Chapter 265: The Descent of the Holy Sword (5)

“Well, I did not lose,” Ketal said, as if he were commenting on the weather.

Cretein drew in a tight breath and swallowed it before it could become a sound. He had heard the reports that Ketal had faced Materia and prevailed. Cretein himself stood high among the Transcendents, the sort of knight who could walk into a court anywhere on the continent and never bow his head out of fear. What Ketal had done belonged on a different ledge entirely. The difference felt less like a gap and more like the edge of a cliff.

“Thank you for coming here,” Cretein said, forcing the astonishment out of his voice and replacing it with formal gratitude.

“I am enjoying myself, so that is enough,” Ketal replied, the corner of his mouth lifting in a calm smile. He spun the gold pass once between his fingers and glanced at it. “By the way, mine is a golden pass. Is there a reason for that?”

“There is,” Cretein answered. “It sits far above the silver pass. We give a golden pass only to those whom the entire holy land must honor with every courtesy. You receive one if you are a Hero, or if your influence approaches that weight.”

“Then I suppose I should accept it,” Ketal said.

“I believe that for you, a golden pass is proper,” Cretein said with conviction. “Please, come with me.”

He led the way into the deeper quarter of the holy land, a district closed to the crowds outside. They passed through a quiet garden and entered a large building whose doors opened without a squeak and closed with the soft certainty of well-made things.

“This will be your place,” Cretein said.

Ketal’s eyes brightened. The building did not impress by size alone; inside, the rooms unfolded like a small town that had been folded into a single structure. There were lounges where the light fell like warm water, reading rooms that carried the scent of old paper and polished wood, a bathing hall tiled in soft stone where steam drifted lazily, a practice hall with mats and dummies, and kitchens that smelled faintly of herbs and clean heat.

Every detail felt several steps finer than what lay outside. The whole had the air of a luxury inn translated into the language of a holy place.

“Everything here is free,” Cretein said in a lower voice, the way a host speaks when sharing a courtesy not everyone receives. “Please treat it as your own.”

“If the company of others is uncomfortable, we can arrange a private suite,” he added.

“This will do,” Ketal said. “Thank you.”

“Then I will come back in a few days,” Cretein replied, bowing again with the careful respect he had maintained since the gate.

Ketal walked the halls with an easy, curious stride. Outside, the streets overflowed with people; even walking had become an effort. Here, no more than a dozen figures moved with the unhurried step of those used to carrying their weight. Only those of Advanced or higher were allowed beyond the threshold, which explained the quiet.

How should I pass the time

, Ketal wondered. The thought had not settled before a doorway caught his eye.

𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

It was a bar. It was not the noisy sort where rough spirits came in chipped mugs, but a polished room with a long counter of dark wood, glassware that caught the light, and rows of bottles arrayed like an orderly army. A faint citrus note hung above the clean smell of alcohol.

A cocktail bar, perhaps

, he wondered. Ketal felt the small, boyish spark of interest that always came when something unexpected appeared in a familiar place.

What did a cocktail taste like in a land of fantasy?

He stepped inside. The bartender met him at the door and guided him to a seat with the wordless ease of someone who had done this a thousand times. A menu slid into Ketal’s hands as if it had always belonged there. He skimmed the list; every name was unfamiliar and pleasantly so. He smiled without meaning to and began to weigh what to try first.

“Hello,” a voice said, warm and friendly without being forward.

Ketal turned. He had felt someone approaching, so the greeting did not startle him. The face did, if only because it was a familiar one.

“Pasika,” he said, and laughed. “We meet again!”

“So we do,” Pasika replied with a grin that belonged on a festival poster. “I see you made it into the inner quarter.”

From the way he had measured Ketal earlier, Pasika had likely judged his Myst at roughly Advanced. To see him here was no surprise.

“Shall we sit together?” Pasika offered. “We never finished our last conversation.”

“That sounds good,” Ketal said.

He shifted to make room. Pasika slid into the seat and wore a thoughtful smile, the look of a man who had decided something and was already enjoying the decision.

***

On the continent stood the Kingdom of Peridoan, a great power whose strength matched Denian’s. No neighbor treated it lightly. Its royal line had weathered centuries and still held steady.

Pasika was Peridoan’s first prince.

He had the kind of beauty that poets made a living from. In the salons of the capital and the gardens of the nobles, women spoke of him in tones reserved for music and rare flowers. The face would have been enough, but he matched it with clean manners and a habit of consideration that went beyond performance.

He was not a painting propped up on a throne. He had climbed, while still young, into the upper level of the Advanced class. Those who watched him said he would cross into the Transcendent and one day stand on the ground where Heroes walked.

He was the pride of the royal house and the darling of the people. In short, he looked like the main protagonist who had stepped out of a storybook. When he set out for the holy land, the road murmured with the same thought: if anyone were to draw the Holy Sword, surely it would be him.

However, he had one unusual hobby. He liked to hide who he was, make friends as an ordinary man, and at the right moment lift the mask and watch their eyes widen. The shock gave him a thrill he could not get anywhere else. It was not a crime, and he did not do harm with it, yet it was not a pastime a prince could claim in the light. His father had warned him often to put it away.

However, his father’s restraint had limits. When Pasika left his kingdom, he decided to enjoy himself. He looked for a person who would be fun to surprise. That was when he saw a barbarian outside the holy land.

At first, the sight made him blink. Barbarians disliked the gods; to find one at a holy place felt like a contradiction. Then reason took over. If the man was here, he was not a typical barbarian.

That made him a good target. Pasika approached Ketal with that intention nested behind his polite smile.

He narrowed his eyes and weighed what he could sense. The Myst he felt from Ketal sat at about an Advanced level. Their earlier talk had confirmed that Ketal did not claim a prominent background. Two chance meetings, carefully staged, had been enough to build a friendly acquaintance.

That should be enough,

Pasika thought. He lifted a hand and called the bartender with an easy wave. “Since this is our second meeting, let me buy the drinks.”

“Isn't everything here free?” Ketal asked him without irony.

“Feelings matter,” Pasika said. “Allow me.”

“That is fair,” Ketal replied, smiling.

“Bartender, two Retini,” Pasika ordered.

“Retini?” Ketal repeated. He tilted his head a fraction, curious.

Pasika’s grin said he had expected exactly that. “Try it.”

The bartender set two clear drinks on the bar. Ketal lifted his glass, let the scent touch his nose, and took a measured sip.

“Oh,” he said softly.

The expression that crossed his face pleased Pasika more than it should have. He imagined Ketal tasting the difference between rough spirits and a balanced drink, finding nuance where there was usually only heat.

However, the truth did not match the picture in Pasika’s head.

This is a martini,

Ketal thought. He had drunk it on Earth.

Ketal realized wheat and barley existed in this fantasy world. If the raw materials matched, it was not strange to find the same spirits and the same recipes. He took another sip and let the familiarity settle into the strangeness of the moment.

“It is good,” he said.

“Oh. Yes. Of course,” Pasika replied, thrown off by the calm delivery. He had expected more wonder.

He did not forget his goal. He kept the conversation going, let small stories and light questions weave a comfortable braid, and when he felt the distance had shrunk enough for the moment to land cleanly, a light came into his eyes.

“There is something I have not told you,” he said.

“What is that?” Ketal asked him.

“I usually keep it to myself,” Pasika said. “People become awkward when they find out and put distance between us. After talking to you, I do not think you are like that.”

“Don’t worry,” Ketal said. “Titles do not change how I treat people.”

Pasika smiled. He had heard that sentence more times than he could count. No one had ever kept it once the words came out.

All right then,

Pasika told himself.

Be surprised. Let your eyes widen. Fluster yourself trying to find the right bow.

However, as he was about to reveal his twisted secret, someone interrupted.

“Excuse me,” someone said.

The voice came from behind them. Pasika turned, annoyance flickering across his face before he smoothed it away. A middle-aged man stood there, studying Ketal with the careful attention of someone approaching value.

Who is that

, Pasika wondered.

The face tugged on a half-memory. He followed it and felt his eyes grow. He was the Guildmaster of the Mercenary Guilds.

He oversaw all the mercenaries across the entire continent. Some dismissed mercenaries as hired blades and little more, but the organization itself was not something to take lightly. It was one of the few bodies that truly operated across every border. Their numbers were large, and more than a few among them were Transcendents.

The Guildmaster managed them and gave the orders that moved them. Even the Mercenary King did not ignore the Guildmaster’s words. The man’s personal strength was not the reason for his weight. Influence wrapped around him like a cloak. If one counted that sort of power, he outweighed two or three kings put together.

The Guildmaster approached the table with care.

He must have recognized me,

Pasika thought, a reflex he could not entirely help. He had risen into the upper level of the Advanced while still young and had earned enough fame to be known in the right rooms. He straightened unconsciously, ready to be greeted.

However, the Guildmaster did not look at him. His attention belonged wholly to Ketal.

“Are you Ketal?” the Guildmaster asked Ketal.

“I am,” came the answer.

“Ah. Good. It is an honor to meet you,” the Guildmaster said, and his face brightened in a way that felt genuine rather than practiced. He took Ketal’s hand in both of his. “I am Dreigan, Guildmaster of the Mercenary Guild. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Ah. Yes,” Ketal said, a little taken aback by the energy. “Likewise.”

“It is an honor,” Dreigan repeated, a touch louder, as if he wanted the word to be heard clearly.

Pasika stared, dumbfounded. The Guildmaster’s influence reached into every capital. Even Pasika’s father treated the man with scrupulous courtesy. That same Guildmaster bowed his head to Ketal and spoke as if to a superior.

“Ketal,” Dreigan said carefully. “If it is not rude to ask, could we speak later. You are listed as a mercenary by affiliation, at least in our ledgers. There are matters I would like to confirm.”

“I have not taken mercenary work for some time,” Ketal said. “Are you here to strip my status?”

“Absolutely not,” Dreigan said, tripping over the denial in his haste. “Nothing like that. I only wish to check a few details.”

“That is fine,” Ketal said. “May I come find you later. I am in the middle of a conversation.”

“Yes. I will be waiting,” Dreigan said, and withdrew with the same careful respect he had brought with him.

He did not, at any point, so much as glance at Pasika.

“So,” Ketal said, turning back with honest curiosity. “What were you about to tell me?”

“I, well...,” Pasika said, and the words tangled.

Wait a moment,

Pasika thought, startled. He had planned to reveal that he was the first prince, the man who might one day rule Peridoan, and then enjoy the small shock on Ketal’s face. Instead, someone whose authority dwarfed that of many kings had just bowed his head to Ketal and asked for time like a respectful petitioner.

This is not how the scene is supposed to go,

Pasika thought.

However, he could not just sit in silence. Ketal was looking at him with an open, patient interest that made stalling feel childish.

“So... What I was about to say was...,” Pasika began, and another voice arrived to break the line again.

“Hello,” a woman said.

Both men turned. Pasika saw her and forgot the next breath.

She was beautiful in a way that made the word feel small. Her hair shone like ripe wheat in sunlight, and her eyes were as dark as polished obsidian. The lines of her face were precise without being sharp, the kind of perfection that made sculptors curse quietly. People said Pasika had a face made for paintings. Next to her, he looked ordinary. She wore a simple dress that made dignity look effortless.

She looked at Ketal. “Is your name Ketal?”

“It is,” he said. “And you are?”

Ketal admired her, though not for the reasons that seized Pasika. He had seen the High Elf Queen, demons whose bodies could have been mistaken for art, and the Elder Dragon whose scales caught the light in ways that stilled the breath. Beauty did not surprise him anymore.

However, strength did.

Even though she was hiding her true power, Ketal could not fail to feel the pressure that came off her. It did not shout—it simply existed, settled and anchored, the way a mountain exists. Ketal felt honest awe rise in him like a clean wind.

She’s strong,

Ketal thought.

Among all the humans he had met in this world, she could be the strongest. She had enough presence to make the Mercenary King and the Chief Inquisitor look like mere kids. The holiness around her felt like the quiet heat that comes from standing near a god’s avatar.

At that level of strength, interest lit Ketal’s eyes whether he wanted it to or not.

“I thought so,” the woman said. “I have heard much about you and wanted to meet you.”

She inclined her head and introduced herself with every courtesy that could be fit into a few clean words.

“You who came from elsewhere, Ketal the barbarian,” she said. “I am Helia, Saintess of the Sun God. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”