Chapter 3: Many Meetings

"Mulwerk, Nathaniel!"

She dared to hope. Pleaded to the Fates.

"Ravenclaw!"

Begged the heavens for this one chance.

"Patterson, Henry!"

Just one. To make things right again.

"Gryffindor!"

Please let him come back soon.

"Pilkins, Samantha!"

To see him safely by her side.

"Hufflepuff!"

Please. Please. Please!

"Rowry, Arthur!"

Disappointment. It washed over her and threatened to drown her in its lapping waves. Dumbledore placed a comforting hand over her own. It did nothing but stir the guilt into a frenzied storm.

Lily Potter dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief. Another year would pass without Harry. Another year without news of her lost son.

It hurt to see all these new students here, while not a single one possessed that unruly mop of black hair and those emerald green eyes. Lily had held onto the hope that maybe a Hogwarts letter would find its way to Harry, someway, somehow. That was the main reason she had accepted the position as the professor for Muggle Studies. In the hopes of seeing one day a happy Harry striding down the Great Hall to meet the family that had never forgotten him.

It was a dream of hers. James would laugh as he embraced his son, mirror images of one another. Adam would come bounding from the Gryffindor table with an eager smile on his face. The brothers would grasp each other in a fierce hug, and Adam would regale Harry with his tales of Hogwarts. And her? She would stand back and watch happily as the family was reunited, whole and complete once again.

It was a dream of hers, but now, as the sixth year passed without word or sight of Harry, it seemed that the dream would never become reality.

Lily Potter wiped the last few tears from her eyes and straightened into her seat. The students must not see her like this.

Perhaps next year.

Perhaps.


"What's wrong Adam?" Hermione, always the perspective one, asked across the Gryffindor table.

"It's nothing," the Boy-Who-Lived replied, tearing his gaze away from her mother to look at his friend, "It's just my mum. She always gets this way after the Sorting Ceremony."

Ron stopped shoveling food into his mouth and looked up from his plate.

"Is she still hoping your brother will come back? Even after all these years?"

Adam nodded sadly, and picked at his mashed potatoes with his fork.

"She never gave up hope. I don't think she ever will."

"But Adam, it's been six years!" Hermione exclaimed, "If Harry was alive, he'd come back before then right?"

"I don't know," the Gryffindor ran a hand through his brown hair, "To be honest, if I was Harry, I wouldn't want to come back."

"What do you mean?"

"We were jerks to him, Hermione. Me, my dad, and my mum."

The bushy haired bookworm gasped.

"Your parents didn't hit him did they?"

"No! Nothing like that!" Adam said hastily, "We just kinda ignored him. Like he didn't exist."

"That's awful!"

"You didn't know Adam before First Year Hermione," Ron added, "I did. Met him with my family when I was seven. He was a prat."

"Ronald!"

"No, Hermione, it's true," Adam sighed, "I was an idiot back then. Spoiled like no other. Caught in the hype of being the Boy-Who-Lived. My parents too. I don't really know how, but we just gradually pushed Harry away. I think we just considered the three of us as a family and left Harry out. It took him leaving to realize what arseholes we've been."

"Well didn't you go out and look for him?"

"We did," Adam's expression grew pained, "But we didn't even know when he left. Dumbledore was the one to find out Harry was missing. He went up the stairs and then came down. I'll never forget how furious he was."

"I remember that," Ron said as he chewed on his steak, "The Headmaster flooed in to the Burrow and asked my mum and dad to help look. Bill and Charlie went too."

"They looked all over, but they never found him," Adam shook his head, "Time went on without news from Harry. My dad lost hope after the first year. He just finally gave up. Never been the same since. My mum hasn't though. That's why she took the job here at Hogwarts. She thinks Harry might show up one day to be Sorted."

"What about you Adam? Have you given up hope?"

The Boy-Who-Lived looked pensive, and then sighed again.

"I want him back, Hermione. I really do. But at the same time, I don't."

Ron gave him an incredulous look.

"Why not?"

"I think he will be bitter. Harry that is. I know I would be. I don't think he'll get along with us if he came back. I don't blame him. Merlin, after the way we've treated him, he's more likely to befriend the Malfoys than us. But it's my mum that I'm worried about. I don't think her heart can take it, if Harry decides he wants nothing to do with her."

"But you're Harry's family right?" Hermione furrowed her brows, "Even if hates you at first, he'll come around in the end?"

"And that's what I'm afraid of," Adam shot one last look at the staff table where Lily sat, "I don't think my mum can live on if she knows Harry hates her."


I hear the clang of plated boots on stone. The melancholy tone of steel joints. The soft whisper of a tattered cloak sweeping across the floor. The figure moves to stand beside me, gauntleted hand resting on the pommel of a sheathed sword.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" I say softly to him, looking off into the distance.

"Tis a red sun," the voice that comes back is heavy and thick, sounding of grating metal, "Bad portents for the future to come. Bloodshed, most like."

"And since when has bloodshed been a bad portent for the both of us?" I reply, my gaze still resting on the setting sun.

"Never," the figure admits and falls silent.

I smile.

"Hello Hate," I turn to see his iron visage staring at me.

"Greetings, my lord," he bows stiffly, encumbered by his dress of plate.

"I did not call for you."

"You did not," a further moment of silence elapses between the two of us before he begins again, "But I am concerned."

"Concerned?"

"Aye, lord. We are journeying to Hogwarts, no? English lands? I am concerned we will meet them."

"Them," my lips form words I will never utter again in this lifetime. Mother. Father. Brother. "Perhaps they will be there. Perhaps they will not. It doesn't matter. We will fulfill our contract all the same and then we will be gone."

"I am worried, lord. Merely worried. You hold no lingering affection in your heart for them?"

A moment of doubt. Like a fleeting wind. I push it away.

"Six years, Hate. Six years. Six years I have not seen their faces. They are strangers to me now."

"They are your family," emerald fire regards me from behind the steel visor, "They are your blood."

"Then my blood must have been exceptionally weak."

Silence falls between us again, heavy and despondent. Hate breaks it by cracking his knuckles.

"I have always wanted to meet them," I can hear him smiling through his armor even though he wears no face, "This family of yours. To see for myself how they could have created a monster."

"Am I a monster, Hate?"

Joints creak as he swivels his neck to stare at me.

"You have to be to create me."

I chuckle at that.

Another sound. Distant but getting closer. Footsteps.

"Someone comes," Hate growls.

"Indeed."

"Whenever you need me, my lord…" he reminds me.

"I will call for you."

He nods and fades, disappearing back into the shadows.

I force a pleasant smile onto my face.


Fleur was surprised to see Bayard in her favorite spot. The highest tower in Beauxbatons Palace was used to house the students' owls as well as provided the nicest view of the immense school grounds. The quarter-Veela often came to this spot for the solitude it provided, to enjoy a few minutes of peace before returning to her quarters. But now the boy was here, looking at her with that damnable grin.

"You left the Commons in an uproar, you know," she said, more to start the conversation than anything else.

"Oh dear," Bayard looked innocent, "Should I go back and repair the damage?"

"No. All the students are in bed by now, except the senior years. I do expect you will have much to explain tomorrow morning though."

"Fair enough," was the reply.

Fleur moved to join the boy near the tower's railing.

"I did not expect you to be a connoisseur of scenery, Bayard."

"I'm not," the boy admitted, "I just like to stand in really high places."

Fleur rose an elegant eyebrow.

"I find that hard to believe."

"Bird's eye view of things. I can keep a clear track of everything and anything below me. The scenery is just an added bonus."

"That is a strange way of thinking."

"I'm not exactly normal," Bayard grinned lopsidedly.

Fleur frowned. And then turned back to watching the setting sun.

"Do you think there really will be a danger," she said after a while, "In me attending the Tournament?"

"If you were anybody else, probably not," the boy said cheerfully, "But you're the Minster of Magic's daughter. Men seeking leverage with your father will target you."

"I don't want him to worry," Fleur whispered sadly, "My father that is. But I need this. I need to show everyone that it's just not the Veela that makes me Fleur Delacour."

"And what's wrong with being a Veela?" Bayard asked.

Fleur scoffed.

"You haven't seen what happens to men when my allure is at its strongest. And the women? They think I'm trying to steal their boyfriends."

The boy nodded sympathetically.

"If it helps any, I'll be around."

Fleur glanced at Bayard in surprise.

"You don't act like any bodyguard I've met. Most are overprotective and treat me like a child."

"Wrong types of bodyguards then."

"There is a right type of bodyguard?" Fleur challenged.

"Definitely. If he has a stunning smile and brilliant green eyes, then you know he's the right type of bodyguard."

Fleur hid her smile behind her hand.

"It is refreshing to meet someone who is willing to be truthful. You do not deny my father hiring you?"

The boy appeared embarrassed. Fleur was surprised to find herself thinking he looked cute.

"It was your father's idea, actually. This cousin act. He is afraid of your temper."

"I do not blame him. Though only pure Veela can change forms when angered, we still inherit their fiery temper. My mother has not told him that yet. Perhaps he fears I will start hurling fireballs at him?"

"I do not think it is that," Bayard looked thoughtful, "Your father is a man who values his family above all else. He fears not your Veela inheritance, but your love. He fears that maybe one day he will commit a mistake you will never forgive."

"I have never thought of that before," Fleur admitted, more than a little ashamed.

"Man's greatest weakness is women. That goes double when said man has a daughter."

"Full of little pieces of wisdom are you?"

"I pick 'em up in my line of work," the boy winked, and the quarter-Veels smiled in response.

"I have wronged you, Bayard," her bodyguard seemed surprised at her words, "For attempting the allure on you when we first met."

"You were suspicious," Bayard shrugged indifferently, "And it was… interesting… for me at least."

Fleur blushed, and looked away.

"Still, it was wrong of me to do so. And I apologize."

For a response, the boy stuck out his hand.

"Friends?"

Feeling slightly childish, but also strangely elated, Fleur Delacour accepted the offered hand and shook it firmly.

"Friends," she confirmed.

"Wonderful!" Bayard exclaimed.

"But now that we are friends," Fleur continued, "you must tell me about your life."

"Ahhh. Become my friend to learn about my past eh? That's very cunning of you Miss Delacour."

"Friends learn about each other, Bayard. Or are you insinuating we are not friends?"

"Not be friends with a beautiful girl? What am I? Crazy?" Fleur just glared at him, "Hmph. Alright. Fine. It is a long story, though," Bayard seemed thoughtful, and then smiled, "So I'll try to cut out all the boring parts. Parents never paid any attention to me. My brother was a celebrity. I was just the castoff. So I upped and left. Lived off the streets. Already knew magic by then and without adults to supervise me, I was free to… experiment… with my abilities. Found work. A few years later, I'm here, contracted to defend a beautiful girl," a wink came with the smile, but Fleur ignored it.

"There are holes in your story," the quarter-Veela pointed out, "Many, many holes."

"All the holes are boring parts, I'm afraid."

"And no doubt important parts as well," Fleur shot back.

"You asked for a quick description of my life, not a biography."

"But your description is just unbelievable!"

"Is it?" the boy smiled winningly at her.

"Yes! It is! Neglectful parents I might believe, but running away and surviving for this long? You should've been no older than eight or nine!"

"I had help."

"And experimenting with magic? How could you have done that at such a young age?"

"The help gave me some more help."

"And a job? You are not old enough to be employed anywhere in the Wizarding World!"

"The help that gave me some more help proved to be especially helpful in this regard."

"You are being deliberately infuriating, aren't you?" Fleur snapped.

"Miss Delacour," the charming smiled refused to fade, "I am a bodyguard. It is my job to be infuriating."

Fleur sent a jolt of her allure at him. Half in curiosity and half in anger.

Bayard's features slackened, and his body relaxed. His mouth parted slightly and a glazed look appeared in his eyes. Fleur blinked. And then blinked again. She was sure that he had been immune at the manor. But now, the boy looked worse off than Montague! The quarter-Veela swallowed bitter disappointment. She had hoped that this friend would last. And if she was being truthful with herself, she had hoped he would last more than any other. Perhaps the immunity had come from a potion. It didn't matter now. Now that she knew.

"You will go away and never speak of this conversation again," Fleur tried not to look sad as she ordered.

"I will go away and say that Fleur Delacour believes I am the handsomest man alive."

She started.

"I didn't say that!"

"Yes you did," the boy droned in a listless tone.

"I told you to go away and never mention this conversation!"

"You told me to go into the deepest part of the forest and cut down the tallest tree I find with a herring."

And then she caught the glint of mischief in those emerald eyes. She couldn't help herself. She laughed.

The glazed expression disappeared from Bayard's face instantly.

"Do I get a reward for making you laugh?"

"You are a very interesting person, Bayard," Fleur answered, and the smile that she gave him was warm enough to melt an ice giant's heart, "I think I will like being friends with you."


Lance Thorton sauntered into the room, an easygoing smile on his face. The American saw a gaggle of unusually dressed people lounging in comfortable armchairs. Some were huddled together, conversing in low tones. Judging from their serious expressions, Lance guessed the contract was either extremely dangerous or extremely profitable. Hopefully both.

A few heads turned to regard the newcomer in their midst, but none called out in greeting.

Lance chuckled softly. Not that he could blame them. Bounty hunting never did make many friends. The American glided through the crowd, and found a seat next to a bored looking German.

"Heya Kaiser," Lance slapped the man on the shoulder.

"Gunslinger," came the uninterested reply.

"Still alive and kicking eh? Thought we lost you a few months back in Brazil."

"Complications I took care of," Kaiser rubbed his square jaw.

"I bet. No one can down the Kaiser in a straight up fight."

"Hmm."

Lance brushed away the German's aloofness. He was well used to it by now, having worked with the man numerous times before. In fact, were it not for them being in the same line of work, Lance was sure they would have been friends. Turning, the American wrapped an arm around a burly Mongolian clad in furs.

"And my old buddy from the steppes is here as well! How could this day not get any better?"

The man shrugged off Lance's arm, and returned to polishing his scimitar.

"Mongol still remember Gunslinger's words. Gun better than blade. Mongol look forward to day when Gunslinger eats his own words."

"Oh come on now. I say one bad thing about you and forget about all the good things?"

"Gunslinger always say bad things about Mongol," the man produced a whetstone from beneath his furs and began grinding it against his weapon, "Never good."

"That's a dirty lie! I've said plenty of good things about you!"

The wizard nomad glared at him.

"Name one."

"Well, you know. That one time? In Korea? Where I said you smelled really good?"

"I remember. You say Mongol smell like piss from an old goat."

"Exactly!"

"That is not something good."

"Well, fine. But if a woman tells me I smell like goat piss, I'd think she was flirting with me."

"If you flirt with Mongol, Mongol will kill you."

Lance chuckled.

"Easy brother, I'm just joshin' with ya," the American nudged the herdsman turned bounty hunter, "So I hear this contract is gonna be something big. Something about snatching a politician's daughter."

Mongol shrugged.

"Not concern Mongol whose daughter it is. Mongol just want the gold."

"Amen, brother. Amen."

The doors swung open again, and a trio of men stepped in, wearing stately dress robes. Lance whistled. They looked to be pureblood politicians, judging from their expensive garments and the way they carried themselves. The American wanted to laugh as one of the men, a middle-aged man with striking blue eyes, sniffed imperiously as he traversed through the throng of lounging bounty hunters.

The three men sat down behind the room's only table, and the youngest, a Ministry drudge if Lance guessed right, spoke in a heavy French accent.

"Greetings ladies and gentlemen. It iz an honor to have you here."

"Get to the point Frenchie," Lance called out, "We ain't here on paid leave!"

A chorus of assent from the group of mercenaries supported the American. The Frenchman looked momentarily flustered, but regained his earlier flair and spoke again.

"Yes, yes. Of course. It iz good to zee that so many are willing to get straight to ze point."

The pureblood cleared his throat and tapped his wand on the table. Instantly, a picture of a beautiful girl with long, blonde hair shimmered into existence, hovering over the bounty hunters. More than a few cat-calls were heard as the men gave voice to their appreciation. Lance whistled again. The girl was stunningly beautiful.

"Zis," the flunky began, "iz Fleur Delacour. Beloved daughter to ze French Prime Minister of Magic. It iz our hope that someone amongst you can bring zis girl to us, into our possession. In return, you will be paid a most handsome amount for your troubles."

"Why?" Kaiser asked, still looking bored, "Why do you want her? Besides you three wanting to get laid."

All three men turned red as their audience laughed.

"It iz not that!" the middle-aged Frenchman spat, "Ze noble house of Montague will never resort to zuch perversity! We need her because of her father!"

"So you want to get lucky with her father?" Lance retorted, "Alright then, but I think asking the man himself would be a better option than hiring us to ask him out for you."

The laughs came harder now, and Lance winced as Mongol punched him in the arm softly.

"No! You mizunderstand! The girl's father is married to a half-blood aberration! It iz a shame against our noble traditions! He must be made to realize that it iz blood that makes us strong! The reforms he will push through our Ministry will bring ze downfall of our culture! Zat must not be allowed! He must be controlled! And if zat means taking his daughter for leverage, zan so be it!"

The room quieted, and a significant portion of the mercenary throng stared at the three Frenchmen with expressions of disgust. It was Lance that put their thoughts into a single word.

"Bigots."

Montague, from the noble house of Montague, Lance surmised, glared at him.

"Excuze me?"

"You heard me," the American drawled, "The three of you are bigots," he raised his hand to stop Montague from what was no doubt the beginning of an outraged rant, "However, we're in the business of doing things no one else will do, so if it's a politician's daughter you want all trussed up, then I'll make sure she's all wrapped up with a pretty red bow for ya."

The room's occupants nodded in agreement. Kaiser was next to speak.

"Does the girl have anyone guarding him?"

"Yes," Montague snapped, "A boy. Ze Minister haz no doubt lost his mind in hiring a boy to guard his precious daughter, but that makes it all the easier for us to capture her."

"Wait," Lance called out, "The boy. Emerald eyes? Messy hair? Scar on the forehead?"

Montague looked affronted at the American's interruption.

"Yes," the pureblood sneered, "Zat iz an adequate description of him."

"Oh. You should've said that sooner," Lance stood up and stretched, "Well I'm outta here. Thanks but no thanks. Catch you all later."

"But you have not even heard ze reward we are offering," the younger Frenchman exclaimed in surprise.

"I don't need to. Green eyes? Messy hair? Fuck that. It's Templar. Now I'm a gambling man in a gambler's profession, but there ain't nothing on this good old Earth you can offer me to face Templar."

"Templar?" Montague asked, confusion etched on his pale face. Some of the bounty hunters looked just as confused, but most were voicing agreement at Lance's words, "Who iz zat?"

"The boy who is guarding your target," retorted Kaiser, still lounging on the armchair, "Gunslinger is right. Not good business for us. Can't get the reward if we're dead."

"Templar? Gunslinger?" the trio of Frenchmen looked even more confused.

"Most bounty hunters have a call-name," Lance said in his talking-to-an-idiot tone and was delighted when the stuffy purebloods growled back at him, "I'm Gunslinger. The German gentleman that just spoke is Kaiser. The big black guy back there," he jerked his thumb towards a broad chested African with a grim face, "is Zulu. That beautiful lady smoking a cigarette? Valkyrie. There's the old Chinese man, Foxfire. You've got Mongol playing around with his scimitar. Amazon and her damn voodoo hijinks. And a whole butt-load of others."

"And how does zis affect the contract?"

Lance laughed.

"See, Montague, we all know each other. We might not all be friends," a few snorted and the American smiled, "But we damn well respect each other. And Templar? Well you can be damned sure we respect him."

"He is just a boy," said a cultured voice. A black-haired beauty stood up, hand on the hilt of a katana, "And it is dishonorable to fear a boy."

"Japanese bitch knows nothing," snapped Foxfire. The old wizard tapped his gnarled staff on the floor, "Still think it Fifteenth Century. Power not lie in age. Power lie in strength."

The woman's eyes narrowed.

"For all your posturing, at least I do not fear a boy."

A wave of chuckles spread throughout the room.

"Templar is not just a boy," Zulu spoke up, his tone gravelly and hard, "You don't mess with him."

"You are new to this work, girl," Kaiser shrugged carelessly, "Don't dwell on things you don't understand."

"Vell I vould like to know what dis Templar is all about," a thickset Russian crossed his arms stubbornly.

"He can't be that special," the Ministry flunky added in resolutely.

"Oh he's just like us. At first glance," Lance grinned, "Chatting and joking before the job. Has a cunning sense of humor and a wit sharper than a knife. Just another bounty hunter looking forward to his reward. But then the time comes, you see. And his eyes get all cold and hard. And that easygoing grin he's been wearing all this time? Well that's gone too, and you might as well be staring at stone. The wards are down. You all go in, and the Templar's there, at the front, casting spells faster than you can blink. No stunners. No Body-Binds. Just straight out killing. High-powered Reductos. Diffindos toward the vitals. Any spell that can kill, the Templar will use it. And that look he gets on his face when he's killing? Well, I've seen it before and if there was a Hell on this world, the kid's gaze can freeze it."

"Zat iz impossible!" Montague scoffed, though he looked distinctly uneasy, "He iz just a boy!"

"If only," Lance rolled his eyes, "The kid's a fiend in dueling, but I reckon me, Kaiser, and Mongol can take him down together," both men nodded at him, but didn't look pleased at the prospect, "But that's the thing. When you hire Templar, he comes in a two-for-one package."

"A two-for-one package?" the Japanese woman glowered, "What does that mean?"

"There's a reason we call him Templar," Lance winked.

"The boy and his knight," Kaiser said respectfully.

"A knight?" the younger Frenchman jeered, "You mean one of those muggles that wears those ridiculous armor costumes? How can you be afraid of that?"

It was Zulu that answered.

"Just as the boy is more than a boy, the knight is more than a knight. It is something unnatural."

"He a demon of old, stuck in tin can. Want to get out to eat our souls," Foxfire nodded at the wisdom in his own words.

"A noble warrior of the Holy Roman Empire, who lost his life on the battlefield," Kaiser looked serious, even though his posture remained slack, "Now returned to do his duty once more."

"A man who lost his lover to the arms of another," Valkryie amended, tracing the faint scar on her cheek, "And possessed a suit of armor so he can have his revenge."

Lance saw the lost expressions that some in the room were wearing and grinned again.

"See, we don't exactly know who the knight is. Hell, we don't even know what the knight is. All we know, is its devotion to the boy. If the job is hard, the kid will have the knight by his side, and you know that shit is gonna hit the fan. It's this big, hulking suit of armor you see, with a big ol' sword to boot. And if you think this is just some poorly pieced together work of magic, well, you're dead wrong. The damned thing moves almost as fast as the kid, and that big sword of his you can't even see if he swings at you."

"They work as a team," Kaiser explained further, "The knight shields the boy from harm. Has a kite shield that deflects spells. We think it may be enchanted. Meanwhile, the boy's blasting from range, taking down targets that the knight can't reach with his sword. Quite a lethal pair. But that's not the best part…"

"Oh no, definitely not," Lance grinned again, "The kid has a face as hard as stone. The knight doesn't have a face. If you glance into that helm he wears, you see two orbs of fire glaring back at you, but nothing else. It's creepy as fuck."

"A demon of old," Foxfire repeated, "Come to buy bargain goods from Walmart and steal our souls."

"Superstitious talk," the Russian snorted, "I am sure it is all nothing."

"You believe what you want to believe," Lance shrugged, "But you can offer me a coven of Veela and all the gold in the world and I still wouldn't face Templar."

"Do you fear death that much?" the woman with the katana hissed, "Are you that much of a coward?"

Lance's smile dropped.

"Listen here, girl," the American's voice had lost all traces of pleasantness, "We are in the profession of death. Hunting down Dark Wizards. Killing magical beasts that can lay waste to an entire city. That is what we do, and that is what we excel at. Everyone here is no stranger to death. We expect it. It can come for you around any corner, and you come to grips very quickly with the fact that the next breath you take may be your last. I have seen death. Seen it come for my friends and my enemies. Watched it take them away peacefully and watched it drag them away kicking and screaming. None of us here fear death. But just cuz we don't fear death doesn't mean we go seeking it. And that's exactly what's gonna happen if we face Templar. We go in. He eviscerates us. We die. Shit, that's not something I want happening to me in a long while."

"To fight Templar is like fighting the hordes of the great Khan," Mongol spoke up, "To defend invites overwhelming attack. To attack invites impenetrable defense. You alone will go in with your pride and you will come back without your head."

"The kid's got morals though," Valkryie smirked, "Won't kill women or children. A couple of years ago I was on the opposite side of the contract. Money was good. Facing Templar was not. Broke my leg in three different places and shattered my left arm. Didn't kill me though. If I wasn't screaming in pain I'd ask for his number."

"Ahhh and the closet pervert shows her fondness for the unthinkable," Lance smiled at Valkryie's annoyed expression, "I kid, I kid."

"You are all making dis up," the Russian said resolutely, "I have not heard of dis 'Templar'. You are trying to scare us from taking the contract."

Most of the mercenaries in the room looked amused.

"All of you may not fear death, but shirking a contract just because of some boy is still cowardice," the Japanese woman snarled, "I will see for myself just how impressive this boy is."

Lance chuckled.

"Lady, just for that, I'm willing to pay gold to see Templar stomp your sorry ass to the curb."