The refreshed travelers spent the next morning wandering through the lively market, much to the endless delight of a certain little lady. During their three short years of life, the children had rarely ventured outside their home. Grace, an extrovert at heart, thoroughly enjoyed the bustling atmosphere. Though Gray was quieter and refused to stray far from his mother's side, he still looked around with curiosity, his head turning this way and that.
"Mom, buy this! Please, please!" Grace begged, having spotted a beautiful hairpin on one of the stalls.
"Of course, darling. How much is it?" Catherine asked the vendor. "Gray, you too—pick something if you like."
"I don't want anything. I only need Mom, Sister, and... Dad nearby," Gray answered shyly, glancing at Cassius.
"Fufufu, my dear, it seems you're already learning how to handle women properly," Catherine chuckled, pleased with her son's words.
After completing the purchase, the group of five continued exploring the border city.
As they moved deeper into the trading district, the stores became tidier and more established. After some walking, they arrived at a spacious hall. The entrance resembled a medieval lounge: light came from magical circles rather than torches, the floor was paved with gray cobblestones, and goods were displayed neatly in wooden cases.
It didn't take long for someone to approach them.
"Mr. Clyde, these are...?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Ashford. They're looking for quality potions to heal internal injuries," Clyde quickly interrupted the clerk before he could say anything foolish.
"I recommend the internal restoration potion, handcrafted by Master Alchemist Strauss—the most renowned in our area—priced at thirty silver lira. We also have blood mollusk hearts, recently shipped from Nightingale, at ten silver each," the clerk offered smoothly, exuding the polished manners of a seasoned butler.
"Sir, I think you misunderstood," Catherine cut in calmly. "I'm here to place a special order. I want the saliva of a wyvern—or better yet, a hydra—the older, the better. It must be delivered to our inn by tomorrow morning. Mr. Clyde will tell you where. I'll pay five golden Roman denarii for it. If the specimen exceeds expectations in age and quality, I'll increase the reward to seven gold coins. You will receive fifty silver lira upfront, regardless."
Her offer was so generous that the merchant's face lit up instantly, his courtesy soaring to new heights.
"Right away, noble lady! Your wish is my command," he beamed. "Unfortunately, I'll need to go through the military office, those bloodsuckers—they'll bleed me dry for it! But believe me, if it were up to me, I'd serve someone as beautiful as you for free! And these children, what charm, what noble presence—surely you must hail from a prestigious lineage!"
Had he been allowed to continue, in another two minutes he might have canonized Catherine as a saint—and five minutes after that, deified her.
Leaving Clyde to finalize the deal and handing over the deposit, Catherine exited the shop with her children.
"Mommy, let's keep exploring!" Grace tugged at her mother's sleeve.
"Alright, sweetie. But first, tell me—what does wyvern saliva do?" Catherine quizzed her daughter.
"It heals internal wounds, obviously!" Grace answered instantly, having paid close attention earlier.
"Correct. But it also has another use—it can harden metals it is soaked into. Fufufu," Catherine chuckled. "Interestingly, the way adventurers collect wyvern saliva is quite funny. Since wyverns are too strong to kill, people must get creative. The most common method? Let yourself be eaten..."
She paused, enjoying the shock on her children's faces.
"Don't panic. They cover themselves with a special powder—odorless but horribly bitter-tasting. The wyvern usually spits them out rather than swallowing. Adventurers then harvest the saliva. Of course, accidents do happen—sometimes the beast might accidentally crush a bone or kill someone in the process."
The children stared, wide-eyed.
"Whoa," the twins said in unison.
"Come on, my darlings, let's continue wandering. If you see anything interesting, tell Mommy immediately. Today, Mommy will do anything to make you happy!"
As they wandered the lively streets, the little family stopped at a café to grab some sweets. Catherine bought them fluffy pastries filled with creamy cheese and bowls of strawberry soup—famous specialties of the Magic Empire.
After their snack, they strolled toward their inn. Passing a weapon shop, Catherine noticed Gray's fixed gaze on the various weapons on display. She stopped and asked:
"Sweetheart, would you like to pick a weapon? Don't be shy—Mommy loves you and would do anything for you."
"Yes, Mom. Let's look," Gray finally whispered.
Catherine was pleased to hear another full sentence from her son. Her twins had become very different: Grace was hyperactive, lively, and constantly chattering; she seemed determined to pull words out of her brother by sheer force of will. Catherine understood why Gray had become so reserved—and it broke her heart.
Entering the weapon shop, they found a wide array of arms. Unlike the Roman Empire, where the military strictly standardized their gear, the Magic Empire celebrated diversity.
"My dears, in the Roman Empire, soldiers primarily use three close-combat weapons and one ranged weapon," Catherine began another lesson. "The 'Sarissa' spear for formation fighting, the short sword 'Gladius' for stabbing and cutting, the 'Pugio' dagger for emergencies, and the 'Arcus' bow for ranged attacks."
She gestured to the variety before them.
"Here, however, the culture of warfare is different. Specialists, one of the three elite forces alongside mages and rune knights, emphasize mastery of a single weapon type. You'll find halberds, sabers, maces, clubs, broadswords, knuckle dusters, chakrams, axes, hammers, flails—you name it. Each warrior refines their skill with a single weapon to absolute perfection."
Despite the long explanation, the children listened with rapt attention, especially since they could see everything she described firsthand.
"My sweethearts," Catherine said solemnly, "I want you both to choose a weapon that will stay with you always. You must train with it, care for it, and trust it to protect you if I am ever not there."
The twins nodded earnestly and wandered the shop, examining weapon after weapon. Clyde and the shopkeeper sweated under Cassius's murderous gaze—neither dared interrupt this serious ceremony.
After about fifteen minutes, the twins made their choices.
Grace picked two chakrams—flat rings with sharp outer edges. One was hollow in the center, the other divided by a handle, forming a yin-yang symbol. They could be used either as throwing weapons or split into twin knives.
"An advanced and deadly weapon," Catherine noted. "Why did you choose it, sweetie?"
"They're beautiful! You can spin them! You can throw them at enemies!" Grace explained enthusiastically.
"Good. We'll order ones customized to your current size," Catherine smiled, then turned to her son.
Gray had selected a karambit knife—a curved blade about 12 centimeters long, designed for reverse-grip use, somewhere between a dagger and a knuckle-duster.
"It called to me," he said simply.
For a moment, Catherine froze, absorbing the implications. In the world of sword and sorcery, it was not unheard of for a true warrior to "hear" their weapon—but this usually required years of training and fierce dedication.
If Gray's words were true—and she had no doubt—they pointed to a terrifying natural talent.
Out of the corner of her eye, Catherine noticed the shopkeeper's eyes gleam with understanding.
If she had known this would happen, she would have delayed their choice.
In the Magic Empire, humans didn't awaken magic cores like in the Roman territories. Instead, they trained in three elite paths: mages, rune knights, and specialists.
Mages: masters of manipulating mana through magic circles, casting spells from fireballs to tornadoes. The bigger and more complex the circle, the stronger the spell.
Rune Knights: warriors imbued by mages with runes tattooed on their bodies, enhancing strength, speed, resilience.
Specialists: masters of a single weapon type. At a certain level of mastery, a Specialist could wield weapon aura—enhancing their physical attributes to superhuman levels.
But becoming a Specialist required brutal life-and-death training, countless battles, and unspeakable hardships. Only 5% of those recruited survived until age twelve.
If the shopkeeper reported Gray's talent, authorities would seize him, sending him into hellish training.
Catherine's eyes darkened.
She would never let them take her son.
Not now. Not ever.