The bad memories were stirred up again. Vayne's breathing grew heavier, and she forced herself to steady her emotions with slow, deep breaths.
Right now, it felt like she'd fallen into an endless ocean—black water stretching in every direction, not a single sound anywhere.
She was holding her breath until her lungs burned. No matter how hard she struggled, no matter how desperately she tried to swim upward, it didn't matter.
She kept sinking—sinking, and sinking.
Maybe she would sink all the way to the bottom.
Luke watched quietly from the side, feeling the crushing pressure rolling off the girl.
He could tell the rope in Vayne's mind was pulled tight to its limit, ready to snap at any moment.
He might have perfect medical skills, but you could treat the body without being able to treat the heart. Right now, he didn't really have a solution.
After thinking for a beat, he only held out the cup in his hand.
Vayne stared at the offered drink, blankly focused on it for a second—then, as if possessed, she took it. She didn't even care that Luke had already drunk from it, just tipped her head back and poured it straight down.
It wasn't as harsh as she expected.
It was sweet, with a clean, floral scent like apple blossoms, and a faint warmth that slid down her throat and settled in her lower belly.
She didn't like alcohol.
People said sometimes you could drown your sorrow in it.
So back then, after that night, she'd found every bottle she could and drank without caring what it did to her—day and night, without stopping.
She drank until she was sick drunk, until she was vomiting over and over.
And whatever "drowning sorrow" was supposed to be, she never felt it. All she felt was worse—sadness deeper, pain sharper.
After that, she hardly touched alcohol again. For revenge, she couldn't afford anything that dulled her mind.
But tonight—aside from that accidental sip at the table—when Luke handed her the cup, she drank anyway.
One cup became another.
The whole time, neither of them spoke. The only sound was Vayne's stubborn swallowing as she forced drink after drink down her throat.
It was like some switch had flipped.
She sat there, silent, drinking alone.
By the time an entire flask was empty, warmth had seeped through her whole body.
Her mind was clear—too clear, clearer than she'd ever felt.
Completely different from any drunken haze she'd ever known.
It felt like she'd stepped outside herself and was looking at the world from another angle.
Her heart settled with it.
But the feeling came fast—and left just as fast.
Her vision swayed, and the intoxication surged up like a tide.
Her legs went unsteady. Just as she was about to fall, someone caught her and eased her upright.
Frey held Vayne gently as the girl slumped against her shoulder, half-asleep. Frey looked toward Luke. "Your Highness… thank you."
She could tell Luke hadn't been trying to get Vayne blackout drunk.
He'd only used the moment to give her tightly wound body a rare chance to loosen.
"Go sleep," Luke said, still stretched out in the rocking chair. The night wasn't that late yet, and he planned to keep watching the moon a while longer. "Yurna Doer should have the rooms ready."
Frey nodded and guided Vayne into one of the rooms.
Inside, she laid Vayne on the bed, helped her slip off her shoes, tucked the blanket around her, and turned to leave.
But before she could—
Her hand was grabbed.
Vayne had already fallen asleep, her small fingers clinging to Frey with surprising strength, a bright tear glimmering at the corner of her eye.
Frey had never seen Vayne look like this—like a frightened little animal. Vayne was always cold-faced, always pretending she was stronger than she felt.
Only now—when she finally let down her guard and vigilance—did she look more like a girl her age.
In her sleep, she murmured, "Mom…"
Frey didn't move again.
She quietly returned to the bedside, her eyes filled with the kind of tenderness you'd reserve for your own child.
If… if her own child hadn't been killed by the Ice Witch—Lissandra—then she would be about Vayne's age now.
Frey gathered Vayne into her arms and softly hummed a lullaby from the Freljord.
The fear on the girl's face gradually eased. The corner of her mouth lifted, almost like a small smile, and she sank into deeper sleep.
The next day—July 22.
Early morning.
The sky was barely lightening when Luke, still in bed, heard noise from the courtyard—like someone was fighting.
After a while, he slowly opened his eyes and stared off for a moment. As his mind cleared, the sounds outside still didn't stop.
He sat up and headed out.
The moment he opened the door, he saw Vayne and Frey doing morning training in the yard.
Vayne was still wearing last night's outfit. It fit snugly, outlining her slim frame. She was just past eighteen, and her figure was already fully grown—curves clean and defined, her build compact and sharp.
She kept pressing the attack, while Frey mostly stayed on defense, parrying and absorbing.
Even this early, a few bright beads of sweat clung to Vayne's pale face, and her breathing had sped up.
Hearing Luke behind them, both of them stopped.
Frey looked over and saw the sleep still on his face. Apology flashed across her expression. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. Did we wake you?"
"Yes." Luke nodded, dropped into the chair Yurna Doer had brought out, took the cup she handed him, and drank a few sips of water.
Seeing him this lazy and loose first thing in the morning, Vayne snorted, swept him with a contemptuous glance, and said to Frey, "Teacher, let's go train outside."
Frey bowed again to Luke. "My apologies, Your Highness."
Luke yawned and waved a hand. "It's fine. I'm awake anyway. Keep going here."
He wasn't that sleepy now. Sitting in the yard and letting the cool morning air wake him up sounded perfect.
Since Luke said so, Frey nodded and looked to Vayne. "Again."
She set her stance.
Vayne rushed in immediately, closing distance with quick, flexible movements. Impacts thudded as she struck and Frey met her.
Watching for a moment, Luke found it mildly interesting. Then he remembered he hadn't checked in yet today.
So, in his mind, he said, Check in.
[Congratulations, host: You have obtained 1 Special Check-in Card.]
[Congratulations, host: You have obtained 1 Max-Level Ordinary Random Skill Card.]
[Items have been stored in the system inventory. Please review and use them at your convenience.]
Two system prompts rang out in a row. Luke's eyes flickered—switching cities really did change the rewards.
He remembered the system saying, when it first activated, that check-in rewards could vary based on location.
Now that he was in Edessa instead of the capital, his first real check-in here had given him something that looked genuinely useful.
He checked the Special Check-in Card and understood immediately.
Its function was simple: it would convert the next check-in into a special check-in.
Special check-in rewards were naturally better than ordinary ones, so Luke found himself looking forward to tomorrow.
Then he looked at the second reward, and his eyes brightened.
A max-level combat skill.
Right now, aside from his max-level medical skill, he didn't have any other maxed-out abilities.
With a bit of anticipation, he thought, Use the ordinary skill card.
[Ordinary Random Skill Card used successfully.]
[Congratulations, host: You have obtained the ordinary skill—Combat Arts LV9 (Back to Basics).]
[Detecting a learnable skill. Learn now?]
Learn.
The moment he decided, a flood of information poured into his mind.
But unlike when he'd gained max-level medicine, his head didn't feel swollen—only a faint tingling spread through every part of his body, as if each cell was being reinforced, little by little.
And his understanding of combat deepened rapidly.
It felt like he'd studied it for years—training day and night, his body slowly adapting until it became natural.
A short while later, he finished absorbing everything.
Max-level Combat Arts meant he now had a full arsenal of close-range methods—wrestling, striking, grappling, joint locks—everything at a top-tier level.
It filled the exact gap Luke had been missing.
He'd collected plenty of skills, but close-quarters, bare-handed fighting was the one thing he'd lacked.
He wouldn't choose to brawl without a weapon unless he had to, but if he ever found himself unarmed, Combat Arts gave him a solid way to protect himself.
And at max level, it also boosted his strength and coordination.
If he took off his sleep clothes right now, you'd see his muscles were noticeably tighter and more defined.
A free skill was a free skill. Luke wasn't about to complain.
Once he'd dealt with the rewards, he turned his attention back to Vayne and Frey training.
A minute ago, he'd thought Vayne's close-range fighting had "something to it."
But now, with max-level Combat Arts, watching her throw punches and snap side-kicks, Luke couldn't help feeling like she had a bit of that wildly flailing street-fight energy.
The mental image made him chuckle.
"Heh."
The laugh landed right in Vayne's ears mid-punch.
She stopped, turned, and stared at Luke with a cold face. "What are you laughing at?"
Because of the training, even her icy expression carried a faint flush now.
Luke said, "I thought of something funny."
Vayne snorted. "You only know how to laugh behind someone's back."
She could feel it—there'd been a hint of mockery in that sound. And somehow, first thing in the morning, this guy had already managed to annoy her again.
But she didn't even want to deal with him.
A prince, and he woke up this lazy.
In her opinion, this country was doomed sooner or later.
Frey smiled and looked at Luke. "Your Highness, how do you think Vayne's fighting is?"
Luke considered it for a second. "It's alright."
Hearing him rate her, Vayne bristled. "Teacher, why are you asking him?"
He wasn't much older than her. His fighting couldn't possibly be better.
In this area, Vayne was confident.
Before she turned sixteen, she'd grown up in a wealthy household and had never received formal training. She'd been a soft, sheltered girl.
After her parents' brutal deaths, she'd decided she needed strength—she needed to become stronger.
She'd wandered all the way to the Freljord, and after Frey took her in, she finally began training.
In at most two years, she'd gone from a girl who couldn't defend herself to a demon hunter with real capability.
Frey always warned her not to become arrogant just because of her talent.
But that uncommon talent still pushed Vayne into a certain pride.
So when Luke—someone her age—gave her a casual "It's alright," she felt annoyed and unconvinced.
They'd only known each other a day, but from everything she'd seen, he was lazy—clearly not someone who spent much time training.
Maybe he'd never trained at all.
Sure, his medical skill and cooking were impressive, but that didn't mean he was strong.
Otherwise, why hire her and her teacher as bodyguards?
Frey spoke again. "Your Highness, would you be interested in sparring with Vayne? I'm a little tired and want to rest."
Luke didn't know what Frey was aiming for, but he'd just gained max-level Combat Arts and his hands were itching. He nodded. "Sure. I'm interested."
Frey smiled and walked closer.
Luke stood too, preparing for a rare bit of morning exercise.
Vayne didn't know why her teacher wanted her to spar with this guy, but she suddenly realized something.
This was an opportunity.
If she used it to teach him a lesson… that wouldn't be impossible.
It was only sparring, after all.
And accidents happened in sparring.
If she "accidentally" hit a little too hard… that was unavoidable, right?
She'd been sick of him for a while now.
With that thought, Vayne felt almost eager.
Frey's expression turned serious. "Vayne. Use restraint."
She knew Vayne too well—one look at those eyes told her exactly what Vayne was thinking.
Frey had no ulterior motives. She simply wanted Luke and Vayne to talk more.
She suspected part of what weighed on Vayne was how little time she spent with people her age.
Since Frey had met her, Vayne had always been alone, carrying that shadowed atmosphere.
And as an older woman, Frey didn't share many common topics with Vayne. Outside of training and hunting demons, there wasn't much conversation.
So with a decent young man like Luke—and several days still ahead of them—maybe this could help Vayne's mindset.
Hearing Frey, Vayne sighed inwardly and forced herself to agree. "I understand, teacher. I'll go easy on him."
Luke's eyebrow lifted slightly.
So she was looking down on him.
That didn't sit well with someone who enjoyed showing off.
And, honestly, he also wanted to straighten this girl out a little.
So Luke smiled at Vayne. "Let's play a game."
Vayne's face stayed cold. "What are you trying to pull now?"
Luke said casually, "Go all out. If you can hit me even once, we'll call it my loss. Deal?"
"What did you just say?"
Vayne's expression darkened. Facing Luke's light, taunting look, heat rose in her chest.
His face might as well have had the word "mocking" written across it.
For someone as proud as Vayne, how was she supposed to tolerate that?
"Want me to repeat it?" Luke stood there smiling, not even taking a stance—his whole body full of openings.
The moment the words left his mouth, a blur rushed forward.
Vayne threw a punch. Frey's warning was already gone from her mind. Right now she only wanted to smash that smug face.
But her full-power punch hit nothing.
Luke, who'd been standing there, only took a small step back—and the fist slid past empty air.
Vayne didn't think that first attack was hard to dodge. She stepped in again and whipped a side-kick at him.
Luke dropped into a flexible backward lean, her long leg passing close enough to brush the tip of his nose—unfortunately for him, she was fully covered, so there was no "scenery" to speak of.
One kick missed, and she snapped another without hesitation, like she was showing off just how long her legs were.
Normally, with Luke leaning back like that, it would be hard to avoid such tight pressure.
But when her second kick still missed, Vayne finally sensed something wrong. Her expression sharpened.
This guy… might actually have something.
She didn't break her rhythm. She kept attacking, refusing to change the mindset she'd started with.
She didn't believe two people could be in close range and one of them could still never land a hit.
But after twenty strikes, as her breathing turned rough and tight, Vayne felt more and more that something wasn't right.
Luke still looked relaxed—too relaxed.
A question rose in her mind.
Why?
Every time, she felt like she was a hair away from hitting him—so why was it always a hair away?
Luke opened his mouth with a provoking smile. "Want to take a break?"
"No!"
That tone made Vayne's blood surge. She barked the word and lunged again.
Watching from the side, Frey felt surprised.
The person inside the fight couldn't see it clearly, but as an observer, Frey could.
And with her own experience, she could tell: Luke looked like he was dodging by the narrowest margins.
But in truth, it was more like he was deliberately creating that illusion—so Vayne would keep chasing the "almost," burning through her stamina faster and faster.
At this point, Frey was certain.
Luke's footwork was far beyond Vayne's.
And after another dozen-plus attacks, Vayne's stamina had noticeably dropped. Sweat beaded and rolled down her forehead, and she stared at Luke, breathing hard.
Was it really possible… that she couldn't even touch him once?
Her pride wavered.
She clenched her teeth and pushed harder.
Her fists cut the air with faint whooshes, her long legs snapped with sharp sounds, her chest rising and falling fast.
The harder she tried, the more obvious it became—Vayne was losing control, spending stamina without restraint.
Luke, on the other hand, stayed effortless.
His expression was casual, his movements light, slipping aside again and again as if the whole thing cost him nothing at all.
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