Armin appeared in the Headmaster's spacious, somewhat austere office—not through the door, but simply there, leaning against a mahogany bookshelf laden with ancient, leather-bound tomes.

Hamdal, who had been reviewing reports while a team began the massive clean-up operation in the hallway, looked up, a scowl immediately darkening his features.

"What are you doing here, you womanizer?" Hamdal asked in an annoyed, tired tone.

Armin pushed off the shelf, sauntering forward with hands spread wide in mock offense.

"Come on, man! This is how you treat your best friend, seeing him after such a long time?" he asked, his dissatisfaction clearly feigned and teasing.

"Best friend? Tch! I don't even consider you my friend," Hamdal retorted, clicking his tongue in genuine irritation.

"Hey! You're hurting my feelings here, man," Armin whined.

Hamdal slammed his hand flat on the desk, his voice growing furious with every word.

"I'm stuck here being a headmaster all because you wanted to pursue that sword intent of yours! Leaving me alone behind this table when I knew nothing about administration at all! Now you want to act all friendly, you selfish bastard."

Armin kept his silence, his playful demeanor momentarily dissolving. He had no genuine retort for the accusation; Hamdal was completely right.

"Sorry, my friend. I really was selfish back then. We were all young, you know," Armin said, a flicker of genuine shame in his eyes.

"Young? We were in our fucking forties, you psycho," Hamdal bellowed.

Armin burst into shameless laughter, deflecting the anger with levity. "Haha! You never heard? Life starts at forty, man."

Hamdal took a deep breath, letting the anger recede slightly, and looked at Armin seriously. "Why are you here, Armin?"

Armin's face instantly became serious, the playful charm gone.

"On my journey, I pursued the sword path endlessly. I almost touched the ceiling of the Sword Pinnacle..." Armin paused, his gaze distant.

"But that's the limit for me, Hamdal. It doesn't matter how much I try, I can't break it," Armin confessed, a deep sorrow in his voice.

"But now, whenever I wield my sword, when I use my sword intent, it takes a toll on me... I don't have much time left now." He finished with a quiet sigh.

The mood in the office became heavy, silence descending as Hamdal absorbed the devastating news.

Then, Hamdal narrowed his eyes and spoke, his voice suspiciously level. "Alright, you bastard. Tell me why you're really here."

Armin scratched his head, bursting back into a sheepish laugh. "Haha! I thought I fooled you there."

Hamdal rolled his eyes in exasperated annoyance.

"Make me a professor here," Armin stated, the request firm and clear. "I want to find a disciple. My great arts should be passed on, or else I'll die in regret."

Hamdal's eyes opened wide in utter shock. "Are you for real? You... and disciple?" he asked, unable to believe the words.

"Why not? I told you I don't have much time left. I want to pass on my sword arts," Armin said nonchalantly, as if he were discussing the weather.

Hamdal was about to press him for more details—to demand an explanation for the sudden shift in his lifelong solitary pursuit—when a crisp knock sounded on the office door.

"Come in," Hamdal commanded, already masking his shock with the practiced calm of an administrator.

A young man from the administration staff entered, looking slightly flustered. "The Elf delegates from the World Tree Palace have arrived, sir."

"Ask them to enter," Hamdal commanded.

The young man nodded and closed the door.

Hamdal glared fiercely at Armin. "Keep your mouth shut and take a seat there. Don't interfere, I warn you."

"Alright, alright. You could have asked nicely, man, what's with that attitude," Armin muttered, feigning dissatisfaction.

Hamdal's glare intensified.

"Alright," Armin capitulated instantly. He stood up and moved quickly, settling onto one of the ornate sofas at the side of the office just as a new set of footsteps approached the door.

The large double doors of the Headmaster's office opened once more, admitting three tall, strikingly handsome figures.

At the front walked a man who exuded an air of regal elegance with every measured movement. His striking elegance and handsomeness speaking for of his royal lineage.

This was none other than the Elven Prime Minister Legolas.

Following closely behind him were two additional figures, completely draped in jet black.

Even their faces were obscured by deep hoods, making them anonymous shadows; these were members of the palace's Shadow Unit, acting as Legolas's personal guard during this sensitive excursion.

Hamdal immediately stood up from behind his desk as they approached.

"I apologize for not receiving you personally, Prime Minister," Hamdal said, offering a slight bow of respect.

"You understand the weight of your arrival; I couldn't garner unnecessary attention, you see."

Legolas offered a graceful, serene smile. "Nothing to fret, Headmaster. I understand those concerns completely."

"Please, have a seat," Hamdal said, gesturing with an open arm toward the comfortable chair directly in front of his desk.

Legolas took the offered seat, his movements flawless, while his two Shadow Guards positioned themselves silently a short distance behind him, their eyes constantly scanning the room.

It was then that their collective gazes fell upon the figure sitting comfortably on the large sofa by the wall.

Armin was lounged back, looking completely at ease, entirely out of place in the high-stakes meeting.

"This is..." Legolas began, a hint of confusion crossing his flawless features as he paused mid-sentence, expecting an introduction.

"I'm sorry, Prime Minister. Let me give the introductions," Hamdal quickly interjected, trying to mask his annoyance at Armin's casual presence.

He gestured toward Legolas. "This is Prime Minister Legolas, from the World Tree Palace." He then gestured toward the lounging man. "And this... is the Sword Saint Armin."

Armin simply smiled brightly and offered a casual wave from the sofa. "Hello! How you doing?" he said, not a trace of formal etiquette or deference to the royal delegate visible in his voice or demeanor.

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