Chaosbound: Elarith Chronicles

From that day onward, Markus and Ron became inseparable. Markus quickly discovered that Ron's strength wasn't his only surprising trait—he possessed a magnetic charm that normalized even the strangest situations. Whether they were ghost hunting in crumbling ruins or debating the oddities of the spirit realm, Ron always found ways to keep Markus engaged, pulling him into worlds he wouldn't normally explore. Ron, meanwhile, began to notice the quiet burdens Markus carried: the endless hours at Alber's shop, his unwavering dedication to Garin's struggling forge, and the silent weight of his parents' loss. Markus rarely complained, shouldering his responsibilities without question, but Ron saw the toll it took.

One evening, after yet another fruitless ghost hunt, Ron turned to Markus, his usual playful demeanor replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. They were sitting on a crumbling stone wall near the edge of the settlement, the air cool and the stars just beginning to prickle the deepening twilight. "Train with me. My father's academy could make you a Warrior."

Markus stared, his breath catching. "What? I can't afford that, Ron. It's impossible."

"I'll take care of it," Ron replied, waving a dismissive hand as if money were an inconsequential trifle. "Here's the deal: you become my assistant ghost hunter. You help me with investigations, and I'll cover the expenses. I'll even talk to my parents."

Markus hesitated, the offer feeling impossibly generous. "You'd really do that for me?"

"Of course," Ron said, though a flicker of earnestness softened his casual tone. "In exchange, you have to accompany me everywhere. You help me hunt bigger ghosts." His usual grin faltered, replaced by something deeper, something genuine. "Deal?" he asked, his voice quieter now.

Markus frowned slightly. "What about your studies? Don't you need to focus on school?"

Ron rolled his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips. "Of course we'll study, stupid. The world doesn't revolve around swords or war, you know. How are we going to investigate without knowledge? Science and proof are just as important as anything else."

Markus stared, his heart pounding. For someone who had worked so hard for so little, Ron's offer felt like a miracle—a tangible path toward a dream he had only dared to whisper in the dark. This… this might be my chance to become a Warrior, he thought.

Taking a deep breath, Markus nodded firmly. "Alright, Ron. Deal. I'll be your assistant—and I promise I'll protect you, as a Warrior should."

Ron burst into laughter, clapping Markus on the shoulder with unrestrained enthusiasm. "Bah! That's not what friends do, Markus. Friends don't pledge fealty or loyalty—they annoy each other endlessly. You're not my knight; you're my buddy!"

Markus laughed too, his heart lighter than it had been in years. From that moment on, their friendship deepened, setting the stage for countless adventures.

Ron kept his promise, persuading his father to allow Markus into the academy's training sessions. The transition wasn't easy. At first, Markus felt utterly overwhelmed—by the estate's grandeur, the sharp discipline of the instructors, and the sheer skill of the other students. He was shy, hesitant to draw attention, but his unyielding determination soon triumphed. Every stumble was met with renewed persistence; every misstep became another attempt to perfect his form.

While Markus toiled for hours, Ron, meanwhile, trained alongside him, though not by choice. His father insisted, drilling him in techniques Ron picked up effortlessly. It was almost maddening how easily Ron could absorb and execute lessons after seeing them just once. Markus envied his natural skill but never resented him for it. Instead, Markus poured himself into the work. Each move took him hours—sometimes days—of repetition, but his dream propelled him forward. A Warrior wasn't forged from ease; Markus knew hard work was his only path.

Between training sessions, Ron attended private lessons with tutors in subjects as varied as literature, history, and science. To Markus's surprise, Ron arranged for him to join these lessons as well. Markus felt out of place at first—the thought of sitting in a study instead of standing at a forge felt alien—but he quickly began to appreciate the knowledge. When Ron tied the lessons back to their ghost-hunting adventures, Markus found it easier to connect.

"For the occult, Markus," Ron would explain, flipping through a dusty tome. "We need to understand everything—history, science, even swordsmanship. The world is full of mysteries, and we need every tool to uncover them."

Markus nodded, soaking in the knowledge like a sponge. Though their paths were different, their shared determination and drive brought them closer, forging a friendship that grew stronger with every challenge.

---

Four years had passed since Markus had first befriended Ron Rugal. The boy who once worked tirelessly as a delivery runner now stood tall at sixteen, exuding quiet confidence and measured strength. Though he lacked the divine blessings that defined true Warriors, his relentless training had shaped him into a formidable fighter. He wasn't flashy or famous, but his presence carried an undeniable gallantry—uncomplicated yet commanding.

Despite his progress, Markus remained grounded, his old life a steady anchor. Every coin he earned from hunting beasts or serving as a bodyguard for the House of Rugal went straight back to his uncle Garin's household. Markus ensured Lisa could stretch their budget further and that little Ari always had something to smile about. He left just enough for himself, knowing the forge, his family, and his home deserved more than he ever would.

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Life had gifted Markus opportunities he'd never dared dream of. Through the generosity of the Rugal family, he had a place to train and study, regular meals, and the chance to learn alongside one of the brightest minds he'd ever met. Though he sometimes felt a twinge of guilt for how fortunate he had become, he channeled it into unwavering dedication—both to his craft and to Ron.

The foundation they had built was unshakable, and as time marched forward, Markus knew that together they would face whatever lay ahead.

---

The Rugal family's sprawling estate was renowned across the region, a symbol of power and excellence few could rival. As one of the top Warrior houses, their influence extended far beyond their walls, commanding respect and awe. At its center was Ron's father, the formidable Aric Rugal—a towering figure in both stature and reputation. Ranked among the top three Warrior Divinants in the land, Aric was a name that inspired both admiration and fear. His unmatched skill with the sword and his legendary leadership left an indelible mark, cementing the Rugal family's legacy. For Markus, the weight of serving such a prestigious house was not lost on him.

Though he had entered the Rugal household through Ron's intervention, his position was no mere accident. Over the years, Markus had proven himself time and again—a reliable protector capable of fending off wild beasts, navigating dangerous terrain, and ensuring Ron's safety during his peculiar, often reckless expeditions. The Rugal estate demanded nothing less than excellence, and Markus worked tirelessly to meet those expectations.

Yet, despite his official title as a "soldier" of the Rugal household, Markus's role always felt more personal. He wasn't just another guard among the estate's ranks—he was Ron's confidant, his assistant, and above all, his closest companion. Their friendship had been forged through trials and adventures, through shared laughter and heated debates, and through the unshakable trust that had grown between them.

---

Markus adjusted the leather straps of his gear, walking alongside Ron through the expansive courtyard of the Rugal estate. A large sack filled with an eclectic mix of tools hung from Markus's shoulder—an assortment Ron had deemed essential for ghost hunting. From rune stones to vials of salt and strange metallic devices, it looked like Ron was outfitting an entire squad of investigators instead of just the two of them.

"You know," Markus said, glancing at Ron, "I don't think you actually need a bodyguard. You seem like the strongest Divinant I've ever met."

Ron smirked, adjusting his gold-filigree glasses as the sun glinted off the frames. "Who's going to carry all my stuff if I don't have a bodyguard?" he quipped dryly, gesturing toward the massive sack Markus was hauling.

Markus chuckled, shifting the bag's weight. "Fair point. But seriously, Ron, you're ridiculously strong. You took down six of those bandits last week before I even managed to draw my blade. Most people dream of having the kind of divinity you've got, and you barely even acknowledge it."

Ron shrugged, as casual as ever. "I told you before—it's no big deal. I've got the Divinity of the War God, sure, and maybe it's a little stronger than most, but that's just… genetics or something. Not my priority."

He stopped abruptly, causing a vial filled with purple liquid to slosh ominously in his satchel. The sunlight caught the gold filigree of his glasses as he turned slightly—just enough for Markus to see his own reflection in the lenses, small and human. Ron's tone shifted, uncharacteristically quiet. "What would you do with it?" he asked. "If you woke up tomorrow with my strength?"

The question hung in the air, heavier than the sack Markus carried. Somewhere beyond the estate walls, the faint cry of a street vendor selling the day's catch reached their ears.

Markus exhaled slowly through his nose, his gaze steady. "I'd train until my hands bled," he said simply. "Because unlike you, I know what it costs to be weak."

For once, Ron had no quip. He adjusted his glasses—a nervous tic Markus had cataloged years ago—and turned toward the armory. "Well. Good thing I've got you to remind me, then."

For someone like Ron, blessed with divine strength and unmatched talent, his disinterest in pursuing the warrior's path was nearly inconceivable. Yet Markus harbored no jealousy. Far from it—he felt admiration for his friend, who treated his gifts as casually as one might treat the color of their hair.

The scent of oiled leather and sharpened steel clung to Markus as he paused between drills, his breath fogging in the dawn chill. He couldn't help but reflect on how far he'd come in four years. Once a boy hauling grain sacks for Alber, he now fought off wild beasts and escorted dignitaries under the prestigious banner of the Rugal family. Despite lacking the divine spark, Markus's growing skill with the sword had earned him respect among the household guards.

Even Aric Rugal, Ron's intimidating father and one of the top Warrior Divinants, had taken notice. With piercing eyes that seemed to see straight through Markus, Aric offered no praise—only sharp corrections that cut as deeply as any blade. During one session, Aric flicked his wrist, sending a practice sword spinning toward Markus. "Your footwork is still sloppy," he said bluntly. "Like you're apologizing for taking space."

Markus caught the blade midair, swallowing the sting of the remark. The fact that Aric corrected him at all was its own kind of recognition—a quiet acknowledgment of Markus's progress. For someone like Aric to deem him worthy of guidance was a badge of honor, even if the path to earning it was brutal.

Across the training yard, Ron disarmed three opponents in as many breaths, his movements a lazy poetry of precision. The weapons master threw up his hands in frustration. "Gods damn it, Ron! At least pretend to try!"

Ron grinned, his confidence maddeningly effortless. "It's not my fault your drills are predictable." He spun a stolen sword on his finger before tossing it back to the weapons master. "Besides, Markus is the real prodigy here. Did you see his counterstrike yesterday?"

Markus stifled a scoff, unable to deny the absurd gap between their skill levels. Watching Ron fight was like witnessing a composer conjure symphonies out of thin air. Yet Ron treated his gifts as casually as ill-fitting clothes, constantly shrugging them off to pore over moldy bestiaries or sketch spirit sigils in the dirt. For all his brilliance, Ron's true passion remained rooted in uncovering the mysteries of the unseen world.

"All of this," Ron would say, gesturing vaguely to the training yard, "is just a backup plan. My real focus is understanding the mysteries of the world. The sword is a tool, sure, but knowledge? Knowledge is power."

That evening, Ron flopped onto Markus's cot, holding a tome bound in disturbingly worn leather. "Swords win battles," he declared, thumping the book with conviction. "This—this wins wars."

Markus polished his blade methodically, the rhythm steady and grounding. "Tell that to the frostwolf that nearly took your head last month."

Ron grinned, his expression softening. "Ah, but you told it for me. That's the point, isn't it? You guard my back. I'll map the shadows."

Outside, the wind howled through the Rugal banners—a sound like the earth itself sighing. Markus wondered, not for the first time, which of them was truly holding the other afloat.