"As sure as the eternal purple of our sky and the constant presence of a wine flask on your deputy's belt during his shift," the boy quipped. "Which is to say, not at all. But one must try, mustn't one?"
A dark crimson aura flared to life around the child, and he charged. Vyshot, feeling awkward about sparring with a child, cautiously coated himself in a dense, green demonic aura.
A glob of crimson energy flew at his face. He swatted it away with his left hand and used his right to block a small fist aimed squarely at his groin.
"In my opinion, the heir of a great house should not resort to such low tactics," Vyshot said, his voice strained.
"Did you also lecture the angels on the etiquette of battle on the front lines?" the boy shot back.
Young Lucifuge twisted and tried to kick the back of Vyshot's knee. The captain simply kicked him away. The boy rolled with the impact, landing on his back, and immediately fired another blast of energy from his foot.
"This is a sparring match," Vyshot grunted.
"With an eight-year-old child whom you are trying to convince to limit his combat options. My admiration for you as a valiant demon knows no bounds."
Vyshot's eyebrow twitched. He blocked the energy blast, then a rock that the little brat had somehow managed to pick up, and then another punch.
A handful of sand from the training ground flew at his eyes. With a cold snort, Vyshot blasted it away with a pulse of his aura.
A sharp pain lanced his hand. Reacting on pure instinct, he unleashed a directed burst of demonic power.
Thump.
The boy's small body slammed into one of the training pillars. The Guard Captain's face went pale.
"Young master!"
"Going on eight years now," a muffled voice replied.
The boy slowly peeled himself away from the pillar, bent over. He straightened up, placed his hands on his lower back, and began to stretch like an old man.
"You just slammed an eight-year-old child into a pillar, nearly breaking his bones. Truly, a worthy representative of the devil race stands before me."
"Are you really alright?"
"Just get angry, and everything will be fine."
"Young master, I am serious!"
The stretching boy suddenly flicked his hand. A tightly compressed sphere of crimson aura, no bigger than a fist, shot towards Vyshot's face.
The captain jerked his head to the side, his green aura flaring to life just in time to block another punch from the child.
As he prepared to shove the boy away and go find Lady Grayfia to deal with this sharp-tongued menace, Vyshot stared in shock at his left hand.
The green aura had vanished. The boy's hand, now glowing with an expanded crimson aura shot through with sparks of green, touched the captain's unprotected forearm.
An explosion of force.
"You are wounded," the boy said, a smug look on his face. "Therefore, the victory is mine."
Feeling a stinging pain in his arm, Vyshot looked at the self-satisfied child.
A trickle of blood ran from the corner of the boy's mouth, and one of his arms was a mess of bloody, torn flesh from the elbow down.
Then Vyshot looked at the small, sizzling burn on his own forearm.
He must have hit his head on that pillar harder than I thought.
Shaking himself from his stupor, the captain scooped the boy into his arms. The child gave a weak, token push against his chest.
"Young master, do not worry. The healers will fix your injuries."
"And here I was, fearing you had developed strange, unnatural inclinations toward a child's body, the way you snatched me up so quickly."
Vyshot nearly stumbled. He clenched his jaw to stop himself from saying several very creative and impolite things about the little brat, who was now using his own aura to stop the bleeding and smirking at him from his arms.
But a voice from behind them made his blood run cold.
"What is going on here?"
The icy female voice could have frozen the seas. A flash of silver, and an crimson-eyed demoness appeared beside them.
Her worried gaze landed first on the black-haired boy, and then shifted to the Guard Captain, her expression as cold and sharp as a naked blade.
Vyshot's back was instantly slick with sweat.
"Do not worry, sister," Inflis's cheerful voice chirped, a stark contrast to his bloody appearance and the pale face of the man holding him. "We were just on our way to the healers after a training session."
"Training?" Grayfia's voice was dangerously calm. "You received these wounds in training?"
Vyshot knew that tone. It was the calm before a storm. 'Forgive me, my love,' he thought, a bitter image of his wife flashing in his mind. 'It seems we won't be having that son after all.' He met the silver-haired demoness's gaze, resigned to his fate.
"Sister, if you are worried about my wounds, they are the result of a failed attempt at using demonic magic in combat," the boy in his arms suddenly said. "The captain is not at fault for my own mistake."
For the first time, Vyshot Ansted looked at the black-haired boy with a feeling of profound gratitude.
"If that is the case," Grayfia said, her tone softening slightly, "then I will ask your magic tutor to focus more on safety. And from this moment on, you are forbidden from using untested magic in sparring. In fact, all sparring is forbidden until you are ten years old."
"Sister," the boy protested, "you must understand that a demon without power is merely dust beneath the feet of the strong. Sparring with the captain can make me strong. And besides, he has already promised to train with me regularly for the next few years."
'When did I promise that, you little bastard?!' The gratitude vanished, replaced by the icy dread of a future filled with gray hairs.
Grayfia stared suspiciously at the boy's innocent face and the captain's stoic expression, but finally, she relented. "Fine. You may continue your training, but without any more injuries like this."
"Thank you ever so much, sister," the boy chirped. "Now, would someone please take this battered body to a healer?"