Clyde spent a long time leading the group around the market, bringing endless delight to a certain little lady.

  In three years of life, the children had very rarely left the house. Grace, who was an extrovert at heart, genuinely enjoyed the lively atmosphere of the place. Although Grey was quiet and never strayed a step away from his mother, he still kept turning his head, searching for something interesting.

  “Mom, buy this! Buy it! Buy it, please!” Grace began to plead when she noticed a beautiful hairpin on one of the stalls.

  “Of course, dear. How much does it cost? Grey, take a look and see if you want something,” Catherine suggested, speaking with the vendor.

  “I don’t want anything. I just need Mom, my sister, and… Dad nearby,” Grey replied, glancing shyly at Cassia.

  “Fufufu, my dear, your talents with the ladies are truly impressive,” his mother laughed, secretly pleased by her son’s remark.

  After concluding the deal, the group continued their walk through the border city.

  The deeper they went into the trading district, the more numerous the neat, well-finished shops with established reputations became. Elegant signboards, clean display windows, and the scent of fresh pastries or herbal blends accompanied them step by step.

  After some time, they entered a spacious hall reminiscent of a medieval sitting room. High ceilings, stone walls, soft diffused light. Instead of familiar lamps, magical circles were used here. The floor was paved with gray cobblestones polished to a shine, and along the walls stretched massive wooden display cases with goods arranged in careful order.

  Soon, a shopkeeper approached them.

  “Mr. Clyde, this is…?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Ashfort,” Clyde cut him off dryly, giving no room for imagination. “They’re looking for quality remedies for internal injuries.”

  The shopkeeper immediately snapped into motion, stretching his smile wide.

  “Ah, of course, certainly. Allow me to offer you a potion of internal restoration, handcrafted by Master Strauss himself, the finest alchemist in the district—thirty silver lira. It’s practically a gift.

  We also have the freshest bloody mollusk hearts from Nightingale, delivered just yesterday—ten silver each. They would be perfectly suited—”

  “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me,” Catherine interrupted politely but firmly. “I’m here to place an urgent order. I need wyvern saliva. Or better yet—hydra. The older the specimen, the better. Have it delivered to the inn by tomorrow morning; Mr. Clyde will provide the address.”

  She paused for a second, letting her words settle, then added:

  “I will pay five gold Roman denarii. If the age and condition exceed my expectations, I’ll increase the payment to seven. Plus fifty silver—for the trouble.”

  The shopkeeper froze. Then he slowly spread into a smile, like a rose opening in the sunlight.

  “Ma’am…” he began on a breath, as if preparing to recite an ode, “your nobility shines brighter than the magical crystal atop the tower. Consider the order already fulfilled. For you, I will find not mere saliva. I will find a drop of the very essence of ancient magic!”

  He bowed like a court actor.

  “Alas, I shall have to contact the military authorities… Ah, those eternally hungry bureaucrats! They will squeeze the last copper from a poor merchant—but for your sake, I am willing to endure it.”

  Straightening up, he suddenly looked at the children.

  “And who might these wonderful children be? Such charm, such bearing. You must belong to a very… very noble family?”

  The shopkeeper’s verbosity knew no bounds. Words poured from his mouth like a song from the lips of a tavern bard. Given another couple of minutes, he would have unblinking eyes declared Catherine a descendant of an ancient line of demigods—and five minutes later, he would have begun praying to the very ground she walked on.

  “Then I suppose we can count on your punctuality,” Catherine concluded with a gentle smile. She found his behavior mildly amusing.

  “Oh, punctuality is my middle name, Your Highness! No, Your Nobility. No, your… perfection!” he exclaimed, already hurrying toward the exit. “I shall return as soon as dawn carries to me the first whisper of success!”

  When he finally disappeared from sight, Cassius leaned toward Catherine and whispered,

  “I think I saw tears well up in his eyes when you said ‘five gold.’”

  Catherine giggled. Even Clyde couldn’t hold back his laughter.

  “Mommy, let’s keep walking!” Grace tugged at her mother.

  “All right, we’ll walk a bit more, sweetheart. But first, tell me—what does wyvern saliva do?”

  “Obviously, it heals internal injuries!” the girl answered instantly; she had been listening closely to her mother’s conversation.

  “Correct. But it also has the property of tempering metals that are soaked in it. Fufufu. By the way, I’d say the way adventurers obtain the saliva is rather amusing.

  Since wyverns are too powerful to be killed, people have to be creative when it comes to acquiring their saliva. The most common method is to be eaten by a wyvern…

  Don’t look so surprised. They coat themselves in a special powder that has no smell but tastes absolutely vile. The wyvern doesn’t want to swallow them, so it spits them out in disgust.

  Although accidents do happen—sometimes a wyvern may accidentally bite down on an unlucky adventurer, breaking a few bones or even killing them,” she said calmly, almost casually, as if she were telling the children about the weather.

  This was her way of gradually introducing them to the world. Almost everything she shared with them could not be found in any textbook. Most of that knowledge was rare lore, passed down only by word of mouth.

  “Whoa,” the twins exclaimed in unison.

  “Come along, my dears, let’s walk a little more. If you see anything interesting, be sure to tell Mommy. Today, Mommy will do everything she can to make her precious little ones happy!”

  Mother and children found a small café and settled down for a bite on a nearby bench. Catherine bought the children several puff pastries filled with the most delicate cottage cheese cream, as well as strawberry soup. These famous sweets were one of the Magical Empire’s calling cards.

  After the short snack, the family headed toward the local tavern, where they planned to spend the night. But as they passed by a weapons shop, Catherine noticed Grey’s gaze linger on the display window.

  “My dear, do you want a weapon?” she asked with a hint of curiosity. “Don’t be silent, sweetheart. You know Mommy loves you and will be happy to grant any of your wishes.”

  “Yes, Mom, let’s take a look,” Grey answered simply.

  Catherine smiled. In their current circumstances, the fact that her son had spoken another full sentence in a single day already counted as a small victory.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Now the twins seemed far too different to her. Grace was lively, cheerful, and restless. She laughed, asked a hundred questions a minute, and skipped about without ever seeming to tire.

  And Grey…

  Grey had completely withdrawn into himself. Everyone knew the reason for his behavior—but what could they do about it?

  Upon entering the weapons shop, they found themselves in a spacious hall. The goods displayed there were staggering in their variety. Along the walls stood racks piled high with all manner of intimidating weaponry: swords of every conceivable shape and size, daggers, tridents and spears, nets, axes adorned with intricate patterns, bows and arrows, javelins…

  There was everything one could possibly imagine.

  Unlike the Roman Empire, where all weapons were strictly bound to military standards, here diversity of form, style, and even culture reigned supreme. It seemed as though every blade possessed its own unique design, crafted specifically for a particular hand.

  “My dears,” Catherine stepped forward, gesturing toward the shelves of weapons, “in the Roman Empire, every legionary has only four primary types of weapons. Three for close combat, and one for ranged fighting.

  For example, the spear ‘Sarisu’—long and sturdy, meant for fighting in formation. The short sword ‘Gladio’ is the most versatile, excellent for both thrusting and slashing. Then there is the dagger ‘Pugio’—compact and universal, used in the most critical situations. And of course, the bow ‘Arcus’—an indispensable aid in battle at a distance.”

  She paused, giving the children time to absorb what they had heard.

  “And now, look at the specialists—the elite of the Magical Empire. These warriors stand on equal footing with mages and runic knights. Their weapon culture is far more focused on variety and creativity.

  Each of them masters a single type of weapon, but that choice can be quite unusual. Here you will see halberds, sabers, maces, clubs, broadswords, knuckle weapons, chakrams, axes, hammers, flails… and much more. Such variability reflects just how diverse the combat tactics of this empire truly are.”

  The atmosphere changed abruptly, as if the air in the room had grown thicker and quieter. Genuine seriousness entered Catherine’s voice, as though they had returned to the awakening ceremony.

  She swept her gaze over the children, studying their faces closely, then continued her lecture, emphasizing every single word:

  “Do not be mistaken—we are not here simply for a stroll. You are about to make a choice. And that choice will, to a great extent, determine your fate. Treat it with all the seriousness you are capable of.

  When you choose a weapon, you are not choosing a mere object. You are choosing a companion for life. Much will depend on this choice—not only in battle, but in your character, your habits, and your decisions. It is something that may one day save your life. Or the life of someone dear to you.

  You must listen to yourselves carefully, feel the weapon. It should not simply please the eye, but become an extension of your limbs, and, in time, of your will.”

  Catherine spoke with absolute gravity. Even if their visit to the weapons shop had been spontaneous, she understood clearly: choosing a weapon was not a whim, but a fateful step for every warrior.

  She wanted her children to remember this moment forever—as their first conscious step toward their own strength.

  The twins nodded obediently and set to work, moving from one display to another. They tried to listen to themselves carefully, recalling their mother’s instructions.

  The shopkeeper and Clyde stood silently, enduring Cassia’s deadly glare. “Don’t even think about interfering”—that was exactly what she meant as she watched them with a predatory squint. From her mistress’s tone, Cassia understood perfectly the gravity of the moment.

  Catherine had created an atmosphere that must not be broken by word or deed under any circumstances.

  About fifteen minutes passed.

  And then, at last, the children stopped. Their choices had been made.

  Grace approached the display first and reached for the weapon that had caught her eye the most. She was drawn to two chakrams—throwing rings with razor-sharp edges.

  One was a classic design. The other was unique: it was divided in half by a handle, forming the symbol of yin and yang. When needed, the ring could be separated—turning into two compact blades for close combat.

  Catherine watched the entire process intently. She could see Grace’s hesitation. The chakrams had appealed to her at first glance, yet she doubted herself because the weapon was highly unusual.

  “A very complex and dangerous weapon,” Catherine remarked. There was no reproach in her voice, only a desire to understand her daughter’s choice. “Why did you choose this one, Grace?”

  The girl tilted her head thoughtfully, keeping the chakrams firmly in her hands.

  “They’re beautiful. You can swing them or throw them at enemies,” she answered with utmost seriousness.

  The children’s vocabulary left much to be desired, but it was enough to justify her choice.

  “All right, dear, I understand. You’ll need a lot of training to unlock their full potential. I hope you won’t shy away when you face difficulties. For now, put them back. We’ll order a pair just like these, but made specifically for your current height, so they’ll be easier for you to handle.”

  Grace nodded and did as her mother instructed. Meanwhile, Grey had already found a weapon for himself.

  Catherine had not expected the boy to choose a Gladius—the standard weapon of Roman legionaries. A symbol of the system that had destroyed him. Why this one?

  “It called to me,” the boy said simply, perfectly capturing his feelings.

  Hearing his words, Catherine’s mind went blank for a moment. Grey’s statement had struck her as almost too shocking to comprehend.

  The phenomenon of a person being able to hear a weapon’s will was well known in certain circles. The union of spirit and metal was considered the highest form of mastery. Yet even the most gifted individuals spent years in grueling training, meditation, and strict discipline to reach it.

  And if Grey had truly experienced it just now, at the very first touch…

  It could mean only one thing—a natural talent, bordering on legend.

  Catherine had no doubt about her son’s honesty. He was a terrible actor—too truthful, too straightforward. As a good mother, she should have rejoiced at her son’s success, yet something else weighed on her mind…

  She was worried about the shopkeeper, who had become an unwitting witness to their little ceremony. The man stood just a few steps away, and it seemed he had reached the same conclusions.

  Catherine exhaled quietly. This could become a problem.

  To understand her concern, one had to grasp the real state of affairs in the Magical Empire.

  As absurd as it might sound, people in the Magical Empire could not awaken magical cores. All the power and might of this state depended directly on three types of forces: mages, runic knights, and specialists. And each had its own unique path.

  Mages were most often drawn from the nobility. In early childhood, the most talented offspring were given potions to awaken their mana. These potions were exceedingly expensive, affordable to only a small fraction of the population. Worse, there was no guarantee that a child would awaken their mana on the first try.

  A single awakening could cost parents hundreds of magical lira—and that was far from the end. Education at the academy, magical items, and training equipment all required further expenditure. The cost of raising a mage was astronomical.

  Yet any investment was justified by the advantages gained, for mages formed the foundation of the Magical Army. Mana manipulation allowed them to perform a vast range of spells—from small balls of fire to storms capable of wiping entire squads off the face of the earth.

  Mages were responsible for supporting allies and controlling the battlefield. They were also the ones who created runes for the runic knights—the most numerous unit in the army. Every trained mage was thus guaranteed power and status proportionate to the investment in their education.

  Runic knights were ordinary warriors whose bodies were enhanced with runes. One rune could increase endurance, another accelerate recovery. Certain special runes granted knights extraordinary abilities—such as invisibility, speed, or an enhanced chance to kill. Skilled mages could create entire sets of runes that harmonized with one another, further boosting a knight’s combat effectiveness.

  Thus, power in the Magical Empire depended directly on the quality and number of trained mages. But what state could function without a special elite unit, created to tackle the most difficult challenges?

  That unit was the Specialists—warriors who answered only to the Royal Family. Unlike mages, whose bodies remained fairly ordinary, Specialists fought in close combat, relying on strength and technique.

  From early childhood, they took up weapons, spending their lives on battlefields and cultivating a will to kill. Their weapons became part of their bodies, an extension of their will. When that will reached its extreme, it took tangible form—transforming into energy known as the weapon’s aura.

  The applications of the aura were truly limitless. With it, a warrior could strengthen their body, accelerate movements, or overpower an opponent with sheer force of spirit. A Specialist capable of wielding aura was faster than an arrow, stronger than forest ogres, and as deadly as a demon.

  Such warriors could not be raised in an academy. Their only school was real battle, where blood and sweat clouded the eyes, and cold fear seeped into the very bones. Only those who survived hundreds of life-and-death encounters earned the right to walk the path of power. The rest… became nameless corpses on the battlefield.

  Grey’s words—that he had heard the will of a weapon—could mean only one thing: he had become a potential candidate for the Specialists. Unfortunately, Catherine was not the only one who had realized this.

  By law, the shopkeeper was obliged to report such a discovery to the authorities. And if he did—Grey would be taken immediately. He would be sent to a special institution, where they would break him down and rebuild him, turning him into a weapon of war. He would go through hell, and if he survived—he would become what they called a “Specialist.”

  The mortality rate in such places was horrifying: only one in twenty candidates survived to the age of twelve.

  As a mother, Catherine could not allow her son to end up among those children.