The Guild was known not only for its vast array of contract jobs, but also for the extensive training yard behind its main building. This yard functioned as a center for honing both body and mind, fully equipped to meet the needs of anyone serious about improving their skills.
Situated behind the guild's imposing structure, the yard was enclosed by high walls for privacy. Within its ample space lay an open-air practice ground, a combat ring, and specialized training rooms—one for archery, another for swordsmanship, and more—each stocked with high-grade, durable equipment.
But the greatest highlight was undoubtedly the cadre of expert instructors. Each possessed impressive credentials and long experience, ready to pass on techniques to anyone eager to learn: unarmed combat, weapons handling, survival strategies—everything demanded by those who braved perilous missions.
To use this facility, one had to join as a member by paying a registration fee plus a monthly maintenance cost. Membership granted unlimited access, plus the freedom to choose instructors and discounted prices for gear. For those wishing simply to try things out, there were one-off class sessions available at a separate fee, covering everything from the basics to advanced training. The yard operated daily from early morning into the night, attracting warriors of all stripes, from novices to seasoned veterans.
Because of these features, the training yard had become a key part of the guild's reputation. Beyond enticing new clientele, it served as a proving ground to sharpen members' skills—an indispensable resource that raised the guild's overall standards.
When Charles stepped inside, he was greeted by the ringing clash of steel. All around him, members sparred fiercely, the morning sun gleaming on their weapons. The air crackled with energy and purpose.
He made his way to Morgan, who stood beside the combat ring in dark attire, watching him quietly with calm, steady eyes.
"I'm here, Master Morgan," Charles said respectfully. "Ready for our usual training."
Morgan studied his pupil before speaking in a firm voice. "Charles, this won't be our normal session. Today, we're testing the skill you've gained from all your lessons so far—to see how far you've come."
Charles blinked in surprise. Eager to learn more, he asked, "A test? I thought this was just our standard session. What do I need to do?"
"You'll spar against me," Morgan replied, expression unchanged. "I'll assess whether you pass the course during the match."
Charles faltered. "Actually fight you…? But I'm not sure I'm that good yet."
"Don't be afraid. This is your chance to show your true potential." Morgan gave a subtle smile of encouragement.
Others in the training yard had overheard their exchange and began gathering around, forming a circle to watch. Excited murmurs rose as some placed bets on who would win, fueling a lively atmosphere.
"This'll be great! I'll put my money on the younger guy—he's bound to outmatch an older veteran."
"I wouldn't be so sure. Master Morgan may be older, but I hear he was a monster in his prime."
Voices flew back and forth among the onlookers, each offering an opinion.
Charles and Morgan stepped into the ring, swords in hand, staring each other down with tense focus. This was no mere practice—it was a crucial test of genuine skill.
The moment the match began, Charles lunged at Morgan with impressive speed. He attacked fiercely, trying to press his advantage with raw power and rapid blows, hoping his momentum would overwhelm his older opponent.
Yet Morgan countered with measured precision born of vast experience. He dodged, parried, and struck back at timed intervals, refusing to be swayed by Charles's relentless assault. He weaved each defensive move into an occasional counter to keep Charles from controlling the flow.
The crowd watched, enthralled. The two combatants looked evenly matched, each flurry of steel drawing roars of approval. Some spectators continued placing wagers, adding to the charged excitement.
Charles's eyes gleamed with fierce determination. He set his teeth and launched a flurry of punishing strikes, each blow cutting the air in a deadly arc. Morgan, though older, remained calm and on the offensive when necessary, eyes bright with pride at his student's progress.
They battled on for half an hour, sweat pouring from both men, breath ragged. Neither would retreat; neither gave an inch. Then, at one pivotal moment, Charles spotted what appeared to be a gap in Morgan's defense and thrust his blade forward, certain he could end the match at last.
He failed to realize it was a feint. Morgan shifted sharply, bracing one foot against Charles's incoming sword to force it into the ground. With a swift step forward, he drove the hilt of his own blade into Charles's abdomen.
Pain jolted through Charles, dropping him to one knee, winded and struggling for air. Morgan wasted no time, lunging again with a knee to Charles's chest, knocking him flat on his back. Before he could recover, Morgan's sword tip hovered at his throat.
The match was decided; Charles had lost.
Applause thundered around the yard, the onlookers cheering. Morgan stood victorious, but no one sneered at Charles's defeat. On the contrary, they admired his prowess in giving Morgan such a spirited match. Far from diminishing Charles's reputation, this loss only elevated it in their eyes.
"Wow, that detective's skills are no joke!" one guild member exclaimed. "I always thought he was just some whiz at solving mysteries, but he sure can fight!"
The spectators broke into animated chatter, many nodding in agreement. Where once people viewed Charles as merely a talented investigator, he had proven he was also a formidable fighter.
Morgan offered his hand, helping Charles back to his feet. Though disappointed in losing, Charles accepted it gratefully.
"You did very well," Morgan said. "You can't beat me yet, but you've shown your training was far from wasted."
"Thank you," Charles answered, voice laced with gratitude. "I learned a lot."
Morgan nodded. "I have nothing more to teach you now. From here on, keep pushing yourself to gain more experience and refine your skills."
Charles paused. "So how skilled am I, exactly?"
Morgan considered this, then replied, "You could probably handle two or three average men at once."
Their test ended with the warmth of mutual respect, leaving everyone who witnessed it with a sense of admiration. It proved both men's strength of body and spirit.
Shortly afterward, Charles returned home in the late afternoon, his entire body aching. The first thing he did was check his mailbox for any reply from his friend—but found nothing at all. Not even a royal missive.
With a sigh, he went inside to wash. He sponged himself with hot water, wiping away the sweat and grime from the day's exertions. Though he and Joseph were close friends, Joseph was still a noble, and Charles wanted to be presentable when they next met.
After dressing neatly, Charles made his way to the Two-Flavors Tavern, their usual rendezvous point, run by someone well acquainted with Joseph. The tavern offered good food and a wide selection of drinks—from budget-friendly spirits to expensive premium brands—housed in a handsome, two-story wooden building near the city center.
The beams of its carved wooden frame extended from the steep roof to the veranda below. Inside, big windows let in plenty of light and fresh air. Multiple lanterns cast a warm glow, and the ceiling was adorned with vine-like motifs that crisscrossed in intricate patterns. Bright murals decorated the walls, and the polished wood floors shone underfoot. Sturdy square tables bore crimson tablecloths with fine embroidered trim.
Patrons ranged from everyday folks to those of higher station, gathered in lively groups discussing business or simply enjoying the music from the hired musicians. The whole place hummed with the contentment of good food, good drink, and good company.
Charles headed to his usual table in a cozy corner, where a lovely waitress greeted him.
"Welcome to the Two-Flavors Tavern. What can I get you?" Her polite tone flowed gently.
"Just some hot tea and a big plate of roasted meat, please. I haven't eaten all day." Charles gave her a friendly smile.
"Of course, sir. One moment." She bustled off through a wooden door.
Settling onto a red-brown chair, Charles eyed the crowd, taking in the warmth and bustle. Laughter and chatter mingled with the pleasant melodies played on a small corner stage.
His meal and tea arrived, and Charles devoured the roast hungrily. Half an hour passed with no sign of Joseph. Charles started to worry that something might have happened—until the door's bell jingled, admitting a blond-haired man with bright blue eyes scanning the tavern.
Charles, still in mid-bite, waved him over. Joseph, his noble bearing apparent in every step, slid into the seat opposite him without waiting for a formal greeting—an arrangement they were both used to by now.
"Sorry I'm late," Joseph said, his tone mild. "There was an unexpected meeting I had to attend."
"Don't worry about it," Charles responded, voice cheerful.
With his friend now present, Charles set down his fork and wiped his mouth and hands.
"So…" Charles murmured, his tone shifting to seriousness as he replayed everything in his mind. He had plans to discuss the puzzle of his dream, the fragments of memory returning to him bit by bit.