"First, ground your stance. Then bring the sword down from above," Master Hazard said.
I followed his instructions to the letter. I planted my feet firmly into the dirt, bent my knees slightly, and loosened my shoulders. I raised the sword above my head and brought it straight down in a single line. The movement came out clean. At least, technically.
The problem was Lucienne.
She was standing right beside me, occasionally watching me out of the corner of her eye, creating a small but persistent fracture in my concentration. During training, I made a deliberate effort to keep my distance from her, yet every time, she somehow managed to drift closer.
I tried to ignore her presence. I focused on my breathing. On weight distribution, balance, the angle of my wrist. But every time, as if it were intentional, she stepped half a pace closer.
"Relax your wrist a little more," she said suddenly.
Her tone was instructive, but she was far closer than necessary. I did not turn my head.
"Hazard is explaining," I replied curtly. "Listening to him is sufficient."
Lucienne fell silent for a few seconds. She did not move away.
"I'm watching you too," she said afterward. "Your technique is… interesting."
It was a compliment. One Lucienne offered extremely rarely in the novel. Normally, this would have been the moment when the original Aurelius puffed up with pride, tried to explain himself, perhaps even blushed under the praise.
Instead, I raised my sword again.
"Being interesting doesn't mean it's good."
My words were neither harsh nor gentle. They were cold. Chosen deliberately.
I felt Lucienne catch her breath slightly. That brief silence again. That tiny pause. But this time as well, she did not retreat.
On the contrary, she took another step closer.
"That's an interesting thing to say," she said. "Because Hazard didn't frown while watching you. Normally, he shouts corrections the moment he sees a mistake."
I did not know whether Master Hazard was actually watching us. I did not care.
"What he thinks doesn't concern me," I said.
Lucienne laughed. A short, surprised laugh.
"You didn't used to talk like this."
I lowered the sword. Finally, I looked at her. My gaze met her green irises, but there was no invitation in it.
"People change."
This time, the pause was longer.
Curiosity was clearly written across Lucienne's face. This was not a social mask. She was not pretending. She was trying to understand me, and that was precisely what I did not want.
"Yes, but this change seems to suit you… more."
That made it the second compliment in the span of a few minutes. I was definitely in trouble. Where had I gone wrong? My only goal had been to act cold and end this before it ever began, yet now it was backfiring.
If I could not even manage a task this simple, how was I supposed to handle the others?
I tightened my grip on the hilt. My knuckles turned white, but my stance remained steady. I tried not to let the unease rising inside me show on my face. Lucienne's persistence did not align with the novel's flow. The original Aurelius had revolved around her; the roles had never been this clearly reversed.
So this was where the mistake lay.
Coldness. An emptiness she did not expect from me. But what was I supposed to do? Even the system's task explicitly stated that I had to be cold toward her. Perhaps being too distant and indifferent was a bad idea.
But if I suddenly changed my behavior now, it would seem suspicious. A person's character does not change twice in such a short time. Damn it, a person's character rarely changes at all, but fortunately for me, I was an eighteen-year-old who had just emerged from adolescence. People were less likely to question sudden shifts at that age.
In any case, I could not be the eager, naive Aurelius from the novel who hung on Lucienne's every word. The best course was to continue playing my role for now. Perhaps, at some point, she would lose interest.
"There's no need to stare so intently. The training grounds aren't a viewing gallery."
Lucienne raised an eyebrow slightly. It was not the reaction of someone offended, but of someone whose interest had only deepened.
"I'm looking because I'm curious," she said. "Is that forbidden too?"
"It's a waste of time," I replied.
Then I raised my sword again, inserting a clear, decisive movement as if to declare the conversation over. From above to below, a clean, simple swing. Unadorned. Deliberately avoiding anything impressive.
"Wider angle!" Hazard shouted from elsewhere.
Not at me.
Lucienne remained silent for a few seconds. She stayed beside me, no longer speaking. Her silence was more unsettling than her words, because she had not withdrawn.
"You know," she said finally, her voice lower this time, "if someone spoke to you like this before, you would have responded immediately. You would have either gotten angry or embarrassed."
I lowered the sword but did not turn toward her.
"Most of the things I did before were mistakes."
That answer did not stop her. On the contrary, her expression grew more serious.
"And now?" she asked. "Are you doing the right thing now?"
That question was dangerous.
Because it went beyond simple curiosity. Lucienne was no longer questioning me, but the change itself. When someone begins to wonder about the reason behind another person's transformation, it means they are starting to assign that person a special place in their mind.
Exactly what I needed to avoid.
I finally turned my head toward her. My gaze was clear, measured, drawing an invisible line between us.
"This doesn't concern you, Lucienne."
I used her name deliberately. For the first time.
And at the wrong moment.
Lucienne's eyes widened slightly. Her lips parted, but she did not speak right away. She had not expected to hear her name from me in that tone. Neither soft nor harsh. Simply distant.
Then the corner of her lips curved ever so slightly.
"Just because it doesn't concern me," she said calmly, "doesn't mean I won't be interested."
The response was more mature than I had expected. And far more dangerous.
Only then did I notice the sounds around us. Wooden swords colliding, feet striking the dirt, Hazard's shouts. All of it faded into the background. Lucienne's gaze was fixed on me. She was not retreating. Not backing away. If anything, she was closing in.
This was not good.
"You're interrupting my training," I said, flattening my tone further. "Step aside."
It was not a request. Nor an explanation. It was a clear boundary.
Lucienne tilted her head slightly to the side. I recognized that gesture. She did it when weighing the seriousness of the person in front of her. Normally, at this point, Aurelius would have backed down, softened his words, perhaps even apologized.
I did not step back.
After a few more seconds of looking at me, she shrugged.
"Fine," she said at last. "But you should know this. This version of you makes me think far more than the old one ever did."
Then she truly moved aside. One or two steps. She put physical distance between us, yet her gaze remained on me. This was not a retreat. It was repositioning.
I raised my sword again, but this time my movements were not as fluid as before. My mind, against my will, kept snagging on her words. Coldness. Distance. Indifference. These were all things that should normally cause a relationship to wither.
I cursed silently.
I raised the sword once more and applied Hazard's instructions more consciously this time. Center of gravity, shoulder angle, wrist looseness. When the swing came down, the air split cleanly. The wooden sword struck the target post with a solid thud.
"That's it," Hazard said from a distance. "Now you've got it."
There was satisfaction in his voice.
Lucienne watched from the side. She did not speak. She did not interfere. But she watched.
And that was more unsettling than her standing beside me.
Because now, she was no longer following me.
She was waiting.
As the training continued, I noticed that Lucienne spoke to no one else and watched no one else. She stayed there until the session ended. She simply observed me. My movements, my mistakes, my silence.
This was not a passing fancy.
Nor was it the behavior of someone losing interest.
It resembled a hunter patiently adjusting her distance.
When Hazard signaled for dismissal, I placed the sword back on the rack. Sweat ran down my shoulders. I was tired, but my mind felt even heavier.
Just as I was about to leave the grounds, Lucienne stepped into my path.
This time, she maintained her distance. Neither too close nor too far.
"I understand that you didn't want to talk today," she said. "So I'll ask what I'm curious about another time."
"There's no need," I replied.
She smiled.
"I'll decide whether there's a need."
And without adding anything else, she walked past me.
I did not look after her.
But one conclusion was unmistakably clear.
The colder I became, the warmer Lucienne grew.
And at this rate, the system's so-called simple task was going to become far more complicated than I had anticipated.