Chapter 24 : Chapter 24
Chapter 24 : Does She Like Master?
Ryan’s steps paused for a moment.
He did not need any memory fragments to remind him. Just from that highly distinctive appearance and that air of someone who looked ready to draw her sword and cut a man down at any moment, he recognized her immediately.
The training ground. The cheering crowd. The red-haired girl lying on the ground. And his own infuriating mouth:
“The Sword Duke’s legacy? Hah. Your ornamental swordplay for show does look pretty decent.”
‘…Damn.’
A creditor had come calling.
Eleanor Astrea.
The only daughter of one of the Empire’s Four Pillar Dukes, the Sword Duke; a second-year student in the intermediate division of Saint Roland Magic Academy; and… the officially certified archenemy personally created by the original Ryan Velt during his time in the junior division—the most persistent and troublesome one of them all.
Hearing footsteps, Cosette whipped around as though she had just seized a lifeline. A mist instantly welled up in her hazel eyes as she silently mouthed, “M-Master…!”
At the same time, Eleanor lowered the arms she had crossed over her chest.
She took one step toward Ryan.
Her bootheel struck the floor with a crisp click.
The air in the corridor suddenly tightened.
Within the original owner’s scattered memories, most of the images related to this young lady of the ducal house were intertwined with words like “challenge,” “defeat,” “leave with a cold face,” and his own sharp-tongued ridicule.
Ryan had vaguely known of her existence before, but ever since the school term began, he had been too busy dealing with survival crises, financial pressure, and the Elf incident. He had almost forgotten all about this matter.
And now, this “trouble” had come directly to block his dormitory door. Judging from the atmosphere, she clearly was not here for a friendly visit.
Cosette seemed to hear Ryan’s footsteps and turned around abruptly, like someone clutching at a final saving straw. Her hazel eyes instantly filled with panic and pleading, her small face turned pale, and her lips trembled slightly as she silently mouthed, “M-Master…!”
Meanwhile, the red-haired girl standing there with her arms folded seemed to sense something as well, and slowly turned her face toward him.
It was a face that combined a young girl’s delicate beauty with a warrior’s heroic sharpness.
Her features were striking and well-defined. Her skin was a healthy wheat-gold, and beneath her long, thick lashes was a pair of silver-gray eyes, sharp as drawn steel, sweeping toward Ryan like blades.
Her nose was high, her lips pressed into a tight line, and her jaw was clean and distinct. There was almost no expression on her face, yet she still gave off the oppressive feeling of storm clouds about to burst and a volcano on the verge of eruption.
The instant their eyes met, Ryan could almost feel the surrounding temperature drop several degrees. An invisible battle intent, sharp as needlepoints, quietly spread through the air.
‘…Trouble never fails to show up. It just changes the form it arrives in.’
Ryan sighed inwardly, though his face remained as cool and impassive as ever.
He walked several steps to the dormitory entrance, his gaze calmly skimming over Cosette, who looked as though she were about to shrink into a ball, before landing on Eleanor.
“Astrea,” he said, his voice as flat as if he were reciting the name of a stranger. “What is it?”
Eleanor’s silver-gray eyes locked tightly onto him. She did not answer at once, only looked him up and down as though confirming something. A moment later, she lowered the arm she had been holding across her chest. That hand now hung naturally by her side, her fingertips a little closer to the sword hilt at her waist.
If time could turn back one year, Eleanor Astrea’s life had once been a bright painting composed of praise, victory, and a glorious future.
The only daughter of one of the Empire’s Four Pillar Dukes, the Sword Duke, she had displayed astonishing sword talent from childhood and had been regarded as the rising star most likely to inherit the title of Sword Saint.
On the very first day of entering the junior division, she had, as a first-year student, cleanly defeated the strongest third-year senior in the junior division during a public match.
“The number one genius of the academy,” “the future female Sword Saint,” “the pride of House Astrea”…
She wore all those halos as if by right, and had even grown a little tired of them.
After all, victory without an opponent was like bread without sugar—it filled the stomach, but it was unbearably dull.
She trained step by step, refining her family’s inherited swordsmanship and studying the fusion of mana and martial skill. Life had been like a broad, straight road with monotonous scenery. All she needed to do was run forward, and the laurel crown of “Sword Saint” at the end seemed almost within reach.
Until Ryan Velt appeared.
That unknown viscount’s son, during the same kind of academy tournament and likewise as a first-year student, defeated her with pure, sharp magic.
Cleanly. Neatly. Even easily.
On that day, a corner of her world collapsed.
Bearing humiliation and bewilderment she had never known before, she returned home and poured her heart out to her father, that man as imposing as a mountain. She had expected comfort, or at least outrage.
The Sword Duke had merely patted her shoulder and said in a voice steady as iron, “Eleanor, a sword must be tempered before its edge can truly show. To always win is not necessarily a good thing. Only after losing once can you see whether your sword is truly resilient, and whether your heart is truly strong enough.”
“But Father, he…”
“He is strong, is he not?” the Duke interrupted, and there was even a trace of gratification in his eyes. “Had you not said before that it was boring to have no rivals? Now you have one. Treat him as your whetstone. Turn the humiliation you feel into the drive to chase after him and surpass him. Next time, win it back.”
Her father’s words had been like a strengthening tonic.
That was right. It was only one defeat.
She was the heir of House Astrea, the future Sword Saint. How could she be crushed by a single loss?
Her fighting spirit blazed anew, and she trained ten times harder than before.
She engraved every detail of that defeat into her mind, repeatedly analyzing Ryan’s absurdly fast casting and those viciously tricky trajectories of magic. She told herself that next time, as long as she could get close, as long as she could seize one opening, victory would certainly be hers.
Then came the second challenge.
She lost even faster.
The third time, she did not so much as brush the edge of his clothes.
The fourth time…
Each defeat was like a dull knife carving deeper marks into the foundation of her confidence.
What frightened her even more was the discovery that when facing that brown-haired boy, the hand with which she held her sword began to tremble uncontrollably.
The premonition that she might never defeat him wrapped itself around her heart like creeping vines.
But she was Eleanor Astrea.
Her father’s expectations, her family’s honor, the oath she had made when she first took up the sword… these heavy crowns made even the thought of giving up or retreating a kind of blasphemy.
So she could only force herself, again and again, to stand before that figure who seemed forever beyond her reach and raise the sword that had already begun to feel dry in her hands.
And now, time returned to the present.
Beneath the dim yellow corridor light, Eleanor looked at the nemesis before her—the one who had haunted her nightmares and taken root in her obsession—and the emotions roiling inside her chest were almost breaking through the icy shell she struggled to maintain.
She had come here for two reasons this time.
First, the holiday was over, and according to the brutal training plan she had set for herself, it was time for her to challenge him again. It was like carrying out a painful ritual that nevertheless had to be performed.
Second—and this was what she found even harder to accept—she had heard about Ryan’s chosen specialization.
Magic Tool Application and Appraisal.
That news had been like a basin of icy water mixed with molten lava poured directly over her already chaotic emotions.
What kind of joke was that?
A person who had defeated her so utterly with pure magic, made her doubt her whole life, and left her sword hand trembling—and then turned around to study those clanking gears, crystals, and rune boards instead?
To those who revered personal strength and battle technique in the path of dual cultivation of magic and martial skill, that specialization carried a certain implication of “cutting corners” and “relying on external objects.”
The fury of being completely slighted—or even humiliated—mixed with all the resentment and grievance she had accumulated over the past year and exploded inside her heart.
You defeated me with magic.
And now you were telling her that defeating her was not even worth continuing to refine the magic that had driven her to despair?
You had chosen another path, one that in your eyes might be more profitable, easier, or simply more interesting?
Then what about her?
What were all her painful struggles over the past year, her resentment, her fear, the courage it took to force herself to stand before him again and again… what did any of that amount to in his eyes?
And the “sword” into which she had poured all her effort and dignity… what exactly did it amount to in his eyes?
All those chaotic and violent thoughts crashed through her chest, and finally turned into the question she forced out through clenched teeth after taking that step forward.
“Velt.” Her voice was colder than before, but underneath it was a faint tremor. “You chose the Magic Tool specialization?”
Ryan raised a brow slightly, as though he found the question baffling. “Yes. Do I need to submit an application to the Sword Duke’s estate for approval before choosing a specialization?”
“I need to know!” Her voice suddenly rose, only to be forced back down again with even greater effort. Something seemed to crack within her silver-gray eyes. “When you defeated me, you used magic!”
“So?” Ryan’s tone remained perfectly flat. The calmer he was, the more that nameless fire burned inside Eleanor.
“So now you go study Magic Tools?!” She pressed one step closer, until the distance between them was near enough for them to feel each other’s breath. “My father said that losing to a strong enemy sharpens the sword! Fine, I accepted that!”
Her chest rose and fell, and her words came faster and faster, as if she were trying to pour out all the emotions she had accumulated over the past year.
“I trained every day until my hands shook! I dreamed of how to break your magic! I carved every detail of every loss into my head and thought about it over and over and practiced it over and over! I told myself that next time, next time I would definitely—”
Her voice cut off abruptly.
Because she saw the expression on Ryan’s face.
That expression of: what exactly does any of this have to do with me?
A tidal wave of anger drowned her.
She closed her eyes once, and when she opened them again, she forced her voice back into its former icy calm.
“But after defeating me, you turned around and started messing with gears and rune boards?”
She stared at Ryan, enunciating each word like a wounded beast growling low in its throat.
“Do you think defeating me was not even worth taking battle itself seriously?”
“Or is it that—”
“you think the path of the sword, and the path I walk… are not worth mentioning at all?”
The corridor fell into dead silence.
Cosette was pressed against the wall, too frightened to breathe loudly. The oppressive aura emanating from the red-haired senior felt even more terrifying than the fiercest teacher she had seen over the last two days.
Ryan fell silent.
Looking at this young lady of the ducal house—her eyes rimmed faintly red, her teeth clenched, looking as though she might draw her sword and chop him down in the next instant, or else burst into tears on the spot—he very rarely felt something close to… speechlessness.
‘Young lady, did you train your brain into a straight line along with your swordsmanship?’ he thought with an inward sigh. ‘I chose a specialization so I could make a living. How did that somehow become the ultimate insult to your personality, your family, and your lifelong pursuit?’
‘And where is this thick air of a resentful ex-lover even coming from? We are just rival enemies who have fought a few times, not former lovers with unresolved feelings, all right?’
But looking at Eleanor’s stubborn expression of “If you do not give me an explanation, I am not leaving today,” Ryan knew that brushing her off or mocking her would only make things worse.
He let out a sigh and, for once, spoke in a somewhat more serious tone.
“Astrea.” He called her by name, with less mockery than before. “I chose Magic Tools because I think it suits me, and because I might be able to make a living with it in the future. That is all.”
“As for defeating you… that was just an academy match. I won, I got the credits I needed, and… well, a few other things. Once the match ended, the matter was over.”
He looked at her silver-gray eyes, which were still fixed stubbornly on him, and added,
“I will not, and I have no need to, use the choices I make in my life to evaluate or deny yours. Your road is yours to walk. Mine is mine to choose. We are different. That is all.”
Ryan felt that he had already made himself clear enough. By his standards, he was practically being gentle.
But after hearing him out, the fire in Eleanor’s eyes not only failed to die down, it burned even more fiercely.
“Over?” she repeated the word, as though she had just heard the most absurd thing imaginable. “You said… it is ‘over’?”
To her, that defeat—and all the later defeats that repeated it—was a brand burned into her bones and blood. It was the inner demon that tormented her day and night, the mountain she absolutely had to cross.
But to this person… it was merely “over”?
That enormous gap in understanding left her momentarily unable even to react.
Ryan, however, no longer wanted to keep entangling himself in this.
His dinner was really going to get cold.
“If you have nothing else to say,” he said, turning slightly to indicate that Eleanor should move aside, “I am going back inside to eat.”
Eleanor seemed to wake from a dream.
Seeing his expression, a powerful surge of unwillingness rose in her heart once more.
No. It could not end like this.
“Tomorrow!” she suddenly said, her voice hard again. “The first day of Practice Experience Week is the demonstration match for dual cultivation of magic and martial skill.”
She lifted her chin, trying to reclaim the pride and imposing presence of the Duke’s daughter, though her fingertips were still cold.
“I will be participating as an intermediate division representative.”
“And you,” she declared, staring at Ryan with absolute certainty, “must participate as the junior division trial student representative in my group. I recommended you myself.”
Ryan said, “…Can I refuse?”
“Yes.” Eleanor nodded, and her red ponytail swayed with the motion. “If you want the whole academy to know that the young master of House Velt was afraid of an invitation from someone he already defeated and became a cowardly deserter.”
‘Could this threat get any more childish?!’
The corner of Ryan’s mouth twitched, but he had to admit that childish as it was, the threat was annoyingly effective.
Eleanor seemed finally to have regained a little initiative. She no longer looked at Ryan. Instead, her gaze flicked toward Cosette, who was trying her best to erase her own presence against the wall, and she frowned slightly.
“You. Move.”
Cosette slid sideways by half a meter with a WHOOSH, almost embedding herself into the wall.
The red-haired girl did not linger. She turned around, her heels clicking out a crisp, sharp rhythm, and her fiery ponytail traced a stubborn arc through the air before she strode quickly out of sight around the stairway corner.
At last, the suffocating pressure in the corridor slowly dissipated.
Cosette let out a long breath. A bit of color finally returned to her face. Leaning closer, she asked in a small voice, “Master, does that young lady… like you very much?”
Ryan: “...How did you reach that conclusion?”
“Because she looked,” Cosette said after serious thought, “just like some of the big dogs I saw when I was little. Every time they saw me, they would pounce over to lick me. I was very scared, but someone told me that meant they wanted to play with me.”
Ryan: “…”
‘No, she definitely does not want to play with me.’
He pushed open the dormitory door, and the aroma of food drifted out. But at that moment, his mind was entirely occupied by tomorrow afternoon’s demonstration match.
‘She just wants to grind me into the dirt to prove that there is nothing wrong with her swordsmanship.’
“Eat,” Ryan said as he sat down at the tea table, looking at the steaming, simple dishes before him and suddenly feeling deeply tired.
Cosette obediently sat down across from him and quietly added, “Master, you should be careful tomorrow. When that senior left, her hand stayed on her sword hilt the whole time. She looked… very excited.”
Ryan’s hand paused in the middle of picking up food.
“A pre-storm duel notice, huh.”