Holy fuck… what was that?
Is that why the 30% bottleneck felt like some ancient curse placed by gods with a grudge?
The moment Clara lunged at me, I saw it. A thread of blue, thin, crisp, almost glowing, drew itself out of thin air, connecting the tip of her wooden sword to a very specific spot on my torso.
She hadn't even completed her motion, and yet it was as if the universe itself was helpfully saying, "Hey genius, this is where you're about to get smacked."
I didn't have to look at her sword. I just put my own up where that line ended.
Clugg.
Blocked. Clean.
I had to try again. Not just because it was cool as hell, but because… something about this felt off. So I told Clara to up the output to 20% and aim for my gut.
The line showed up again.
That's when the thought hit me, like smacked-me-in-the-face level of hit.
If Inspect isn't a combat skill, then why is it helping me block attacks? Isn't that exactly what combat skills do?
I decided to test it a little differently this time. I asked Clara to feint, throw a fake attack, then strike elsewhere. And that's when everything clicked.
One last test. "Clara, throw in a faint."
She did. And guess what?
No blue line for the fake-out.
Instead, it traced her real intent. Where she actually wanted to strike.
That's when the pieces clicked. Inspect wasn't showing the path of the blade, it was reading intent. Like an instinctive lie detector… but for murder attempts.
Not a combat skill. A psychological one.
And if that wasn't proof enough, there was also the mana mastery boost. All signs pointed to the same conclusion: Inspect doesn't react to movement. It reacts to purpose.
Pretty awesome, right?
Well, tell that to my cracked back and dislocated ego.
Because after I gleefully blocked Clara's strike at 40% output, I was graciously rewarded with a firsthand flight across the training hall and into the wall.
Congratulations to me. I'm now a Hugo-shaped dent in Falcon Duchy property.
Diagnosis: Four misplaced joints. Prescribed bed rest.
Luckily no broken bones, I should be able to resume from tomorrow.
But now, here I am. Lying flat like a deflated frog on my bed, head propped up with a pillow, while Clara stands beside me looking half concerned, half entertained.
"Aww..aw! Stop touching that!" I winced as she poked my leg for the third time.
She gave me an innocent blink. "Oh, forgive me, young master. I was merely assessing if the pain was memorable enough to discourage similarly reckless behaviour in the future."
"Oh, how thoughtful," I groaned, clutching my poor, innocent thigh. "Want to test the ribs next? Or maybe my will to live?"
"Good. You can still joke," she muttered, kneeling to adjust the blanket that had been clinging on for dear life to my chest.
"By the way, what kind of training does Seraphina even put you through? Pulling wagons with your teeth?"
"I do not use teeth," Clara said, completely missing the sarcasm. "That would be unsanitary."
Before I could respond with something equally genius, her eyes flicked toward the door.
Ping!
Right on cue, the Inspect window blinked open beside my face, detailing Sylvia's stats.
...yeah, no thanks. I quickly dismissed it before it flooded me with details.
Two gentle knocks followed, and like a timed entrance on stage, the door creaked open.
Sylvia stepped in with all the grace of a noble swan who probably scored perfect grades on her posture lessons. She bowed lightly at the entrance.
"Pardon the intrusion," she said.
And just like that, the room got about ten degrees colder. Or classier. I can never tell with her.
"Lord Hugo, I offer my sincerest wishes for your swift recovery."
"Lady Sylvia," Clara greeted her with a nod, her hands folded neatly in front. "I apologize. The fault lies with me for failing to limit my strength. If only I had—"
"That's the twenty-third time, Clara," I interrupted, raising a hand and flopping it dramatically. "If I start charging per apology, you'll be the duchy's largest debtor."
Clara looked away with a tiny puff of air escaping her lips, her version of a sigh, no doubt.
"And what, may I ask, do I owe the honor of your visit this fine, bone-snapping morning?" I asked Sylvia, my voice casual, but my neck slightly craning to see her without pulling another muscle.
"I came bearing a letter of permission from Sir Sebastian," Sylvia said, producing a sealed envelope from the fold of her dress.
"Sir Gaveric wanted me to hand it to you on my way here, after reviewing today's high table pedagogy with him."
Oh right, that.
"Additionally, I was able to speak with Sir Gaveric and acquire the full schedule for today's discussion."
Pedagogy. A word I usually associated with snoring ministers and unnecessarily large scrolls.
Sylvia continued, "As of this hour, the discussions on designating safe settlement zones within the Falcon Forest are underway. Trade routes for merchant travel are being revised and evaluated."
"And next?" I asked, half-listening and half-battling my pillow for dominance.
"The following session will cover the strategic talks with the Elvian envoy at Leon Duchy regarding the new trade alliance proposal. I had intended to accompany you to the duchy's study for participation."
She glanced at my pitiful state, adding, "However, seeing you as you are, perhaps that would not be wise."
Hah. Wise.
I exhaled and waved a limp hand. "You can still attend. If any stiff-necked guard tries to stop you, flash the badge."
Clara, always quick, stepped to the desk and retrieved the Falcon insignia. With practiced grace, she handed it to Sylvia. "Lady Sylvia."
Sylvia took it with a respectful nod. "I will be sure to brief you thoroughly afterward, Lord Hugo."
With that, another elegant bow and she left, her footsteps light and precise.
I waited until I was sure she was out of earshot before grunting and trying to sit up. My body creaked like old wood. Then, in true dramatic fashion, my hand slipped from the frame and—
Thud.
Two soft arms caught me before I collapsed like a tragic potato sack. Clara let out a sigh, not the composed kind, and gently placed me back on the bed.
"Young master Hugo," she said sternly. "It is best you follow the physician's instructions and rest."
"There's no time," I muttered, rubbing the back of my head and glaring at the wooden beam that assaulted me.
Clara tilted her head. "Pardon?"
I grinned. "We're heading to the interrogation chamber."
"Young master Hugo," Clara said, catching me just before I tumbled off the bed again, "you are not in a condition to walk across the manor, let alone down to the interrogation chambers."
"Clara," I said, flicking my chin toward the permit Sylvia left behind, "do you know why that letter came today of all days?"
She raised an eyebrow, waiting.
"I asked Sebastian to hand me the permit for interrogation access today, specifically today, because he's the one in charge of scheduling those little torture room dates." I slid my legs off the bed, ignoring every complaint from my ribs.
"I made sure he aligned it with today's pedagogy meeting so all the big heads would be too busy wagging their tongues about trade routes and elf diplomacy to keep an eye on me."
Clara didn't speak for a moment, watching me as if I'd suddenly grown horns.
"If we don't act now, the only real chance in our hands slips away," I said, holding her gaze. "I need to be at that chamber. Now."
She narrowed her eyes slightly. "And what do you intend to do there, young master, that requires all the big heads to be conveniently distracted?"
I gave her a crooked smile. "I'll explain on the way."
Thirty-three percent.
It didn't sound like much. Honestly, it wasn't. But that tiny jump in mana control was enough for me to push mana through the right nodes, just enough to get my legs moving without my joints screaming like they were being evicted from my body.
Physical pain turned to mental strain, which, as it turns out, is the better of the two when you're stubborn and stupid like me.
Clara, of course, hovered nearby like a worried guardian deity as we made our way down the manor's basement corridor. I wondered, not for the first time, how monsters like her could circulate mana like it was just breathing. Meanwhile, here I was, mentally hyperventilating with every step.
The stone passage cooled with every step we took, the air growing damp and heavy. It was the kind of silence you could hear your thoughts in, and apparently Clara's were itching to spill.
"So…" she said softly, sensing there were no eavesdroppers lurking in the shadows.
"She needed to be there," I said without waiting for her to finish. "Sylvia. She needs to hear the engagement annulment firsthand."
Clara stopped mid-step, blinking. I didn't blame her.
"What?" she asked, but quickly recalibrated. "Wait...are you trying to fool our competitors into thinking the Gyrfalds have nothing to do with this whole plan?"
I gave her a crooked smile as we resumed walking. "More or less. Ashen's a knife, Clara. A sharp one, sure, but knives only work when they reach your skin. We can avoid that with decent precautions. But Griffin Vale? They're a whole damn political storm. They don't even need to kill us. All they have to do is delay us."
"There's no rule," I continued, "that says Griffin Vale has to back Draziel. If they smell a better offer from Leon, they could very well throw their weight behind them—publicly or not. And if that happens, we're no longer up against a single competitor. We're suddenly running a race against every half-competent duchy that wants a slice of the Vale trade."
She didn't speak.
"But," I said, lowering my tone slightly, "Griffin Vale also knows what happens if they try playing nice with everyone. You can't entertain rivals without burning bridges. So what we need to do is expand our cards. And we only get more cards if we're not bound to Orion like a couple of lovestruck nobles in a third-rate romance plot."
"…Cruel," Clara murmured, almost inaudibly.
"Necessary," I said.
And the stone door to the interrogation wing loomed ahead.
Clara's voice broke the heavy quiet as the iron door to the interrogation wing came into view.
"Is young master's plan… to sever the engagement bond with the Leon Duchy," she said cautiously, "and then pursue a bride whose family holds enough power to strengthen the Falcon's political grip?"
I didn't answer immediately.
Not because I was unsure but because that right there was the kind of question that forced a guy to admire how sharp Clara really was.
"That's part of it," I said with a shrug. "But if we're talking purely about bride capability? Sylvia's already the best."
Clara looked at me like she wanted to believe that was the whole story, but she knew better.
"And let's not pretend that Orion being next in line for the Leon Dukedom doesn't serve that on a golden spoon," I added. "If he actually makes it to that position, we wouldn't be losing Orion or his daughter. We'd be getting the best of both."
Clara stopped walking. Her brow furrowed just slightly.
"Forgive me, young master… but I do not understand. What you just said contradicts the very words you spoke a moment ago."
I smiled. Not the smug kind. The kind that said, Good catch.
"That's because the version I said a second ago is what the world will see," I said, voice low. "The version I just told you now… stays within the Falcon walls."
Clara's eyes widened, just slightly. Like something clicked in her head, and the puzzle pieces rearranged themselves with a satisfying snap.
"That's right," I confirmed. "To the world, the engagement is off. Orion and Sylvia? Out of the picture. So what happens?"
I gestured vaguely in the air, as if summoning imaginary noble scumbags into the room.
"Nobles begin lining up, desperate for a shot at becoming His Grace Everard's daughter-in-law. They offer alliances, under-the-table resources, the works."
"In their minds, it's all fair game now." I said looking at Clara.
"That would drastically reduce the rivalry that Griffin vale duchy is trying to induce...lesser the allies, less the cards..."
Clara spoke, stunned at her own words. I gave a impressed nod and continued.
"We milk them. All of them. Let them think they have a chance. And once Orion becomes Duke, and Sylvia's position is secure, we drop the news, this time not engagement, Marriage."
A beat passed. Clara looked at me like I'd grown a second head, then slowly blinked as realization crept across her face.
"…That is…" she hesitated, breath catching slightly, "both impressive… and terrifying."
I gave her a wink.
"Welcome to diplomacy."
The door creaked open with a low, rusted groan.
Inside, Marla sat, not tied to the wall anymore, but strapped to a reinforced iron chair bolted into the floor.
Her head hung low, hair disheveled and matted with sweat. The kind of look you get when all the secrets worth torturing out have already been dug free.
Execution wasn't hours away.
It was waiting on the next page of the clock.
I scanned the room. No chairs. Of course. Because why would the Falcon Duchy—land of pristine marble halls and ancient libraries—think to put a bloody stool in the interrogation chamber?
So I did the next best thing: leaned against the wall like I was some exhausted noble teenager playing rebel.
"Alright, Marla," I said, arms crossed. "You're free to go."
Her head jerked up like I'd thrown a bucket of ice water on her.
Eyes bloodshot. Confused. Suspicious.
The look of a woman who'd been played before and wasn't convinced this wasn't just a new game.
Clara, standing to my right, didn't even flinch. Just let out a small sigh.
She was used to this.
"Don't forget to report everything you learned when you make it back to your high command in the Falcon lands," I added.
Marla coughed, a breathless, bitter noise.
"There is no one in the Falcon lands," she rasped, "except those in the castle."
Her voice was cracked and dry, barely audible.
I smiled. "Yeah, totally believable. Anyway, tick-tock. You've got, what, three hours tops? The longer you stay, the more likely we catch you again."
Then I tilted my head toward Clara.
She didn't hesitate. With a flash of silver and one clean motion, she sliced through the shackles with her dagger.
The clatter of chains hitting stone echoed in the chamber. She handed the dagger to Marla.
Marla didn't move.
Instead, she stared up at me, face pale, lips trembling. "Is this… some kind of new torture?" she asked, voice hoarse. "Giving a prisoner hope… and then killing them the moment they believe it?"
I raised an eyebrow.
"Isn't your life worth finding that out?"
That did it.
She shot up, legs shaky but surprisingly fast. She bolted out of the room, adrenaline overriding exhaustion. As she reached the doorway, I called after her—
"If you kill even one Falcon servant on the way out, I'll make sure you die a dog's death. Personally."
Marla didn't answer.
But she nodded, and then vanished down the corridor, moving at a speed that, frankly, made my recovery-bedridden body feel insecure.
"Twice as fast as me," I muttered.
Clara simply folded her arms and waited for the next absurdity to drop from my mouth.