"I'm no hero—and thank you... but I've eaten my fill," Seraph countered, maintaining his unwavering denial.
The young magis's face remained a study in absolute, emotionless resolve—a sharp contrast to Norak, whose friendly disposition stayed as steady as the tides.
Over the past few days, Seraph's aloof behavior had started to grate on certain factions of the Ragguard garrison. His perceived cold-shouldering of Norak—a man loved by the entire fortress—was seen by many as the typical arrogance of a high-born magis, a middle finger to the social fabric that held the frontier together.
Luckily, most of the Bloody Hunting party remained friendly and easy to talk to, and the people still felt a deep well of gratitude for the recent slaughter of the demonic horde. Because of that, they chose to see the young man's silence as the pride of a gifted but socially stunted kid, rather than true malice.
The friction in their conversation began to draw curious looks from the surrounding revellers.
Before Norak could push any further, a thunderous laugh erupted across the square. The heavy strike of armoured boots announced a man radiating absolute martial confidence.
Leonis strode into the light, a brimming flagon in hand, his face flushed with the heat of spirits and genuine mirth. He was the textbook image of the knightly caste and a master of the blade; his frame was massive, hardened by decades of drilling under a relentless sun until his skin had turned the colour of weathered bronze. He was so naturally dark-complexioned that even a heavy intake of ale couldn't bring a drunken flush to his face.
The General brought a heavy hand down on Norak's shoulder—a blow so hard it sent ale splashing over the rims, nearly knocking the cups to the ground. His laughter remained a constant, booming roar.
"I've already wasted my breath trying to get Seraph to drink a toast, and I got nowhere!" Leonis bellowed, his voice carrying the resonance of a commander used to shouting over the roar of battle. "You're gonna have to work ten times harder than me if you want to bend that iron resolve of his!"
Leonis's natural voice was piercing—a byproduct of years spent screaming orders on the field. His shout acted like a summons, snapping the attention of everyone near the bonfire and turning every eye toward the shadows where the young magis sat.
Most of the revellers had been sneakily watching the friction between Norak and Seraph from the start, and now the tactical landscape was clear to everyone. A chorus of challenges erupted from the sentries and demon hunters alike; they knew they couldn't beat the young magis in a mageia duel, but they were damn sure they could out-drink him under the stars.
Tables were dragged around the bonfire like makeshift arenas for downing ale. Men and women threw themselves into the sport, and a professional betting ring appeared almost instantly. Massive casks of spirits were stacked like low hills around the clearing, while a cacophony of cheers marked the progress of drinking bouts, arm-wrestling matches, and grappling contests.
In Laurasia, competition was the very marrow of life. The grand drinking tournaments were annual events so prestigious they rotated through the seven kingdoms to foster diplomacy, often drawing a million spectators to the main amphitheatres. In this world, the prestige of the flagon was held in the same high regard as the prestige of the blade.
"What do you say, Seraph!" Leonis challenged, his laughter echoing against the stone walls. "Don't tell me you lack the stomach for a bout against me? If you're worried about your endurance, you can try your luck against my greenest recruits instead!"
A tide of jeers and jokes swept through the square in response. A thousand onlookers closed in on the shadows, forming a human ring to pressure the young man into the fray. Even the demon hunters joined in, brandishing their flagons like weapons of war.
"Yeah! Let the magis show us how much he can put away!"
"Whoever taps out first has to get on stage and do a fool's dance for the whole garrison!"
"Drop the cowardice and drink!"
"Ale is life! Ale is blood!"
"I've got a petticoat ready for you if you're too faint-hearted to finish a cup!"
"Show some mettle, boy!"
"Has the peach fuzz even started growing on his chin yet?"
"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
The tide of jeers and mocking whistles reached a fever pitch, cutting through the midnight frost. This kind of rowdy energy was the lifeblood of the sentries—a necessary fire in their bones to keep them awake during the long hunt against the Legion. They knew all too well that while the sun might see a retreat, the dead of night was the preferred time for a demon raid. The history of Arkflame was written in the ash of cities taken while the guards slept.
Seraph let out a weary sigh as the walls of social expectation closed in on him.
"I'm going to have to forfeit this one," the young man declared, raising his hands in mock surrender. A faint, self-deprecating glimmer touched his face. "Consider me beaten. My tolerance for the bottle is non-existent. Honestly, just the smell of the stuff has me feeling light-headed already. If a single drop passed my lips, I'd probably pass out on the stones, and you'd have to haul my carcass back to my cot!"
"What!?" The collective shout was like a physical blow that sucked the air out of the square.
A dead silence gripped the crowd for a heartbeat, as if every mouth had been sewn shut by a spell. Then, a tectonic roar of laughter erupted, a thousand voices uniting in a booming mirth that shook the very foundations of the fortress.
The sound drew people from every corner of the fortress—townsfolk and soldiers alike drifted toward the fire to see the show.
Leonis doubled over, his face turning a dangerous shade of crimson.
"By the Goddess! I'd never have believed that a magis who can Flatten a hundred thousand demons off the map would be taken down by a single pint! Ha-ha-ha!" The General couldn't stop, gasping for air between fits of joy.
"And this is exactly why I didn't want to tell you lot," Seraph muttered, rubbing his forehead in a display of genuine mortification.
Over the past few days, his relentless hunting and his mask of icy indifference had acted as a barrier, alienating the men. But this confession of a mundane weakness—a simple, human flaw—had finally breached his own defences. In the eyes of the Ragguard garrison, the legendary butcher of the Western front had finally become someone they could actually talk to.
The Ragguard creed dictated that every veteran should be as seasoned with a flagon as they were with a blade; they could hardly believe a magis of such cataclysmic power possessed such a quaint weakness.
"Ha! So the truth is out! Fine, we'll spare your poor stomach the booze!" Norak declared with a boisterous wink. "But I won't let a hero of Arkflame rot on a cold bench while we feast. You're eating that roast beef—we don't breed men with small appetites around here!"
Seraph offered the faint ghost of a smile.
"I'm in your debt," he murmured, finally giving in to the social gravity of the room.
The surrounding sentries continued to trade jokes with the young man, their earlier resentment dissolving into friendly ribbing over his lack of fortitude.
The square surged with renewed life as the folk-harps picked up their pace again, the clinking of cups harmonising with the crackle of the hearths.
For a few stolen hours, it felt as though the shadow of the Demon Legion had been wiped from the world entirely.
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