Chapter 8: “The Early Dog Gets the Bone”

Dawn’s early gentle light shone across the sky above the Reingarde estate, but the man in the training area had already been awake for hours. He stood alone in the crisp morning air at the center of an expansive training ground near the Reingarde mansion. The grounds were impressively equipped—sand pits for sparring, targets for archery, racks upon racks of practice weapons, steel and wooden alike, prepped for the Miss’s usage. Normally, the sheer luxury of such a facility might have awed him. But this morning, the man’s stomach was doing flips for an entirely different reason.

At this moment, he was cursing his own stupidity. As he surveyed the training area once again, he ran his callused hand through his short, dark hair and let out a long sigh. ‘Why was I such an idiot?’ he berated himself for the hundredth time since finding out a week ago.

He was no stranger to combat or pressure. In fact, for most of his forty-odd years, fighting had been his life. When the mysterious Tower appeared in the world some years ago, offering adventurers and warriors like himself the promise of power and glory, he had been one of the first to brave its challenges. A life of soldiering and mercenary work had hardened him, and the Tower’s challenges had honed him further. Floor by floor, battle by battle, he had carved out a respectable name for himself within the otherworldly space.

He mastered every weapon he could get his hands on: blade, axe, spear… continuously adapting to the ever-shifting trials of the Tower. His prowess was eventually recognized with a moniker bestowed by the Tower itself: “The Weapons Master.”

It was a grand title, perhaps too grand for a common-born man with no surname, but he had to admit he’d earned it through blood, sweat, and tears. However, even with the Tower’s grace on him, he still knew there were still weapons he hadn’t wielded yet.

Adventurers who crossed paths with him spoke his title with respect. Some sought to challenge him, others to learn from him. He had always taken such praise in stride, neither overly proud nor falsely humble.

At the core of himself, he was simply someone who loved the art of combat.

Yet, for all his achievements, he had reached a point where climbing further up the Tower was no longer an option. Life beyond the Tower walls had caught up to him; a joyous and yet inconvenient human connection. He had fallen in love with a kind-hearted woman who had nursed him back to health after a particularly brutal expedition. They married, and soon, his wife became pregnant with their first child. He could still vividly recall the moment she told him. It filled him with such happiness, and a thump of terror beat in his heart.

How could he possibly keep risking his life in the Tower now, with a family depending on him?

The answer was simple. He couldn’t. The decision to stop climbing had been easy when he saw his wife’s hopeful eyes and imagined a little one with her smile. Providing for them, however, was an entirely new challenge. The fortune he’d amassed from his Tower conquests had dwindled rapidly.

In truth, he had sunk most of his earnings right back into his adventures. Those investments now gathered dust in the attic of his modest home.

A formidable personal armory to be sure, but not the sort of liquid wealth one could quickly use to buy a crib, or to keep food on the table for years to come.

One desperate night, he had resolved to sell off some of his prized gear. It felt like slicing off pieces of his soul, but he was willing to do it for his family. When he told this plan to his wife, however, she burst into tears and clung to him, adamantly refusing.

“Absolutely not,” she’d hiccup between sobs. “I won’t let you throw away your dreams for us. I already feel ashamed that you gave up climbing the Tower because of me… please, don’t sell your weapons. Don’t sell your dreams.”

He had held her tight and assured her that she was worth any sacrifice, that she and the baby were his new dream. But she remained inconsolable at the thought of him abandoning the life he loved and pawning off the very weapons that symbolized it. In the end, she made him promise not to part with anything. They would find another way.

And so, he did the only thing he could think of: he sought employment. A former Tower climber with a fearsome title made for quite the résumé, yet he had little idea how to be anything other than a warrior.

Thankfully, the Guild sometimes connected veterans like him to mercenary contracts or training positions. When word went out that a high noble house was seeking a combat instructor for their heir, he had leapt at the opportunity. A teaching job was far safer than any mercenary job, and the pay being offered was astonishing, more gold than he’d ever earned during his time at the Tower.

He remembered the exact moment he’d signed the contract, barely reading the details in his excitement. Finally, a stroke of luck! This one job could secure his family’s future for decades if he was careful. He had practically run home, giddy with the good news.

But his elation had evaporated as soon as he told his wife the name of his new employer.

“The Duke of Reingarde’s daughter?” she repeated in a fearful voice. The look on her face was alarm enough to make his stomach lurch. That was when he learned of Lady Celestia Von Reingarde’s fearsome reputation.

When it came to noble gossip, he was technically living under a rock. He spent his days training or busy with work, so he’d only been vaguely aware that House Reingarde even had a daughter, let alone any details about her. His wife, however, had heard plenty from other merchant families and servants in town.

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According to rumors, Lady Celestia was a despicable noblewoman. The quintessential spoiled lady. They said she flaunted her family’s wealth and influence without regard for anyone beneath her station. What was even worse was that she was allegedly cruel.

His wife had heard tales about how Lady Celestia spat on commoners in the street for offending her view; how she publicly slapped her maids for the slightest mistakes; how some even murmured that in private, she dealt out physical punishments to her unfortunate attendants. There were stories of broken heirlooms tossed at servants’ heads in fits of rage, of young ladies driven to tears by Celestia’s sharp tongue at social gatherings.