Through the window, sunlight poured into Guildmaster Gislow’s office, highlighting the old fellow who sat on a wooden chair, a few inches away from the window.
The calming breeze that blew through the open window ruffled both the old man’s long grey beard and his grey hair, blowing against his shirtless, muscular body, but he paid the soothing breeze no mind, even paid the loud clanging sound of steel eting steel from the sandy arena outside his window no mind. So rcenaries were engaging in a spar, it seed.
Gislow’s absolute attention was fixed sowhere else.
His office stretched before him, as spacious and lonely as it always was at this ti of the day.
A couch lay at the side of the office, its width fitting for about three grown n to sit freely.
And just in front of his wooden desk filled with stacked paperwork and unsigned files, a wooden chair stood, positioned for any audience of his.
After many years of working in this office, Gislow had grown used to the monotony of this place.
A warm, almost bitter smile remained plastered on his dried lips as his narrow eyes, the color of muted erald, stared into the picture that lay gently in his palm, wrapped around by a delicate, wooden fra.
The picture captured a remarkably beautiful fair lady whose black hair poured over her shoulders as her gloved hands slightly raised her long, flowing violet gown to expose the high heels she wore on her feet. Her other hand rested gracefully on her waist, and her striking yellow eyes stared at the viewer as she flashed a radiant, beautiful smile.
Staring at the picture, Gislow’s gaze softened. Even now, he could still feel her presence. He felt it around him every single day since the day he lost her.
And as he grew older and older, on so days, he heard her voice call out to him.
Sighing, he dropped the picture on the desk, closing his eyes as he leaned back in his chair.
That bitter smile of his vanished now, replaced by a sweet, pleased one, and his previously creased brows relaxed as his heart llowed into a warm mont.
The sa mont that always played through his mind whenever he closed his eyes.
Gislow saw himself in a ball. The old man looked much younger there, more restrained, less powerful and more ambitious. He had hair as dark as obsidian, a bright, radiant smile as he arranged his dashing nobleman outfit that was definitely ant to impress.
The rest of the stage around him in the ball was dark, as the sole light from the spotlight poured on him. For a brief mont, the sounds of weapons clanging in the distance dulled, and Gislow could swear he heard the sa light and slow music he’d heard that day in the ball as she stepped out of the darkness, joining him in the spotlight with that sa smile that always eased his soul.
They danced, twirled and held each other in their arms. A loving embrace amidst a tender dance. And to add to the gesture, a warm ki–
Gislow opened his eyes, inhaling deeply.
And he exhaled, massaging his forehead.
The sound of weapons clashing returned, and the whooshing sound of the cascading breeze also made its way, grounding Gislow in reality.
’What is this?’ Gislow asked himself, eyes focused on his ceiling above, as he relaxed on his chair. ’Its getting... worse.’
Gislow could feel it. The visions of those tis becoming stronger could only an one thing.
He was approaching his inevitable end. It was so, so close.
Living without her for ninety years out of his hundred and ten was enough torture for Gislow. He was happy. Soon, it would be over.
He gazed at the large silver shield that lay on the ground beside him.
"Soon, I’ll be coming ho to you, my love," Gislow whispered, speaking to... the wind.
Clang–Clang–!
The intensity of the weapon clashes was steadily climbing. The tallic sound of steel eting steel echoed through the air.
’Hm?’
Gislow moved his neck, gazing at his window that stood several inches away from his seat. He’d finally given the heated battle attention.
With a low grunt and so crackling sounds from his joints, Gislow stood up from his chair, slowly making his way toward the window.
As he arrived, he peeked through, spotting the two rcenaries engaged in battle.
"Oh?" He exclaid, brows raised. "Wabi is back."
One of the rcenaries was a man dressed in black inner trousers and a shirt, hidden by a silver coat that flowed in the air as he moved gracefully, parrying and attacking his opponent with his sword.
That man was a 4th-core swordsman and an A-rank rcenary, one of the few people in the guild that Gislow paid attention to and related with, Wabi. Although Gislow didn’t rember when Wabi ca back from his trip to the Northern Continent.
The old man’s mories weren’t exactly the best.
Wabi’s opponent was a young man dressed in a light short-sleeved shirt and black, ragged trousers. He wielded a strange weapon that Gislow couldn’t exactly rember. It was shaped like a spear with a pointy mouth, but shorter than a spear, the sa length as a sword. And the young man wielded two of those short spears in both hands.
Clang–!
The short spear wielder was pressing down on Wabi, dominating him. Wabi, with all his gracious techniques, couldn’t fend against the aggressive attacks of the blazing-eyed youth.
A B-rank rcenary, Gislow judged as he saw the gleaming bronze license hanging on his shirt. And the B-rank possessed mana not less than a 4th-core’s. Sa with Wabi. But he was winning.
Gislow chuckled.
’Wabi’s getting old.’
Knock–Knock–!
Just then, a rapid knock on Gislow’s door drew his attention. He raised a brow, turning his neck to stare at the door.
"Co in."
Clack–!
The door opened.
In walked a middle-aged man, dressed in a brown long-sleeve shirt that did little to hide the muscles bulging in his shirt. Even the sleeves of his shirt didn’t quite reach his wrists. Complenting his shirt were black trousers.
The man’s spiraling, hollow black eyes t Gislow’s erald.
Gislow humd softly.
The middle-aged man had short green hair that frad an austere face, his chin riddled with a splintered green beard.
"Spade?"
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