Chapter 43 : Chapter 43
Chapter 43: The Goal and the Whetstone
Not only had he done nothing, he had even tolerated it.
He allowed his daughter to challenge that boy again and again. He allowed that boy to repeatedly trample upon the pride of House Astrea.
Within the noble circles of the capital, this was no longer a secret.
After the initial shock and speculation faded, the sharper minds gradually sensed a deeper meaning.
“The Duke is… using that boy as a whetstone.”
“That Velt boy is rather unlucky to have caught the Duke’s eye. But being the whetstone for the Duke’s daughter is not entirely a bad fate either.”
Such interpretations gradually became the prevailing view.
The deeper consequence was even more significant.
If the Sword Duke himself did not mind—and even seemed to encourage it—then what noble would dare overstep their place and interfere with the whetstone personally chosen by the Duke?
Andre Garcia’s father, Viscount Garcia, was one such man.
Also born in the northern frontier and ambitious by nature, the viscount served under the banner of a powerful imperial count.
At one banquet, he once tested the waters while attempting to curry favor with Leo.
“I have heard that your daughter has been troubled at the academy by an ill-mannered boy. If Your Grace wishes, perhaps I could—”
He did not finish his sentence.
A single calm glance from Leo cut him off.
“Children sparring with one another—if one loses, it only means their ability is lacking. If one wins, there is no need for arrogance. When adults interfere, what does that make us?”
That was Leo’s reply.
Viscount Garcia immediately broke into a cold sweat and hurriedly agreed.
From that day onward, the northern frontier’s noble circles understood the situation clearly.
Ryan Velt was the Duke’s daughter’s “exclusive trial.”
No one else was permitted to touch him.
Unintentionally, this created an invisible protective umbrella around Ryan within Saint Roland Magic Academy.
Those noble students who disliked him or wished to pressure him with family influence now had to think twice before acting.
Of course, Leo Astrea did not truly care about Ryan Velt’s life or death.
In his eyes, the boy was nothing more than a useful tool.
A whetstone of unusual material.
As long as the tool remained intact and usable, there was no reason to replace it.
Whether the tool itself might eventually be worn down was not something he needed to consider.
He had even personally reviewed Ryan Velt’s file.
A viscount’s heir with good talent but terrible temperament.
A strained relationship with his father.
An extremely poor reputation within the academy.
A perfect stubborn stone—exactly the sort needed to sharpen the blade that was Eleanor Astrea.
Pain.
Failure.
Humiliation.
These were the fires necessary to temper an edge.
His original expectation had been simple.
Eleanor would learn from defeat after defeat, refining both her swordsmanship and her character. Eventually, one day, she would defeat that stone in a fair and decisive battle.
When that moment arrived, the whetstone’s purpose would be complete.
Whether it was discarded or kept afterward would not matter.
Passing through a corridor where famous swords collected by generations of the family hung along the walls, Leo pushed open a heavy oak door.
The cool evening breeze rushed toward him, carrying the scent of grass and earth.
Before him lay the private training ground of the ducal residence.
The ground was paved with special energy-absorbing stone slabs. Around it stood various training devices and sturdy wooden practice dummies.
And at the center of the training ground stood a familiar figure.
Even the battle-hardened Sword Duke, who had long grown accustomed to death and bloodshed, felt his pupils contract slightly.
Eleanor Astrea.
She wore a white training uniform soaked completely with sweat. Her fiery red hair clung messily to the sides of her neck and cheeks.
She was furiously striking a steel practice dummy reinforced with stabilization magic.
No—this was no longer sword practice.
It was closer to a loss of control.
The swordsmanship had entirely lost the precision, sharpness, and rhythm characteristic of House Astrea’s inherited techniques.
Her movements were distorted.
Her footing unsteady.
She was relying purely on brute strength and the chaotic wind and fire mana raging within her body.
Each collision between the training sword and the steel dummy produced a chaotic and harsh sound.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Sparks burst with every impact.
Her breathing was as heavy as a broken bellows.
Each swing of her sword was accompanied by a strained grunt forced from her throat.
Sweat fell like rain, forming a dark circle on the ground beneath her feet.
The skin around her knuckles had split open. Blood soaked the cloth strips wrapped around her hands, turning them dark red. It even ran down along the sword’s grip.
Yet she seemed completely unaware of it.
Her silver-gray eyes stared fixedly at the dent she had carved into the steel dummy.
But the gaze was not that of a focused warrior.
It was empty.
“One thousand four hundred ninety-seven… one thousand four hundred ninety-eight…”
She counted hoarsely.
Her arm muscles trembled violently from exhaustion, yet she raised the training sword once more.
Mana surged uncontrollably along the blade, igniting a flickering flame of blue and red.
The sword was about to fall again—
“Enough.”
The voice was calm and penetrating.
It was not loud.
Yet it fell like a bucket of ice water, instantly extinguishing the flames on the blade and freezing Eleanor’s raised arm in midair.
She turned her head slowly, almost mechanically.
At the edge of the training field stood her father.
The fading sunset shone from behind Leo, outlining his tall figure in dark gold. His face remained hidden in shadow.
Only those silver-gray eyes were clearly visible.
Cold.
They reflected her current state—exhausted, disheveled, and on the verge of collapse.
Eleanor opened her mouth.
Her cracked lips moved slightly.
But no sound came out.
Shame.
Resentment.
Frustration.
And a deeper fear.
All of it surged toward her eyes at once, blurring her vision.
She clenched her teeth fiercely, forcing the burning pressure back down. What remained was the uncontrollable trembling of a body pushed far beyond its limits.
Leo walked toward her slowly.
His boots struck the stone slabs with steady, heavy sounds.
He did not look at his daughter’s bloodstained hands.
He did not reprimand the terrible form of her sword technique.
Instead, he stopped before the battered steel dummy and ran his finger across the deepest cut in its surface.
Then he turned back toward her.
His gaze rested on Eleanor’s pale, sweat-drenched face.
The Eleanor before him now was completely different from the daughter he remembered.
Once, her every movement had been as natural and fluid as breathing.
Where her blade pointed, her will followed.
Now she resembled a lost child clutching a heavy weapon, blindly swinging it only to vent the turmoil in her heart.
The sword was no longer an extension of her arm.
It had become a burden that dragged her down and wounded her.
Her techniques no longer contained structure or beauty—only the noise of brute force striking metal and the sparks of uncontrolled mana scattering into the air.
“Tell me, Eleanor Astrea.”
His voice remained steady, yet it struck like an invisible hammer, cutting through the chaotic echoes of the training field and landing directly upon her nearly numb heart.
“What was the goal of these one thousand four hundred and ninety-eight strikes you just delivered?”
Eleanor froze.
A goal?
She instinctively looked at the bloodstained sword in her hand.
Then at the battered steel dummy before her.
Then at the sweat stinging her eyes…