Chapter 42 : Chapter 42
Chapter 42: The Sword Duke
In the eastern district of the imperial capital, Saint Glory City—the heart of the Empire—stood one of the four ducal residences: the Swordwing Mansion of House Astrea.
The setting sun bathed the complex of gray-white stone buildings in warm golden light. Yet even that glow could not soften the aura of killing intent and authority embedded in the architecture, which rose like a drawn blade.
Above the main gate was the carved crest of the Astrea family—two crossed swords lifting a star. Along the edges of the blades, faint threads of pale cyan mana shimmered. That was the protective barrier reinforced by generations of Sword Saints.
A black carriage rolled across the stone-paved road and stopped before the gate.
The carriage bore no unnecessary decoration. Its entire body was forged from heavy iron, and the two warhorses pulling it stood unusually tall at the shoulder, their sharp eyes revealing their martial breeding.
The carriage door opened.
A figure stepped down.
Leo Astrea—the current Sword Duke.
He appeared to be about forty-five or forty-six years old, the stage of life when a warrior’s physical prime had only just begun to wane, yet wisdom and authority had reached their peak.
He stood nearly two meters tall, with broad shoulders and a powerful back that made the dark green ducal attire trimmed with dark gold sit on him like armor.
His face seemed carved by axe and chisel. The line of his jaw was hard and severe, and his high nose bridge and tightly pressed lips gave him an air of meticulous discipline.
Most striking were his eyes.
They shared the same silver-gray color as Eleanor’s, yet were deeper and sharper—like cold iron tempered through countless battlefields and court intrigues.
His dark red hair was cut extremely short, though faint traces of frost-white had begun to appear at the temples.
Standing before the gate, Leo lifted his head slightly to glance at the family crest, as though allowing some taut nerve he held in the imperial palace to finally relax.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.”
The steward and two rows of servants, already waiting with bowed heads, spoke in unison. Their movements were perfectly synchronized—clearly the result of strict training.
Leo responded with a faint “Mm” and stepped through the gate.
The steward followed silently behind him.
Two personal attendants approached and carefully removed the heavy ceremonial sash and outer cloak embroidered with gold thread and mithril patterns—symbols of his ducal rank.
Another servant brought a silver basin filled with water and a snow-white towel.
Leo dipped his hands into the cool water and washed his fingers briefly.
It was a habit he had brought back from military life—washing away the dust gathered outside.
As he dried his hands, he walked through the towering entrance hall.
Along both walls hung portraits of ancestors and trophies of war: worn shields, broken enemy banners, and even the skull of some enormous magical beast.
Instead of going to his study, he walked directly toward the living quarters connected to the rear of the mansion.
The decorations there were somewhat softer. Expensive brocade carpets muffled footsteps, and magical lamps along the walls cast a warm, steady light.
He stopped outside a small sitting room.
Inside, a beautiful woman in a dark green velvet dress reclined against a window-side chaise, reading a poetry collection in the last rays of daylight.
She appeared somewhat younger than Leo. Her chestnut hair was elegantly pinned up, and her gentle features carried the calm grace that came from years of noble life.
Hearing the footsteps, she looked up and smiled warmly.
“My dear, you are back. Did His Majesty summon you today because of those restless Orc tribes in the northern frontier?”
The Duchess of Astrea—Emilia Astrea—set aside her book as she spoke.
Leo entered the room and sat in a high-backed chair opposite her.
A maid silently appeared and placed a cup of perfectly warmed red tea before him.
Leo lifted the porcelain cup and took a sip before answering.
“The Orcs are one matter. There were… several other troublesome issues.”
He did not elaborate further, and Emilia wisely refrained from asking about the details of state affairs.
“By the way—Eleanor.”
Leo suddenly remembered his daughter. With recent political affairs and the start of the academy term, he realized he had not seen her for quite some time.
Emilia fell silent.
Her hands unconsciously clasped together.
She came from a southern count’s family known for literature and the arts. From childhood, she had been educated in poetry, music, dance, and the management of a noble household.
She neither understood swords nor enjoyed combat.
Her marriage to Leo Astrea—a duke whose family had risen through military merit—had been a classic political alliance.
Fortunately, though Leo was stern and cold, he had always treated her with respect. Over the years, their relationship had grown from formality into a quiet and deep reliance, like that of true family.
She loved her daughter dearly.
Yet she had never been able to fully understand Eleanor’s stubborn devotion to the sword, nor her husband’s undisguised encouragement of it.
All she could feel was instinctive worry.
“Leo…” Emilia hesitated, her voice tinged with concern. “Eleanor… came back three days ago.”
Leo frowned.
“She returned? Why was I not told?”
“She said it was only a short leave to adjust her condition and did not wish to disturb you while you were handling official affairs.”
Emilia sighed softly, her gaze toward her husband filled with both tenderness and helplessness.
“But these past three days… aside from eating and sleeping, she has spent every moment in the training yard behind the house.”
“She practices swordsmanship at least ten hours a day.”
“I have gone to see her several times… She looks almost like someone possessed. Yet she simply cannot stop.”
Emilia reached out and gently took her husband’s hand resting on his knee. His skin felt cold.
“I know you want her to become the pride of the family—to become a powerful warrior like you and your ancestors. But… she is still a child.”
“Could you speak with her? At least tell her not to push herself so hard? It pains me to watch.”
Leo paused, his hand holding the teacup motionless.
Emilia did not understand.
She did not understand what the “troublesome issues” he mentioned truly meant.
She did not understand how much strength a daughter with no powerful maternal family backing—but with extraordinary talent—needed to control her own fate on the Empire’s political chessboard rather than become a bargaining piece.
He had allowed, even encouraged, Eleanor to challenge that boy named Ryan Velt because he had recognized the boy as an exceptional whetstone.
Pain.
Failure.
Humiliation.
These were the fires required to temper a blade’s edge.
Leo set down the teacup.
The porcelain struck the sandalwood table with a soft but crisp sound.
In the quiet sitting room, the noise was unusually clear.
Emilia noticed the brief pause in her husband’s movement—that habitual moment before he made a decision.
“I will go see her.”
Leo rose to his feet. His tall figure cast a long shadow beneath the warm light.
Emilia watched him walk toward the rear courtyard and sighed softly.
She picked up her poetry book again, but could not read a single word.
Some things, she knew, she would never truly understand.
Such as the expectations her husband placed upon their daughter.
Or why he maintained such puzzling silence regarding the viscount’s son who had repeatedly defeated their daughter and caused her such pain.
As one of the Empire’s Four Pillar Dukes, commanding three of the frontier’s great legions, the authority of Leo Astrea—the Sword Duke—was enough to suffocate most nobles.
If he wished, a mere glance from him could erase the already declining Velt viscount family from the Empire.
That boy named Ryan Velt would find it impossible to survive in any corner of the Empire.
But Leo had not done so.