Chapter 163 – Promises on the March

  Dawn broke in pale gold.

  The western gate stood open.

  Before it, a sea of steel and cloth.

  Adventurers. Mercenaries. Magicians in layered robes. Alchemists with crystal-lined cases. Priests bearing staves etched with scripture. Assassins wrapped in muted gray, eyes already scanning rooftops and shadow lines.

  All assembled.

  A small wooden podium had been erected before the gate.

  Upon it stood two figures.

  Guild Master Selene.

  Baron Edrien Valmor.

  At the very front of the formation stood the elite.

  Gold Rank Party — [Dragon Piercer]

  Behind them, two Silver Rank parties:

  [Four Bastion]

  [Grim Vulture]

  Alongside them, numerous Silver-ranked solo adventurers—lining the front deliberately, armor polished, weapons displayed openly.

  A show of strength.

  A message to the city.

  We are here.

  We are capable.

  Do not fear.

  Baron Edrien stepped forward first.

  The murmurs died.

  He did not shout.

  He did not embellish.

  His voice carried regardless.

  “Three days west, the demon vanguard presses our borders.”

  His gaze swept across them.

  “I will not insult you with false glory. War is not heroic. It is mud, blood, and exhaustion.”

  A pause.

  “But this land is ours.”

  A murmur of agreement rolled through the ranks.

  “You are not marching for pride. Not for coin. Not for rank.”

  His eyes softened—just slightly.

  “You march so that when you return, the gates will still be standing.”

  “You march so that children will continue to run through these streets.”

  “You march so that wives and husbands do not wait in vain.”

  Silence.

  “I will not ask you to die.”

  His voice hardened.

  “I will order you to survive.”

  A shift in the air.

  “I am lending fifty of my personal knights. Each trained beyond common silver rank. Some—”

  He let the weight of it linger.

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  “—rival gold.”

  A low ripple of approval moved through the front lines.

  “They will not command you.”

  “They will fight beside you.”

  “And when you return victorious—”

  He drew his sword and raised it toward the west.

  “I expect every one of you to stand before this gate again.”

  Steel flashed as hundreds followed the gesture.

  Selene stepped forward next.

  If Edrien was iron, she was flame.

  Her eyes burned—not with recklessness, but conviction.

  “You all know the stories.”

  “Demons are cruel. They are relentless.”

  A small smile curved her lips.

  “So are we.”

  A ripple of laughter.

  “You are not a scattered collection of fighters.”

  “You are a guild.”

  Her voice rose.

  “You are unity.”

  A staff struck the ground. A shield lifted slightly. A gauntlet tightened.

  “When one falls, another stands.”

  “When one is wounded, another covers.”

  “When one hesitates, another pushes.”

  She extended her arm toward the west.

  “We do not merely defend.”

  “We push back.”

  “We remind them whose land this is.”

  Her voice sharpened like a blade drawn clean.

  “Return alive.”

  “And return together.”

  The gate creaked wider.

  The march began.

  —

  [Dragon Piercer] moved first.

  Baron Edrien’s knights fell in beside them.

  They would scout ahead, forming the vanguard.

  Behind them, [Four Bastion] organized the main formation, steady and defensive. Shields rotated in disciplined rhythm.

  The rest followed in layered formation.

  Three days at standard pace.

  Selene urged two.

  Speed meant surprise.

  Speed meant reinforcement before collapse.

  —

  The first day passed with only wind and road beneath their boots.

  No demon scouts.

  No skirmishes.

  Just marching.

  And restlessness.

  A few adventurers who had not gotten the chance to spar Ivaline days prior jogged closer.

  “Silver Ward! Just one bout before we reach the battlefield—”

  A sharp hiss cut them off.

  Rivel appeared like a territorial cat.

  “Back off, you idiots!”

  “They’ll be plenty of enemies ahead!”

  “Do you want to exhaust our vanguard before contact!?”

  The challengers retreated grumbling.

  Rivel jogged beside her now, arms folded.

  “Those fools never learn.”

  “….”

  Ivaline glanced at him.

  He looked similar to when she had faced him in the arena.

  But not the same.

  Something in him had settled.

  The immaturity still flickered—but steadier now.

  Protective.

  They had a promise.

  Another duel.

  After the war.

  But—

  What if they did not return?

  She slowed slightly.

  “Rivel.”

  “Ah!? Oh. What is it, Silver Ward?”

  She stopped walking.

  Turned.

  Looked directly at him.

  No humor.

  No teasing.

  “If I do not return… and cannot uphold our promise. What will you do?”

  He froze mid-step.

  “…Uh?”

  “Will you resent me?”

  “Wha—no, I—”

  “You may not return either.”

  He pointed dramatically.

  “Give back my sympathy right this instant!”

  “…Sorry?”

  “Accepted!”

  He huffed.

  Then exhaled.

  “If you don’t come back… then I suppose I was lucky.”

  “Since you’re stronger than me.”

  He scratched his cheek.

  “But if I don’t come back?”

  A shrug.

  “Then I can only blame my weak self.”

  “You won’t resent me?”

  “Why would I? People die every day. It might just be our turn.”

  She processed that.

  Logical.

  Cold.

  Incomplete.

  “Then instead of waiting… would you like to duel tonight?”

  “Nope.”

  “…What?”

  “Refused.”

  She blinked.

  “Your face says you don’t understand.”

  “Explain.”

  He sighed dramatically.

  “If I have nothing left to look forward to… then in my last moment, I might think, ‘No regrets.’”

  He glanced sideways.

  “You know that feeling.”

  She did.

  Too well.

  “But if I have to survive to duel you?”

  His grin sharpened.

  “Then when death comes knocking, I’ll say—”

  He thrust a fist forward.

  “FCK OFF! I’VE A PROMISE TO KEEP!”

  She stared.

  “…Un.”

  She nodded.

  “So if I challenge you tonight—”

  “Accepted immediately!”

  “…Earlier you refused.”

  “That was different! I will not issue a third challenge before fulfilling the second. But if you extend it? Then it is technically your challenge. I merely accept!”

  “…..”

  Somehow Rivel word sounds logical.

  But at the same time Ivaline thinks it’s kind of absurd.

  They stared at each other for three long seconds.

  “So,” Rivel leaned forward eagerly. “Tonight? Right here? I’m ready.”

  “Forget I even considered it.”

  Silence.

  Wind passed.

  Boots continued marching.

  “….”

  “….”

  “….”

  THUD.

  A body hit the dirt.

  “Hey! Iron Flash is down!”

  “What happened?!”

  “Ambush?!”

  “Assassin?!”

  Rivel lay flat on his back, staring at the sky like his soul had temporarily left his body.

  “Critical… emotional damage…” he muttered weakly.

  A few adventurers blinked.

  “…That’s it?”

  “He tripped?”

  “I didn’t trip!” Rivel barked, still horizontal. “I was struck down by betrayal!”

  Ivaline didn’t even slow her pace.

  “…You’re loud.”

  “Of course I’m loud! You retracted a formal combat invitation!”

  “That was not formal.”

  “You said ‘would you like to duel tonight.’ That’s binding!”

  “Then I revoke it.”

  “YOU CAN’T JUST—”

  He rolled onto his stomach and scrambled back up, sprinting to catch up.

  “You wound me.”

  “…You’re fine.”

  Rivel clicked his tongue.

  “Cold.”

  “Efficient.”

  “Heartless.”

  “You’re still talking.”

  He paused.

  “…Fair.”

  They marched on.

  The west still waiting.

  The promise still intact.

  And somewhere behind them, a few adventurers whispered:

  “Is this what Silver Rank rivalry looks like?”

  “No.”

  “That’s flirting.”

  Rivel choked.

  Ivaline did not react.

  Leaving Rivel slightly flush by himself.