This skeleton hardly seemed like an advanced magical creature, not even qualifying as a mere skeleton soldier. Its frame was small, clearly belonging to someone of unimpressive stature in life. Patchy stains marred its bones, and several prominent cracks ran through critical sections like the skull. As for the ribs, counting revealed fewer than twenty—perhaps some stray dog had claimed them as a last meal. The only unusual feature was two delicate skeletal structures protruding from its back, remnants of what might once have been wings.
Was this truly a being crafted by the Divine Origin? Rogue's jaw nearly dropped. This skeleton bore no conceivable connection to the gods of the heavens. Could it be that those divine beings, basking in eternal glory, were no different from evil itself?
Rogue's mana slowly extended toward the skeleton, merging with it as he attempted to take control and assess this potential new breed of magical creature. Everything proceeded smoothly—the skeleton appeared to possess no special abilities beyond slightly greater strength than an ordinary one. A wave of exhaustion washed over him; Rogue knew his magic was spent. "Sigh, regardless, you are my familiar now. From this day forth, your name is Breezemoon." Unwilling to dwell on the connection between the skeleton and Breezemoon, Rogue sent it back to the Otherworld. As the skeleton vanished, Rogue sensed a flicker of sullen discontent—a protest against the name, perhaps. Absurd. Could a skeleton truly feel disgruntled? "I must be far too tired."
The next morning, after three consecutive familiar summonings that drained his magic utterly, Rogue finally accepted the reality of his skeletal familiar. A routine meditation replenished his mana by dusk. "Time for a drink."
The Oak Woods tavern had stood the test of time, a sizable establishment just three blocks north of the Dero Empire Military Academy and one of the mercenary guild's posting sites. Thus, it drew apprentices and mercenaries alike, along with lively girls and those seeking wealthy husbands.
"Well, isn't that Rogue? Haven't seen you in ages. Heard you've turned over a new leaf—actually training to be a great mage?" Rogue glanced over; it was Ete, an old friend from brawls and bar-hopping days. Burly and three years Rogue's senior, Ete's father was the city guard's cavalry captain—a mid-ranked knight who'd trained his son for knighthood, yet inexplicably sent him to the Academy instead. Still, Ete had some talent: though he enrolled a year after Rogue, he'd become a third-level mage six months earlier and now strived for fourth level.
Rogue sat beside Ete without a word, downing his drink in one gulp. After a long silence, he sighed deeply. At the table sat three obvious noblemen's sons, each wearing the slender swords favored by aristocrats. Two dancers giggled and playfully wrestled with the group. Ete slung an arm around Rogue's shoulders. "Brother, it's been dull without you. No one's got your cunning tricks. Troubled? Couldn't charm a girl? Ha! Leave it to me. Drink up! Bartender, bring two more bottles of tequila!!"
The tavern's atmosphere reached a fever pitch, punctuated by women's shrieks and boisterous laughter. "Rogue, meet Lance Bloem, second son of Count Bloem; this is Kait—his father commands mine. And Fraggio, nephew of Marquis Floran." Ete slurred as he introduced Rogue in turn.
"Say, that girl over there's quite a catch—though she looks tough to handle." Lance nodded toward a dim corner. All eyes followed. At a small table sat four men and two women, likely mercenaries, one dressed as a mage. A girl of eighteen or nineteen, clad in dark, form-fitting armor, exposed snowy thighs strapped with a belt holding three throwing knives. Her breastplate, though its color was indistinct in the tavern's gloom, was clearly fine-crafted and accentuated her curves, its low neckline revealing a deep cleavage that nearly stole Lance's gaze. A Greatsword at her side hinted at her prowess, momentarily sobering the group. Her face was fiercely beautiful, framed by loose, light-brown wavy hair.
Beside her sat a delicate noble girl of fifteen or sixteen, her long dress adorned only with exquisite tailoring and costly fabric. The sole striking detail was a pair of sapphire earrings.
Their brazen stares drew immediate notice. The warrior girl shot them a glare; Lance whistled back. Her frosty expression tightened as her hand drifted toward her sword hilt—until the mage restrained her. "Not here, Keevey. Don't start trouble."
Just then, the tavern fell momentarily silent. All eyes turned to the entrance. First came a cascade of golden hair, radiant as the sun, leaving everyone spellbound. Beneath it lay a face rivaling Apollo's, carved with perpetual calm. He wore only a golden chainmail breastplate, its intricate patterns adorned with magical silver. At its center blazed a golden lion's head, entwined with a cross and lilies.
"Ophirock! The Golden Lion of the Lyon Alliance—who's he here?" Murmurs rippled through the room. Ophirock, only son of Bavaria's Duke—the largest duchy in the Lyon Alliance—had been raised at the Church of Light's Odi Grand Temple until his return six months prior. A prodigy among the Church's youngest senior Temple Knights, he'd displayed innate military genius alongside his striking looks and noble lineage, eclipsing even the Alliance's princes in fame.
Beside him stood a woman like an iceberg, barely half a head shorter than the imposing Golden Lion. Her peerlessly beautiful features revealed nothing. Clad in rare black mage's robes, she moved as if wreathed in rising black flames, her swaying gait radiating intensity. Two guards trailed her, their palpable auras marking them as veterans of countless life-or-death battles.
Ophirock's party ascended the stairs. Only after they vanished did the tavern's roar resume. Yet Rogue felt uneasy—somehow, beyond Ophirock's dazzling visage, he glimpsed silver eyes.
*CRASH!* A large mug exploded beside Rogue, drenching him in ale. But Lance fared worse: the cup struck his forehead. Rogue turned to see the warrior girl striding forward, Greatsword in hand, flanked by four male mercenaries in combat stance.
Drunk and emboldened, Lance had leered at her, fingers still withdrawn from a dancer's bodice as he thrust his middle finger upward. Her response: the mug bloomed crimson on his brow.
Bar brawls over women were routine for Rogue's circle, but these battle-scarred mercenaries were no match for mere nobles. Still, aristocratic pride forbade retreat. Rogue considered fleeing, then hesitated—these companions, though not from the highest noble houses, had respectable backgrounds. Sharing a beating might even strengthen their camaraderie.
Ete, eldest and most experienced, leapt up chanting—a sloppy Acid Arrow spell, muddled by drink. Meanwhile, Lance and the others clashed with the mercenaries, quickly bloodied. The warrior girl struck viciously, launching a groin kick at Lance. He twisted just in time, taking the blow on his backside and flying from the fray. With a roar, Ete snatched a nearby sword, temporarily becoming a knight, and charged the fray.
The mercenaries clearly held back against nobles. Rogue's mind stayed sharp; he launched Magic Missiles—two glowing orbs curving toward a male fighter. The warrior casually deflected one, but Rogue's mana redirected them mid-flight. They veered, striking his face. Though Magic Missile was a novice spell, the warrior's flesh proved far less resilient than his chainmail. Bloodied and swaying, he collapsed.
The other fighter lunged with "Sprint," gliding like ice. Panicked, Rogue couldn't cast—instead, he targeted the man's feet. Mid-stride, the fighter tripped, careening toward Rogue. A table intercepted him; *thud*—his head crashed through the wood. Before he could recover, Rogue seized his helmet and drove a knee into his face. *Crack.* The nose shattered. Rogue's body, enhanced through arduous cultivation, packed formidable power.
With two fighters down, Ete's trio held their ground. Kait, a defensive specialist, lured the warrior girl's attention with a chest slash, absorbing most attacks. Ete and Fraggio parried the remaining fighter. Then Lance, who'd hidden beneath a table, stabbed the injured fighter's leg and whirled toward the warrior girl. She barely blocked his strike with a thigh knife.
The mercenary mage had held back—but now, furious at the turn, he traced a symbol. A transparent blue Spell absorption shield enveloped him. This fourth-level spell could absorb ten levels of magical energy, a mage's staple defense. Yet Rogue, with his unconventional grasp of magic, scoffed. "Seriously? Shielding against apprentices?"
As the mage prepared a fire spell, chanting rapidly with complex gestures, Rogue recalled physical attacks bypassed the shield. He hurled a drink—*splash!*—dousing the mage. Platters, a chair, even a table flew next. Flustered, the mage's spell fizzled. Before he could rage, Rogue pounced. Mage-on-mage brawls were rare, but Rogue's youth, skill, and magically enhanced body gave him the edge.
Enraged, the warrior girl unleashed rapid sword techniques. The wounded fighter still fought fiercely. Ete and his companions strained, their rigorous training holding firm. Suddenly, something soft and slick slapped the warrior girl's chest. *Splat!* A half-bitten fried egg—hurled by Rogue mid-brawl—clung there. She shrieked, recoiling in shock. Seizing the moment, Ete's group assaulted the injured fighter with brutal desperation. He fell to two more blades.
Hoofbeats echoed outside. "City guard's coming! My father'll kill me!" Kait yelled. Both sides broke off. Rogue rose from the mage, snatching his staff, and fled. The mercenaries, knowing only Keevey remained fit to fight, retreated, seething. Rogue's group slipped away too—better to avoid the guard.
From a fourth-floor room, Ophirock watched them vanish with keen interest.
"That mage… fascinating," the Golden Lion mused.
"Elexis, doesn't he remind you… somehow… of you?"
"The fat one? A disgrace to all nobles and mages." The icy woman's verdict sealed Rogue's fate.
"Heh. Very well. Richard, find out about this fat boy." One guard bowed, melting into shadow.