A few weeks pass in a dizzying blend of court duties, political maneuvering, and, for Mikhail, rigorous daily training. He's standing in the center of the royal training grounds, his chest heaving, his muscles burning, and his breath coming out in ragged gasps. His training blade is drawn, its dulled edge chipped from numerous impacts.
The vast training area is surrounded by Imperial knights, observing their prince's dedication from a respectful distance. Even the Emperor himself stands on a nearby dais, watching the spectacle with keen interest—a rare public display of attention for his heir.
Mikhail pauses, his face strained but fixed in a determined smile. "Now you're disrespecting me, Miyako," he manages, wiping sweat from his brow.
Miyako, standing opposite him, her posture perfect and her breathing even, offers a small, almost affectionate smile. "I haven't even used my sword aura yet, My Lord."
The subtle declaration highlights the gulf between them. They immediately resume their clash. It's nominally a training spar, but the reality is a brutal, one-sided demonstration. Miyako is operating on a different plane of skill. Her movements—attacks, defense, and counter-attacks—are frighteningly superior to Mikhail's. He's by no means a weak swordsman, possessing the baseline skills of a Crown Prince of the Great Empire, but against her, he's floundering. It's not that he's weak, it's that she's far too strong.
For fuck's sake. I knew she was strong, not this much, he thinks, his mental frustration mounting. The strength and skill difference between us is far too great. He's essentially sparring with a final boss while still being an early-game character.
Miyako presses her attack relentlessly, her blade a blur of inhuman speed and precision. Mikhail barely manages to intercept a final strike, the force of the impact vibrating up his arms and sending him skidding backward, throwing him several feet away.
He slowly rises, sheathing his blade. "Looks like I can't beat you now," he admits, the acknowledgment more a promise of future victory than current defeat.
Miyako walks up to him, her expression soft, and offers him her hand. He takes it, allowing her to help him up. Then, in a spontaneous, public gesture of affection that shocks the watching knights, she leans in and gently kisses him on the cheek. "You have done great, My Lord."
The assembled training grounds erupt in a unified cheer, recognizing the potent display of both skill and intimacy between the Prince and his formidable fiancée.
Mikhail and Miyako walk away from the training grounds, their figures side-by-side. As they walk through the palace corridors, their hands intertwined, Miyako offers him her assessment. "My Lord, you have improved a lot from the first day we started. But you are just stubborn, and you refuse to learn from me."
He squeezes her hand. "I don't want you to teach me," he says, smiling playfully. "I just want to test my skills. And yes, I'm stubborn, but a little less than you." The playful banter is a sign of the genuine, if strange, bond forming between them.
Their conversation is interrupted as the Emperor approaches them from a side passage, his gaze fixed on Mikhail. "Mikhail, do you have a moment? I wish to speak with you alone."
Mikhail glances at Miyako and gives her a slight nod. She immediately releases his hand and walks away, her obedience and discretion absolute.
The Emperor puts his hand firmly on Mikhail's shoulder, his expression warm but calculating. "Now I know why you decided to take her in rather than anyone else. You have made a great decision, son. She is really powerful with her blade. She is going to be a hidden weapon of the Empire."
Mikhail smiles at the Emperor. Because he knows Miyako didn't walk away—she might be eavesdropping not far from here. And this could be an opportunity.
Mikhail violently shakes the Emperor's hand away from his shoulder, his eyes flashing with the cold fury of the protective, arrogant Prince. "No, Father. She is my wife. She is no one's weapon. Other than me, the faster you understand that, the better, Emperor."
Mikhail doesn't wait for a response. He turns on his heel and walks past his father, leaving the powerful ruler standing alone in the corridor. He's defended Miyako's status and asserted his own independence, risking his father's wrath to solidify his alliance with the Sword Saintess.
The Emperor watches his son walk away, and then a proud, pleased smile spreads across his face. He shakes his head, a low chuckle escaping him. "My flesh and blood after all. You're just like me when I was your age, son. Your mother will be proud." He mutters the words to himself, completely misinterpreting his son's defiance as proof of his own cold, possessive nature and strong, imperial character. The test is passed; the Emperor sees his own ambition reflected in his son's protective rage.