Felix had always been a determined kid. His past wasn't anything special—he was raised in a small village near the border, where life was simple, and danger was a constant. From a young age, he'd been trained to fight, to hold his own, but it wasn't until he got older that he realized he wanted more than just survival. 

He wanted a purpose.

When he was younger, Felix would watch adventurers pass through his village, some with grizzled faces, others with bold, adventurous smiles. They had stories to tell, scars to prove their worth, and something that Felix couldn't quite put his finger on—something that made him long for that life.

Then one day, during the 52nd breach, Felix had his first real glimpse of what he'd been searching for. He saw Sébastien leading a small team through the chaos. He wasn't shouting orders, he wasn't boasting about his own skill—he was focused, eyes sharp and clear, guiding his team with quiet efficiency.

Felix was just a bystander back then, a rookie who'd barely seen a real raid, but he could see it—the way Sébastien moved, how his team trusted him without a second thought. There was power in that kind of control, power Felix knew he wanted for himself.

It wasn't about fame or recognition, not for Felix. It was about purpose.

So when he heard Sébastien was looking for team members, Felix didn't hesitate. He wasn't even sure what he was going to say, or how he was going to prove himself. He just knew that if there was any chance at all, he had to take it.

And now, here he was, outside the training hall, heart pounding in his chest. The world around him felt distant, muffled, as he walked up to Sébastien. This was his moment, the moment where he either stepped into the life he'd always wanted or walked away, just like everyone else who never had the courage.

"I heard you're looking for a tank!" Felix called out, his voice louder than he meant it to be. He could already feel the nerves tightening in his stomach, but he pushed it aside.

This was it.

***

It was a chilly morning when Sébastien stepped out of the training hall, towel slung over his shoulder, still catching his breath from the morning drills with Xander. He hadn't even made it past the front steps when a voice called out—slightly nervous, but determined.

"I heard you're looking for a tank!"

Sébastien turned and saw a boy—no older than fifteen—jogging toward him. Short hair, a little tousled, and a pair of reinforced gauntlets hanging from his belt. His posture was proud, shoulders back, but Sébastien's trained eyes could see the stiffness—the hesitation behind the bravado.

The kid stopped a few feet in front of him and took a breath. "Name's Felix. I've been training under the second division in Westwall. I've done three raids, two successful. I can fight, I can hold the line, and—" he hesitated just a second, eyes darting to Sébastien's face "—you're the reason I wanted to be an adventurer."

Sébastien blinked.

Felix's ears turned red immediately. "I mean—not in a weird way or anything! I just—when I saw the way you held the front during the 52nd breach—I was only thirteen then—and I thought... I want to be like that. Like you."

There was a pause.

Then Sébastien smiled, slow and genuine."I'm guessing you want to join the team?"

Felix straightened. "Yes."

Sébastien looked him over. The gauntlets were scratched but well-kept. His stance was grounded. Not bad. Not bad at all. There was something else too—something raw and earnest.

"Well," Sébastien said, "come spar with me tomorrow. Let's see if you're all talk."

Felix grinned, nerves fading under excitement. "I won't disappoint you."

***

The next morning came with a biting wind, the sky grey and heavy as if the world knew something important was about to begin.

Sébastien stood at the center of the training field, his wooden sword resting loosely in his grip. Across from him, Felix adjusted his gauntlets, tightening the straps. He looked smaller than usual without armor—just a training vest and boots—but his stance was solid, knees bent, arms raised in a guarded position.

"No mana," Sébastien said, calm and even. "Just your body. I want to see your instincts."

Felix nodded. "Got it."

Then Sébastien moved.

It was like lightning—fast, precise. He didn't hold back, and Felix quickly realized the stories hadn't been exaggerated. Sébastien was efficient. Every movement had a purpose, every strike carried weight and speed.

The first clash was brutal. Sébastien swept low, aiming for Felix's legs. Felix managed to jump, barely dodging, and countered with a punch toward Sébastien's ribs. Sébastien shifted back just enough to avoid it, his eyes sharp with appraisal.

"Good reaction," he muttered. "But not fast enough."

The second blow came before Felix could reset—Sébastien struck at his side. Felix blocked with his gauntlet, sliding backward a few feet from the force, heels dragging in the dirt.

Still, he didn't fall.

They kept going. Felix took hit after hit—one to his shoulder, another to his hip, a knock to the side of his head—but he didn't yield. He adapted. He narrowed his defense. His footwork sharpened. His eyes started reading Sébastien's patterns.

By the tenth exchange, Felix landed a clean jab to Sébastien's chest. It didn't knock him back, but it made him blink.

"Oh?" Sébastien raised a brow, stepping back. "So you learn as you go."

Felix, panting, grinned. "I told you—I won't disappoint."

Sébastien didn't smile, but something in his eyes softened—approval, maybe even pride.

After another five minutes, Sébastien ended it. With a swift sweep of the leg and a press of the wooden blade to Felix's neck, he nodded.

"Enough."

Felix sat up slowly, sweat dripping, breathing heavy but not broken.

"You're rough," Sébastien said, offering him a hand. "But you held your ground."

Felix took his hand, grip firm despite the tremble.

"I'll get better."

"I know," Sebastien said. "Welcome to the team, Felix."