Within the walls of Central, there was more than just grandeur.
There were the sounds of metal boots striking stone,
short, sharp commands,
and the voices of people from countless lands—strangers to one another.
The wide plaza before the registration hall was crowded.
Some arrived with friends.
Some with their instructors.
And many… came alone.
Ryn stood among them, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword without realizing it.
So these people…
They've all gone through the ritual too, haven't they?
Every face told a different story.
Excitement.
Fear.
Steel-hard resolve.
Richard stood beside him—silent, unshaken.
"From here on, you walk alone," Richard said.
Ryn turned to him.
"Go and register," he continued calmly.
"Tell the officers that your instructor is me."
Ryn nodded.
No questions.
No hesitation.
Richard pointed toward the northern forest beyond the inner walls of the city.
"I'll be waiting there."
The man in Arch armor turned away and left without another word, his tall figure slowly swallowed by the crowd and the looming shadows of the walls.
Ryn remained where he was for a moment, then took a deep breath.
"…So it begins."
He stepped forward, heading toward the registration desk—
unaware that from this moment on,
his name would no longer be just
"the boy from the western village."
The registration desk stood beneath a long stone canopy.
Officers in bronze armor sat in a neat row,
one hand writing, the other stamping documents—
as if they had repeated this routine countless times.
"Name."
The voice was flat.
The officer didn't even look up.
"Ryn Ardent."
The pen scratched against the parchment.
"Home village."
"Veridian Veil. Western region."
A small nod.
"Assigned instructor."
Ryn hesitated—only for a breath.
"…Richard."
The pen stopped.
Silence spread across the desk like a thin layer of frost.
Slowly, the officer raised his head.
His gaze moved over Ryn from head to toe,
not harsh,
not hostile—
but unmistakably surprised.
"Sir Richard… is your instructor?"
Ryn nodded.
He still didn't understand
what was wrong.
The man in front of him suddenly turned around and shouted toward the back.
"Hey! Sir Richard has taken another kid!"
Laughter erupted almost instantly from the nearby desks.
Another officer lifted his head, eyes on Ryn, letting out a short chuckle.
"So… how many days do you think this one will last?"
"Five, at most," someone added.
"With a face like that?"
The next man laughed out loud.
"Three days, and he'll be running back home."
Another wave of laughter followed—
not cruel,
but not merciful either.
Ryn stood there,
not understanding even half of what they were saying.
"…?"
The first officer turned back and tapped the desk once.
"Alright, alright."
"Go to the armory."
He handed Ryn a small metal plate.
"Choose your weapon. Then report back."
Ryn took the plate and gripped it tightly before turning away, walking in the direction he was told—
still unaware that, within Central,
the name Richard was not that of an ordinary instructor.
It was a trial.
And from the very first step,
the test had already begun.
The armory of Central was far larger than Ryn had expected.
The ceiling towered high above him.
Cold stone walls surrounded the vast space.
Hundreds—no, thousands—of weapons were lined up in perfect rows.
Short swords.
Daggers.
Spears.
Axes.
Even massive greatswords nearly as tall as a man.
Dozens of new recruits moved about inside.
Some laughed loudly.
Some hesitated in front of the racks.
Some grabbed weapons and swung them around as if a battle were about to begin.
"Hey, look at this! This greatsword is insane!"
A young man shouted, lifting the massive blade over his head—
Only to nearly collapse under its weight.
"Don't force it, idiot. That's not a toy,"
his friend laughed.
Ryn passed by them in silence.
His eyes scanned each weapon carefully.
He stopped in front of a longsword and gripped the hilt, giving it a light swing.
…Too heavy.
He placed it back and moved to the next rack.
A spear.
Long.
Well-balanced.
But unfamiliar.
Back it went.
A dagger.
Fast.
But the reach was too short.
Back.
He didn't feel the excitement the others did.
He simply walked.
Picked up a weapon.
Tested it.
Put it back.
Again and again.
Until—
A sudden glint of light flashed at the corner of his vision.
Ryn halted mid-step.
By instinct, he turned toward a far corner of the armory—
near a stretch of stone wall that no one seemed to care about.
Old weapons were piled there, leaning against one another.
Rust clung to them so thickly that it was hard to tell what they had once been.
And among that neglected heap—
There was a sword.
Its size was… unusual.
Not as massive as a greatsword,
yet not as slender as a standard longsword.
Ryn approached and knelt down.
His hand closed around the hilt.
Cold.
He drew the blade slowly from its sheath.
The soft scrape of metal echoed faintly.
The blade was covered in rust.
But when Ryn lifted it—
…Light.
Far lighter than a sword of this size should have been.
His brow furrowed.
He swung it once.
Twice.
Perfectly balanced.
As if the blade had been forged
for his hands alone.
"That's… strange,"
he murmured.
He glanced around.
No one was watching.
No one cared.
Ryn slid the sword back into its sheath, slung it over his shoulder,
and left the armory in silence.
At the weapon counter, Ryn presented the sword.
The large officer took it with practiced ease—
one hand on the hilt, the other supporting the sheath.
The weight made his shoulder dip slightly.
He examined the blade for a moment,
then gave a small nod.
"Go choose your armor."
No further explanation.
As if this were
the most ordinary thing in the world.
Ryn nodded and walked to the other side of the armory, where rows of armor were displayed—
from thin leather gear to full iron suits.
Several new recruits were trying them on and taking them off,
the constant clang of metal filling the air.
Ryn watched for a moment
before picking up a reinforced leather chest piece with thin iron plating.
It covered only the torso and shoulders.
He put it on.
Moved.
Lowered himself.
Twisted his body.
…It didn't restrict him.
He returned the heavier armor the officer offered and kept only that piece.
When he came back to the counter, Ryn's sword was resting on the stone table.
The officer tapped the sheath lightly with his finger.
"The blade's still sharp. No need to have it reforged."
Ryn paused.
The officer looked him over from head to toe and let out a short sigh.
"And look at you," he said.
"Skinny. Small. You really think you'll take a sword like that onto the battlefield?"
He slowly shook his head.
His voice lowered—not mocking, but firm.
"The battlefield isn't a place for 'cool-looking' weapons.
A pretty sword can kill you just as fast as your enemy."
Ryn stood still.
He couldn't tell if the man was warning him…
or testing him.
He simply bowed his head slightly and took the sword back.
Drawing it halfway from the sheath, a flash of metal caught the light.
Ryn studied it in silence
before sliding it back in.
"Thank you."
No argument.
No explanation.
Ryn slung the sword over his shoulder, secured the light armor to his chest,
and walked out of the armory.
The sounds of metal, laughter, and conversation slowly faded behind him.
A narrow path led him toward the northern forest.