Chapter 13 - Chapter 7.1 - The Storm

The World of Otome Game

 is a Second Chance for Broken Swords

Story Starts

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Chapter 7.1 -

The Storm

"Baron Bartfort, you may lower your arms. I'm now done with all your measurements," the dapper-looking gentleman told Leon, handing the small notebook to his assistant, who then pushed in a rack full of men's formal attire.

As he didn't really have much opinion on fashion, Leon had allowed the expert to choose for him. He looked at his reflection, and the person looking back seemed both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

Gone were the soft features he'd inherited from his mother, gone was the black hair he'd gotten from his father. Even the grey eyes he'd inherited from both now had a sort of silver sheen layered above the dull grey, paired with that very familiar gold he was used to seeing look back at a reflection a lifetime ago.

Whilst he'd always been tall and broad-shouldered—built like his father, where it was easy to gain weight in both muscle and fat if it weren't for their very active lifestyle—now he had the same build Archer had possessed: naturally lean and muscular without effort. He'd also gained a few centimetres in height and developed a subtle darkening of his skin, a light tan that hadn't been there before.

And of course, finally, there was the white hair. It wasn't the grey that came from age but a total whitening of every strand—just like Archer's had been.

Olivia had theorised that due to the speed of the damage inflicted by the backlash from Rho Aias, and the frantic pace at which she'd been forced to heal him—destruction and reconstruction happening simultaneously, over and over in rapid cycles—parts of him had begun to drift from their original physical form. When there was no longer any intact reference tissue to guide the healing magic, it had pulled from his soul's memory of its physical form instead, averaging everything it found there.

Whilst he'd only had Archer's arm grafted to him in his previous life, Archer's weight of existence could be measured in millennia, judging by how many times Alaya had sent that version of him across time to massacre and ensure humanity's continued survival. That presence, that accumulated existence, had apparently left a far deeper imprint on his soul than Leon had realised.

This averaged image—this composite drawn from every iteration, every memory, every moment that soul had inhabited flesh—had become the basis for every drift his body underwent during that catastrophic healing cycle.

At Olivia's insistence, Luxion had analysed his DNA afterwards, and the results were simultaneously mundane and fascinating.

His DNA had changed, certainly, but the alterations were all within the boundaries of natural human variation. He was still, genetically speaking, one hundred per cent his father's and mother's son. No foreign genetic material had been introduced, no impossible mutations that would mark him as something other than human.

Instead, his DNA had been tweaked—epigenetic switches flipped, dormant genes activated, recessive traits that had lain sleeping in his family line for generations suddenly expressed. The healing magic, desperate for guidance and finding none in his damaged tissue, had reached into his genetic code and pulled forward every recessive phenotype and genotype that could approximate what his soul remembered.

It was as though his body had been given a template—the soul's memory of what form it should inhabit—and had rearranged the genetic building blocks already present to match that template as closely as possible.

The white hair? A recessive trait from somewhere in his maternal line, activated. The heterochromia? A combination of pigmentation genes that had always been present but never expressed until now. The altered build, the slightly darker skin, the sharper features—all of it could be traced back to genetic information that had been there all along, simply rearranged, highlighted, brought to the forefront.

He hadn't transformed into Shirou Emiya or inherited Archer's body through some magical substitution. Rather, his own body—using the genetic information from his parents, from their parents, from generations back—had been resculpted by healing magic that used his soul's memory as a blueprint.

The science was sound, even if the catalyst had been magical. Epigenetics in action, guided by something far stranger than normal biological processes.

Leon Fou Bartfort was still genetically his parents' son—every gene traceable to their combined inheritance. But the specific expression had shifted: dormant possibilities made active, recessive traits brought forward, the genetic lottery redrawn from the same pool. If someone compared his DNA now to samples taken before the transformation, they wouldn't find foreign contamination or impossible mutations—just differences in which traits had manifested.

He looked different now because his body had found the genetic tools within his own inheritance to reflect something his soul had carried across lifetimes.

Of course, everything had to be put on record. The Kingdom of Holfort couldn't just accept that this person—who didn't look anything like the previous Leon Fou Bartfort—at face value. They needed to demonstrate that there was a proper way to test lineage, which the kingdom desperately needed given its current problems with the heavily one-sided matriarchal society and all the complications that created around inheritance and paternity.

The demonstration had been conducted in front of a representative from the palace—a court noble named Bernard Fia Atlee—and Margot. They'd run blind tests, calling in both his brother Nicks and his two sisters Jenna and Finley. They'd also tested Margot's son and daughters for comparison, conducting properly labelled blind trials to verify the system worked as intended.

Of course, it had worked perfectly. Luxion's genetic analysis technology was far beyond anything this world possessed naturally. But for now, they'd keep this technology classified as a 'lost item' and maintain secrecy around its capabilities. They didn't want to rock the boat—too many noble families might collapse overnight if paternity testing became widely available, revealing generations of uncertain lineage and disputed inheritance.

At least both his father and mother had assured him that the changes meant nothing to them. He was still their son, regardless of what his hair colour or eye colour might be now. Leon had simply sighed at the complications inherent to this kingdom's social structure.

He'd already discussed this extensively with both Luxion and Olivia—the bizarre dynamics of how men were treated as scarce resources yet expected to be breadwinners, expected to accept marriage contracts that essentially tied them to lives of servitude whilst their wives maintained affairs with demi-human attendants and other nobles.

But of course, it wasn't as black and white as it initially seemed. There was a certain level of nobility where this imbalance became most pronounced, whilst other tiers operated under different social rules entirely—

"Sir, would this suffice?"

Leon was brought out of his thoughts as the shop's owner held out a formal outfit on a coat hanger, hovering it in front of him. Leon looked at his reflection and saw that the choice seemed quite appropriate—the attire fit him perfectly, the tailoring emphasising his altered build whilst maintaining noble propriety.

"Thank you, this is good," Leon said with a slight nod. "I would need several of these. I'll trust your judgement on design and colour."

"As you wish, Baron Bartfort." The gentleman bowed formally, placing his hand on his chest.

Slam.

Leon sighed, already recognising the familiar sound of his vassal knight's dramatic entrances.

"Olivia," he said with a sharp look, "how many times have I told you not to slam doors? Plus, we are in public."

She pouted as she averted her eyes, Leysritt and Pollux entering the shop behind her with considerably more grace. "Sorry," she mumbled, though her tone suggested she wasn't particularly sorry at all.

The shop owner interrupted their exchange, informing Leon he'd need to return in two days to verify the final fit once the alterations were complete.

The group of four exited the shop, stepping back into the bustling capital streets. Leon looked at Olivia with a mixture of frustration and concern—she'd been wound tight all morning, that familiar explosive energy barely contained beneath her surface.

"Come," he said, offering his elbow in the formal manner expected of nobles, though the gesture felt more natural between them than propriety alone would suggest. "Let's grab something to eat, and you can tell me what's bothering you."

Olivia's face lit up immediately at the invitation, the pout vanishing as though it had never existed. She practically skipped forward as she grabbed his elbow, her grip firm and possessive as she immediately began directing him toward a popular café she'd apparently already scouted.

And just like that, she launched into a rapid-fire rant about her day—about the events during their latest study session with Angelica, her free hand gesturing wildly as Leysritt and Pollux followed behind them with patient, long-suffering expressions.

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Leon sat in his dormitory's living room, waiting for his date with a patience that belied the slight tension in his shoulders. He'd figured this was more of a business meeting than anything else—Lady Roseblade probably wanted to make some mutually beneficial deals for both his and her father's territory as a thank-you for saving her life. It made sense, politically speaking. An earl's daughter wouldn't request a private meeting simply for pleasantries. He'd accepted this arrangement readily enough; it wouldn't be bad to have allies from higher houses, especially given the increasingly complicated web of obligations he was accumulating at the academy.

As Leon took one final check of the spread he'd prepared, his eyes swept across the array of items representing products from his barony. He'd arranged rice rolls and onigiri for the savoury items, whilst he'd made mochi and dango for the sweet side, hoping they'd showcase the unique agricultural developments his territory had been working on. Of course, he'd also prepared an assortment of the usual sandwiches and sweets in case his date's palate wasn't that adventurous.

He was flanked on both sides by Ria and Melt, their presence a comfortable reminder that he wasn't entirely alone in this performance. The other two—Art and Durga—he'd given leave to explore the city and enjoy their day off. The two who remained wore one of the many maid uniforms Olivia seemed to have available in seemingly endless supply. He still wasn't entirely sure where she kept acquiring them from—though he had an inkling feeling Luxion had a hand in this.

"Master," Ria leaned in closer, her blonde hair catching the afternoon light as her bright green eyes and that painfully familiar face came into view when he turned his head. "Why is Lady Roseblade late? Isn't it good manners to arrive a few minutes before the stated time of the meeting?"

Leon couldn't help but smile at the genuine innocence in his latest guardian spirit's question. The slight curve of his lips was involuntary, brought on by the earnestness of her confusion at the perceived breach of etiquette. When he'd first seen their faces—both Ria and Art materialising and practically tackling him in greeting—he'd already accepted the inevitable. With a mixture of resignation and something uncomfortably close to relief, he recognised that whatever guardian spirit he contracted would likely take the faces of those he'd loved from a lifetime ago. The pattern was too consistent to be a coincidence: Sella and Leysritt for Olivia, Sakura for himself twice over with Melt and Durga, and now this.

This time it was Saber—or rather, Arturia Pendragon. Instead of identical twin representations of the Once and Future King, they'd adapted both aspects of her legendary existence, splitting the duality between them. One embodied regular Saber with her blonde hair, green eyes, and fair skin—that was Ria. Art, in comparison, had adopted her corrupted version: pale blonde hair, golden-yellow eyes that seemed to see through pretence, and greyish pale skin.

Though both of them certainly possessed more—ahem—womanly attributes than the original Arturia.

"Do not worry," Leon explained, keeping his voice even and patient. "For people of their stature, being fashionably late is expected. It's a demonstration of status—the higher your rank, the more others are expected to wait for your convenience. It's also about not wanting to appear too earnest."

Ria's frown deepened at that particular brand of aristocratic logic, her brow furrowing in that earnest way that made her look so much like the knight-king. The expression tugged at something in his chest—nostalgia, perhaps, or the ghost of affection for someone who'd existed in another world entirely. He extended his hand almost without thinking and patted her head gently, fingers threading through blonde hair that felt real enough to make his heart ache.

Ria practically melted under the touch, a soft sound of contentment escaping her that was impossibly endearing.

"Master, me as well," Melt interjected immediately, her tone carrying that thread of innocent complaint that suggested she'd be genuinely put out if denied equal treatment. He obliged, patting her violet hair with the same gentle attention, and felt rather than saw her satisfaction.

"Oh, how sweet." A new voice cut through the moment with practised elegance, and Leon's hand stilled mid-motion as his gaze snapped towards the doorway.

There stood Deirdre Fou Roseblade, and even in the standard academy uniform, she commanded attention like a queen surveying her court. Her honey-blonde hair was styled in an elaborate side ponytail that cascaded over her shoulder in thick, lustrous waves, bound with what looked like an expensive turquoise ribbon. The academy's regulation jacket—dark green with gold trim—fit her perfectly, tailored just enough to be proper whilst still showcasing her figure. The matching pleated skirt fell to regulation length, and yet on her it seemed less like a uniform and more like a fashion statement. A large turquoise bow adorned the high collar of her white blouse, matching both her hair ribbon and the striking turquoise eyes that swept across his living room with keen assessment.

But it was the folding fan—lacquered black with what appeared to be a rose motif in gold—that truly completed the picture. She held it with the casual grace of one born to social warfare, a prop and weapon all at once.

At her side stood her newly contracted guardian spirit, a figure that immediately caught Leon's attention despite his attempt to maintain polite disinterest. The spirit wore an elaborate gothic dress in shades of black and crimson, with rose motifs that seemed to echo endlessly in the fabric. Her pale skin contrasted sharply with long, dark hair that fell past her waist, and her eyes held a haughty gleam that matched her contractor's perfectly. Unlike Ria and Melt's maid uniforms, this spirit wore her elaborate gown like aristocratic armour.

Deirdre snapped the fan open with a practised flick of her wrist, covering the lower half of her face as she surveyed the room, her chin visibly tilted upward in a pose that screamed 'I am evaluating you and finding you... adequate.' Those turquoise eyes lingered on the guardian spirits flanking him, then swept across the tea spread he'd prepared, before finally settling on Leon himself.

"Baron Bartfort," she said, her voice carrying the melodious quality of someone who'd been trained since birth in proper elocution. "How terribly domestic. I confess, since I found out that you've brought your guardian spirits who took on a female form, that you might have already given up on finding a wife and embraced the debauched hedonism of the lower classes."

With another sharp snap, the fan closed—revealing a predatory smile underneath—and she sauntered across the room with the kind of deliberate grace that made it clear she was performing, and knew full well that he knew she was performing. Leon simply continued steeping the tea, his movements unhurried. Whatever power play she was attempting, he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

"Please, have a seat, Lady Roseblade," Leon said mildly, gesturing to the comfortable chair across from him. "I trust the rest of your academy break was pleasant?"

Deirdre paused mid-stride, and Leon caught the briefest flicker of something—surprise, perhaps?—in those turquoise eyes before her expression smoothed back into aristocratic composure.

"Quite," she replied after a beat, settling into the offered chair with practised elegance. Her guardian spirit took position standing behind her, mirroring Ria and Melt's positions. "Though I must say, Baron Bartfort, your transformation has been the talk of the academy."

Leon just shrugged, pouring the tea with careful attention. "Like I said when you first approached me, it was a magical accident born from the backlash of using that shield and Olivia's rapid healing ability." When he said shield, he meant Rho Aias—the same shield he'd used to protect her and Clarice Fia Atlee from the second-floor boss.

Each of the seven layers was equivalent to heavily fortified castle walls, and each layer reflected an equivalent backlash to its wielder—spread across all seven, but cumulative nonetheless.

"This is... exceptional," Deirdre said, and for the first time, her voice held something other than performative grandeur. "The grade, the temperature, the steeping time—all perfect."

"I believe in doing things properly," Leon replied, allowing himself a slight smile. "Would you care to try some of the refreshments? I've prepared a variety—some more traditional, others showcasing products from my barony's agricultural developments."

He then gestured towards the assortment of onigiris, rice rolls, dangos, and mochis. "These are made from rice, the same white grain you saw from the dish I served everyone back at my territory's guild hall."

"How fascinating," she murmured, reaching for one of the onigiri.

She took a delicate bite, chewed thoughtfully, then nodded. "Excellent quality. The texture is perfect, and the filling—what is this sour thing in the middle? I'm guessing these products are from the crops that were naturally growing on the islands you discovered?"

"To answer your first question," Leon said, lifting his saucer to chest height, and then gently brought the teacup to his lips. "This is a salted pickled plum, a product we've recently been able to create successfully. We're also developing a fortified sweet wine based on the same fruit."

He didn't really plan to confirm where they'd found these crops, since they were from Luxion's storage. While Luxion was a capable war vessel, the AI and its facilities had been technically built for the immigration of old humans to space.

Meaning Luxion had in storage countless seeds of crops, even farm animals in stasis—everything needed for the old humans to restart their civilization. Unfortunately, for reasons unknown, the old humans had never been able to use Luxion, which had remained in standby for centuries.

As his thoughts drifted, Leon observed Deirdre select one of the mochi stuffed with strawberry, and Leon watched her expression shift through surprise, pleasure, and then something more evaluative—her eyes taking on that sharp focus nobles got when assessing business opportunities. She finished the entire piece before speaking, taking a sip of tea to cleanse her palate.

"Baron Bartfort—Leon, if I may be so bold—let us dispense with the pleasantries, shall we?" She set down her teacup with a delicate clink and reopened her fan, but this time she held it loosely, almost casually. "This spread is magnificent. This tea is flawless. Your hospitality is impeccable. But we both know this is not merely a social call."

"I assumed as much," Leon said carefully. "I saved your life in the dungeon. Your family doubtless wishes to express gratitude through some mutually beneficial arrangement."

"Oh, my family is very grateful," Deirdre said, and now her smile turned sharp. "Grateful enough that my father has authorised me to make you an extraordinary offer." She leaned forward slightly, and the playful theatricality dropped away, leaving something far more intense in its place. "The Roseblade family is one of the strongest martial families of the kingdom. We are an earldom that holds quite the expansive territory and has been defending the kingdom's borders ever since our family gained peerage."

"I'm aware of your family's prestige," Leon said neutrally, though he could already sense this conversation was heading somewhere he hadn't anticipated.

"Then you'll understand the weight of what I'm about to propose." Deirdre snapped the fan shut and pointed it at him like a sword. "Leon Fou Bartfort, I want you to become my consort."

Leon blinked. Of all the things he'd expected—trade agreements, military alliances, perhaps even a marriage arrangement where he'd take a wife from her family—this particular offer had not been on the list.

"Currently, my family doesn't have a male heir to continue the family name," Deirdre explained, the casual gesture of flipping her hair back doing nothing to diminish the calculated nature of her words. She reached over for a skewer of dango, taking a delicate bite before continuing. "And quite frankly, even if we did have a male heir waiting in the wings, I'm far too proud of my family name—of everything the Roseblade legacy represents—to simply abandon it for marriage. Why should I?"

Leon felt his eye want to twitch.

"And why," he asked flatly, keeping his tone carefully neutral even as he resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow, "would you want someone as lowly as a mere baron to serve as consort to the second daughter of an earldom? Surely your family could arrange a far more advantageous match."

"Who wouldn't want to secure an early investment in something—or rather someone—that would surely prove to provide such tremendous returns?" Deirdre asked rhetorically, her head tilting up as she fixed him with a smile that could only be described as lascivious, her eyes glinting with unmistakable interest.

"I'm quite surprised that none of your fellow batch mates have approached you for a betrothal," Deirdre continued, the crisp snap of her fan punctuating the observation as her smile shifted into something more contemplative, almost nonchalant. The scent of jasmine tea still hung in the air between them, delicate and deceptive in its innocence. "Well, then again, you have the crown prince and the sons of the high lords in your batch—and especially with that viscount's daughter catching the eye of the crown prince and his entire retinue despite all of them already being betrothed. Rather scandalous, that, but it does give everyone hope that they'd be next, even as a mistress."

The silk of her sleeves whispered softly as she gestured dismissively, as though the entire situation were merely an amusing footnote.

"But fear not," she added, her voice taking on a reassuring lilt that somehow managed to sound anything but reassuring, "you will not be taking the Roseblade name should you agree to this arrangement." Another sharp snap of her fan as she raised it to shield her mouth, though her eyes continued to gleam with undisguised amusement above the decorative edge. "You, of course, shall still retain your complete independence as an independent barony—your autonomy remains entirely intact. Though naturally, we shall form a coalition of frontier nobles, entering into what I believe would be a mutually beneficial relationship for both our territories. However, any children we conceive together shall carry the Roseblade name and legacy forward."

The certainty in her tone left little room for negotiation on that particular point.

"So that still means I still need to find a wife," Leon deadpanned, the words emerging flat and resigned, his fingers unconsciously tapping against his knee in a rhythmic pattern that betrayed his internal calculation of this increasingly complicated equation.

"Yep," Deirdre replied, popping the 'P' with theatrical emphasis, before her grin widened further, teeth flashing white against the warm lighting of the room. She looked entirely too pleased with herself, like a cat who'd successfully cornered a particularly troublesome mouse.

The problem with Deirdre's offer—the real, fundamental problem that made Leon's jaw tighten almost imperceptibly—was that he couldn't reject it outright without delivering a direct slight to a far larger, considerably more powerful family.

The political ramifications would ripple outward like stones thrown into still water. Even with Olivia's developing closeness to the Redgrave daughter and his own established connection to the Bellefleur family through Margot's vassalage, he couldn't realistically leverage those relationships as any kind of safety net against potential Roseblade displeasure. The weight disparity was simply too significant.

Maybe if Mégane had offered to be his actual wife instead of remaining a vassal and acknowledged mistress, the political scales might tilt favourably enough to politely decline Deirdre's offer, but no—reality remained stubbornly unchanged. He had no choice, not really.

'At least once it's been made publicly known that I have strong ties with the Roseblade Earldom, I could probably secure a wife who's more like an actual partner instead of being trapped in the same nightmare as Father with his wretched step-mother,' Leon thought inwardly, his expression tightening into something that resembled a grimace despite his best efforts at maintaining neutrality.

"Fine," he said aloud, meeting her gaze directly, refusing to let his discomfort show beyond that brief flicker. "But I request—insist, actually—that any formal betrothal contract be finalised a year from now. After all, how can we possibly sign our families' detailed terms of relationship when we still do not yet know with certainty what we can truly offer each other? A proper evaluation period seems only prudent."

He kept his face carefully neutral, his back ramrod straight, both hands resting formally on his knees in the proper posture for serious negotiation. The stiff fabric of his academy uniform creased slightly under his palms.

"Oooh, the puppy has a bark after all," Deirdre practically purred, leaning forward with fluid grace, her elbows coming to rest on her knees as one delicate hand cradled her chin. Her grin stretched wider, predatory and delighted in equal measure, as if she were indeed a cat who'd discovered her prey had just enough spirit to make the game interesting.

And with another decisive snap of her fan—now folded closed with a crisp click that echoed in the suddenly charged space between them—Deirdre rose smoothly to her feet in one flowing motion. "Excellent. I will very much enjoy breaki—I mean, getting to know you more intimately over the coming months." Her smile remained as wide as ever, utterly shameless, and her slip of the tongue was so blatantly intentional that it barely qualified as a slip at all.

This time Leon responded with a single raised brow, allowing just that much scepticism to show as he stood as well, his considerably taller frame rising to tower over Deirdre by nearly a full head. He extended one hand formally, the gesture crisp and proper. "To our future relationship, then."

"To our families' future entwinement," Deirdre corrected smoothly, placing her own significantly smaller, distinctly dainty hand in his. Her fingers were cool to the touch, her grip surprisingly firm despite the delicate appearance. "Oh, and do try not to worry yourself overmuch about finding a suitable wife. I'm quite confident I can arrange an introduction with this particular daughter of a court noble I know—lovely girl, very sensible—in about a year's time when circumstances are more... settled. Though naturally, I will not take it as any sort of insult whatsoever if you happen to find a wife on your own beforehand. I encourage initiative, after all."

Her tone suggested she found the entire prospect vastly entertaining.

"This was fun," Deirdre declared brightly, releasing his hand and stepping back, her movements carrying that same effortless grace as before. The rustle of her skirts whispered against the floor. "But unfortunately, I have several other matters requiring my attention this afternoon."

She turned and sauntered across the room towards the door with unhurried confidence, each step measured and deliberate, her guardian spirit—silent and watchful throughout the entire exchange—moving to walk just ahead of her. The spirit's armoured form caught the light as it reached for the door handle, pulling the door open with a soft creak of well-oiled hinges.

Deirdre paused in the doorway, her silhouette framed against the brighter corridor beyond, just before her guardian spirit could close the door completely behind her. "Oh yes," she called out over her shoulder without bothering to turn around fully, her voice carrying clearly back into the room. "Do make certain to save me a dance at the upcoming academy ball. I'll be quite disappointed if you forget."

And with a final, somehow ominous click, the door settled shut.

The tea date between Deirdre Fou Roseblade and Leon Fou Bartfort had officially, irrevocably ended.

Leon stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, his mind struggling to process the conversation that had just transpired. The faint scent of Deirdre's perfume still lingered in the air—something floral and expensive that seemed to mock his predicament.

'What the hell just happened?'

"Master?" Ria ventured tentatively from behind him, her voice carrying genuine concern.

"I've just agreed to become a consort to an earl's daughter," Leon said flatly, the words tasting strange as he spoke them aloud. His heterochromatic eyes remained fixed on that door, half-expecting Deirdre to waltz back through it with yet another outrageous proposition. "I still need to find a wife to satisfy Mother and society's expectations. And somehow this entire arrangement is considered a good political outcome."

The absurdity of it all settled over him like a suffocating blanket.

Melt tilted her head thoughtfully, her lavender hair shifting with the movement. "At least she didn't attempt to marry you off to someone fifty years old with seven mysteriously dead husbands?" she offered, her tone genuinely reassuring. The story had already been shared with his guardian spirits during one of those late-night conversations before sleep.

Leon pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. "That's a depressingly low bar to celebrate clearing, Melt."

"But accurate nonetheless, Master," Ria added helpfully, her earnestness somehow making it worse.

He couldn't argue with that logic, much as he wanted to.

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Only a little of the term remained now, and the parties for each year were already in full swing—separated into different ballrooms, each either adjacent to or directly facing the others across the marble corridors. Even at the gathering designated for the first-years, words fell desperately short when attempting to describe the sheer luxurious abundance of dishes that lined the tables in the academy's most extravagant venue. Crystal chandeliers caught the candlelight overhead, casting everything in a warm, almost dreamlike glow that made the whole affair feel surreal.

Leon approached Raymond and Daniel, who had largely kept to mingling with boys who shared their background—the sort of modest, hardworking lot who weren't born into silver-spoon nobility. If you counted the first-year students from the general class who had gathered with them, they formed an impressive crowd. The lads were decked out in simple black-and-white formal attire that spoke of practicality rather than excess, whilst most of the girls had arrived in dresses that walked the line between elegant and provocative, their demi-human servants trailing dutifully at their heels like living accessories.

He and Olivia had unfortunately chosen to leave their guardian spirits in the dormitory. The double standards regarding male students with female guardian spirits could ruin marriage prospects—something Leon couldn't afford given his current political entanglements. Though technically Olivia could have brought hers without consequence, they'd stayed behind in solidarity. As recompense, Leon had prepared quite a lavish feast for their companions before leaving.

Shaking off that thought, he refocused on the present. He'd only just returned from the third-years' ballroom, where he'd taken it upon himself to be proactive—gods help him—and give the Roseblade daughter the dance he'd had no choice but to agree to.

He didn't find the Roseblade daughter untoward—she was quite practical and pleasant to speak with, actually. It was just that she had an air about her that made her feel like a predator playing with her prey. Whether he was the prey in question remained to be seen.

They'd danced for about half an hour, during which she'd passed him off to Clarice Fia Atlee—the other girl he'd saved during that dungeon raid. He'd spent a few more minutes dancing with Clarice, though Leon had found her particularly melancholic throughout.

After a few more minutes of polite conversation that felt like navigating a diplomatic minefield, Leon had excused himself and returned to the first-years' party, grateful to escape the suffocating atmosphere of calculated social manoeuvring that permeated the upper years.

"I think that girl just now was an F-cup…" Olivia murmured beside him before catching herself and clearing her throat sharply. "Ahem, I mean, the food here's brilliant, right?" She turned back to Leon with forced brightness.

He found himself standing with the duo of friends he'd gained from the start of the academy term—Daniel and Raymond—both currently chowing down on heaping plates of meat with the single-minded focus of men who'd grown up knowing hunger.

Even with the fact that Deirdre had said she could recommend someone who might actually match him as a legitimate wife—someone with actual substance rather than vapid ambition—Olivia had continued with her self-appointed mission to find him 'a harem of wives.' All so she could eventually succeed with her particular cursed mission and live out whatever bizarre yuri-filled fantasy she was aiming for.

The day after that particular evening when they'd had that small fight—the one that had ended with a drunk vassal knight, a drunk duke's daughter, and Olivia passed out in the living room before he had to move them—everything had ostensibly returned to normal. Though this time around, Olivia had been particularly active in her wife-hunting endeavours on his behalf, with an enthusiasm that honestly bordered on disturbing.

She'd even started talking with Deirdre regularly after he'd spoken with her about the Roseblade family's intention to intertwine their fortunes with his barony. The two of them plotting together was a thought that kept him awake some nights, wondering what fresh hell they might concoct between them.

For now, Leon had simply stopped actively looking for a potential wife himself. There wasn't really any point, not when anyone who would make a decent match was already spoken for, whilst the rest were either obsessed with the prince and the high-lords' sons, or they were the shallow, grasping types like his sister Jenna and stepmother Zola—and Leon would rather bear the political stain and be labelled a miser than tie himself to someone so fundamentally untoward.

Besides, he had Olivia to think of, his guardian spirits to consider, and quite recently and begrudgingly, Mégane as well. The girl had somehow become his responsibility, though he wasn't entirely certain how that had happened.

Mégane, who was currently barred from tonight's event as she was still playing catch-up with everything she'd missed during her choice to prioritise adventure over the first few months of academy attendance. No doubt she was currently closeted away with some professor whose mood was probably thoroughly soured by the fact that they weren't attending tonight's festivities either.

Anyway, if he tried to tie himself to someone desperate and calculating, they'd probably insist as part of the marriage contract that his guardian spirits be transferred into their service. That alone was reason enough to avoid the whole mess. Ria, Art, Melt, and Durga were his partners, earned through blood and effort, not matrimonial bargaining chips.

"Oh look, it's game-mechanic Kyle," Olivia whispered conspiratorially to Leon, nudging him with her elbow whilst Raymond and Daniel finally mustered their courage and approached a group of girls who'd been eyeing them. The new blonde-haired, blue-eyed elf attendant stood beside Marie Fou Lafan, who remained the only person wearing the academy uniform amongst the sea of formally attired guests.

Olivia herself—if he was being honest with himself—was looking quite stunning this evening. She wore a long, pink, butterfly-themed dress that was daringly short in the front whilst the back flowed long enough to glide gracefully across the polished floor. The subtle plunging neckline drew the eye without being overtly scandalous, walking that fine line between tasteful and tempting.

Leon, in typical fashion, just hummed noncommittally in reply as he turned his attention towards the entrance. There stood Margot Fou Bellefleur—his guild's branch director and Mégane's formidable mother—alongside Lucas Rapha Holfort, one of his professors, and Barret Fia Arclight, Chris's father. Three of the four individuals considered the most powerful—martially speaking—in the entire kingdom, all gathered in one place.

The fourth—who of course was not attending tonight's festivities—was King Roland Rapha Holfort himself, though rumours persisted that even his wife could rival him in martial prowess. Whether that was true or mere palace gossip, Leon couldn't say, but he wouldn't bet against it either.

"Damn those girls, acting so high and mighty!" Daniel bellowed as he and Raymond returned from their failed attempt, his voice echoing off the academy's stone walls despite being outside the main venue now.

Raymond sank heavily onto a nearby chair, pulling his knees tight to his chest as he gazed vacantly up at the night sky through the large panelled windows overlooking the corridor. The stars seemed to mock him with their distant, uncaring brilliance. "She basically told us to die and start all over again… Do we really deserve to be told that?" His voice cracked slightly, raw with hurt and confusion.

The irony wasn't lost on Leon. Here were these boys, devastated by a harsh rejection that suggested they needed another chance at life entirely, whilst he and Olivia had actually received that exact opportunity.

As if on cue, everyone's attention—including those gathered in the corridor—swivelled towards a commotion erupting just off centre of the ballroom floor. Leon moved closer see clearly, Olivia following at his elbow.

Angelica stood before them all, her voice trembling with barely restrained anguish. "Why won't you listen to me?! I… Everything I've done—everything—has been for you!" There was something desperate in her tone, a raw vulnerability that made even the most callous observers uncomfortable.

The prince stared back at her with eyes that might as well have been carved from ice. "I can't bear to listen to your excuses. It's that simple." Each word fell like a stone into still water, creating ripples of discomfort through the watching crowd.

"Wait! You know exactly what kind of person that girl is. Why are you so accepting of her?!" Angelica's composure was fracturing before their eyes, cracks spreading through the perfect façade she'd maintained for years.

Marie stepped forward bravely, positioning herself right beside the prince, her gaze meeting Angelica's unflinchingly.

The two stood in stark contrast, and Leon couldn't help but notice how perfectly staged it all seemed. Whilst Marie had five high-born men and a handsome elf attendant standing in her corner, ready to leap to her defence at the slightest provocation, Angelica stood utterly alone.

This was the very same scenario from the game, though the protagonist this time—Marie—was confidently defying Angelica instead of cowering beside the prince. Leon also noted that this confrontation was supposed to take place near the end of the academic year, not near the end of the first term.

Olivia grumbled beside him as she smashed her fist into her palm, her entire body coiling like a spring ready to launch. She stepped forward, clearly intent on intervening, but Leon's hand shot out to grasp her shoulder firmly. "Not right now," he murmured low enough that only she could hear.

Brad stepped forward from his position amongst the prince's retinue, his expression one of smug superiority. Leon frowned—the prince's group was so absorbed in their own righteousness that they didn't seem to care how this looked to outside observers. Though, then again, everyone in the crowd seemed to be siding with the prince anyway.

"It's pathetic seeing the daughter of Redgrave House reduced to this," Brad announced. "Look around you. Not a single person here approves of your behaviour."

Angelica scanned the hall with wild eyes, searching desperately for any ally, any friendly face in the sea of spectators. Her followers, who had happily reaped the benefits of aligning with her up until this very point, suddenly found the floor fascinating. They wouldn't look her way, wouldn't meet her gaze, as if eye contact might somehow implicate them in her downfall. But whilst her former entourage avoided open hostility, other students—those who had always disliked Angelica, who had chafed under her influence—grinned triumphantly. Their expressions were almost feral in their satisfaction.

"Do you even know what that woman has done?" Angelica asked, anger bleeding through the anguish in her voice. "It's not just one of you. She's—"

"We already know," said Chris Fia Arclight, the boy with light-blue hair and an expression of serene certainty that bordered on religious conviction.

Angelica gaped at him, the words she'd been about to speak dying in her throat. "What?!"

Marie trembled as if in abject fear when Chris glanced back over his shoulder and smiled at her. The transformation was remarkable—normally content to play the solemn, sword-wielding type who rarely showed emotion, he was now beaming like some lovesick fool. The ladies standing on the sidelines blushed and whispered to one another, eating up the romantic display with embarrassing enthusiasm.

"Marie saved me," Chris announced to the assembled crowd, as if confessing something profound rather than utterly ridiculous. "She listened to all my worries, understood my struggles. And now, I want to protect her." The declaration rang through the hall with all the subtlety of a church bell.

Olivia's mouth fell open, slack-jawed with disbelief, whilst either Daniel or Raymond—Leon couldn't quite tell which in his peripheral vision—whistled low in acknowledgement. To be completely honest, it took some truly staggering self-confidence to blurt out such a confession in front of half the student body.

'Or complete obliviousness to social norms,' Leon thought darkly. 'Though at this point, I'm not sure which is worse.'

"Stop beating around the bush," Greg chided with a grin that suggested he was thoroughly enjoying himself. "Be frank and say you like her. We all know what you mean."

Jilk put a hand over his mouth to hide a grin, though his eyes gleamed with something that looked unsettlingly like genuine affection. "You have a point, Greg. Marie is an incredible woman—truly remarkable. Though, I think I am the one who loves her the most." He said it with such earnest conviction that Leon wondered if he actually believed it.

Angelica stood speechless, her face pale beneath her expertly applied makeup, staring at His Highness with an expression that might have been betrayal, might have been disbelief, might have been the dawning realisation that everything she'd built was crumbling to dust.

Prince Julius's expression turned sullen, almost petulant. "No matter how close we are, Jilk, that's uncalled for. I'm the one who loves Marie the most."

The girls in the crowd squealed in unison, their shrieks ringing off the ornate walls and making Leon's ears ring painfully.

"Did you hear that?! An actual love confession!"

"I want one of them to say something like that to me!"

"I'm so jealous of her! Though I probably don't feel as bad as the duke's daughter looks right now."

They snickered amongst themselves, taking vicious pleasure in Angelica's public humiliation.

Angelica's eyes fell to the floor as she fisted her hands so tightly that Leon could see her knuckles whitening even from this distance. "Am I to understand you won't be ending this little farce once we graduate, then?" Her voice had gone hollow, empty of everything except a terrible, dawning comprehension.

The prince looked away from her, unable or unwilling to meet her eyes. "There's no one else like her in the world. I didn't hate you before we enrolled, Angelica, but I won't go easy on you if you try to hurt Marie." The threat was clear, unambiguous, and delivered with casual cruelty.

Scornful feminine laughter echoed in every corner of the hall, bouncing off crystal chandeliers and marble columns.

"Did you hear that? It's all over for you now, Miss High-and-Mighty."

"That means their engagement is basically finished, right? She's done for."

"I always hated her, to be honest. Always thought she was too proud."

Leon turned his head slightly towards where Margot, Lucas, and Barret stood—the latter being the father of Chris, who was currently participating in the systematic humiliation of the Redgrave's daughter. He could see that the three powerful individuals were tense, their jaws subtly tightening, their postures shifting almost imperceptibly. But they weren't really allowed to step in as this was technically the students' business, academy politics that adults weren't supposed to interfere with. However, it was abundantly clear that they too were taking careful note of everyone's reactions, cataloguing faces and names for future reference.

Daniel and Raymond, still standing near him, stared at the fallen duke's daughter in obvious shock, their earlier self-pity temporarily forgotten.

"Uh, is anyone else getting a really bad feeling about this?" Daniel asked, his voice hushed and uncertain.

"Yeah…" Raymond agreed quietly, his eyes never leaving Angelica's trembling form. "She looks like she's about to commit murder. Or break down completely. Maybe both."

Leon and Olivia already knew that this confrontation had been brewing for a long time now, building pressure like water behind a dam. Olivia had explained to him in detail how the prince and his entire retinue had suddenly barged into one of their study sessions weeks ago, accusing Angelica of sending her own followers to harass Marie—which was demonstrably false. The harassment had been driven purely by a group of jealous students, according to Luxion, who was still conducting surveillance and gathering evidence with mechanical efficiency.

An object sailed through the air and struck Marie Fou Lafan across the face before dropping to the floor.

A white glove.

"Pick it up, harlot," Angelica seethed in anger, challenging Marie. "You filthy witch—seducing the prince and all of his friends!"

"Angelica, I am sorely disappointed." The prince regarded his fiancée with disdain. Anger coloured his face as his patience ran out. "Marie, pick it up. Don't worry, I'm with you. I will act as your proxy in this fight."

"I can't let you get away with taking all of the glory, Your Highness," Jilk cut in. 

"Per academy rules, a girl isn't limited to one man as her stand-in. I volunteer as well."

Greg cracked his knuckles, grinning at Angelica with predatory glee. "Sounds fun. Count me in. I don't care who my opponent is—bring it on!"

Brad sighed. "This is why I avoid meatheads like you. Still, I can't let that 'harlot' insult fly. I'll make you take that back, Angelica. After the match is over, you can apologise to Marie. I'll be participating, too, of course."

Chris folded his arms over his chest. "I'm confident in my sword skills. I'll be Marie's blade in battle."

Marie wiped tears from her eyes. "Thank you, everyone… I'm scared, but having you with me brings me comfort. I'll accept this duel, Miss Angelica. We'll fight against you together."

Seeing his mistress play the heroic protagonist, Kyle sighed in exasperation. Sarcastic though he was, he carried himself with elegance. "You truly are a fool, Mistress. Have you forgotten that I'm here, too? I'll do what I can to support you."

Marie smiled. "Thank you, Kyle."

"This is the reverse harem route," Olivia announced. Leon sighed beside her.

"There she goes again with her weird talk," Daniel muttered on his other side.

"Please, ignore it—I know, I do," Leon whispered to Daniel as he winced as a heel dug into his dress shoe.

"Yeah, I'm getting used to it," Daniel sighed, his eyes closed in ponder as he crossed his arms. "Anyway, what's going to happen to the duke's daughter now? Is there anyone at—"

"Hey! Leon, where are you going?" Raymond said, interrupting Daniel.

Leon regarded the hall. Few among his peers desired combat, and none dared oppose the crown prince. Though the academy preached equality, not even Angelica's loyalists would meet her eyes.

And this wasn't even a mock duel.

Angelica's eyes darted around, desperate. Nobody moved—until he stepped forward.

"Miss Redgrave," Leon's voice cut through the air, silencing the room. "Recognise me as your representative in this fight—or, if you prefer, as one of your party. I shall raise both steel and magic for you."

"Uh, um…"

"You don't have to worry about anything. Just say it."

"I recognise you," she finally stammered, still confused.

"There you have it. I, Leon Fou Bartfort, will act as her representative. You've got five on your side, correct? I'd like to confirm the rules of the match, but before we do, can we clarify the stakes?"

But before anyone could respond, a pink blur darted to Leon's side.

"YES! Count me in as well, Miss Redgrave!" Olivia shouted, to the astonishment of all. "Operation Yuri-Yuri Hare—" 

Leon slapped a hand over her mouth mid-slogan, dragging her close as she flailed.

Astonishment swept the hall; none had expected such an intrusion.

While holding Olivia, still covering her mouth, Leon deadpanned, "Again, I'd like to confirm the rules of the match and the stakes at hand."

"I too shall participate in this battle." Every eye in the ballroom swivelled towards the entrance, where Mégane stood with her chin held high and proud—the second person to dare enter this glittering occasion dressed in the academy's uniform rather than formal attire.

Her moment of dramatic intervention lasted approximately three seconds before Margot appeared behind her, seizing her daughter by the collar and physically hauling her backwards through the doorway. Margot was no doubt intent on locating whatever professor had been careless enough to let her daughter escape supervision. The door swung shut on Mégane's indignant protests, cutting off whatever grand declaration she'd been about to make.

Leon turned to Angelica, letting his expression soften from the neutral mask he'd been wearing. His voice dropped low enough that only she and Olivia—still restrained at his side—could hear clearly.

"Why did you decide to challenge her, anyway? I need you to be honest with me about this."

He already knew the reason from the game, of course, but he needed her to voice it herself. For the duel's terms to be legitimate, her motivations had to be stated publicly. More importantly, Angelica needed to commit to this path with full awareness of what she was doing.

Angelica stared at him as though she couldn't quite believe what had just transpired—that he'd actually thrown himself into this mess, inserted himself between her and the prince's entire entourage without hesitation. Her lips parted slightly, confusion and something that might have been gratitude warring in her expression. Then she drew herself up, composing her features into something more befitting a duke's daughter.

"My wish is simple—Marie should stay away from the prince."

The words were barely out of her mouth before whispers erupted from the crowd like a disturbed hive of particularly vicious bees.

"Did you hear her?"

"Oh my! Don't tell me she's jealous?"

"How pathetic. She's completely washed up. She doesn't even have the appeal left to win back the prince through charm, so she's resorting to brute force."

"The mighty Redgrave, reduced to this…"

Angelica's eyes lowered, and Leon could see her jaw working as she ground her teeth together, fighting to maintain her composure under the weight of their mockery. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, knuckles going white.

He turned toward Marie, who was partially hidden behind her wall of devoted followers. "All right, so what do you want out of it?"

Before Marie could respond, the prince stepped directly in front of her, blocking her from view entirely with his body—a knight protecting his lady from a perceived threat. His face was flushed with anger, eyes bright with righteous indignation. "You're really that desperate to break us apart?" he demanded, addressing Angelica rather than Leon. "It seems you don't understand who the real 'witch' here is. Even if you did somehow manage to separate us, I will never have feelings for you! That ship has sailed!"

"I am aware," Angelica mumbled, her voice so soft it was nearly inaudible beneath the continued whispers of the crowd. "I understand completely, but getting her away from you is the last thing I can do for you as your—"

Olivia clapped her hands together sharply, the sound cutting through the mounting tension like a knife. She ignored the indignant looks from the prince and his entourage entirely, though unfortunately, their outraged gazes seemed to redirect themselves toward Leon instead of her. Apparently, he was to be held responsible for his vassal's behaviour. Wonderful.

"Angelica," Olivia said briskly, her tone businesslike and practical, "for now, let us save any sentimentality and romantic sniping for later, shall we? We can have a good cry about feelings after we've settled the actual terms of this confrontation. What would you want as the condition for this duel, as the challenger?"

Marie finally stepped around the prince's protective stance, meeting Angelica's eyes directly for the first time. Her expression was earnest, almost pleading. "I-If I win, I don't want you to do cruel things like this anymore. I don't think it's right to wield your house's influence like a weapon and force others to do your bidding. It's… it's tyrannical."

"Okay," Leon interjected, trying to keep the proceedings moving forward and prevent this from devolving into another emotional confrontation. The last thing they needed was more theatrical declarations. "Then if we win, the prince breaks things off with you. If we lose, Angelica stays away from you. Simple enough. Next, let's discuss the actual format. How about borrowing the arena and settling it in power armour? That's the usual way these things are done, yeah?"

A few duels—never many, but a consistent trickle—broke out every year at the academy. Even if the motivations were invariably petty, boys got eager to participate for the opportunity to show off to potential brides and their families. Customarily, such contests used power armour—marvels of both engineering and magic that were as much status symbols as combat tools. After all, even owning one was ample proof of your family's wealth and connections. Furthermore, by participating in a formal duel, you could prove your combat capability and potentially earn considerable prestige, conditional on your victory. It was practically a job interview for marriage prospects.

Chris looked ready to cut Leon down right where he stood, never mind his complete lack of a weapon tonight. His hand actually twitched toward where his sword would normally hang. "You seriously think you can beat us? If you don't want to get hurt, you'd better back off right now. Someone as weak as you wouldn't even last a minute against us. Hell, thirty seconds might be generous."

Leon had to resist the urge to smile. Chris had no idea who he was dealing with. Leon's team had basically cleared all the monsters on every floor during the cosmic dungeon raid, allowing for smoother battles with each boss. Maybe Chris just hadn't been paying attention outside of their immediate circle during those fights. But it was actually rather nice being underestimated like this—Chris was lumping him in with all the other nobles whose abilities had never particularly stood out.

"Come again?" Olivia suddenly interjected, her voice dripping with mockery. She'd finally stopped struggling against Leon's grip, instead choosing to weaponise her words. "What makes you so absolutely certain that we're going to lose? Do share your reasoning. I'm fascinated."

The crowd around them burst into laughter—loud, cruel, and utterly delighted by the audacity of the lowborn girl and the minor baron's son.

"Did you hear that?"

"They actually think they can win! That boy doesn't know his place at all!"

"His vassal has got quite a talent for making people laugh, though! Perhaps she should consider a career as a court jester!"

"Ridiculous. His peerage was clearly a fluke. Some administrative error, no doubt."

"I heard he and his group were essentially escorted toward the final dungeon boss."

But whilst the general crowd laughed and sneered, the prince and his retinue only intensified their glares at Leon, their expressions darkening further. They, at least, seemed to be taking this seriously now.

It wasn't just women sneering at him anymore, but men too—nobles who'd previously ignored him now looked at him with open contempt. Not that Leon could particularly blame them for their scepticism. These five lordlings were unquestionably the most talented of the first-years, and their status far exceeded pretty much everyone else's in their year. No one in their right mind would ever willingly challenge them to anything, let alone a formal duel with actual stakes.

Greg came up close, getting directly into Leon's face with barely concealed aggression. His breath was hot, his expression twisted with disdain.

"If all you want is the spotlight and attention, save yourself the humiliation and run home now," Greg spat out, his voice dripping with contempt. "Go back to your little barony before you embarrass yourself further."

Leon had to hand it to them, really. They were a commendable group of men, trying so desperately hard to protect a poor, defenceless girl from what they perceived as bullying. Their hearts were in the right place, even if their understanding of the situation was completely backwards.

'Although,' Leon reflected, 'if a clueless bystander were to pass by right now, they'd think Angelica was the one being mercilessly bullied by a mob. Which, I suppose, isn't entirely inaccurate.'

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Olivia said, her voice saccharine sweet with false apology. "Are we trying to settle this verbally instead? Is that what's happening here?"

Leon was trying very, very hard not to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He could feel a headache building behind his eyes.

"Is debate your preferred method of battle?" Olivia continued, warming to her theme. "What a shame—I don't particularly have the skills for formal rhetorical combat. Then again, our side did demand a physical duel, so if you insist on talking instead, I suppose we have no choice but to accommodate you. Words it is, then. We'll settle this on a debate stage, moderators and formal rules and all. I'm sure we can arrange something appropriately academic."

She was absolutely egging him on, and doing it with such obvious relish that Leon wondered if she was enjoying this a bit too much.

A vein bulged visibly on Greg's forehead, pulsing with barely restrained anger.

Jilk intervened smoothly before Greg could do something regrettable. "Let's keep this simple—one-on-one matches with power armour. However, there are six of us and currently only three of you. If you can find more people in time for the duel, you're welcome to select an additional four participants to match up against us. And as summer break is almost upon us… we should be able to borrow the arena the day after the closing ceremony. That gives you about a week to prepare. Does that sound acceptable?"

But then Olivia suddenly laughed out loud—a bright, sharp sound that cut through the murmured conversations around them.

"One-on-one? Why not make it more interesting?" Olivia said, flipping her hair with theatrical flair. "Let's do a proper skirmish between teams instead of individual matches. Much more exciting for the spectators, don't you think? In fact, we shall even provide you with better odds in your favour—let's allow attendants and guardian spirits to participate. Really make it a show."

The distinction was clear: attendants like Kyle could fight alongside their masters, and guardian spirits—those contracted entities from dungeons—could also join the battle. It would turn this from a series of individual duels into a proper small-scale war.

And just like that, the room erupted into a chorus of angered expletives and outraged exclamations, all their glares redirecting themselves squarely at Leon rather than Olivia.

Leon raised his hand as if he were participating in a classroom recitation, his expression deliberately bland. "Hey! I would just like to point out that I didn't actually say a thing. Those words came from her mouth, not mine. I'm just standing here."

Jilk regarded him with deep scepticism, his eyes narrowed as though trying to puzzle out Leon's angle. "You seriously intend to face us? You understand what you're agreeing to? It's rare nowadays, admittedly, but it's not entirely unheard of for a duel to result in serious injury or even fatality. The academy won't intervene beyond basic healing if something goes wrong."

"Oh, don't worry about us. We'll be perfectly fine," Olivia assured him with breezy confidence, her smile taking on a distinctly feral quality. "But may I ask you a question in return?"

After a lengthy pause, Jilk said carefully, "What is it?"

"Why do you all look so supremely confident that you'll come out of this completely unscathed? I mean, I get it… you want to look cool and impressive in front of the girl you love. That's natural, even admirable. But isn't it a bit naïve to assume you won't be the ones dying? Or at least the ones getting seriously hurt?"

Jilk's eyes narrowed dangerously, his composure finally cracking. It was genuinely unsettling to see someone so typically reserved and controlled lose his cool so visibly. He addressed Leon directly, as if Olivia didn't exist. "I've heard of your supposed accomplishments in the dungeon, but it seems everyone has drastically overestimated you. You're not even capable of properly measuring your opponent's strength—the fact that you would dare challenge us when the gap between our abilities is so—"

'At least this one paid attention during the raid,' Leon thought. 'He knows we were there. Question is, how much did he actually see?'

Leon raised his hand again, his expression pained. "Again, I would just like to point out that I didn't say a thing. I'm merely standing here. Still just standing here."

'Please stop talking, Olivia,' he thought desperately. 'Every word out of your mouth is making this worse.'

"Enough, Jilk." Prince Julius stepped between them, holding up one hand to forestall further argument. He looked directly at Leon, his expression grave and serious. "You said your name was Leon? Leon Fou Bartfort? I want you to understand—we aren't playing around here. This isn't some game. I hope you're genuinely ready for what you're agreeing to, because there's no backing out once the terms are set."

"Be absolutely sure to bid your farewells in advance to your little lover, Prince," Olivia told him with poisonous sweetness. "Do try to remember—the other four boys won't be affected in the slightest even if your team loses. Prepare yourself to watch from afar as the rest of them enjoy her company without you. I imagine that will be quite painful for you."

Prince Julius glared at Leon with renewed intensity, his jaw clenching.

Leon sighed deeply, the sound conveying infinite weariness and resignation.

'Here we go again.'

"Once more, with feeling," he said flatly, hand still raised, "I would like to point out that I didn't say a thing. Still not talking. That's all her."

-=&&=-

End