[Location: Mercedes - Jurgen's Room]
[Time: Morning]
[Atmosphere: Quiet, heavy, lingering tension.]
Jurgen's eyes snapped open.
His body answered first, before thought could catch up, every muscle igniting with a dull, persistent ache, the aftermath of yesterday's fight still carved into him. Even the slightest movement sent a reminder through his frame, as though the battle had not ended so much as simply paused.
He did not remember returning to his room. There was no clear sequence of steps, no gradual fade from the hall, only this abrupt return to consciousness, as if time itself had been trimmed and discarded.
Silence pressed in from every direction.
Not the quiet of peace, but something heavier, dense, almost suffocating. It stood in stark contrast to the violent chaos of the arena, where sound and motion had once collided without restraint. Here, even his breathing felt amplified, as though the room itself was listening.
A slow, uneven breath escaped him as he tried to steady the remnants of adrenaline still lingering in his chest. His hands tightened against the sheets beneath him, fingers curling as he forced his body upward.
The motion was unsteady at first, but gradually, he found his balance, sitting upright as the morning light filtered through the curtains in thin, angled streaks. Shadows stretched long across the room, soft and unmoving.
For a moment, he remained still.
Letting the quiet settle.
Letting his body remember how to exist without violence.
But then,
A pressure returned.
Not physical, but intrusive, like a memory forcing its way through locked doors.
It came unbidden.
A vast field beneath a pale sky.
And there, ahead,
a figure.
Striking in presence, even before detail fully formed in mind. Golden hair flowed freely, untouched by restraint, moving with a natural ease against the wind. He wore a loose white shirt and baggy trousers, slippers barely disturbing the ground beneath each step as he crossed the open expanse.
A long white coat rested upon his shoulders, elegant in its drape, falling nearly to the back of his ankles. The structure of it was deliberate, broad shoulders reinforced with golden padding that shaped his silhouette into something commanding without being rigid. Subtle gold trim lined the cuffs, understated yet unmistakably refined.
With each movement, the coat followed, not clinging but responding, flowing behind him as though it recognized his presence before the world did. At his back, a sun emblem sat boldly upon the fabric, catching the morning light in a way that made it seem almost alive.
One hand held a wide-brimmed hat in place against the wind, the gesture casual, yet controlled, effortless authority disguised as simplicity.
He did not move like someone trying to be seen.
He moved like someone who already was.
Jurgen's breath caught faintly at the recollection.
His eyes shut again, fingers pressing lightly against his brow as though that alone might dismiss the image.
"…Who was that…" he murmured, the words dissolving into the stillness of the room.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
Jurgen's gaze drifted toward the door, pulled from the haze of fatigue by the steady insistence of the sound. For a brief moment, he did not move, as though weighing whether the interruption belonged to reality or was merely another fragment of lingering exhaustion.
A slow exhale escaped him.
He reached for his shirt across the bed, fingers sluggish, every motion weighed down by the aftermath of yesterday's battle. The fabric felt heavier than it should as he pulled it closer, the act of dressing becoming a process rather than a simple gesture.
"Who's there?" His voice carried low, strained, still not fully settled within him.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
The persistence tightened something in his expression.
"Who's there?" This time sharper, edged with irritation that cut through the fatigue.
No answer followed.
Only silence.
A faint click of the tongue broke from him.
"…Tch."
Pushing himself upright, he moved toward the door with reluctant steps, shoulders slightly slumped as though even posture demanded more effort than he was willing to give.
His hand met the handle at last, slow and unhurried, and the door opened with a quiet creak.
Standing there was Nemesio Aurelius.
"Nemesio?"
Surprise surfaced unfiltered across Jurgen's face, momentarily overriding exhaustion.
"It is Lord Nemesio to you."
The correction came at once, firm, composed, carrying the weight of practiced authority even in such a simple exchange.
Without waiting for response, Nemesio stepped inside as though the room had already granted permission. His posture remained immaculate, back straight, movements measured and unhurried. There was a quiet confidence in the way he entered, as if boundaries bent slightly in his presence without ever being broken.
Jurgen shifted aside near the doorway, allowing him through, though his eyes followed every step with thinly veiled scrutiny.
"How are you coping?" Nemesio's voice remained even, casual in tone yet deliberate in purpose. "I trust you have not forgotten. Your duties as a new recruit begin today at the Defense Corps… by evening."
His gaze moved across the room, unhurried, assessing rather than observing. Fingers brushed lightly along the edge of the table as he passed, not out of curiosity, but habit, like someone confirming the world still remained in order.
Jurgen leaned faintly against the doorframe, watching him with a look that bordered on disbelief, fatigue dulling any attempt at restraint.
"…You cannot be serious."
A faint pause followed, then a quieter, more pointed exhale.
"A full day of rest would not have been unreasonable."
Nemesio's hand drifted toward the pocket watch resting on the table, its polished surface catching the morning light with a quiet, almost restrained elegance. The engravings along its casing were intricate, deliberate, something less like decoration and more like a preserved memory cast into metal.
"Thought you wanted to be strong?" he asked, flipping it open without turning around.
Jurgen remained by the door, eyes narrowed beneath the weight of lingering fatigue. "I don't recall ever saying that."
A brief pause settled between them.
"You didn't need to." Nemesio's tone stayed even, composed, as though the matter required no further argument. "Your actions already spoke louder than words. Otherwise, you would not be here."
He tilted the watch slightly, letting the light run across its surface before lowering it again, fingers tracing its edge with quiet deliberation.