One of the younger guards cleared his throat. "With respect, sir… it was you who cut down their leader. We only held the line."

"You did hold the line," Xavier said firmly, voice cutting through the murmurs. "And that is what matters. Fancy strikes and heroics mean nothing if there's no one standing shoulder to shoulder to stop the enemy from pouring through." He glanced around the yard, meeting the eyes of as many men as he could. "Never forget that."

Renald's lips twitched into the faintest smile. "You speak like a commander, not a guard."

"Old habits," Xavier replied lightly. "Besides, after what I saw, I couldn't keep quiet."

The men relaxed at that, shoulders straightening with pride. But Xavier wasn't finished. He turned back to Renald, a spark of challenge in his eyes.

"You've trained them well. But I saw a few holes in the way they handle assassins."

Renald's brow lifted. "Oh? And what do you suggest?"

Instead of answering, Xavier walked toward the sparring circle in the center of the yard. He rolled his shoulders, loosening his arms, and turned back with a grin. "Show me. You and your men. Come at me, and I'll show you where you can sharpen your edge."

A ripple of laughter and surprise ran through the guards. A few smirked, others exchanged skeptical looks. Renald crossed his arms, eyeing Xavier carefully. "All of us? Or just me?"

"Start with you," Xavier said smoothly. "Then let's see how your unit holds up."

The circle formed quickly, boots stomping in anticipation. Renald stepped in, bare-chested, muscles corded with power. He hefted a practice axe in one hand, its wooden edge dulled but heavy.

"You're cocky," the captain rumbled.

Xavier smirked. "Confident."

Through his Celestial Patriarch he knew a little about martial arts at least a little of the basics, with that he could at see basic mistakes and point them out.

Then it started...

The clash was immediate. Renald lunged, his axe sweeping in a vicious arc meant to test Xavier's reflexes. Xavier sidestepped lightly, his movements sharp but economical, his eyes calm.

"Wide swing," Xavier commented as the axe cut through empty air. "Looks strong, but against an assassin's blade, it's wasted motion."

Renald grunted, adjusting, and came in with a tighter strike. Xavier blocked with his forearm, pivoted, and tapped Renald's ribs with two fingers.

"Dead."

The watching guards barked with laughter. Renald scowled but chuckled a moment later, rolling his shoulders. "Again."

They clashed a second time, and then a third. Each time Renald adjusted, but Xavier adapted faster, turning every strike into a lesson.

"Keep your feet light—don't root yourself, or you'll never catch a blade dancer."

"Your guard drops when you twist. Fix that."

"Power's good, but power without precision gets you killed."

The men muttered to each other, nodding, watching every move.

Finally, Renald stepped back, chest heaving, a grin spreading across his scarred face. "I see your point."

"Good." Xavier turned toward the men, clapping his hands once. "Now all of you. Surround me. Try to break my guard."

The guards hesitated, uncertain, until Renald barked, "You heard him! Move!"

They rushed in, half a dozen men circling him. The first lunged; Xavier caught his wrist, twisted, and sent him stumbling into another. The second tried to flank him, but Xavier ducked low, sweeping his leg to topple him.

He flowed between them like water, never striking harder than needed—just enough to disarm, unbalance, or pin. Every move came with a sharp remark:

"See? Too much weight on your front foot."

"Don't swing wild—control your blade."

"Eyes up, not down. Read the fight, not your feet."

The men sweated, cursed, but they learned. By the time Xavier finally stepped back, not one of them was standing straight; every man had been floored, pinned, or forced into retreat at least once.

The yard was silent, the only sound their heavy breathing.

Xavier stood tall, brushing dust from his sleeve as if nothing had happened. "That," he said simply, "is how you survive assassins. They thrive on chaos. You counter them with control. Precision. Teamwork."

The men nodded, their respect written plain across their faces now.

Renald stepped forward, clapping Xavier's shoulder hard enough to make the impact echo. "I'll admit it—I thought you were just Seraphina's pretty bodyguard. But you're the real thing. The men will remember this."

Xavier smirked faintly. "Good. Then I've done my part."

The guards began to murmur, excitement buzzing through the yard. A few even straightened as though ready to beg for another round.

Xavier lifted a hand. "Rest. Drill it into your bones later. For now, know this—you did well last night. Damn well. And you'll do even better next time."

The men saluted as one, voices rising in unison: "Yes, sir!"

As Xavier stepped out of the circle, the silver light of the sun caught him just so, his presence undeniable.

And in that moment, the guards of House Valemont knew: their Lady's bodyguard was no

The training yard gradually settled. The heat of sparring gave way to the weight of sweat, the burn in tired muscles, and the occasional low laugh as the guards replayed the moment Xavier had flipped them flat on their backs.

Renald barked for the quartermaster to fetch water. Soon, barrels were rolled in, ladles passed around, and the men drank deep, collapsing onto benches or the dirt with weary satisfaction.

Xavier remained standing for a moment, hands on his hips, scanning the yard. Not as a commander taking stock, but as a man appreciating the spirit he saw in front of him. Then he strode over to the barrel, scooped a ladle full of water, and drank. When he lowered it, cool liquid dripping from his chin, a half-dozen guards were already watching him.

"You all look like you've fought ten battles at once," he said, his grin sharp but not unkind. "And you still held your line last night. That deserves respect."

A murmur of pride rippled through the men.

Renald snorted, lowering his ladle. "Respect, maybe. But we were one breath from breaking. If you hadn't been there, Sir Xavier, I doubt any of us would be drinking this water today."

Xavier arched a brow. "And if you hadn't been there, Captain, I'd have been carving my way alone through five assassins while bandits emptied the storerooms. Doesn't sound like a fair trade to me."

That earned laughter—loud, raw, the kind that shook tension out of tired shoulders.

They settled into loose circles, sitting cross-legged or leaning against shields. Renald took a spot at the center with Xavier beside him.

One of the younger guards, face still bruised from a spar, leaned forward eagerly. "Sir Xavier… what was it like, facing their leader? Was it true he was as fast as lightning?"

Xavier's smirk thinned into something more serious. "Faster. If I'd blinked, I'd have been cut in two. His blade was poison-coated. Every move meant to cripple, not just kill."

The guards shivered, exchanging uneasy glances.

"And yet," Renald interjected, his tone carrying both weight and pride, "the bastard's lying dead while this one sits here drinking with us. You saw it, didn't you? That moonlight strike? Never seen anything like it in my life."

"Aye," another guard muttered reverently. "It was like the goddess herself had descended."

Xavier waved a hand as if to brush it off. "Don't go making myths of it. Tricks and timing—that's all it was."

But the glint in his eyes told a different story, and the men knew it.

Conversation shifted. They began swapping tales of past encounters—some grim, some laughable.

"Once had a farmer's dog bite clean through my greave while we tried to collect taxes," one grizzled veteran said, lifting his trouser to show a scar on his shin. "Damn thing wouldn't let go. I swear the mutt had sharper teeth than the bandits."

That brought roars of laughter.

Another chimed in: "What about the time Renald here split his trousers in the middle of a charge? Mooned half the battlefield!"

Even Renald chuckled, though he threw his ladle at the man's head with mock fury. "One more word and you'll be running drills until your arse falls off!"

The laughter grew louder, echoing across the yard.

Through it all, Xavier listened, laughed, and occasionally added stories of his own—careful, measured, but enough to draw them in.

Renald's voice broke through the noise. "That's what makes you different, Sir Xavier. You don't just fight. You teach."

Xavier glanced at him, then back at the men. "And you don't just follow orders. You hold the line. That's what makes you different."

The guards grew quiet, their respect palpable in the air.

For a while longer, they shared water, sweat, and stories. Bonds deepened—not through titles or commands, but through laughter, scars, and the knowledge that they had bled together for the same cause.

Finally, Xavier rose, brushing the dust from his trousers. "I'll let you rest before Renald here drills you to death again. But remember—precision. Control. Teamwork. Drill those three until they're second nature, and you'll never lose to shadows again."

The men saluted him as one, their voices carrying across the yard: "Yes, Sir!"

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