The atmosphere changed from the battlefield to the quiet wooden walls of Ozuna's Inn felt like stepping out of a tempest and into a warm bath.
Arthur had politely, yet firmly, declined Earl Ashur's offer of a guest wing at the manor. To the Earl, it was hospitality; to Arthur, it was a gilded cage of etiquette and political eyes.
He preferred the creak of the floorboards at the inn and the smell of stew that permeated the common room.
Recovery was not a solitary affair.
[Your vessels are knitting, but they are thirsty,] Madra's voice was a low hum in the back of his mind.
[The girls are providing the catalyst. Do not be ungrateful, boy. Even a king needs a court to bind his wounds.]
Arthur lay in the large, sun-drenched room on the second floor, his upper body wrapped in clean linens.
He wasn't alone. Alfia was at his left, meticulously grinding herbs for a topical poultice, her movements sharp and focused.
Meteria sat on his right, her eyes closed as she funneled a thin, cooling stream of spirit mana into his chest to soothe the "Mana Burn" scarring his internal circuits.
But the atmosphere had shifted. There was a third presence now.
Nana sat at the foot of the bed, polishing Arthur's notched silver blade with a devotion that bordered on religious. She had moved into the inn the morning after the battle.
To the twins, Nana wasn't a stranger; she was the daughter of their father's oldest friend, a man who had fallen in the line of duty years ago.
Airgid had offered her a home back then, but Nana had declined. At the time, she couldn't bear it. She wanted to be an adventurer, a legend of the blattlefield like her father once was.
To stay in a house with two "pitiful" girls who groaned in pain from a single step, who coughed blood when the wind grew too cold—it felt like a cage of stagnation.
She had stayed in her own small house, practicing her forms until her palms bled, taking small herb-gathering requests and pest control jobs in city to pay for her meals.
At eighteen, she had finally registered with the garrison. She had joined the Blue Fang party, thinking she had found her tribe. Then, the world shattered like cheap glass, and the "Hero" with the sapphire eyes had picked up the pieces.
Now, she looked at the twins not with pity, but with a burgeoning, fierce competitiveness. "You're using too much pressure, Meteria," Nana whispered, her eyes never leaving the sword. "His pulse is jumping. You'll over-saturate his mana veins."
Meteria didn't open her eyes, but a small, playful smirk touched her lips. "I've been with Arthur since before you even knew his name, Nana. I know exactly where his limit is."
Alfia added a pungent root to her mortar. "And I know exactly how much pain he can handle. Nana, if you're bored with the sword, the kitchen needs help with the medicinal broth."
"I'm fine right here," Nana replied, her voice clipping.
Arthur, caught in the middle of this invisible crossfire, stared at the ceiling. He was a master of swordsmanship, a strategist who could read a goblin horde's movements a mile away, yet he was completely blind or wanted to be blind to the atmospheric pressure currently building in his own bedroom.
By the second day, the tension had reached a breaking point. It wasn't just the three of them; Anna, the "Big Sister" from the alchemist shop, had arrived with a crate of high-grade recovery potions and a gaze that lingered on Arthur's bandages a second too long.
The four women had found themselves in the kitchen later that evening, the air thick with unspoken challenges.
It was Alfia who finally broke the silence, slamming a bunch of dried lavender onto the table.
"This is ridiculous," Alfia stated, her eyes flashing. "We are all circling him like vultures over a fresh kill. If we keep this up, we'll stress him out so much his mana circuits will snap before he even reaches the Northern End."
Anna leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. "The girl has a point. Arthur is... oblivious. But he is also a magnet. If we fight amongst ourselves, someone else—someone like those high-born ladies at the Earl's court—will step in while we're distracted."
Nana looked at the floor, then at the twins. "I owe him my life. Not just my life... my soul. I won't let anyone else take care of him."
"Then we become a team," Meteria said, her voice soft but absolute. "A rotation. We provide a united front. We protect his recovery together."
And so, the "Arthur Protection Committee" was formed. They took turns. One for the potions, one for the mana circulation, one for the equipment maintenance, and one for the nutrition.
Arthur found himself bewildered by the sudden, terrifying efficiency of his care. He was being pampered, scrubbed, and fed with a military precision that left him no room to argue.
"Is it just me," Arthur whispered to the ring on the third night, "or did the temperature in here just get... weirder?"
[It is the silence before the hurricane, lad,] Madra chuckled, a sound of pure, malicious glee. [Enjoy the soup. It may be the last thing you taste that isn't frozen blood.]
On the morning of the fourth day, Arthur stood at the threshold of the inn. His gear was repaired—Nana had polished his armor until it shone like a mirror—and his mana pool had stabilized at a healthy 100%.
The three girls stood before him, dressed in their own traveling cloaks.
"We're coming," Alfia said. It wasn't a question.
"The Northern End Caves are a spiritual nexus," Meteria added. "I can help you navigate the mana flows."
"And you need a vanguard to watch your back while you chant," Nana said, her hand resting on the hilt of her newly sharpened sword.
Arthur looked at them, then at the horizon where the jagged, snow-capped peaks of the Northern range pierced the gray sky. He felt the weight of the responsibility.
"No," Arthur said firmly. The silence that followed was deafening.
"It's too dangerous," Arthur continued, his voice softening but remaining iron-clad. "The Northern End isn't like the outskirts. The monsters there are level 300 and above. The air itself is a weapon; it freezes the lungs if you don't know how to circulate mana to stay warm. You've all made incredible progress, but right now, you would be fighting the environment more than the enemy."
"We can handle it!" Nana protested, her face flushing. "I've fought Goblins, I've—"
"You fought scouts," Arthur interrupted gently. "In the caves, a single Frost Bat can drain a person's heat in seconds. I need to know you are safe so I can focus on my mission."
Airgid stepped out from the shadows of the inn's porch, his massive arms crossed over his chest. He looked at his daughters and Nana with a stern, paternal gaze.
"The boy is right," Airgid rumbled. "You have fire, but you lack the frost-tempering. If you go now, you are a liability, not an asset. You want to stand beside him? Then earn the right. Go to the rabbit grounds. Clear the wolf dens. Prove you can hunt as a unit without him holding your hand."
The fire in the girls' eyes didn't dim; it intensified. It turned from a flickering flame into a concentrated forge-heat.
"Fine," Alfia spat, though her eyes were wet. "Go. But don't you dare come back with so much as a scratch, Arthur. Because if you do, I'll finish what the monsters started."
Meteria stepped forward and pressed a small, enchanted stone into his hand. "A spirit-link. It won't let us talk, but I'll know if your heart stops. Don't let it stop."
Nana stood tall, saluting him with her sword—a gesture of an apprentice to a master. "When you get back, I'll be Level 40. I won't be the one being rescued next time."
Arthur smiled, a genuine, weary expression of gratitude. "I'm counting on it."
He turned away, his cloak fluttering in the chill morning breeze. He didn't look back as he walked toward the Earl's manor, where the Azure Vanguard and the mission to the heart of the frost awaited.
The atmosphere at the Earl's manor was one of controlled chaos. Knights were sharpening lances, and mages were checking the seals on cold-resistance crystals. Earl Ashur stood on the balcony, his eyes fixed on the North.
As Arthur approached, the guards—the very men who had watched him carve a canyon through a goblin army—parted like the Red Sea. There were no demands for identification. There were only crisp salutes and hushed whispers.
"Sir Arthur," Ashur said as Arthur reached the war room. "You look recovered. Or at least, as recovered as a man who defies the laws of physics can be."
"I'm ready, My Lord," Arthur replied, bowing slightly.
"Good. Because the scouts just returned,"
Ashur's face turned solmen. He pointed to a map of the Northern End Caves. "Let's go," Arthur said.
As the column of 24 knights began to move out of the city gates, the citizens of Patrain watched in silence. At the window of Ozuna's Inn, three girls watched until the white hair of the solo adventurer vanished into the crowd.