread of mana into his sketch, watching with held breath as the ink began to react to the magical energy. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the lines on the page flickered and died, the mana dissipating uselessly into the air. He had the basic theory correct, but the geometry was fundamentally flawed. The energy flow was creating the wrong feedback loop, the different runic elements interfering with each other rather than working in harmony.

For over thirty minutes, the floor around him became a graveyard of crumpled paper, each discarded sheet representing a failed iteration of his design. The mathematics were maddeningly complex, a single degree of angular deviation in the spiral pattern could destabilize the entire structure, while the spacing between layers had to be calculated to within microscopic tolerances. His enhanced intellect processed the variables with mechanical precision, but each solution seemed to create new problems, new instabilities that required additional modifications.

Finally, after dozens of iterations and enough wasted parchment to stock a small library, he landed on a design that felt fundamentally different from the others. The spiraling structure seemed to pulse with its own internal logic, the mathematical relationships between its components forming perfect harmonies that allowed mana to flow in a self-sustaining loop. When he channeled energy into this final sketch, the ink on the page didn't flicker or fade, it glowed with a steady, confident blue light that spoke of structural integrity and functional elegance.

It worked.

His transformed Aos sí physiology, with its enhanced dexterity and supernatural precision, made the next phase of the project surprisingly manageable. He retrieved his metal rune etching stylus from his dimensional storage. Working by the gray morning light filtering through the window, he began the painstaking process of engraving the complex, multi-layered rune onto the leather-wrapped handle of the first throwing knife.

The work required absolute concentration. Each line had to be perfect, each curve calculated to within fractions of degrees. A single mistake would render the entire enchantment useless, potentially dangerous. His world narrowed to the point of his stylus and the rune taking shape beneath it, layer by microscopic layer. The physical act of carving was meditative, almost hypnotic, his enhanced senses allowing him to feel the subtle resistance of different materials, to hear the whisper-quiet sound of metal parting leather and wood.

He was so completely absorbed in the delicate process that he didn't notice the familiar distortion of spatial magic, didn't sense the brief displacement of air that accompanied teleportation, didn't even realize he was no longer alone until a shadow fell across his work and a familiar voice spoke directly over his shoulder.

"Oh, so that was your grand project. Interesting. Very, very interesting indeed."

Fin yelped in startled surprise, his carefully controlled movements disrupted by the unexpected interruption. He stumbled backward out of his seated position, his elbow knocking over the inkpot and sending the precious stylus clattering across the wooden floor. Black ink spread across several sheets of his research notes like spilled blood.

Soga let out a booming laugh that filled the small room, his turquoise eyes sparkling with unrepentant amusement at Fin's reaction. "Sorry, sorry," he said, though his tone suggested he wasn't particularly sorry at all. "I did try to make some noise when I arrived, but you were so focused you probably wouldn't have noticed if the building had caught fire."

He casually tossed Fin a small bundle wrapped in clean cloth, the package radiating warmth and the most heavenly aroma Fin had encountered since arriving in Frerun. "I figured something like this would happen, you strike me as the type to lose complete track of time when you get absorbed in a project, so I went ahead and grabbed you breakfast while I was out gathering intelligence."

Fin caught the bundle with both hands, unwrapping it to reveal a steaming pastry. The outer crust was golden-brown and flaky, obviously fresh from the oven, while the filling visible at the torn edges promised rich, savory flavors. He took a cautious bite and his eyes went wide with surprise and pleasure. The pastry was buttery perfection, its layers separating on his tongue, while the filling proved to be some kind of expertly seasoned beast meat mixed with vegetables that had been cooked to exactly the right texture, tender without being mushy, flavorful without being overwhelming.

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"Wow," he managed around the mouthful. "This is genuinely incredible."

"I know, right?" Soga's grin was pure satisfaction at having made such an excellent choice. "The street vendors in the merchant district put most royal chefs to shame. There's something about cooking for people who actually have to work for their coin that seems to inspire genuine artistry." He reached into his own pack and produced a second item, a beautifully crafted leather holster designed specifically for throwing knives, its dozen individual sheaths positioned to rest snugly against the wearer's thigh for quick, easy access. "And I figured you'd need this for your little project there."

Fin accepted the holster with genuine gratitude, running his fingers over the supple leather and examining the precise stitching that held it together. It was clearly the work of a master leather-worker. "Thank you," he said, his mouth still partially full of the exceptional pastry. "For the food and for this. Both are perfect."

"No problem at all," Soga replied, already pulling his own featureless mask into place over his features. The transformation was immediate and unsettling, where moments before had stood a cheerful man with expressive eyes and an easy smile, now there was only the blank, mysterious figure of Astar Lugh. "But we should probably get moving. The guild takes punctuality seriously, and showing up late for our examination would not make the best first impression."

They made their way through Frerun's winding streets with purpose now, the morning crowds parting around them as they moved with the confident stride of professionals about their business. The mercenary guild hall, when they reached it, was already bustling with activity despite the early hour. The same grizzled veteran who had processed their initial application sat at the recruitment desk, his scarred face bent over a thick ledger as he reviewed the day's scheduled activities.

He looked up as they approached, his experienced eyes taking in their masks and equipment with the automatic assessment of someone who had spent decades evaluating the capabilities of fighting men before he gave a grunt of acknowledgment.

"You're expected," he said without preamble, pointing a thick, scarred finger toward a hallway at the back of the guild hall. "Head on back to the training field. Boss Flaxis is waiting for you both, and he doesn't appreciate delays."

Fin followed Soga through the dimly lit corridor. Behind them, the sounds of the guild hall gradually faded, the murmur of contracts being negotiated, the soft clink of coin changing hands, the boastful laughter of mercenaries recounting their latest exploits. The hallway seemed to stretch longer than it should have, building anticipation with each step.

When they finally emerged into bright sunlight, Fin had to blink several times to adjust to the sudden brilliance. The training field was larger than he had expected, a sun-drenched expanse of packed earth surrounded by stone walls. Weapon racks lined the perimeter, displaying everything from simple practice swords to exotic implements that suggested the guild catered to fighters with unusual specializations.

Waiting in the center of the field was a man who radiated the kind of relaxed, confident power that came only from absolute mastery of one's craft. He appeared to be in his forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a close-cropped beard of the same distinguished coloring. His stance was casual, almost negligent, but Fin's enhanced senses could detect the coiled readiness beneath the surface, this was someone who could transition from complete relaxation to lethal action in the space between heartbeats.

Beside him, engaged in what appeared to be a heated sibling argument, stood two younger people who shared enough facial features to obviously be his children. The young woman had flowing strawberry-blonde hair, while her companion, clearly her brother based on their similar features, wore his hair of the same vibrant color cut shorter in a more practical style. Both carried themselves with the unconscious confidence of people who had never doubted their own capabilities.

"Dad, why do we have to help with the rookies?" the young woman was demanding, her hands planted firmly on her hips in a gesture of frustrated defiance. "We have that contract in the southern isles to prepare for, and the research alone is going to take days. This is a complete waste of our time."

"Because, my dear Flara," the older man replied with a slight, unyielding smile that suggested this argument was both familiar and already decided, "the Guild Charter explicitly states that all Gold-rank members must assist with recruitment trials at least once per year. It's not a suggestion or a guideline, it's a binding requirement of membership." His tone grew slightly more pointed. "Of course, if you find the obligation too burdensome, I could always cancel your membership entirely. Then you could pay the exorbitant non-member rates for contract access. I'm sure that would be much more economical."

"No, no, Father," the young man interjected quickly, placing a diplomatic hand on his sister's shoulder in a gesture that spoke of long practice at defusing family tensions. "I'm sure Flara doesn't mean anything by it. We would both be honored to help with the examination process."

"You're such a peacemaker, Fliox," Flara said with an exaggerated pout, though the real heat seemed to drain out of her protest. "Fine. We'll help with the baby mercenaries. But I'm not going to pretend to enjoy it."

"I wouldn't dream of asking you to," her father replied with dry amusement. "Your enthusiasm has always been refreshingly honest." He turned toward the approaching Fin and Soga, his demeanor shifting smoothly into professional welcome. "And here they are now."

The older man strode forward with confident steps, extending his hand first to Soga, then to Fin. His grip was like iron wrapped in velvet, unmistakably powerful, but controlled with the precision of someone who knew exactly how much pressure to apply. "I am Guild Leader Flaxis Piole," he said. "A genuine pleasure to meet you both." He gestured toward his children with obvious paternal pride despite their recent argument. "And these are my two knucklehead offspring, Flara and Fliox. They may not look like much when they're bickering like children, but they happen to be two of our finest Gold-rank members."

"Gold?" Fin asked, the question slipping out before he could stop himself. The ranking system was still unfamiliar territory, and the casual mention of what was presumably a high tier of membership caught his attention.

Flaxis's smile widened with genuine amusement. "Don't worry about the ranking structure yet, lad. You've got to earn your basic membership first, and that's challenge enough for most applicants."

Soga stepped forward smoothly, his masked voice carrying exactly the right note of professional courtesy mixed with quiet confidence. "A pleasure to meet you, Guild Leader. I am Astar, and this is my younger brother, Lasair. We appreciate the opportunity to demonstrate our capabilities."

Flaxis gave them both a thorough visual assessment, his experienced eyes taking in every detail of their posture, equipment, and the way they carried themselves. "Well then, Astar, Lasair," he said finally, "shall we proceed with the examination? No point in delaying the inevitable."

"We're ready," Soga confirmed without hesitation.

"Excellent. Astar, you'll have the honor of going first. You'll be sparring with my son, Fliox." Flaxis gestured toward the designated dueling circle marked out in the packed earth of the training field. "Standard rules apply, no lethal force, no permanent maiming, match ends when one participant yields or is rendered unable to continue. Questions?"

Both combatants shook their heads and moved toward the circle's center, their movements already shifting into the focused alertness that preceded serious combat. Flaxis took his position as judge at the circle's edge, his stance casual but his attention absolute.

"Begin!"

The transformation in Fliox was immediate and dramatic. His feet sank slightly into the packed earth as he drew upon his mana, and the very ground around him responded to his will. Sand and dirt rose into the air in defiance of gravity, swirling into a protective barrier that orbited his body with hypnotic precision. With a casual flick of his wrist, a portion of the defensive screen compressed itself into a volley of sharp, pebble-sized projectiles that shot toward Soga with the speed and accuracy of crossbow bolts.

Soga's response was equally impressive in its simplicity. He simply vanished in a flicker of turquoise light, the sand bullets peppering empty air where he had stood just moments before

Fliox didn't seem surprised by his opponent's disappearance. His eyes closed immediately. Suddenly he whipped around with inhuman speed, his hand raised just in time to catch Soga's boot as it materialized from another teleportation attempt, the strike aimed with lethal precision at his unprotected head. The block was perfect, not just the timing, but the positioning, the angle, everything calculated to neutralize the attack without wasted motion.

Soga, his surprise assault blocked so easily, immediately teleported back to his starting position rather than attempting to follow through with a potentially compromising secondary attack.

Fliox opened his eyes, a small, respectful smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Draw?"

Soga nodded without hesitation. "Draw."

The two men simply relaxed their combat stances and walked off the field together, leaving behind a bewildered Fin and an indignant Flara staring after them in complete confusion.

"What do you mean, 'draw'?" Flara demanded, actually stamping her foot in frustration. "The fight just started! You barely exchanged more than a single attack!"

Fin found himself silently agreeing with her protest, completely baffled by the abrupt conclusion.

The two men looked at each other, shrugged in perfect unison with the easy camaraderie of professionals who understood each other's capabilities, and settled onto a nearby bench to observe the next match. "His defensive perimeter is essentially perfect," Soga explained with clinical detachment. "He can sense any disturbance in his sand field, which means my teleportation offers no advantage for surprise attacks. My skills are fast enough that his sand constructs can't fully intercept them, but his defensive coverage is too comprehensive for me to land a decisive blow without committing to an extended battle of attrition."

"Exactly," Fliox added with a nod of agreement. "It would be a strategic stalemate. We could probably fight for an hour or more without either of us gaining a meaningful advantage, but it would be a pointless waste of mana for both parties. Better to acknowledge the tactical reality and move on."

Flaxis chuckled with obvious approval of his son's professional attitude. "Well, I suppose that means it's your turn, Flara. You and young Lasair can provide us with some actual entertainment."

Flara's competitive fire returned in an instant, burning away her earlier frustration like morning fog before the sun. She cracked her knuckles with deliberate menace, a wide, predatory grin spreading across her face as she fixed her gaze on Fin with the intensity of a hunting cat sizing up potential prey. "I don't know what kind of gentlemen's agreement our brothers just concluded," she said, her voice carrying unmistakable relish, "but I have absolutely no intention of settling for a draw."

She stepped into the dueling circle with fluid grace, her entire posture radiating eagerness for the coming fight. "I'm going to crush you, rookie. Nothing personal, it's just good business to establish the pecking order early."

Fin said nothing as he moved to take his position in the center of the field, his own quiet confidence settling over him like a familiar cloak.

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