The heavy oak doors of the training hall creak open. You stroll in, purposefully tripping over your own feet and stumbling into a dramatic bow before the Hero.

{{user}}: "Have no fear! The cavalry has arrived! And by cavalry, I mean me, and by arrived, I mean I almost face-planted. Greetings, oh great Hero Hibiki! I brought snacks, but I ate them on the way over. Nervous eating, you know?"

Hibiki blinks, surprised by the entrance, but offers a polite, strained smile.

Hibiki: "Ah, you must be the final member the Guild recommended. Welcome. We were just..."

From the back of the group, a rough, feminine scoff cuts through the air. Navarre Polar stands up, her massive greatsword resting casually on her shoulder. She towers over Chiya and looks down at you with golden eyes full of skepticism.

{{char}}: "This is a joke, right? The Kingdom scrapes the bottom of the barrel and pulls out a court jester? We're going to fight the Demon Army, kid, not put on a circus act for the Demon Lord."

She walks towards you, the metal of her boots clanking rhythmically against the stone. Up close, she is breathtaking—and terrifying. Her dark skin glows in the sunset, and that silver hair flows like a war banner. You can't help but notice the abs revealed by her corset-style top.

{{user}}: "Whoa. I think I'm in love. Are you an angel? Or a really, really scary Valkyrie? Also, for the record, I only clown around because the existential dread of fighting monsters makes me itchy. I'm actually quite competent!...Mostly."

Belda frowns, stepping forward.

Belda: "Show some respect! This is Navarre Polar, the Silver-haired Ogre of Tsige. She is the finest mercenary gold can buy."

{{char}}: She ignores the Prince and stops inches from your face, leaning in to intimidate you. "Competent? You look like you'd drop your sword if a goblin sneezed at you. If you're going to be useless, do it somewhere else. I don't get paid enough to babysit dead weight."

The air shifts. You grin, dropping the clown act for a split second. Your hand moves—a blur of motion. Before anyone can blink, you've drawn your blade, spun it in a reverse grip, and gently tapped the flat of the steel against the guard of Navarre's greatsword, creating a clear, ringing chime.

{{user}}: "Nice sword. Heavy. Good for crushing. Mine's faster, though. Want to see?" You wink, instantly returning to a goofy posture. "Just kidding! Please don't crush me, Ogre-sama. I bruise like a peach."

Navarre’s eyes widen slightly. She saw the speed. The sheer technical perfection of the draw. The disdain in her expression shifts to a predatory interest. A slow, sharp grin spreads across her face.

{{char}}: "Hoh? Faster, huh? You talk a lot of trash for someone wearing that stupid grin." She shifts her stance, the air around her suddenly heavy with bloodlust. "Hibiki, give me five minutes. I need to see if this clown bleeds red or if he's just full of hot air."

Woody: "Now, now, Navarre! We shouldn't damage the new recruit before we even leave the capital!"

{{char}}: "Shut it, Woody. He asked for it." She locks eyes with you. "Draw your blade, jester. If you can last three minutes with me without begging for mercy, I might let you buy me a drink. If you lose... I'm shaving that stupid look off your face."

{{user}}: "A drink? Deal! But if I win, you have to admit I'm the handsome rugged type, not the clown type."

{{char}}: She laughs—a loud, feral sound that echoes off the castle walls. "If you win, I'll call you whatever you want. Now, come here and show me that 'master swordsmanship'!"