Leon | Eric (Erich) · chat.title

[First Meeting · Registration Day] North outskirts of the Iron Throne City, Royal Training Camp Registration Hall. A high-vaulted ceiling, a forest of stone pillars. Morning light sliced obliquely through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the west, casting parallel bands of light across the grayish-white floor. A disorderly long line snaked in front of the registration desk. New recruits clutched their draft orders, some whispering to inquire about dorm assignments, others already with their chins tilted arrogantly toward the ceiling. Leon stood slightly behind and to the side of the registration counter, his charcoal-gray uniform buttoned all the way to the top collar. Holding a roster in his hands, his knuckles gently pressed against the edge of the pages. As the camp's Chief, cross-checking the roster on registration day was a chore dumped onto him by Instructor Victor—whose exact words were, "Just stand there and don't move; with you standing there, nobody dares cut in line." Leon hadn't replied, keeping his head down as he flipped through the names. His Spectral Analysis had been active since morning. The heartbeats, breathing, and body temperatures of over three hundred people in the hall hovered in his perception like a dense swarm of fireflies. Accustomed to it, he suppressed the noise into the background, maintaining focus on a single thread—the queue before the registration desk. At the tail end of the line, someone's heartbeat was unnaturally steady. Leon lifted his gaze, looking over without betraying a flicker of emotion. Eric stood third from the end of the line. His black hair was slightly ruffled, his uniform not worn particularly neatly, the top button left undone. He was looking down and leafing through his draft order as if half-asleep. When the person ahead of him bumped back into him, Eric immediately sidestepped half a pace, saying, "No worries, you're fine, go ahead." His tone was polite, his eyes crinkling warmly when he smiled. Yet Leon's spectrum told him that from the moment this person entered the hall until now, his heartbeat hadn't quickened a single time. Even when bumped, his breathing hadn't hitched in the slightest. Polite, yes, but equally distant. Beneath that smile lay a remarkably uniform barrier. Leon couldn't quite name what it was, only feeling it was like looking at a sheet of glass polished too clean—transparent, but reflective. The line inched forward several steps. The cadet ahead of Eric finished registering, and it was his turn. Leon opened the roster, the tip of his pen touching the paper. "Name." "Eric." Eric handed over his draft order, smiling with a hint of sheepishness. "Just the one name. No family name." Leon took it and gave it a glance. The draft order indeed bore only the name "Eric." The origin field read "Commoner of the Central Provinces," and the recommender section bore a smudged postmark stamp, leaving the sender unidentifiable. Such draft orders were not unheard of in the camp, but they were rare. There were only a handful of commoner quotas every year; those who could obtain them either possessed genuine talent or had someone backing them. Leon raised his eyes to study Eric, his Spectral Analysis sweeping across—Eric stood loosely, one hand shoved into his trouser pocket, the other scratching the back of his head, looking just like an ordinary, slightly nervous commoner youth. His heartbeat remained entirely steady. "Eric." Leon made a checkmark on the roster, sliding the dorm assignment and cadet badge forward. "West Wing, Building Three, second floor. Training starts tomorrow at six in the morning. Being late goes on your record." "Thanks." Eric took the badge and stepped to the side. Instead of leaving, he lingered by the edge of the counter, examining the serial number on the badge. Leon didn't look at him again, lowering his head to process the next recruit. It was at this moment that you pushed your way through. The line had grown chaotic, several new recruits crowding the desk to ask a flurry of questions. Squeezing through the gaps in the crowd to reach the counter, draft order clutched in your hand, you ended up standing right next to Eric. You glanced back, then looked at Leon. "...Chief, the number on my draft order doesn't match the roster." Leon looked up. His gaze rested on your face for a beat—Spectral Analysis scanned automatically: your heartbeat was slightly elevated, but not from nerves, merely from sprinting over; your breathing was a little rushed, but your eyes were steady, without panic. You genuinely had an issue with your number, not just making an excuse to strike up a conversation. Leon reached out, took your draft order, looked it over, and cross-referenced it with the roster. "The number was written incorrectly," Leon said. "Yours was a supplementary admission that only arrived yesterday. The roster is still using the provisional ID. Just head over to West Wing, Building Three to report; I'll amend the roster shortly." You breathed a sigh of relief and offered your thanks. Just as you turned to leave, your peripheral vision caught Eric, who still hadn't departed. Eric was looking down at the back of your draft order—no, he was looking at the stamp on the back. Leon's spectrum caught Eric's gaze lingering on that stamp for half a second. Half a second was brief, but in that fleeting instant, Eric's heart skipped half a beat—the very first fluctuation in his heartbeat since he had walked into the hall. Then Eric lifted his head, flashing you a smile, his tone impeccably polite: "You're a supplementary recruit too? The instructor just said dorm rooms for supplementary admits aren't assigned yet, so we have to go to Building Three in the West Wing and register with the dorm manager first. Want to head over together in a bit?" The words rolled out smoothly, courteously flawless. But Leon noticed that Eric had asked, "You're a supplementary recruit *too*?"—he first established common ground with "you too," before extending the invitation to "head over together." Behind the politeness was a hint of probing, and within that probing lay veiled courtesy, as if he were seeking confirmation of something.