Just before dinner, Jean escorts Lleuad to the lobby. Lleuad carries a file under his arm and joins the queue at the reception desk. His turn comes quickly enough.
"I'm here to submit the after-action report for the mission in Clairforet." He places the file on the desk alongside his identification paper.
The clerk looks up at Lleuad. "Of course," he replies, picking up the identification paper for inspection. He is a young tanned man in his twenties, wearing the white Steward uniform, his hazel eyes moving swiftly across the document like someone who has done this countless times and cannot afford to linger.
"Sir Sulienson." He sets the paper down. "Thank you for submitting your report. If you would step to the side — your promotion to Slayer has been approved by the Director. We will update your rank here and now."
Lleuad nods and steps aside.
Several minutes pass before the clerk returns, accompanied by an elderly woman in the same white uniform — olive-skinned, frail, her face deeply lined. Though her stature is slight, her purple eyes possess a piercing clarity that far exceeds that of her younger subordinate.
She places Lleuad's identification paper on the desk. "Sir Sulienson. Your identification has been updated to reflect your new rank. I have also brought your new epaulettes and will be installing them now. Please take a seat." She gestures to a chair not far from the reception desk.
Lleuad retrieves his identification paper, pockets it, and takes the indicated seat.
The elderly clerk steps out from behind the reception desk and into the lobby proper, the new epaulettes in hand — golden crossed swords beneath a golden Grimm head. The young clerk follows a step behind, carrying a small device.
She moves around to Lleuad's back, sets the new epaulettes on the table beside the chair, and receives the device from her colleague. She applies it to the epaulettes currently on Lleuad's shoulders, removing them with the clean efficiency of someone who has performed the procedure many times, then uses it again to fix the new ones in place with equal precision.
Around the lobby, people have paused to watch.
The elderly clerk steps back. "Please rise, sir Sulienson."
Lleuad stands and turns to face her.
"You have now been officially granted the rank of Slayer. May your strength remain continuously in service of the Everwatch, staving off the darkness the Count intends to bring."
She extends her hand. Lleuad takes it.
Applause rises from a good number of the people gathered in the lobby — genuine and warm, if brief. It subsides as quickly as it came, the clerks return to their stations, and the lobby settles back into its ordinary rhythm, the moment folded quietly into the life of the headquarters and carried forward.
— — —
After dinner, Jean escorts Lleuad to one of the courtyards set aside for sparring. Multiple fighting rings are arranged across the space in even rows, with passages running between them. The place is busy — mostly cadets, with a handful of higher-ranked Wardens among them, many standing at the edges of rings watching current bouts and waiting their turn.
As the two move through in search of a quieter ring, they notice one surrounded by a particularly dense crowd and go to investigate. Several people recognize Lleuad and step aside to let them through.
Inside, Baojun is fighting a cadet. He wields a two-handed Jian sword with complete mastery, his attacks flowing from one direction to the next without pause, each one seamlessly chained to the last. The cadet is barely holding. Before long, his guard gives out.
"Ten rounds." Baojun states, his voice as cold and sharp as his blade. "Who's next?"
Lleuad looks around. No one moves. Many eyes drift toward him with an expression that requires no words.
He leans toward Jean. "What are the rules?"
"Ten rounds," Jean answers quietly. "First to land a clean hit takes the round. Any weapon. No Semblances or Aura manipulation."
"Nobody?" Baojun asks. The disappointment in his voice is flat and cold.
Lleuad steps into the ring, draws his sidesword sword, and takes the opposite side of the platform. Baojun's expression shifts — something souring in it.
"Since no one else is volunteering," Lleuad says, with the careful tone of someone trying not to give offence and an awkward smile, "I hope you don't mind."
Baojun says nothing. He simply shifts his weight, settling into a fighting stance. Lleuad takes this as consent and does the same.
A cadet steps forward and signals the start of the first round.
The two approach each other at a measured pace. Lleuad stands sideways, blade extended toward his opponent, using his reach. Baojun stands sideways as well, sword raised above his head in his right hand, left hand forward and pointing.
Once within range, Lleuad commits to a quick thrust, capitalizing on his current reach advantage.
Baojun sidesteps it, steps in, and answers with a swift lateral slash that catches Lleuad's left shoulder cleanly. The blade's impact against his Aura shield produces a sharp, resonant crack and pushes him sideways a step. First round to Baojun.
First round goes to Baojun.
— — —
The second round begins.
Lleuad attacks first — a thrust, this time a feint.
Baojun does not take it. He steps aside and drives his own thrust forward with speed and force enough that Lleuad only just manages to slip past it. Before he can reset, Baojun follows with a horizontal slash that forces a block, then chains immediately into a continuous sequence — each attack flowing into the next, the rhythm of it relentless.
Lleuad holds, steadily calibrating to the pace. But before he finds the space to go on the offensive, a clean thrust to the chest ends it.
Second round goes to Baojun.
The picture is becoming clear. Baojun's Jian has greater reach than Lleuad's Sidesword, and his physical advantages — strength, speed, and the length of his arms — compound it. The only reason Lleuad had held any reach advantage in the opening exchanges was the way Baojun had chosen to hold his sword. This assessment does not discourage Lleuad. Quite the opposite. Something in him sharpens — a quiet kindling of desire to press against something genuinely difficult.
— — —
Third round.
Baojun adjusts his approach, bringing his sword forward to claim the reach advantage outright. He attacks first — a powerful thrust, fast and committed.
Lleuad parries it. Despite the disparity in their frames, he redirects the blade cleanly, controlling its center of mass with precise placement of his own. The onlookers register the moment without quite believing it.
He follows with a thrust of his own. Baojun parries, keeping the blades in contact, and for a few moments the two work against each other in a close bind — each pressing for control, neither holding it for long.
Baojun disengages and falls back, preparing another chained sequence. But the moment he steps back, Lleuad presses forward with a series of thrusts that force him to defend instead.
An opening appears in the sequence. Baojun takes it and interrupts with a powerful downward slash, driving his blade at Lleuad with enough force to end the exchange.
The parry that meets it surprises the entire courtyard. Clean, unhurried, and followed in the same movement by a slash that finds the back of Baojun's hand. The opening had been a feint.
Third round goes to Lleuad.
A slight frown settles on Baojun's face.
— — —
The subsequent rounds extend in length as both fighters grow accustomed to each other's pace and patterns. Baojun takes two more, Lleuad takes one, and two end in draws. With each round the cadets watching become more absorbed — leaning in, exchanging observations, gleaning what they can from the exchanges unfolding before them.
Baojun's frown deepens steadily. Whatever sits beneath it does not surface as anything louder, but it accumulates. Baojun takes two more rounds, Lleuad takes one, and two more end up in a draw.
— — —
Round nine.
Both enter range immediately and begin exchanging blows. Baojun drives with his physical advantage, applying pressure, pushing Lleuad onto the back foot. Lleuad answers by parrying at the precise points on Baojun's blade that give him the greatest mechanical leverage — neutralizing the force rather than meeting it — and finding moments to counter, though none land.
The round runs long. The strikes accelerate as both fighters find their rhythm, neither gaining a decisive edge.
Then Lleuad breaks through a chain of attacks and puts a precise thrust into Baojun's right shoulder.
Round nine goes to Lleuad.
A silence settles over the ring.
"Are you mocking me?" Baojun's voice is quiet and level with suppressed anger.
"That was not my intention," Lleuad replies evenly.
"You are holding back." The words are flat, stated as fact rather than accusation. "Deliberately."
The cadets exchange glances. From everything they had witnessed, both fighters appeared to be giving everything they had.
"Sorry to disappoint," Lleuad replies, his eyes unwavering. "But I am taking this seriously."
A beat of silence. Something shifts in Baojun's expression — not anger breaking through, but something colder settling in. He raises his sword for the final round.
— — —
The cadet signals the start.
Baojun comes immediately — a reckless, full-commitment dash, nothing held back. Lleuad uses the opening to land a clean hit on his side.
Baojun does not stop. He swings with everything he has, the flat of his blade aimed at Lleuad's side and glowing with a cold blue hue as his Aura concentrates at the point of impact.
Lleuad sees it coming. He raises his hand and meets the strike, concentrating his own Aura against it. The impact sends a shockwave rolling across the ring that startles the nearest spectators. Lleuad holds his ground — barely — his feet scraping the edge of the platform.
Baojun presses on. The onslaught that follows is without restraint or strategy — pure aggression, sustained.
Lleuad parries until he finds another opening. He strikes again — Baojun's left hand this time. Baojun answers with a punch to the abdomen, Aura-concentrated, no weapon involved. Lleuad takes it with his own Aura braced at the point of impact. Another shockwave. Lleuad is driven back again.
He lands, finds his footing, and settles into his stance — ready for whatever comes next.
Nothing comes.
The courtyard goes quiet. Lleuad and Baojun hold each other's gaze across the ring, neither moving, neither yielding. Then, without a word, Baojun steps out of the ring and walks out of the courtyard.
The silence holds for a moment after he is gone. Then the cadets find their voices all at once.
"That was extraordinary." One of them says. "I've never seen anyone hold their ground against Baojun like that."
"You truly deserve the rank of Slayer," another agrees.
"Spar with me next!"
"No — me!"
Lleuad looks around at the press of eager faces, momentarily taken aback by the enthusiasm. Then he smiles. "Alright. Let's spar."
— — —
Hours pass. Night settles over the crater. The crowd at the courtyard thins steadily as the evening wears on, until at last there is no one left who has not had a round with Lleuad.
The final sparring partner is Jean. Unlike the others, Lleuad gives him as many rounds as he needs, offering a genuine assessment after every one — pointing out what worked and what didn't.
On his twenty-second attempt, Jean lands a clean hit. A draw.
"Well done." Lleuad's commendation is genuine. "You have real skill with a sword, Jean — better than most of the people I sparred with today. The effort you've put in shows."
"Thank you," Jean replies quietly. Lleuad catches something underneath it — a trace of concern, carefully kept — and says nothing for now.
— — —
Night has settled over the Headquarters. Jean escorts Lleuad back through the quieting hallways toward his quarters, and all the while something has been sitting on him — visible enough that Lleuad has been watching it since they left the courtyard.
The hallway outside Lleuad's door is empty when they reach it. Lleuad pauses before going in.
"Something has been weighing on you since the sparring."
"It's Master Xiezhi." Jean's voice is careful. "He accused you of holding back. But nobody else seemed to notice it. And when I sparred with you —" he pauses, finding the words, "— I could sense hostile intent coming from you. Like my life was genuinely in danger, with not even a suggestion of you holding back. If anything, the feeling was almost identical to the threat Master Xiezhi projects against his opponents."
"You hold him in high regard," Lleuad observes, his tone gentle.
A smile surfaces briefly on Jean's face. "His achievements are extraordinary. For someone without a Semblance to reach the heights he has — it gives people like me reason to believe that hard effort is not wasted." The smile fades. "Which is why his accusation carries weight. He has used it before, against others. When he does, it puts their loyalty to the Everwatch in question. Holding back against the Count is treated as a grave weakness — something to be rooted out."
Lleuad is quiet for a moment. "Do you mind my asking — why do you fight?"
Jean looks across at him, the confusion plain. "I told you earlier. To protect Remnant and humanity."
"That's not the whole reason though, is it."
Silence.
"The Blighted that destroyed your orphanage," Lleuad says quietly. "Was he someone you were close to?"
Jean says nothing. But his face answers.
"I see."
The hallway is still around them. Somewhere further along it, footsteps echo faintly and then fade.
Eventually Jean finds his voice. "He was one of the older kids in the orphanage." A pause. "I looked up to him." Another pause, longer. "And he betrayed us." The sting in those three words is unmistakable. He draws a breath and steadies himself, his voice quieter when he continues. "I don't want what happened to us to happen to anyone else."
Lleuad listens until Jean is finished. Then, a gentle smile settles on his face.
"Just like you, Master Xiezhi and I each carry a personal reason for the path we walk. The reason he and I don't see eye to eye is that our paths stand in opposition to one another. And yet both of those paths serve the Everwatch's purpose — which is why we can fight on the same side despite it."
Jean looks at him. The words land somewhere unexpected. Before him stands someone only a handful of years his senior — hardly old enough to account for it — and yet the words that just came out of him belong to someone who has carried things for a very long time and arrived somewhere on the other side of them. There is a humility about him that sits alongside it without contradiction — no reach for effect, no performance of wisdom. Just something quiet and settled that Jean has not encountered in anyone he has known.
Lleuad turns and opens the door to his quarters. "Get some good rest."
Jean blinks, pulled back. "Y — yes. Good night."