All Jobs and Classes! I Just Wanted One Skill, Not Them All!

Chapter 619

A week passed.

In Lionfang, that was enough time for mud to dry, for a broken cartwheel to be replaced, and other things. And for a pack of dire wolves to turn into a story that didn’t even resemble reality anymore.

The rumors spread fast, faster than trade caravans, faster than official messengers, because fear traveled lighter than grain.

Some people said the wolves walked through Lionfang like they owned the place. That part was true.

They moved with the calm certainty of predators that had decided the walls were pack territory now, brushing past guards, sniffing crates, settling near gates like living statues. Other people said they were eating people in broad daylight.

That part was… less true.

It came from a single incident where a drunk tried to “prove he wasn’t scared” by yanking a wolf’s ear. The wolf had pinned him so fast the man’s pride barely had time to scream, and the bite marks on his sleeve looked dramatic enough for witnesses to upgrade it into a massacre by the time the story crossed the market.

By the third retelling, the wolves weren’t biting cloth. They were biting throats. By the fifth, they were dragging bodies into alleys like it was feeding time. Lionfang’s taverns stayed busy. Fear was good for business.

At the same time, another rumor spread, quieter, but sharper. The leaders of the Lionsguard had refused a noble title. Refused. Not “negotiated.” Not “delayed.” Not “asked for better terms.” Refused.

People began to connect the dots the way they always did when they smelled conflict: with imagination first and facts second.

A guild that wouldn’t bow to the capital. A border town full of wolves and northerners. A deadline from the Regent. So the whispers multiplied. They said the Lionsguard was preparing to face the Regent. They said Ludger was building an army under the walls. They said Torvares was backing rebellion.

They said the wolves were Imperial war-beasts stolen from some hidden menagerie. They said the guild had found a way to control monsters. They said the Regent would march before the snow melted. They said the Regent would starve Lionfang with coin and law until the wolves started eating children. And the most dangerous rumors weren’t the ridiculous ones. They were the ones that sounded plausible. Because even people who didn’t know Ludger Graves still understood one thing: No one refused a crown’s offer unless they believed they could survive what came after. And Lionfang, with wolves at its gates and froststeel in its vaults, was starting to look like a town that believed it could.

Rufas heard the rumors the way the most dangerous news arrived in the capital, through laughter first. A junior, breathless from running, half-grinning as if this was the kind of gossip that made the day less dull.

“Have you heard? Torvares’ border dogs got wolves now. Dire wolves. They walk through Lionfang like they own it.”

Rufas didn’t laugh. He sat at his desk, stared at the paper in front of him, and slowly massaged his forehead with two fingers until the skin between his brows went tight.

He’d heard the real version already. Bits and pieces, clean enough to sketch the shape: a Regent’s “offer,” a deadline, refusal. A border guild moving like it had teeth instead of paperwork. He’d also heard what the Regent had tried. Lucius’ land. Viscount title. Influence and leash in the same velvet box.

Rufas exhaled through his nose, the sound thin and irritated.

“I didn’t expect this,” he muttered to an empty room.

Not because he thought Ludger would bow. That boy had never been made to kneel by anyone. Rufas had known men like that. Useful when pointed outward. Catastrophic when boxed in. No, what Rufas hadn’t expected was the timing.

Because he had worked with Torvares to hide Eclaire inside the Lionsguard umbrella. The kind of work you did once and then prayed nobody ever looked at again. Now the umbrella was becoming a bonfire. And Eclaire was still under it. Rufas leaned back, eyes closing for a heartbeat as the problem tree grew branches in his head.

If the Regent decided to squeeze Lionfang too hard, Torvares would harden. Ludger would harden harder. And somewhere in that spiral, someone would start asking why Torvares was sheltering certain suspicious recruits. Someone would pull on threads. Someone would find a knot that wasn’t meant to exist.

Eclaire’s existence could split the realm.

And Rufas, who had helped bury that truth, suddenly felt like he was standing on fresh soil. He opened his eyes and stared at his desk again.

What do I even do? he thought. How do I stop this from escalating without touching it so directly that I leave fingerprints?

There were ways. There were always ways. But every “way” required time, leverage, and cooperation from men who thought patience was weakness. Rufas pinched the bridge of his nose, harder now.

The capital was full of knives. And right now, Lionfang was waving one in daylight.

Across the city, in an office that smelled of ink, wax, and old power, Varik was nursing his own headache.

The Senate chambers were a different kind of battlefield, no blood on stone, just reputations bleeding out in private hallways. Varik had keeping the Senate’s interests aligned with what it could actually enforce.

On top of that, he still had to manage the Silver Talon Order. A guild didn’t stay disciplined by miracles. It stayed disciplined by constant attention, constant training, constant quiet violence pointed in the right direction.

Varik had his hands full. Then the rumors arrived. Dire wolves. Refusal. A Regent with pride and a border guild with teeth. Varik sat at his desk and stared at the report like it was about to bite him. He pressed his thumb into his temple and felt the pulse there, steady and annoyed.

“Of course,” he muttered.

Because it always happened like this: you spent years building networks, balancing factions, keeping allies from becoming liabilities… and then one ambitious child in a border town decided to solve politics with predators.

Varik dragged a slow breath in, held it, let it out through his nose.

If the Regent made a move too openly, he’d look like a tyrant. The Senate would sniff weakness. Rival houses would posture. The capital didn’t like instability unless it was their instability.

So the Regent would squeeze slowly. Economic. Legal. Bureaucratic. The kind of pressure that made people crawl back and call it “choosing reason.” But rumors also said Ludger wasn’t the crawling type.

Varik’s eyes narrowed.

Worse, if Ludger pushed back too loudly, the Regent wouldn’t accept being embarrassed. Not with the Rodericks lurking somewhere in the dark, not with imperial legitimacy already feeling thin in certain circles. This wasn’t just “border trouble.”

This was the kind of friction that could spark a broader fire if someone misjudged the cost of pride. Varik tapped the desk once, a sharp sound in the quiet. He had Senate interests to protect. A guild to maintain.

And now he had to worry that an ally on the frontier and the ruler of the realm might decide to go at each other and duke it out like two bored champions, except with thousands of lives caught in the consequences. Varik closed his eyes for a moment.

“Rufas,” he murmured, already knowing the man would be having the same headache.

Then he opened them again, gaze sharpening into decision. He couldn’t stop the Regent from being the Regent. He couldn’t stop Ludger from being Ludger. But he could try to keep the clash controlled. Because if this escalated in the wrong direction, the Senate wouldn’t just be writing motions. They’d be writing eulogies.

In the capital’s castle, the air always felt a little thinner.

Too many oaths spoken in these halls. Too many quiet decisions that sent loud men to die somewhere else.

The Regent sat alone in his office, high ceiling, heavy drapes, a fireplace burning low more for status than warmth. Candlelight painted the room in gold and shadow, glinting off polished wood and the faint edge of steel hidden in decor that pretended it was art.

He held the letter again. Not “again” as in twice. Again as in the tenth time.

His hands were crossed in front of his face, fingers steepled high enough to hide his mouth. The posture made him look like a statue carved from discipline: straight back, shoulders squared, not a hair out of place. His eyes, cool, pale, and tired in a way only power could cause, tracked the lines with slow precision.

He didn’t frown. He didn’t scowl. That would’ve been honest. Instead, his expression was controlled, almost blank, as if the letter was a puzzle and not an insult. Only the small tension in his jaw betrayed him. The tiny twitch at the corner of one eye each time he reached the signature.

The seal had already been broken. Wax fragments sat like red scars in a small dish. The parchment was creased now from being handled too many times, an indignity in itself.

It was addressed properly. Too properly. And it wasn’t from Arslan. It was from Torvares. The contents were calm. Respectful. And utterly unacceptable.

To His Grace, the Regent of the Realm,

I write with due respect to Your Grace’s station, and with gratitude for the consideration shown to House Torvares and to the Lionsguard of Lionfang.

The proposal delivered, granting Viscount rank to Guildmaster Arslan, along with stewardship of the late Lucius’ territory, and the associated responsibilities of loyalty and rail construction, has been reviewed with the seriousness it deserves.

After consultation with our allied parties and the relevant administrators of the frontier, I must respectfully decline the offered arrangement in its current form. This refusal is not born of ingratitude, nor of disregard for the Realm’s needs. Rather, it is a practical conclusion based on present conditions:

Frontier Stability and Unified Support:

Lionfang’s security and output depend upon a delicate system of mutual support between the Lionsguard, local labor, and allied northern clans whose cooperation is voluntary and rooted in autonomy. Any sudden formal incorporation into central obligations, particularly infrastructure commitments that alter travel flows and jurisdiction, risks destabilizing those agreements and creating friction where there is presently cooperation.

Operational Necessity and Labyrinth Access:

The Lionsguard’s leadership value to the Realm is the consistent exploitation and containment of the northern labyrinth and its materials. That work requires flexibility in deployment, routes, and security priorities. The proposed obligations, while honorable, introduce external scheduling and oversight that would hinder their capacity to maintain output and keep the frontier safe.

Perception and Avoidance of Misinterpretation:

In the present climate, a rapid elevation and territorial reassignment may be misread, by allies, rivals, and opportunists alike, as a political maneuver rather than a security measure. Such misinterpretations breed instability on the border faster than any monster wave.

We therefore propose maintaining the Lionsguard in its current status while continuing to supply froststeel and maintain the security of the northern approaches, as we have done. House Torvares remains committed to the Realm’s stability and will continue to coordinate frontier defense through lawful channels.

Should Your Grace wish to revisit terms that preserve local autonomy while improving the Realm’s security objectives, House Torvares remains available for further discussion. Lionsguard still is willing to make the rails for the realm, but the jobs will have to be asked like a proper guild job from a client.

With respect,

Lord Torvares of House Torvares

Warden of the Frontier Holdings

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