"I won't repeat myself," Mirac said, his voice low but sharp. "Apologize and leave. Now."
Joren narrowed his eyes, his grin twisting into a defiant sneer.
"Tsk! You know what, kid? You've really pissed me off!" he exclaimed, his voice dripping with mockery as the scornful grin twisted into a snarl of anger. "I gave you a chance, but you didn't want to take it. Usually, I don't go after the younger ones, especially not the disabled, but someone needs to teach you your place!"
With that said, Joren's right hand shot toward the hilt of his sword, his fingers closing firmly around the ornate grip.
But Mirac was faster.
With a lightning-fast motion, his left foot snapped upward, striking the hilt of Joren's sword and forcing it down into the scabbard, locking it in place.
The metal let out a grating screech, and Joren, caught off guard, lost his balance for a moment, his eyes wide with shock.
'What the-?!'
Before Joren could react, Mirac moved again like a bolt of lightning.
With a single, swift step, he closed the distance between them.
His lone right arm shot forward: his elbow slammed hard into Joren's stomach, doubling him over with a muffled grunt, despite the armor protecting him.
Without giving him time to recover, Mirac seized Joren's cloak with an iron grip and, with a fluid motion, hurled him into the center of the hall.
Joren flew a couple of meters, landing with a dull thud of steel on the wooden floor.
He rolled a few times, gasping for breath as he struggled to stand, his face contorted with rage and humiliation.
The hall, already attentive, erupted into a chorus of shouts and laughter.
Adventurers at nearby tables stood, pounding their fists on the wood and yelling encouragements.
"You've got this, masked kid!" shouted a mercenary.
"Show him who's boss!" added another, spilling beer on himself in excitement.
The atmosphere transformed into that of an arena, with the onlookers reveling in the brawl like a spectacle.
Blake, meanwhile, half-standing and half-sitting as if torn between leaping up or staying put, watched Mirac with concern—one hand gripping the edge of the table, the other on his chair, ready to push it back.
"Ananya, we have to do something!" he exclaimed, nearly shouting to be heard over the clamor of the hall. "He could get hurt!"
But Carmen remained unfazed, seated at her spot, calmly filling out registration forms as if nothing was happening around her.
"Relax," she said finally, without looking up from her papers. "He'll handle it on his own…"
Meanwhile, the adventurers continued to cheer, their voices echoing through the hall.
"J-Joren!" shouted one of his two companions, a burly young man with a shaved head and a short sword in hand.
He spun around sharply toward the masked boy, his face twisted with rage.
"How dare you, you ugly bastard?! I'll show you now!"
Without a second thought, he lunged at Mirac, raising his blade to deliver a downward strike.
Mirac, however, was ready.
With a fluid motion, he ducked, dodging the strike. The short sword whistled over his head, missing by mere inches.
Using the momentum, Mirac spun gracefully on his heel.
With a precise kick, he struck the shaved-head boy's wrist, forcing him to lose his grip on the sword, which clattered to the ground a few steps away—a metallic clang muffled by the crowd's enthusiastic shouts.
Immediately after, Mirac moved swiftly, sliding behind the still-off-balance opponent. Then, he delivered a powerful kick to the boy's back, sending him crashing face-first to the ground.
Only then did the second companion, a lanky man with a scar across his cheek, decide to act. "D-Don't get cocky, kid!"
Shouting this, he drew his longsword from its scabbard and charged at Mirac, aiming a swift thrust at his side.
But Mirac tilted his torso at the last moment, letting the blade graze his side, neither wounding him nor tearing his black shirt.
With a quick flick, Mirac grabbed the attacker's wrist with his right hand and twisted it sharply backward.
The scarred man let out a cry of pain, and his sword slipped from his grip.
Mirac seized the opening to deliver a sharp kick to his stomach, making him stagger and then collapse backward with a thud.
Meanwhile, the shaved-headed boy, though unarmed, didn't give up.
With a roar of rage, he threw himself at Mirac, determined to fight bare-handed.
But Mirac anticipated him: with a swift sidestep, he struck the boy's knee with precision, forcing him to drop to one knee with a groan.
Then, with a well-placed kick to the temple, he knocked him out cold, sending him crumpling to the ground unconscious.
The second companion, struggling to his feet with a sore wrist, hesitated.
Mirac stared at him through his black mask, his silence more menacing than any words.
Then, with a deliberate step, he advanced towards him.
The scarred man stumbled back, tripping over his own feet before falling again, raising his hands in surrender.
"H-Hey, hey, enough! I-I give up!" he stammered, his face pale.
Mirac stopped.
The crowd erupted in laughter and jeers.
"Pathetic!" someone shouted from the tables.
Blake, meanwhile, let out a long sigh of relief as he sank back into his seat.
"It's finally over…" he muttered under his breath.
In complete silence, Mirac's gaze slowly shifted left, landing on Joren, who had just struggled to his feet and was now staring at him with a mix of rage and disbelief.
"D-Damn you…" Joren growled, clenching his fists.
But he made no move to approach.
"Last warning: apologize and leave," Mirac said, his voice devoid of emotion but carrying an authoritative tone that brooked no argument.
Joren, however, wasn't ready to back down.
He straightened, his face twisted with anger, and sneered.
"A-Apologize? Why the hell should I that? I only spoke the truth! That guy's nothing but a weakling! A reject! The scum of the Association!" His gaze shifted to Blake, who stood motionless, eyes fixed ahead and hands clenched on the table. "Heh! But maybe your father already foresaw it! Maybe that's why he left and let you rot alone…"
Blake stiffened.
His fingers quickly tightened into a fierce grip, knuckles whitening from the pressure, while his breath reduced to a tense hiss.
The veins on his neck and the back of his hand pulsed furiously, swollen as if they were about to burst.
Carmen, seated beside him, flinched, her cold eyes widening for a fraction of a second—betraying a flicker of unease…
Mirac flinched too.
At Joren's words, a flash of fury crossed his face—his features twisting beneath the mask.
His hand clenched into a fist, muscles taut like cords ready to snap.
Mirac was about to speak, to let his anger explode, when a deep, authoritative voice cut through the air like a whip:
"WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?!"
Instantly, the shouts and cheers in the hall fell silent.
The adventurers quieted, their eyes fixed on a tall, burly man pushing through the crowd.
He had broad shoulders, a neatly trimmed black beard, and wore imposing steel armor reinforced with protective plates on his shoulders and chest.
A broadsword hung at his side, its hilt worn from years of gripping. His gaze was like iron, hardening the features of his face, while his black eyes burned like embers.
At the sight of the man, cautious murmurs rippled through the adventurers:
"L-Look! That's…"
"Guildmaster Simner Tharion, of the Imperial Phoenix Guild!"
"Y-You're right, it's him!"
"But why is he here at the Association?"
"No idea, but if he came in person, it must be something really important!"
"Damn, his aura's so intense it gives me chills!"
"They say he's strong enough to take down a Dungeon Boss single-handedly!"
"What?! You're joking, right?!"
"Not at all! Guildmaster Simner is a living legend. One of the strongest swordsmen in the entire Kingdom!"
Mirac caught every word but remained unfazed.
He stood his ground, posture straight and confident, showing no sign of hesitation.
Simner pushed through the crowd, his piercing eyes scanning the scene: Joren, still doubled over from the blow, his two companions sprawled on the ground, and Mirac, motionless in the center, his black mask concealing his face.
"What the hell is all this mess, Joren?" Simner thundered.
Joren seemed to shrink under the man's stern gaze. His arrogant attitude vanished in the blink of an eye, replaced by a visible tremble.
"F-Father!" he stammered, approaching Simner with unsteady steps. "W-We were just p-passing by when that kid suddenly attacked us and-!"
"That's not true," Mirac interrupted.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward and positioned himself before Simner, the black mask making him an enigmatic figure.
"Sir," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Your son and his friends insulted my friend. I stood up and asked them to apologize, as was only right. But instead of doing so and resolving the matter peacefully, the three persisted with their arrogant and aggressive behavior, eventually attacking me. At that point, I defended myself from their attacks, without causing any permanent harm to any of them. The adventurers here—who witnessed the scene—can easily confirm this to you."
Hearing this, Simner scanned the crowd surrounding them.
He saw the Adventurers exchange quick glances, nodding among themselves with murmurs and faint gestures of agreement—as if validating the masked boy's words.
Curious to know who it was that his son had mocked, Simner let his gaze drift past the shoulders of the masked boy—the same one Mirac had pointed out while recounting the events.
But when his eyes fell on Blake—sitting with his head down and hands still clenched on the table—a flicker of contempt crossed his face.
"Tsk!" Simner hissed, the sound sharp and cutting.
The Guildmaster of the Imperial Phoenix clenched his jaw.
"Blake…" he growled, the name spat like an insult. "Still hanging around here, huh? How many times have I told you that a weakling like you shouldn't even set foot in a place like this?! And now look at the mess you've caused! Your mere presence sparked all this trouble! But what else could anyone expect from a worthless nobody like you…"
Mirac's eyes widened.
'Huh?!'
In that moment, he felt the anger rising inside him.
'This crap again?!' he thought, as his hand slowly curled into a fist.
His breathing grew short and ragged, the muscles in his neck tensed, ready to snap.
Unable to hold back any longer, Mirac burst out:
"That's enough! Stop it!" he shouted. "I don't know what kind of relationship you and your son have with Blake, but you have no right to treat him like this!"
"You're wrong," Simner interrupted. "I don't know who you are, kid, but you clearly don't know him well enough if you're so eager to defend him. Blake is weak. The weakest of the weak. He doesn't even deserve to be here! People like him are utterly useless. A disgrace! An insult to those who train hard to become stronger! As far as I'm concerned, Blake is nothing but the scum of the Association! And Joren was right to remind him of that…"
Blake stiffened again, his shoulders tensing, his face expressionless.
Mirac felt rage surging within him like a tide, Simner's words echoing in his head.
He opened his mouth, ready to lash out at the Guildmaster with a retort that would shake the hall:
"Who are you to say something like-!" he began, his voice trembling with anger.
But before he could finish, a firm hand rested on his shoulder, stopping him.
The touch was resolute but not hostile.
Mirac spun around, his breath short and his eyes frantically searching for who dared to interrupt him.
'Huh?'
Finally, Mirac saw her: a woman with red hair, standing a step behind him, her face as impassive as ever.
"That's enough, Isaac…" Carmen said, her voice low, almost a whisper.
Mirac clenched his teeth, his heart pounding in his chest.
The black mask hid his expression, but his body betrayed his fury: rigid shoulders, a fist trembling slightly.
"Why?" he hissed, his voice a mix of frustration and disbelief as he looked at her as if challenging her.
But Carmen didn't flinch, her gaze steady and unshaken.
There was no time for further protests.
Simner, with a dismissive gesture, turned away, his leather armor creaking slightly and his red cloak fluttering as he moved.
"Tsk! Let's not waste any more time, Joren…" he muttered, his tone laced with disdain, as if the scene before him didn't deserve another second of his attention.
"Y-Yes, Father!" Joren stammered, his face still flushed with humiliation.
He straightened with effort, trying to salvage a shred of dignity, but the trembling in his hands betrayed him.
Meanwhile, the scarred boy, panting, had gotten up and was helping his unconscious shaved-head companion to his feet.
He supported him by the arm, almost dragging him, his face twisting with the effort of carrying the limp body.
Together, the four—Simner leading, followed by Joren and the two battered lackeys—pushed through the crowd, disappearing beyond the oak door without looking back.
The hall, which moments before had been an arena of shouts and cheers, buzzed back to life as if nothing had happened.
Adventurers resumed their conversations, laughter erupted again, and beer mugs clinked against wooden tables.
Parchments were unrolled, missions discussed, and the chaos of the Association's Central Headquarters swallowed the drama like a tide erasing footprints in the sand.
Only a few furtive glances and hushed whispers hinted at the memory of the brawl.
Mirac, however, was still rooted to the spot, his breathing heavy, anger pounding in his temples.
With a sharp, almost violent motion, he shook Carmen's hand off his shoulder, the movement so sudden it made her flinch.
Then, Mirac turned to face her.
The black mask muffled his voice, but it couldn't hide the anger that made it tremble.
"Why did you let them go?" he snapped, his words firing like bullets. "They didn't deserve to walk away like nothing happened!"
Carmen stared at him for a few seconds, rigid, composed, but unyielding.
Her gaze didn't waver, cold and piercing, as if analyzing every detail of Mirac, from the tension in his muscles to the tone of his voice.
"The situation was about to spiral out of control," Carmen replied, her tone calm but sharp. "If you'd gone further, things would only have gotten worse. I had to step in."
Mirac clenched his fist, his knuckles whitening under the pressure.
"You had to step in?" he retorted, his voice rising despite his effort to stay calm. "Yeah, you're right… but you should've done it much earlier—to help me, not to stop me! Do you even realize what just happened? They insulted Blake, humiliated him in front of everyone! You were there, Ananya… You heard what they said, but you didn't lift a finger! They called him the worst things imaginable: 'The Scum of the Association,' 'The Weakest of the Weak'—and you're telling me to let it go? No, absolutely not! As far as I'm concerned, you should've helped me make them swallow those words, not stop me like I was the one in the wrong!"
Carmen tilted her head slightly, an almost imperceptible gesture that betrayed her attention.
"Do you really think an apology would've changed anything?" she asked, her tone flat. "Even if they had apologized today, their opinion of Blake wouldn't have changed in the slightest. Tomorrow, next week, a month from now… they'd treat him exactly the same way. Because that kind of contempt is deeply rooted in them: it's part of who they are. Forcing them to say 'sorry' won't change what they think of him or what they'll say the next time they see him. Trust me: unfortunately, people don't change just because of a few words in a matter of minutes…"
Mirac opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out.
Carmen's words were like a wall, solid and unassailable.
Every counterargument he could think of crumbled against her cold logic.
"But…" he began, his voice breaking, "But it's not fair! We can't just… let them win like that…"
Carmen fixed him with a long stare, her dark eyes seeming to pierce through him.
"It's not about winning or losing," she said finally, her voice slightly softer, yet still firm. "It's about choosing the battles that truly matter. And trying to reason with people who reject common sense, who've already chosen to ignore logic and empathy… that's not one of them. It's a battle lost from the start, a clash that leads nowhere but to more frustration. It's not worth your time or your anger. In fact, it's completely pointless to try talking to someone who isn't even willing to listen to you…"
Mirac fell silent, his breathing slowing but his chest still tight with a tangle of rage and helplessness.
He couldn't find the words to retort, not because he didn't want to, but because, deep down, he knew Carmen was right.
The truth of her words was a weight that crushed him, leaving him without a foothold.
"Tsk! Damn it!" Mirac finally snapped, turning his head with an irritated jerk.
Without another word, he spun around—tension still coiled in his body—and headed toward the table where Blake was still sitting, motionless, as if the world had just come crashing down on him.
He hadn't looked up once since Simner's arrival, his hands still clenched into fists on the table.
The morning light filtered through the window, but it didn't seem to reach his eyes, lost in a shadow of pain, shame, and above all, anger…
Mirac reached him and stopped by his side.
"Who the hell were those guys?" he asked, his eyes drifting toward the exit—as if he wanted to chase them down even after they'd left.
Blake hesitated, his breath catching for a moment.
"The man named Simner is the head of the Tharion family, a noble family of adventurers and warriors…" Blake replied. "He's also the Guildmaster of one of the most powerful and prestigious guilds in the Kingdom of Ardorya: the Imperial Phoenix Guild. Joren is his son… And the other two were his lackeys: Thobias and Mol."
He lowered his gaze for a moment, as if those names stirred unwelcome memories.
"When I was little, they used to torment me nonstop—nothing but teasing me all the time. But five years ago, they all left together for Sivanyr, the prestigious Swordmasters' Academy of our kingdom. Since then, I haven't seen any of them in my life. And to be honest, I couldn't have felt more relieved about that. But apparently… they're back."
Mirac listened to Blake's words, the boy's cracked tone still betraying the weight of the humiliation he had just endured.
He stayed silent for a moment, his right fist clenching and relaxing, as if trying to contain his frustration.
"I see…" Mirac murmured finally. "So this isn't the first time they've treated you like this…"
Blake shook his head. "Unfortunately, no…"
Mirac watched him in silence for a few seconds.
He said nothing, but slowly sat beside him and placed a hand on Blake's shoulder, a firm but gentle gesture.
"Listen to me, Blake: don't pay attention to those guys!" Mirac said. "Don't let their pointless bullshit bring you down or influence you! Otherwise, they'll have succeeded in their goal: to demoralize you! So, don't let anyone walk all over you! Never, ever! Especially arrogant jerks like them, got it?"
Blake didn't respond right away.
His hands trembled faintly, but not out of fear…
Rather, it seemed like a reaction to everything he'd bottled up inside…
But then, the trembling in his hands calmed, and slowly Blake looked to his right—toward Mirac.
"Yeah. I'll keep that in mind…" Blake murmured, managing a faint smile, though a shadow of uncertainty still lingered in his gaze. "Thanks, Isaac…"
Mirac tilted his head slightly, and though the mask hid his face, the warmth of his smile was evident in his tone as he replied:
"No problem…" he said, giving Blake's shoulder a light squeeze before pulling his hand back.
At that moment, Carmen joined them and sat silently across from them.
Afterwards, she resumed flipping through the papers on the wooden clipboard, the rustling of the pages blending with the chatter of the Adventurers in the hall.
Mirac and Carmen then quietly resumed filling out the registration forms, their pens moving with determination.
'Damn it!' Blake thought, his heart still heavy as his gaze drifted beyond the window—toward the clear sky that felt so far from his thoughts. 'That was really close…'
But unbeknownst to everyone, the red-haired woman's eyes weren't really fixed on the paper.
In fact, they were carefully glancing at Blake, scrutinizing him with curiosity without him noticing.
'Was it just my imagination, or…?'
* * *
Mirac and Carmen worked in silence, their pens scratching against the registration forms.
The hall around them pulsed with life, with adventurers laughing, discussing missions, and slamming beer mugs on tables.
Occasionally, furtive glances landed on them, but no one dared approach or say a word after the clash with Joren and his lackeys.
After a couple of minutes, Mirac finished his registration form first, setting his pen down with a decisive motion.
He quickly flipped through the pages, checking the information he'd entered:
Name and Surname: Isaac Belgram
Date of Birth: July 12, 1407
Place of Birth: Magam, Kingdom of Ardorya
Race: Human
Magical Nature: Incompatible
Sintony: None
Mana Core: Yes
Mana Core Layers: 2
Mana Core Orbits: 19
Class: Swordsman
Previous Experience: None
Health Conditions: Excellent
Language Skills: Continental Language, Elven Language, Mermaid Language
Letter of Recommendation: None
Obviously, Mirac had lied about almost everything, except for his previous experience, his swordsman class—since it reflected his true skill—his Mana Core's condition, and his language skills.
In recent years, Mirac had indeed learned the Elven language and the language of the Mermaids because, as a Prince, he was required to learn the languages of neighboring kingdoms as part of his formal education.
After inspecting his personal information for the last time, Mirac's gaze shifted toward Carmen, who was still scribbling with her usual precision.
Curious as always, Mirac cast a furtive glance at the red-haired woman's sheet, reading its contents without his companions noticing.
Name and Surname: Ananya Shak
Date of Birth: November 17, 1383
Place of Birth: Plinkel, Kingdom of Ardorya
Race: Human
Magical Nature: Incompatible
Sintony: None
Mana Core: Yes
Mana Core Layers: 4
Mana Core Orbits: 12
Class: Swordsman
Previous Experience: None
Health Conditions: Excellent
Language Skills: Continental Language
Letter of Recommendation: None
'Heh!' A corner of Mirac's mouth curved beneath his mask. 'How much of this information is actually reliable? Knowing her, I wouldn't be surprised to find out it's all fake! Well, except for the "Swordsman Class," of course… Her date of birth, on the other hand, is only half correct: in fact, if I do a quick calculation using the precise information I have about her age thanks to my powers, I find out she wasn't born on November 17th but on May 8th, 1383. There's no doubt about that!'
Carmen—or rather Ananya Shak, as she had registered—finished the last line of her enrollment form and set her pen down on the table.
Her dark eyes lifted, meeting Mirac's masked gaze for a moment.
No words were needed: they were finally ready!
Blake stood first, his movement a bit stiff, as if still shaking off the weight of Simner and Joren's words.
"L-Let's go," he murmured, heading toward the line of Adventurers in front of Mrs. Rose's counter.
Mirac and Carmen followed him with a nod.
After a few minutes of waiting, it was finally their turn.
Mrs. Rose greeted them with her usual professional smile, though her eyes betrayed a certain curiosity after the earlier commotion.
"It's your first day and you've already made yourself known, kid," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "But don't worry: brawls are a daily occurrence here, especially among those who frequent our tavern in the basement. Obviously, unauthorized fights are strictly prohibited within the Association, but that doesn't change the fact that every citizen of the Kingdom has the full right to defend their own safety. And since you caused no harm to either the Association or the aggressors, no disciplinary action will be taken against you. So you can rest easy…"
Mirac gave a sheepish chuckle, more out of embarrassment than amusement, then murmured: "Thank you."
Ms. Rose returned a more genuine smile, then shifted to her practical tone:
"You're welcome. Now… forms and documents, please."
Mirac and Carmen handed over their papers, along with their Temporary Residence Permits.
Blake, already officially registered with the Association, stayed a step back, pulling a crumpled map from his pocket, marked with the locations of infested areas and Dungeons he planned to report.
Ms. Rose quickly flipped through the forms of the masked boy and the red-haired woman, checking signatures and information.
"Isaac Belgram… Ananya Shak…" she murmured to herself, as if memorizing the names.
With a stamp and a quick scribble, she approved the documents, detached the registration forms from the clipboard, and handed them back to their respective owners.
Then, Ms. Rose rummaged in a drawer under her counter and pulled out two metal badges, each engraved with a number.
"Here are your badges," she said, handing them over. "Ms. Shak, you're number 30. Mr. Belgram, number 31."
Mirac took his badge and studied it for a moment, turning it slowly in his fingers.
The engraved number gleamed under the sunlight streaming through the hall's large windows, glinting like a spark of metal.
Carmen accepted hers with a curt nod, saying nothing.
Then, almost in unison, both pinned the badges to their shirts like pins.
"Head to Room 03," Ms. Rose continued, pointing to a corridor on her right. "You'll find the other candidates there. As soon as you arrive, silently hand your registration forms to the instructor. Remember, speaking is strictly prohibited until the written test is over. Also, be aware that the exam will begin promptly at 9 o'clock."
Carmen nodded. "Understood. Thank you for your time," she said, in her usual calm and measured tone.
Mirac gave a brief nod, his silence more eloquent than words.
"Just doing my job," Rose replied.
Then her eyes landed on Blake.
"Oh right! You wanted to report some Dungeons, didn't you?"
Blake nodded, stepping forward towards the counter.
"Y-Yes, exactly," he stammered. "I spotted a few during this week's exploration…"
Ms. Rose nodded, offering an approving smile.
"Very well. You can stay here with me for the details, then."
At that moment, before turning and heading toward the place Ms. Rose had indicated, Mirac tucked his registration form under the armpit of his amputated arm, freeing his right hand, which he placed firmly and reassuringly on Blake's shoulder.
"We'll go then. But we'll see each other later if you want," he said, his voice low but comforting.
Blake managed a half-smile. "Y-Yeah, sure! I'll come by later to watch your Physical Test! But for now… good luck with the written one!"
Mirac smiled. "Thanks, Blake."
Without another word, Isaac and Ananya headed toward the corridor Ms. Rose had indicated.
The noise of the hall faded as they walked away, replaced by the sound of their footsteps on the stone floor.
In no time, the two reached Room 03, a solid wooden door with a bronze plate displaying the number.
A parchment sign, pinned to the door with a rusty tack, hung there.
The words, written in bold black ink, read:
NOTICE TO ALL CANDIDATES
Enter silently. Hand your registration forms to the instructor near the desk without speaking. Communication is strictly prohibited until the written test is complete. Any violation of the rules will result in the candidate's immediate expulsion.
Mirac read the notice, an eyebrow arching under his black mask.
"They're pretty strict, huh?" he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Carmen.
The red-haired woman said nothing.
With a decisive motion, she opened the door, careful not to let it creak.
Mirac followed her, their footsteps muffled as they entered the room, ready to face the first part of the Exam: the Written Test.