Shattered fragments of objects lay strewn across the floor, casualties of his unrestrained fury.
"Young master, we are at Green Castle. Our purpose here is to secure the iron mine as instructed by the lord… best not to create unnecessary trouble," murmured the guard cautiously, fearing his master might erupt once more.
"I know!! Do you take me for a fool?" Alixis barked back. Yet, the flame of his anger slowly subsided beneath the weight of the reminder.
"Hmph! If that mine weren't pivotal to my father's grand design, this insignificant Green family would have been swallowed whole long ago. And that woman… how dare she treat me in such a manner!"
The moment Freyja's cold, exquisite face rose in his mind, the heat that had just faded flared violently once more.
"Young master, she is but a woman. Once the plan succeeds, would such a trifle truly still matter to you?" the guard pressed on, hoping to soothe him before rage consumed him again.
Alixis drew a slow breath, forcing reason back into place. A poisonous gleam flickered deep within his eyes.
"Once the plan is fulfilled… Green Castle, the Baron, all of them shall perish! And that woman—I will make her regret being born female!!"
——
In the stillness of an empty chamber, Freyja sat quietly upon a chair beside the sword stand, clad in a simple brown hunting outfit.
Sweat-darkened strands of hair clung to her cheeks, her modest chest rising and falling with heavy breaths—clear proof of the intensity of her training. Before her rested a wooden cruciform sword and two identical red-bound tomes.
One was On the Practicality of Noble Swordsmanship, the other, painstakingly unearthed from the library, The Method of the Rapier. Both penned by the same hand.
As her strength slowly returned, Freyja opened her eyes, frowning slightly at the books before her. She had already sensed the limits of her basic sword drills. Initially, she had intended to seek instruction from the Baron himself, but upon reflection, his style—domineering, sweeping greatsword strikes—was ill-suited to her frame. Though he could teach her, the disparity in technique was too vast.
She knew well the peril of pursuing a sword path unsuited to oneself.
Moreover, despite her diligent training, her strength had barely grown. Instead, her agility and swiftness now nearly rivaled the Baron's own. It was a clear sign—she was destined not for the heavy blade, but for the swift rapier.
Thus, after much deliberation, she realized that, given her build and limited experience, On the Practicality of Noble Swordsmanship was the most fitting path forward.
"Perhaps I should try this…" she murmured, brushing her fingers across the crimson cover. "If not, then Father's noble academy must be my next gamble."
The Method of the Rapier was far thicker than the first, filled with techniques and rigorous exercises. Though it could not replace a master's hand, it was precise and comprehensive enough for her keen mind to grasp.
After skimming through, the principles etched themselves firmly into her memory. Flexing her wrist, Freyja rose, seized her wooden blade, and exhaled softly.
Her eyes sharpened.
Hiss—
In a breath, her figure blurred forward a meter, the tip of her sword striking true. Her golden hair fanned high, then drifted down.
"A thrust… then the second—"
Hiss! Crack!
Faster than sight, her second strike combined with swift footwork, surging forth in another thrust. The blade's tip sliced the air, producing a sharp whistle.
She leapt lightly back, raising her sword, and with a sudden slash, carved the air— whoosh, snap—silver arcs flashing. Blow upon blow flowed seamlessly, her strikes unrelenting, all converging upon a single point in less than two seconds.
She pressed on—parries, feints, evasions, ripostes—each motion swift, economical, relentless, like a tempestuous wind.
Soon, the chamber echoed with her labored breaths. Spent, she collapsed back into her chair, her body trembling with exhaustion.
"To think… only three minutes, and I am completely drained… The rapier demands not only agility, but explosive bursts of strength. Without it, one collapses before felling the foe…"
Half-reclined, she unfastened her collar, exposing pale skin beneath. The snug hunting garb clung uncomfortably to her labored breathing. The Method of the Rapier was far harsher than basic sword drills, but its power… incomparably greater.
The book claimed that, when mastered, the rapier would unleash a dazzling waltz of blades, noble yet lethal, reducing all before it to ruin. Whether its author—Leonardo, the noble swordsman—had truly reached that pinnacle, she did not know. Yet the path he pursued was undoubtedly formidable.
The rapier required little brute strength. Unlike foundational swordsmanship with its heavy cleaves, it relied upon precision and swiftness—stabs, flicks, thrusts, cuts—each move often chaining into a second, seamless strike, ensnaring the foe in an unbroken rhythm until defeat was inevitable.
After a brief rest, Freyja began to comprehend its essence.
Glancing at the window, she realized dusk had already descended. Though she cared little for the insults of Viscount Berta's son, she knew she ought to inform the Baron nonetheless.
She gathered her things, secured the wooden sword at her waist, and stepped out.
——
The Baron's study.
A modest chamber, lined with shelves heavy with books. By the wall stood a gleaming silver suit of armor, its polished surface glinting coldly in the candlelight. This was where the Baron worked, but also where matters of import were discussed.
Now, at the round oak table, the Baron sat across from Alixis. Before them, untouched cups of mint-scented drink had long since cooled. Clearly, their conversation had lasted some time.
Alixis sipped his cup, wrinkled his brow at the taste, then forced a smile.
"…Uncle Green, my father covets the iron mine within your domain. Our house is willing to pay dearly for it."
"Mmm. The price offered by Viscount Berta is indeed… tempting. If true, I shall give it thought," the Baron replied evenly, his voice unreadable.
"…"
The indifference on the Baron's face gnawed at Alixis. He had repeated his father's arguments endlessly, and the offer was too generous to refuse—only a fool would hesitate. Yet the Baron remained unmoved, his reply always the same: I will consider it.
Grinding his teeth, Alixis pressed harder. "Uncle Green, what is there to consider? If the offer does not suffice, name your terms, and I shall carry them back to my father."
The Baron frowned slightly, as though deep in thought. Alixis's heart leapt—perhaps at last a breakthrough?
But the words that followed were ice.
"If there is nothing further, you may leave."
"You—!" Alixis's eyes widened. Never had he imagined the Baron would dismiss him so curtly. Fury seared his throat, but when he recalled both his vulnerable position and the Baron's undeniable power, he swallowed it back. Rising to his feet, he glared hatefully into the Baron's eyes.
"Very well! In that case, Baron, I shall report your answer truthfully to my father. Pray act wisely."
The Baron merely waved a hand, dismissing him like a servant. Threats meant little; even if Viscount Berta himself stood here, there were times he would not dare such insolence. Were it not for the avoidance of needless strife, the Baron could have claimed Alixis's head where he stood, and the Viscount would have been forced to choke down the loss in silence.
Bang!
The heavy door slammed shut. Alixis emerged, his face thunderous. Four guards hurried to follow, while a hulking man like a bear—Howard Belli—watched silently from the corridor.
Seeing their master storm off without a word, the guards exchanged uneasy glances, then hastened after him.
Howard's stony gaze lingered on their retreating forms, unreadable.