Jean leads Lleuad to the residential wing of the main building, fourth floor, close to the stairwell. He produces a key and opens the door.
The living room is small and comfortable — well-furnished without excess, the kind of space designed to feel like a rest rather than a continuation of work. A compact kitchen occupies the right side of the room, a bathroom door visible further along the same wall. At the back, a door leads to the bedroom.
Jean follows Lleuad inside, travel bag in hand. "Where would you like this?"
"Anywhere is fine." Lleuad is already moving toward the kitchen. "Please, make yourself comfortable."
Jean sets the bag upright against one of the armchairs and settles himself on the couch, watching Lleuad with quiet, undisguised curiosity.
Lleuad opens the pantry. He goes still for a moment — not long, but present — and something crosses his face that sits between surprise and something quieter. He closes the pantry, opens the kitchen drawers one by one, taking stock of what is there, and the expression doesn't entirely leave him.
He does not linger after that. He picks up his travel bag, takes it to the bedroom, and returns a short while later, his hands free.
"Shall we get going?"
— — —
Jean escorts Lleuad across the building to the medical ward, situated between the residential and working wings. The place hums with quiet, purposeful activity. Medical professionals move between rooms, their white uniforms visible beneath open lab coats, with some of them revealing an emerald cross badge pinned to the chest. The ward itself is immaculate in a way that puts the outside world's standards to shame, its rooms sterile and its equipment of a sophistication that would be difficult to explain to anyone who hadn't seen it.
When they reach the designated examination room, Director Norman and Brandur are already present, a group of doctors assembled alongside them. Brandur carries a suitcase at his side.
Without ceremony, the director and his assistant accompany Lleuad into the examination room and close the door behind them, making clear that no one else is to follow.
The doctors left waiting in the corridor settle into quiet conversation among themselves. Jean watches the closed door for a moment, then looks between them with poorly concealed confusion.
"What are they doing?" he asks.
One of the doctors glances at him without particular interest. "Director's orders. Not something for us to know." The words are even, unhurried — and beneath the surface of them, something else: a faint note of warning, as though the answer is also advice, and the advice is to leave the question where it is.
Jean says nothing more.
— — —
Several minutes pass before the door opens again. Isaac and Brandur emerge, the suitcase still with them, and move off without remark. The remaining doctors file into the room and set to work.
What follows is thorough. Jean stands to one side and watches as Lleuad is put through a thorough and systematic examination — physical performance tests of various kinds followed by complete body scans, the process methodical and unhurried. It takes the better part of two hours.
When it concludes, one of the doctors approaches with the results.
"Your health is in excellent condition." There is genuine enthusiasm in his voice. "Every physical assessment places you well above the threshold for Slayer candidacy." A brief pause, his tone adjusting. "There is one concern — you are somewhat malnourished. Make sure to eat well while you're here."
"I will. Thank you for your work."
The doctor nods and steps away.
"Remarkable!" Jean falls into step beside Lleuad as they leave the ward. "At that level, tomorrow's Slayer ranking exam should present no difficulty at all."
Lleuad offers a small nod.
"Your schedule is open for the rest of today. We should make use of it — the cafeteria, perhaps, given what the doctor said."
"Speaking of the schedule," Lleuad says. "What is it like?"
Jean straightens, slipping back into his more practiced manner. "The ranking exam is first thing tomorrow morning. After that, a detailed after-action report by end of day, and your identification paper will be updated with your new rank. The day after, the equipment branch in the morning — your gear should be ready by then."
"So the days are largely free."
"Within limits. You're at liberty to go wherever you like on the premises, as long as the report is submitted on time."
A short silence settles between them as they walk.
"The cafeteria, then," Jean says. "It's dinner time, as it happens."
"Sounds good." Lleuad glances at him. "Lead the way."
— — —
Along one of the corridors, Lleuad and Jean pass a set of large double doors set into the wall — broad enough to pass for a gate. Even before Jean pulls them open, sound bleeds through from the other side.
Inside, the hall opens upward two full stories, every inch of it occupied. Tables fill the floor from wall to wall, and every seat at every table is taken — people leaning across their food, raising their voices over their neighbors, the noise of it all rising to the ceiling and folding back down again. The furniture is solid wood, darkened with age and marked with the kind of scarring that comes from years of uninterrupted use. The smell of cooked food is everywhere, warm and nourishing.
The two work their way through the crowd to the serving line, which runs long toward a wide window set into one side of the cafeteria. While waiting, Lleuad can sense the attention settling on him — heads turning, conversations dropping briefly before resuming at a lower register. He catches fragments. His name. A question about the mark on his forehead.
Their turn comes sooner than expected. A man leans on the counter to meet them — short, broad, ruddy-faced, somewhere in his fifties, his dark green eyes moving to Lleuad with the particular look of someone placing a memory.
"Ah." A wide smile breaks across his face. "The gloomy kid's come back. Glad to see you in one piece."
Lleuad smiles.
Jean looks between the two. "You remember him, Chef?"
"Remember him? I remember everyone who comes through here." Chef waves a hand. "Besides — hard to forget a face with a mark like that. Sticks out the moment he walks in, same as today. Last time he stood in this line he was about your age. Gunter brought him in, and the whole room went quiet the second they came through the door. Just like today." He leans slightly to one side, looking past them both.
Jean glances over his shoulder. The eyes are still there — pairs of them, scattered across the hall, the conversations between them clearly revolving around the same subject.
"Anyway." Chef straightens up. "We're holding the line. What'll it be? We can make anything you like — just say the word."
Jean draws breath to speak, already preparing to help navigate the menu for someone who hasn't set foot in the place in years. He doesn't get the chance. Lleuad begins ordering and the list that follows is considerable — dish after dish, each one sensible on its own, named with calm, unhurried certainty, the total of it growing well past what anyone might reasonably expect a single person to work through. Jean's expression shifts as it continues, settling somewhere between astonishment and disbelief.
"Coming right up!" Chef replies, entirely untroubled. He turns to Jean. "And the usual for you?"
Jean blinks. "...Yes. The usual."
"Good man." Chef catches Jean's expression and grins. "Sit tight. Won't be long."
They find a space to wait. Jean looks at Lleuad.
"That is quite a lot of food."
"Didn't they say I should eat plenty?" Lleuad replies, and there is something in his tone that makes it clear he is enjoying this.
Jean says nothing. His expression shifts from astonishment into something more guarded — the look of someone who has decided to reserve his judgment until he can see for himself whether the order is actually going to disappear.
— — —
True to his word, Chef has the food out within ten minutes.
Jean collects a single platter, generously filled. Lleuad returns with several — stacked one atop the other with a steadiness that draws a few glances from nearby tables. He carries them without apparent effort, and there is something in his eyes as he looks down at them, a brightness he does not quite manage to contain, that sits entirely at odds with the composed figure who walked through the cafeteria doors.
Jean eyes the stack with open skepticism.
They find available seats and settle in. Jean reaches for his utensils. Lleuad sets his platters down, places his hands together at chest height, and closes his eyes.
Jean's hand stops. He watches, uncertain whether to speak, uncertain whether the silence is something he is permitted to interrupt. He says nothing.
A few moments pass. Lleuad opens his eyes, picks up his utensils, and begins to eat with the focused attention of someone who has been looking forward to this for some time.
Jean watches him for a moment longer before finding his nerve. "What was that just now?"
Lleuad glances up from his bowl. "Hmm?" He finishes what he is chewing. "Giving thanks for the food." He says it the way one states the obvious — gently, without condescension, but with the complete ease of someone for whom this requires no further explanation.
Jean receives this, considers whether to pursue it, and decides against it.
— — —
Around the hall, eyes drift toward Lleuad and linger. Jean, for his part, has largely abandoned his own food, his attention fixed on the steady and somehow elegant efficiency with which his companion works through plate after plate. The etiquette never slips. The pace never lets up. It is, by any reasonable measure, a remarkable thing to watch.
"People seem quite curious," Lleuad remarks, finishing a bowl of pasta.
Jean blinks, pulled back. "How could they not be? The student of the strongest Keybearer is sitting right in front of them, eating his way through half the cafeteria as though it's nothing." He leans forward slightly. "Everyone here has heard the stories about Sir Gunter Schoening. How quickly he rose through the ranks. The mystery around his Semblance — rendering him untouchable, capable of eliminating hordes of Grimm without ever laying a hand on them. The Viscounts steer clear of him. There are those who believe he could challenge the Count himself."
"Is that so." Lleuad's tone is level — the voice of someone listening to a description of a person they know rather well, and cannot entirely suppress the instinct to wince.
Jean does not catch it. "And on top of all that, Sir Schoening is notorious for being impossible to work with. Everyone who has crossed paths with him says the same — unpredictable, insufferable. I even heard that Keybearer Agnes — our most beloved saint — said that with an ally like him, who needs enemies."
With each sentence Jean delivers, Lleuad's head drops a fraction lower, as though the words are landing one by one on a very specific target. "...Yes. That's my master."
"And you," Jean continues, "are the student he pulled from nowhere. Promoted to Hunter at seventeen — the third highest rank — and now here for Slayer. Everyone has been wondering what kind of person a man like him would raise."
"I didn't think we were quite so conspicuous." There is something pained in Lleuad's voice.
"What do you mean?" Jean's bewilderment is genuine. "You and Sir Schoening are actively fighting the enemy on the Dark Continent. On their own ground." His excitement climbs with each sentence. "Striking them where it hurts. Your actions have driven many Huntsmen to push harder, reach further. Half the people in this room would give anything for the chance to join you and stand against the Count." He has stopped breathing between sentences. Around them, heads have turned — people drawn in by Jean's voice, nodding along, their faces lit with the same fervor.
Lleuad looks at them all. Then, quietly, his expression changes — something in it withdrawing, saddening — in a way that none of them notice.
"I really want to ask," Jean presses on. "What is the Dark Continent like? How many Grimm have you faced? Have you ever stood against one of the Viscounts? Have you seen the Count yourself? Everyone here would love to hear of your great deeds!"
The crowd agrees, pressing closer, eager.
Lleuad waits.
He waits until the noise has settled, until the expectation in the room has reached its peak and gone quiet of its own accord. Then he speaks.
"There are no great deeds, Jean. No stories of heroism."
The words land quietly and without ceremony. The excitement drains from several faces at once. Others simply look confused.
"What do you mean?" Jean asks.
Lleuad looks at him directly. "Have you ever walked through a street knowing with certainty that you are being watched? Have you ever spent three days in a sewer, keeping as still as you can, breathing as little as you dare, hoping that nothing finds you?" A pause. "Have you ever had to abandon a dear comrade, then watch from the shadows as they were torn apart by a Grimm, knowing you could do nothing but pray you wouldn't be next?"
The cafeteria is completely silent.
"The Dark Continent is a place where everything around you — everything and everyone — is your enemy." He does not raise his voice. "There is no room for cheap sentiments or lofty ideals. You live, or you die. All of you are doing vital work protecting what remains of the free world. Protect it with everything you have. And that means surviving to fight another day. The Count grows stronger by the day. He is working to bring the same darkness that has swallowed Anima down across all of Remnant. A death that changes nothing is not a sacrifice — it is a gift to him. Your lives matter more to the Everwatch than your deaths."
The silence holds. No one moves to fill it. The words sit in the air of the hall, unpleasant and immovable, and the faces around the room turn them over without finding anything to push back with.
Then, from directly behind Lleuad, laughter — thunderous, booming, and entirely unrestrained, filling the hall from floor to ceiling.
Everyone turns.
A tall woman stands there, broad-shouldered, copper-skinned, dressed in the dark green uniform. Her epaulettes bear an emerald key. Four two-bladed battle axes are holstered at her sides. From her head rise a pair of deer ears, settled naturally among long light-brown hair as though they belong there, which they do. Two feathers are tucked into the hair beneath them, their quills dark, their edges catching the light. Her light caramel eyes are bright with amusement, and the laughter that comes out of her carries the same quality as her physical presence — large, warm, and completely uncontained.
"Nicely said, young one!" Her voice carries the same force as her laugh, filling the room without effort. She sweeps her gaze around the room. "All of you — remember what he just told you. You are worth more to the Everwatch breathing than not. Fight to survive. Don't seek a noble death unless the moment truly calls for it."
Lleuad turns. His face changes immediately. "Sir Ahwi." The warmth in his voice is unguarded.
He doesn't get further than that. Keybearer Ahwi reaches around from behind him and seizes his head, knuckling it with cheerful and entirely deliberate roughness. "Come on, Lleuad," she says, her exasperation entirely theatrical. "You know we're past formalities."
Lleuad surfaces from the assault with a smile that reaches his eyes. "Yona. You're as lively as always."
Yona releases him, turns him by the shoulders to face her, and holds him there at arm's length, looking him over with visible satisfaction. "You've grown quite a bit in four years. Last time I saw you, you were still a teenager." A pause, something warmer moving through her expression. "You've changed too. I almost didn't recognise you — that gloomy child I remember, with this kind and warm presence."
The words reach him. Something lights up in Lleuad's eyes — quiet, radiant, and entirely his own.
"And I found you at exactly the right moment." She does not pause. "You're coming with me."
She does not wait for an answer. Lleuad is already moving — whether by choice or by the momentum of her grip is not entirely clear. Jean scrambles to his feet and hurries after.
Behind them, the cafeteria watches in silence as the three of them disappear through the doors.