The day unfolded in a haze of challenges that had nothing to do with blades or blood.
The Grandmaster, it seemed, was determined to test not their skill in combat, but their ability to navigate high society. Etiquette, Latin, horsemanship, even the basics of heraldry—Azazel felt less like a hunter being tested and more like a prince vying for a princess's hand.
The team in first place was the first to fall.
They didn't know the most basic rules of table manners, holding their forks like daggers and speaking with their mouths full.
Barbarians, Azazel thought with a trace of bitterness.
They only knew how to fight. They had taken the word "escort" far too literally, preparing for a battle, not a ball. Their team was a strike group, built for combat, and that single-minded focus was their undoing.
By the final round, only two teams remained: Team 27, Azazel's own, and Team 11.
It was only thanks to Azazel's knowledge and Matteo's surprising erudition that they had managed to pass all of the Grandmaster's challenges.
Matteo couldn't hide his shock.
"Lucien, where did you learn all this?" he whispered as they awaited the final test. "You have better manners than some cardinals."
Juan, standing beside them, just snorted, though his own eyes held a flicker of amazement. "What else would you expect from the disciple of the Grandmaster himself?" he said, as if that explained everything.
At that moment, a familiar, faintly amused voice echoed in the back of Azazel's mind.
[See, boy? And you said private school and all the lessons would be useless.]
Azazel inwardly thanked his grandpa, after all these years Johann Weyer's efforts payed off.
And so the two final teams stood in the chapel as dusk painted the stained-glass windows in hues of violet and gold.
The Grandmaster was in high spirits, a playful glint in his eyes that suggested he had already made his choice and was now savoring the moment.
He let the silence stretch, a tangible thing that hung heavy in the air, before his gaze finally settled on the masked figure.
"The hunter who will accompany me," he announced, his voice echoing off the stone walls, "will be Lucien of team 27."
The words hung in the air for a beat. The members of Team 11 slumped, their disappointment a visible weight on their shoulders, but they accepted the verdict with the quiet dignity of the defeated.
Then, the chapel erupted.
"Hip Hip, Hooray!" Juan roared, and in an instant, he, Ino, and Matteo grabbed Azazel, hoisting him onto their shoulders.
They tossed him into the air, their cheers of victory filling the sacred space, a stark contrast to the solemnity of the trials.
The Grandmaster watched the display with a broad smile:
"I must admit," he commented, his voice laced with amusement, "I did not expect such a performance from my own student." He caught Azazel's eye as he was lowered back to the ground and gave him a subtle, conspiratorial wink.
Then he raised a hand, calling for their attention once more. "However, the escort mission is not for another five days. It would be a waste to let you sit idle."
A new spark lit his eyes. "As a special exception, your team may take on one more task before then. And I," he paused, letting the weight of his words settle, "will serve as your supervisor during the mission you choose."
Team 11 could only roll their eyes at such display of nepotism.