Given His Immenseness's status, even a casual promise carried extraordinary weight.
A single "not unreasonable request" could mean the right to hunt some rare Monster, a commission for a Master Craftsman to help forge equipment, or access to the training methods of a powerful Hunter Art.
Yet Altaïr used this incredibly precious opportunity to trade for a single drawn slash from His Immenseness.
He failed to glean any secret from that strike, and couldn't even tell how His Immenseness's Step Slash differed from the standard sword form he practiced every day.
By all accounts, he came away empty-handed, but he had no regrets; even if given the chance to choose again, he would make the exact same choice.
After leaving the Elder Hall and returning all the way to Master Amos's home, Altaïr still could not fully snap out of the trance left by that seemingly plain, unadorned slash.
Noticing his disciple's utterly distracted state, Amos was intensely curious about what on earth he had encountered.
Upon learning that Altaïr had been privileged enough to witness His Immenseness's drawn blade with his own eyes, the old Hunter, who had thought he no longer wanted for anything, felt a long-absent pang of regret rise in his heart.
Had he known there was such an opportunity, he would have shamelessly thrown away his old pride and insisted on tagging along with Altaïr to behold the majesty of that strike.
The old man and the young man sat across the table in silence for a long, long while before Amos was the first to collect himself.
He slammed his palm hard against the table, startling Altaïr out of his recollection. "Alright, stop dwelling on it. The gap in level between His Immenseness and you is far too vast. You can rack your brains until they break and still come up with nothing.
Focus your energy on what's right in front of you. Matters like ultimate martial mastery can wait another thirty or forty years, and not a moment sooner."
Altaïr scrubbed his face vigorously, forcing himself to snap out of it.
"Yes, Master."
"Apart from His Immenseness's 'personal reward,' what else did the Guild award you?"
Amos actually didn't care about this question in the slightest; he only asked it to help distract Altaïr.
Altaïr searched his memory for a moment before finally remembering that before he left the Elder Hall, the Guild Manager had indeed pulled him aside to say a few things.
"Apart from the usual reward money, we received a generous allocation of Doom Estrellian materials. His Immenseness also took it upon himself to give us a bit of Arbiter Estrellian material; not enough to forge full equipment, but perhaps usable as upgrade materials.
Oh, right, there seem to be two tickets called 'Commendations,' though I have no idea what those are for."
Amos smiled and explained, "You can think of them as a kind of certificate of merit. They can be used to commission the Guild's affiliated Master Craftsmen, asking them to help forge some high-grade equipment.
Hold onto them for now. Use them when you advance to High Rank and are ready to craft higher-level equipment."
"I see," Altaïr said with a slow nod, his mind visibly threatening to sink back into recollection.
Amos had no choice but to stand up and smack the back of Altaïr's neck, producing a crisp smack. "I told you to stop thinking about that. Come with me to the Training Area!" As it turned out, high-intensity training effectively kept idle thoughts at bay. When you trained until both body and mind were utterly exhausted, to the point where all you wanted was to collapse into sleep the moment you lay down, it became rather difficult to dwell on anything else.
"Whoa, you look terrible."
Leaning over to look at Altaïr, who lay sprawled on the ground panting heavily, Francesca clicked her tongue again and again. "You really did have a falling-out with Isis, didn't you? Did Master Amos work you over this badly?"
Altaïr wanted to sit up and explain, but he simply didn't have the strength.
Amos formed a knife-hand with one palm and rapped Francesca on the crown of her head. "What are you here for? Want to join the training too?"
"Hehehe, I'll pass." Francesca hastily retreated a step, blinking as a sweet smile spread across her face. "It's been so long since I last came to visit you, Master Amos. I brought you some nice tea~."
"Get to the point."
"Ahem, fine." Francesca cleared her throat dryly. The cute act had been used on Master Amos far too many times; it no longer worked. "It's that thing I discussed with Altaïr before. My mother wants to invite him to the training camp to give a demonstration to those restless little brats.
She sent me to ask if tomorrow works. If so, wouldn't Altaïr like to stay over at the main estate tonight?
She says she'll have someone fix you up and make you look even younger, so you can blend in with the trainees without anything seeming out of place. The more seamless, the better."
"...Huh?"
Amos considered this. "Altaïr, go with her. Wrap this up tomorrow, and then the days after can be cleared entirely for training in the Tempered Spirit Blade.
Better than getting interrupted halfway through your training later."
Having recovered a measure of stamina, Altaïr sat up from the floor. "Tomorrow's not a problem, but couldn't I just head over to the training camp from here first thing in the morning? Is all that fuss really necessary?"
Francesca pressed her palms together. "It's all for the maximum effect, please! If I don't bring you back, my mother will scold me!"
This was, of course, pure nonsense. Her mother wasn't that strict. It was just that Francesca wanted to enjoy the show!
"Fine." Altaïr rose to his feet with some difficulty.
With his senior making such a sincere request, he could hardly refuse.
"Take a cold shower first. Let your muscles cool down completely before you go." Having said this, Amos shot a glare at the beaming Francesca.
"Your estate won't lack for food. Tell your mother, and say I said this, that Altaïr underwent high-intensity training this afternoon and needs to replenish his nutrition. Make dinner a lavish affair."
"Got it! That's easy!" Francesca agreed readily.
Altaïr walked toward the bathroom, his steps somewhat labored.
He had heard Isis mention a bit about Francesca's mother before; he knew she was a highly skilled Gunner, as well as the Head Instructor of the training camp.
Could she also be a master chef of superb culinary skill? He'd really have to seize the chance to seek her advice, then. Perhaps he might even get his hands on some recipe books or the like.
After finishing his cold shower and downing a bottle of Nutrient, Altaïr felt most of his stamina return.
He dragged Sajji out of the room, where the Felyne had been holed up tinkering and researching something. One man and one cat fell in behind Francesca and boarded the spacious carriage parked by the gate, a vehicle whose luxury wasn't apparent at first glance, but which, upon closer inspection, radiated the scent of money from every last detail.
Altaïr and Sajji immediately grew ill at ease. Sajji carefully retracted his claws, while Altaïr kept adjusting his sitting position, terrified that the Bladescale Hone on their armor might tear the obviously priceless Dragonhide Cushions.
"Don't be so nervous." Francesca lounged inelegantly. "These things aren't that fragile. If they really broke just from sitting down casually, I'd be demanding compensation from the seller, not from you."
Despite her words, Altaïr and Sajji still sat ramrod straight, not daring to move a muscle.
The carriage kept a brisk pace, and in less than a quarter of an hour, they arrived before the luxurious mansion that occupied more than half the street.
Altaïr couldn't help recalling the day they first arrived in Dundorma, when they had also passed by this grand residence. Back then, Isis had even suggested they could go in and sit for a while, but they hadn't been interested.
Now, nearly two years later, here they were after all.
There were no interrogations or inspections like he had imagined. The moment the carriage appeared at the street corner, the attendants pulled open the gate, and the carriage followed the pristine white stone-paved path all the way to the mansion's front door.
When the carriage came to a halt, the butler and attendants were already waiting there.
Altaïr and Sajji exchanged glances. This was their first time experiencing such a scene. Francesca clicked her tongue, seemingly somewhat displeased.
"Young miss, the madam is in the parlor." The butler stepped forward and was about to assist her.
"Go busy yourselves with your own matters." Francesca waved her hand as she descended the carriage steps. "Do I not know my way around my own house?"
"Yes." The attendants bowed and withdrew.
Finally, Altaïr, unaccustomed to being served, breathed a sigh of relief.
"Don't look at me. I don't like them doing this either, but these are the customs here. Let's go." Francesca tilted her head toward them and took the lead.
Having just left the Elder Hall earlier that day, Altaïr wasn't easily awed by the mansion's decor. Sajji, however, walked as though he was tiptoeing.
The two and the cat passed through the foyer and porch, turned into a long corridor, and walked several dozen meters more before finally arriving at the place called the "parlor."
But Altaïr couldn't help thinking "hall" would be a more fitting name for it.
Inside, there was no lavishly dressed noblewoman as he had imagined, only a tall woman in a standard Instructor's uniform, sitting with her legs crossed on the sofa, exuding an air of dominance like a dragon coiled on a throne.
Seeing Francesca enter with a man and a cat, the woman raised her chin slightly in greeting, then tossed something toward Altaïr.
Altaïr caught it with a reflexive sweep of his hand. It was a hefty money pouch.
"This is the deposit. When the job's done, there'll be even more!" The woman bared her teeth in a grin.
Altaïr: "..."
Who exactly was he supposed to be kidnapping here?
(Translated by yourtl.app)