To my right opened the dining hall, a spacious area now buzzing with activity. Several sturdy tables, flanked by backless benches, hosted diverse groups sharing not only food but also stories and camaraderie. I searched for Reinhardt among the crowd but didn't find him; he was likely on the third floor with the other children, deliberately avoiding the chaos of the dining hall.
The dining hall walls were lined with cream-colored square tiles, many cracked or missing, revealing the damp stone beneath. Overcrowded shelves lined the walls, holding black iron pots with worn handles, skillets with chipped grips, and jars of spices clumsily labeled with irregular handwriting. The aroma permeating the air was an intoxicating blend of spiced curry, freshly baked bread, and pungent spices, interwoven with the smell of smoke escaping from the adjacent kitchen.
The polished but uneven stone floor creaked beneath my feet as I moved through the space. In a corner, a wooden sink with a metallic faucet dripped rhythmically, forming a small puddle that reflected the diffuse light filtering through a high window of dirty glass. That window, strategically placed, allowed daylight to penetrate in dusty beams, illuminating specks dancing in the air like tiny wandering stars.
I approached the mission board, analyzing each parchment with meticulous care, searching for a task that could provide the funds necessary for our survival.
—That pudding you hid was delicious! —rang a mocking voice that cut through my thoughts like a sharp knife.
—And it'll be your last meal! —came a furious shout, followed by the sharp whistle of fiery swords slicing through the air with a searing crackle.
I glanced sideways at the second boy dodging the flames with feline agility, performing leaps and flips with extraordinary grace while the fire left brilliant trails in its wake.
It was the first time I had witnessed such a manifestation of power with my own eyes, not through theoretical parchments or secondhand tales. This wasn't conventional magic but something more primal and visceral. Those flaming swords leaving a trail of heat and light represented a sublime combat skill, a mystical art that fused body and element into a potentially lethal dance.
The Path of the Knights harbored techniques rooted in mystical arts. It granted the Enlightened the unique ability to channel elements to amplify their physical capabilities to superhuman levels. They were masters at wielding elemental arts, combining extraordinary strength with the ability to detect and exploit others' weaknesses with almost instinctive precision.
The defender, of a slimmer and more elegant build, sported spiky black hair with rebellious tips and piercing cerulean blue eyes. With cold analytical detachment, I had to admit he possessed conventionally attractive features that likely earned him favors among those who valued such superficial traits. He wore a sleeveless black vest edged with golden threads, open to reveal a toned torso clearly honed through countless hours of training.
A black cloth with golden edges descended from his waist to his knees, secured by a brown leather belt with an oval silver buckle that gleamed with each swift movement he made. His white pants ended just above the knees, adorned with black ribbons tied at the sides. A thick black wristband wrapped around his left wrist, and open sandals completed his carefree yet evidently calculated look.
—Revenge for my pudding! —The war cry was followed by a small explosion that shook part of the guild's infrastructure. I quickly assessed the damage and determined that, fortunately, it wasn't severe.
—Will you shut up, Silvus? You're going to make my headache worse —Mica's complaint sliced through the air like a whip as she shot a scathing glare at the aggressor.
—Shut up, useless woman —he retorted with disdain.
—¿What did you say?!
Silvus —the one wielding the fiery swords— had green eyes beneath unruly ash-gray hair. A rebellious fringe rose from the center of his head, while the rest was partially contained by a black headband that proudly displayed the guild's golden insignia: a stylized dragon that seemed to watch me with knowing eyes. At the back of the headband stood out a four-pointed red star, accompanied by three smaller dots indicating his rank in Tartaros' hierarchy.
His attire consisted of a fitted black shirt that revealed his developed musculature through a central opening. Over it, he wore a black tunic adorned with golden patterns that fell elegantly over his left shoulder, secured by a red cord tied with apparent carelessness around his neck. His high-waisted black pants tucked into sturdy knee-high boots, cinched by a wide, double-pointed brown belt whose worn leather suggested countless battles.
—Enough already! Damn brats! —interrupted a feminine voice.
I turned my head and paused, captivated by a girl whose beauty was as dazzling as her evident fiery temperament. Her long, wavy hair was tied into a ponytail that fell in cascades of vivid red, as if the flames of a blazing sunset had spilled over her shoulders, each strand glowing with a radiance that evoked the fire of a distant beacon. Her gray eyes were large and expressive, framed by thin, arched eyebrows that cast subtle shadows over her flawless porcelain skin. Her lips, a pale pink, curved into a delicate line that brooked no argument.
She wore a white blouse with long, wide sleeves, its cuffs adorned with black ribbons that hung playfully, leaving her shoulders exposed in an asymmetrical design that highlighted the delicacy of her collarbone. Over this blouse, she sported a fitted black corset, decorated with red details that accentuated her slender silhouette, cinched by laces that added a gothic and sophisticated touch to her outfit. The skirt, also black, fell in soft pleats just above her knees, with ruffled edges that danced lightly with the movement of her legs, clad in dark stockings that shimmered with a subtle sheen under the dim light, completing her figure with an enigmatic and powerful air.
The girl approached the contenders and, without a word, firmly grabbed both their ears with a swift and precise movement that revealed years of practice in such discipline. She held them like an exasperated mother with her unruly children, though her age didn't seem much greater than that of her victims.
As a man, I couldn't help but appreciate her undeniable beauty. However, it was evident that she possessed a temperament any sensible person would prudently steer clear of.