A flash of swordlight cut through the air.
Ophelia gripped the longsword, slicing a silver arc through the void—but the motion faltered just short of its apex, skewing sideways and ending in complete failure.
"Ugh…"
She lowered the blade with a helpless sigh, her third failed attempt in as many minutes.
"I hate to say it, Lady Ophelia, but you truly have no talent for this," Blake drawled from where he lounged nearby, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips.
The sword practice had been Ophelia's idea. She was well aware her abilities lay elsewhere, but Blake's current modus operandi screamed of deliberate provocation—and where there was provocation, danger inevitably followed. She had seen firsthand the extent of his power; he would face no shortage of challenges in his quest to make a name for himself. But while he was more than capable of defending himself, she was not.
The Wraith Warriors were formidable, to be sure—but as the old saying went, *it is easy to dodge a spear thrust in the open, but hard to guard against an arrow shot from the dark*. If someone truly set their sights on her, Blake was the only one who could keep her safe.
Yet Ophelia refused to resign herself to being a perpetual damsel in distress. She knew Blake could protect her for a time, but not forever. He could not be by her side every second of every day. Though she now existed as a soulbound entity—her mortality uncertain—any mishap would spell disaster. Blake had entrusted her with managing every aspect of his territory's affairs; should anything happen to her, the entire domain would grind to a halt.
It was a responsibility she took seriously, just as she had during her days as a princess. Back then, she had understood her safety was tied to the fate of the entire kingdom, and she had never been reckless with her life. Now, with Blake's trust weighing heavily on her shoulders, she was determined to avoid becoming a liability. The most reliable way to do that, she had decided, was to master some basic self-defense skills.
But… Blake clearly disagreed.
"Is it really that hopeless?" Ophelia asked dejectedly, setting down the borrowed sword—Castor's, to be precise. It was not as if she was physically weak; as a being composed purely of magical energy, she did not suffer the same muscular limitations as humans. But swordsmanship required more than just brute strength.
"You are simply not suited for close-quarters combat," Blake shrugged, standing up and taking the sword from her hand. He twirled it idly, his gaze sharp as he assessed her. "First and foremost, your temperament works against you. A swordsman must know when to charge forward without hesitation, when to throw caution to the wind. But you are far too cautious. Take that strike just now—yes, angle and positioning matter, but the first priority for any swordsman is to *hit* the enemy, not overthink every possible outcome before even making a move."
"Is that not a good habit?" Ophelia frowned, confused by his critique.
"It is a habit reserved for seasoned masters," Blake shook his head. "For someone who has never held a sword before, such overthinking is nothing but a hindrance. You are skipping the fundamentals and reaching for advanced techniques you are nowhere near ready to learn."
"Then am I doomed to stay this way forever?" Ophelia sighed, slumping into a nearby chair, her spirits crushed by his blunt assessment.
"Of course not," Blake replied, his tone softening slightly. "You possess immense magical power, and your affinity is quite unique. With proper training, you will have no trouble defending yourself in combat—*magical* combat, that is."
"But… where will I find someone to teach me how to fight with magic, my lord?"
"That, you need not worry about," Blake waved a hand dismissively, a playful glint in his eye. "I have already found you a teacher… provided you are willing to put in the work."
"I will. I promise, Lord Blake."
Ophelia was well acquainted with Blake's penchant for speaking in half-truths. She had no idea when he had arranged for a magic tutor, but she trusted he had everything under control—until his next words sent a jolt of unease coursing through her.
"That said, there is one crucial aspect of combat no amount of training can prepare you for."
"Crucial aspect?" Ophelia looked up, her eyes widening with alarm. "What do you mean by—"
Blake did not answer. Instead, he paused, as if waiting for a signal.
"Time's up."
As soon as the words left his mouth, a knock echoed on the door.
"Lord Blake?"
"Enter."
The door swung open, and several men filed into the room—none other than the young Zach master's personal attendants. They wore expressions of confusion, and the leader's eyes flashed with barely concealed disapproval as he laid eyes on Blake.
It was no wonder. For days now, lowborn dancers had been coming and going from the inn at all hours, teasing and taunting them at every turn. Worse still, the young master himself seemed to have developed an unhealthy fascination with those vulgar women. It grated on the attendants' nerves to no end. This man was a nobleman—how could he indulge in such depraved hobbies?
But they were guests in his territory, and thus had no choice but to bite their tongues. They had complained to Castor, hoping he would intercede with Blake, but the young lord had silenced them with a single icy retort: *Servants have no right to judge the lives of their betters*. With no other recourse, they had been forced to endure the humiliation in silence.
Now, their host had summoned them unbidden. None of them knew what to expect—had he finally made a decision regarding the young master's fate?
"Please, take a seat," Blake said, gesturing to the chairs across from him, his smile as elegant and warm as ever. The attendants exchanged curious glances, noting Ophelia's flushed cheeks and the sword still clutched in her hand before sitting down, their eyes fixed intently on Blake.
"Lord Blake, if you have summoned us, we would be grateful if you would speak plainly," the leader said stiffly. "We have duties to attend to—we must protect the young master, especially in… such an environment."
He emphasized the word *environment*, his tone dripping with disdain.
"Very well, then," Blake replied, unfazed by the man's rudeness. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "I simply wished to share some good news with you all… I have been in contact with the Zach Clan. As it turns out, this matter is about to come to a satisfactory conclusion."
"Oh?"
The attendants' eyes lit up in unison—while Ophelia's heart skipped a beat. A sense of foreboding washed over her, born of either feminine intuition or sheer dread. She quickly bowed her head, pretending to examine the sword in her hands to hide the anxiety on her face.
"Does that mean the young master will be returning to the Zach Clan soon?"
"Indeed it does," Blake nodded. "I have reached an agreement with Master Keller. Barring any unforeseen complications, they will have everything prepared to welcome the young master home in a few days' time."
"Wonderful! This is excellent news!"
The attendants erupted into cheers, their faces lighting up with joy. They had endured so much hardship alongside the young master these past weeks—endless days of fear and uncertainty. Now, at long last, their ordeal was over! The young master would return to his rightful place in the clan, fulfilling the late patriarch's final wish! The Zach Clan would have a new leader—exactly what they had been fighting for all along!
"Which means you are no longer needed."
The room plummeted into a frigid silence, Blake's words hanging in the air like a death sentence.
Before the attendants could process the meaning behind his words, a streak of inky black light shot out from behind Blake—swift as a striking viper, slicing through the air with a menacing hiss. A brilliant soulfire blade blazed to life, sweeping across the room in a single, devastating arc.
Most of the men never even had a chance to react. Their faces still bore the ecstatic grins of victory, their minds still reeling from the good news. They never suspected the warm, smiling nobleman sitting across from them would turn on them so suddenly, so ruthlessly.
But not all of them were caught off guard. The instant the soulfire blade erupted, the leader's eyes widened in horror. He roared a warning, leaping to his feet and drawing his own sword—its blade glowing with a faint crimson light.
"BOOM!!"
Soulfire and steel collided with a deafening crash. The force of their impact sent a shockwave rippling through the room, sending furniture sliding across the floor and shattering windows. The attendant was thrown off balance by the sheer power of the blow, stumbling backward several steps before collapsing to the ground. He gritted his teeth, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth—a ghastly sight.
"Fire affinity, just like Judy," Blake mused, staring down at the crimson blade in the man's hand, not the least bit surprised. "No wonder you managed to survive my strike."
He stood there, twirling his black soulfire blade lazily, completely unhurried. Of all the attendants, only the leader remained alive—the others lay motionless on the floor, their lives snuffed out before they could even draw their weapons.
"Who… who the hell are you?!" the leader gasped, struggling to lift his head.
"I have not broken my word," Blake replied, stepping closer to him, his boots crunching on shattered wood. "I promised to return the young master to his clan safely. Nowhere in that promise did I include *you*… unless you are claiming to be the true young master of the Zach Clan?"
"You… you bastard!" The leader's eyes blazed with fury, his face contorted with rage and betrayal. He opened his mouth to curse, but could only sputter, his words catching in his throat. Blake had not lied—not technically—but this was nothing short of deception!
"What do you intend to do with the young master?!"
"That is none of your concern anymore," Blake said flatly. He turned his gaze to Ophelia, who still had her head bowed. "Lady Ophelia. Look up. Look closely. Death—this is the eternal truth of combat. Every person reacts differently when faced with their end, but none of it changes the outcome. Remember this. Burn it into your memory."
"…"
Ophelia bit her lip until she tasted blood, then slowly raised her head. She had known this was coming, of course. The moment she had pieced together Blake's plan, she had realized the attendants would never leave this room alive. But she had never imagined she would have to witness their deaths firsthand.
She stared at the bodies slumped in their chairs, their faces frozen in expressions of joy and relief—expressions that would never fade now. They had been so happy just moments ago, so eager to return home. They had never suspected death was lurking just around the corner, waiting to claim them without mercy.
"You… you are all monsters! Filthy, conniving—"
The leader's voice cracked, his words laced with hatred and contempt, and a hint of the primal fear that comes with staring into the face of death. He locked eyes with Blake's soulfire blade, his body trembling as he tried to push himself up—but the earlier blow had shattered his defenses, leaving him gravely injured. He could barely move.
"A wounded High-Ranked Swordsman," Blake mused, studying him with the detached curiosity of a child examining a broken toy. "Not the highest quality specimen, but better than nothing…"
He raised his blade, the soulfire flickering with a cold, hungry light.
"You damned bastard! You will never get away with this—"
The man's curse was cut short as the blade plunged cleanly into his chest, piercing his heart in a single, merciless stroke.
Blake twisted the sword, then pulled it out with a wet *schlick*, the soulfire consuming the man's life force in an instant. He wiped the blade clean on the attendant's tunic, then turned to Ophelia, his voice calm and steady.
"Now, his soul is mine."