The Darkness Weaver

The guild wasn't solely about offering paid assignments. Tucked away behind the main building was its renowned training ground—a spacious and well-equipped facility open to guild members who were eager to hone both body and mind. This place boasted all manner of equipment and amenities essential for self-improvement, ensuring that anyone with the drive to become stronger would find a home here.

Surrounded by high walls that granted privacy, the training complex encompassed a large outdoor practice yard, a fighting ring, and several specialized rooms such as an archery range or a swordsmanship hall. Every piece of equipment was crafted from top-quality materials, durable enough to withstand heavy use by both novices and seasoned warriors.

But more than the top-notch facilities, the real pride of this place lay in the roster of expert instructors. Each possessed extensive experience and remarkable skill, ready to pass on their knowledge to anyone hungry to learn. Be it unarmed combat, weapon handling, or survival tactics, these trainers stood prepared to guide the determined.

To utilize the training ground, one had to apply for membership—paying an initial fee along with monthly dues. Members enjoyed special privileges, such as unlimited access to the facilities, the freedom to choose their instructors, and discounts on training gear. Meanwhile, the center also offered individual sessions to non-members, payable per visit, for those who simply wanted a taste of training without long-term commitments. Classes ranged from basic to advanced levels, accommodating a wide variety of backgrounds and proficiencies.

Open every day from early morning until late at night, the training ground was staffed by employees who ensured safety and organization. Because members could schedule practice sessions at their convenience, the place had become a magnet for both aspiring fighters and professionals seeking to maintain their edge. Over time, it turned into a gathering spot for those devoted to self-improvement—further enhancing the guild's reputation.

Indeed, this training yard had become almost as vital to the guild's standing as the work assignments themselves. It drew in customers, forged stronger bonds among the membership, and raised the proficiency of warriors who undertook high-risk jobs. In many ways, it was the lifeblood that sustained the guild's ambitions for quality and excellence.

When Charles entered the training ground, the clash of metal resounded throughout the area. He observed other guild members sparring fiercely amidst bright midmorning sunlight that gleamed against the dirt yard. The atmosphere buzzed with energy and determination.

He approached Morgan, who stood silently beside the sparring ring, dressed head to toe in black. The instructor stared at him with calm, measured eyes.

"I'm here, Master Morgan," Charles greeted politely. "Ready for my daily training."

Morgan regarded him before speaking in a deep, steady voice. "Charles, today won't be our usual session. Instead, I'm testing everything you've learned so far. I want to see just how far you've progressed."

That pronouncement left Charles momentarily taken aback. "I thought we'd just be going through our regular drills. So… what exactly do I have to do?"

"You will duel me," Morgan replied. "During our match, I'll evaluate your skills. Whether you pass or fail depends on how you perform."

Charles hesitated, uncertain. "Are we going to fight for real? I-I'm not sure I'm that good yet…"

"Don't fret," Morgan said with a faint, reassuring smile. "Consider this your chance to unleash your full potential. Just do your best."

Many of the people training nearby had overheard the exchange and started gathering around, eager to watch. Buzzing with excitement, they began to chatter among themselves and even place bets on the outcome.

"This'll be fun! That young guy might win, y'know. Old man Morgan's no spring chicken."

"Don't dismiss the instructor so quickly. Morgan used to be a top fighter back in his day!"

Gossip and excited exclamations filled the yard. Soon, a crowd formed a rough circle, their eyes fixed on the duo preparing to do battle.

Charles and Morgan took positions on the sparring platform, each holding a sword. Their eyes locked with unwavering resolve. They both knew this was more than an ordinary drill—it was a crucial test that would prove Charles's true abilities.

The moment the fight began, Charles sprang forward at high speed. He attacked with fierce, relentless blows, relying on superior strength and acceleration. His aim was to overpower Morgan with sheer force.

Yet Morgan met each strike with firm defense, deftly blending experience and quick reflexes to parry and counter. He sidestepped attacks and knocked them aside with a mixture of calm precision and sudden retaliation, preventing Charles from building momentum.

The onlookers watched in rapt suspense, their collective cheers rising each time the two clashed in a flurry of steel. Some bet on the student's raw energy, others on the master's skill. The lively calls and hollers only intensified the thrill of the duel.

Charles's eyes shone with fierce determination as he gritted his teeth and rained down blow after blow, like a raging storm. He was dead set on toppling the so-called "old man." Morgan, meanwhile, refused to yield an inch. If anything, he seemed to revel in his pupil's fiery passion, as though pleased by Charles's progress.

Half an hour passed, and still they fought with equal ferocity. Metal clashed and resounded through the training ground. Both men were sweating heavily, breaths coming hard and fast. Neither backed down, neither surrendered ground.

At one critical moment, Charles spotted what appeared to be an opening in Morgan's guard. He lunged in hopes of sealing victory with a single finishing thrust—but it was a feint. Seizing the chance, Morgan stamped on the blade to force it into the ground, then lunged forward into Charles's space. Using the hilt of his own sword, he struck Charles forcefully in the stomach.

Agony tore through Charles's midsection. He fell to one knee. Struggling to keep his balance, he choked down the pain, but Morgan didn't let him recover. The older man leapt in, slamming his knee into Charles's chest, knocking him flat on his back. Before Charles could even raise his sword again, Morgan's blade was already leveled at his throat.

Just like that, the match was over. Charles had lost.

Applause rang throughout the entire training yard as onlookers erupted into cheers, commending Morgan for his skill. Yet nobody mocked Charles for his defeat. Rather, they praised him for the surprisingly competitive fight he'd put up, remarking that losing here didn't diminish his worth—if anything, his passion earned him greater respect.

"Heh, I need to reconsider that detective guy. I used to think all he could do was solve puzzles. Guess he's got the moves as well!"

"No kidding. He went toe-to-toe with Morgan. That's no small feat!"

Charles lay there, panting. Morgan offered him a hand, helping him to his feet with a nod of respect. Though Charles was disappointed in his loss, he sensed his mentor's approval.

"You fought well," Morgan told him, eyes gleaming with pride. "You haven't bested me yet, but you've proven that my lessons didn't go to waste."

Charles nodded, touched by the words. "Thank you. I've learned so much from you."

Morgan lifted his chin and folded his arms. "From now on, I've got nothing left to teach you. All you need is more field experience—keep sharpening what you've gained, and I'm sure you'll do fine."

Charles gave a small bow. "Right… So, Master Morgan, how strong am I really at this point?"

The older man paused thoughtfully. "Let's just say you'd have no trouble taking on two or three ordinary men on your own."

With that, the day's final lesson concluded in mutual camaraderie. Both teacher and student left the ring with an unspoken bond, their spar serving as a testament to Charles's improved skills. It also left the spectators marveling at his mix of investigative smarts and capable swordplay.

That afternoon, after wrapping up practice, Charles returned to his home. Weariness from the intense workout spread through his limbs, and one of the first things he did upon arrival was check his mailbox. Yet there was no sign of any message from his friend—no letters at all, not even an official dispatch. Charles could only sigh.

He went inside and freshened up, wiping away the day's sweat and dust with a warm, damp cloth. Though Joseph was an old friend, he was also a noble, so Charles wanted to make sure he looked presentable when they met. Once he was dressed in a tidier outfit, he set off for their usual meeting spot: the Two Flavors Tavern, a place Joseph frequented and where the owner knew him well.

The Two Flavors Tavern was renowned for its food, drinks ranging from cheap and cheerful to top-tier, and its prime location in the city center. A two-story wooden establishment with elegantly carved wooden beams that extended down from the roof to the first-floor balcony, the tavern's wide windows admitted plenty of light and air. Inside, rows of pale lanterns cast a warm glow, creating an inviting atmosphere for conversation.

The ceiling overhead was adorned with swirling vine-like patterns painted in vivid detail, while the walls displayed bright, colorful artwork. The polished teak floors gleamed underfoot, reflecting patrons as they passed. Wooden square tables, each draped with wine-red cloth embroidered in tasteful designs, were arranged neatly around the room.

Customers ranged from commoners to well-off merchants. Some sat in clusters, enjoying lively banter or striking deals, while others listened to the house musicians playing merry tunes. The air brimmed with a sense of relaxation and conviviality.

Charles moved to his usual corner table. A graceful waitress appeared the moment she spotted him, greeting him with a polite, gentle voice.

"Welcome to the Two Flavors Tavern. What can I get for you today?"

"I'd like a pot of hot tea and the large roast platter, please," he answered with a friendly smile. "I haven't eaten anything since morning."

"Certainly! I'll bring that out right away," the waitress replied, disappearing behind a wooden door leading to the kitchen.

Charles sank into a red-brown wooden chair, letting his gaze wander around. The tavern bustled with life—laughter, chatter, and the soft melodies of a musician strumming on stage. It felt worlds apart from the clamor of swords in the training ground.

Soon, his tea and roast arrived, and Charles began devouring mouthfuls of the succulent meat. Nearly half an hour ticked by, and Joseph was nowhere to be seen. Charles started to worry his friend might not show—but then the tavern's entry bell chimed, and a golden-haired man with striking blue eyes walked in. He quickly scanned the room before spotting Charles enthusiastically chewing away at his meal.

Charles still had a bite of roast in his mouth as Joseph approached. Joseph looked every inch the nobleman, moving with confident poise that set him apart from the rest of the patrons. He slid into the seat across from Charles without ceremony, used to the detective's casual manner.

"Sorry I'm late," Joseph said. "I had a sudden meeting come up."

"No worries," Charles replied with a grin, swallowing his food. "You know I'd wait for you."

He dabbed his mouth clean and set aside his utensils. "So, shall we get right to it?" Charles asked, a certain seriousness creeping into his voice as the swirling questions in his head vied for attention. He had plans forming, especially about the fragments of his past that had resurfaced.