Ch. 44
Chapter 44: A Father and Daughter’s Conversation
A goal…
Of course it was to become stronger.
To erase defeat.
To shatter every humiliation, every doubt, every cold reality that the boy named Ryan Velt had forced upon her.
To prove—
Prove what?
That she was worthy of the name Astrea?
That her father’s judgment had not been mistaken?
Or that… a single defeat did not mean she was truly inadequate?
But then why?
She had swung her sword more than a thousand times. Her arm felt ready to tear apart, her lungs burned like fire, yet the knot of fear and frustration in her chest had not diminished at all. Instead, it had gathered like the deepening dusk, growing thicker until it nearly swallowed her whole.
She opened her mouth.
Her throat was dry and tight.
In the end, only a broken syllable escaped.
“I…”
“You wish to cut away failure? But failure is already a fact. Like the marks you left upon this steel dummy—it exists, and it will remain there.”
Leo’s voice continued, steady and unhurried, yet every word was sharp.
“You wish to defeat that boy? But he is not standing here before you. Striking lifeless steel in rage—aside from wearing down your sword, your hands, and your body—what will it truly give you?”
He stepped forward.
His tall figure cast a silent pressure across the training ground. His silver-gray eyes locked firmly onto the gaze his daughter tried to avoid.
“The opponent you are truly fighting, Eleanor, is a fear you cannot even properly name yourself.”
“You fear failure becoming your label. You fear the looks and whispers of others. You fear bringing disgrace upon your family. You fear… disappointing both yourself and me.”
“But the deepest fear,” his voice lowered slightly, “is that you have begun to doubt the path you have walked. You doubt the sword in your hand. You doubt whether Eleanor Astrea truly possesses the talent she has always believed in.”
“—!”
Yes.
Fear.
Not merely the pain of defeat, but the shaking of her entire sense of self.
That brown-haired boy had effortlessly dismantled the swordsmanship and magic–martial fusion she had always taken pride in.
The foundation of her belief had been shaken.
If the path she had trained in for years could be so easily countered, then what meaning did her persistence hold?
What, exactly, was the strength she had been pursuing?
The tears finally broke through the dam.
Mixed with sweat and dust, they ran freely down her face.
A broken sob escaped her throat like the whimper of a wounded animal.
She did not want to cry.
Especially not in front of her father.
But the overwhelming sense of grievance made it impossible to hold back.
Leo watched his daughter collapse into tears.
Deep within his eyes flickered the complicated emotions of a father.
Yet he did not offer comfort.
Nor did he scold her weakness.
He simply waited quietly.
When Eleanor’s crying gradually subsided into faint sobs, he finally spoke again.
“Fear is not shameful. Anyone who faces an obstacle they cannot understand or overcome will feel fear.”
“What is shameful is allowing fear to control you—running about like a headless fly, injuring yourself simply to avoid confronting the problem.”
“Pick up your sword.”
Eleanor lifted her head in confusion.
Her tear-blurred gaze moved from her father to the bloodstained training sword lying on the ground.
“Not to continue venting your anger,” Leo said.
“But to face it—and to face the person holding it.”
“Then think carefully.”
He turned, preparing to leave.
His final words carried on the wind, striking Eleanor’s heart with heavy force.
“When you swing your sword, is it to cut down the enemies outside you, or to break through the confusion within your own heart?”
“Is it to prove something to others… or to reach the place you truly wish to go?”
“Until you have your answer, you need not return to the training ground.”
“Wash yourself. Heal your wounds. After dinner, come to my study.”
His footsteps faded.
The oak door opened and closed.
The training ground fell into complete silence.
Only the evening wind moved through the air.
Meanwhile, behind the window of the distant study, Leo Astrea stood with his hands behind his back, gazing into the deepening dusk outside.
Within those silver-gray eyes, a sharp light flickered like a drawn blade.
It seemed that the whetstone… might be more dangerous than he had anticipated.
Perhaps it was time to reassess it.
The sound of his father’s departing footsteps and the closing of the oak door was like the final toll of a bell.
The suffocating heaviness that had filled the training ground dispersed.
The whirlpool of self-doubt spinning wildly in Eleanor’s mind seemed, for a moment, to pause.
She collapsed onto the cold stone slabs.
Her sweat had already cooled, clinging unpleasantly to her skin and sending waves of chill through her body.
But colder than her body was her heart, soaked in fear and confusion.
“When you swing your sword, is it to cut down enemies outside… or to break through the confusion in your heart?”
“Is it to prove something to others… or to reach the place you truly wish to go?”
If it was not for Ryan Velt—
If it was not even entirely for victory or the glory of her family—
Then what had she felt when she first took up a sword?
That blazing passion deep within her heart, that joy and longing that felt ready to overflow… what had it been?
Was it the freedom of swinging a sword through the wind?
The sense of unity when mana and sword technique fused together as one?
Or simply the thrill of constantly challenging her limits and surpassing herself?
She lowered her gaze to her hands.
They were battered and trembling faintly.
These hands had once held a sword so steadily, as if they had been born for that very purpose.
Now they struggled even to lift a training sword that was not particularly heavy.
Had defeat made them weak?
Or… had the turmoil of her heart thrown her hands into chaos as well?
No one knew how much time passed.
Only when the evening wind completely carried away the warmth of the day and the first stars appeared faintly in the sky did Eleanor finally force her numb body to stand.
She did not touch the bloodstained sword again.
She merely looked at it for a long moment.
Then she turned and walked slowly toward the main building, dragging her exhausted body behind her.
Her back remained straight.
That was something carved into the bones of the Astrea family.
But the sharpness that once resembled a drawn blade was gone.
The study smelled of cedarwood and aged parchment.
The fireplace burned quietly, pushing away the chill of the night.
Leo had already changed out of his ducal attire and now wore simple dark clothing. He sat behind the wide desk.
Instead of reviewing documents as he usually did, he simply watched the flickering fire.
When Eleanor entered, she had already washed and changed into clean clothing.
The wounds on her hands had been carefully cleaned and wrapped.
Her damp red hair hung loose over her shoulders, making her face appear even paler.
But the wild emptiness that had filled her silver-gray eyes earlier had faded.
Only exhaustion remained.
“Father.”
She stopped before the desk and lowered her head slightly.
“Sit.”
Leo gestured toward the chair opposite him.
Eleanor obeyed.
Her hands rested upon her knees. Her fingers curled unconsciously, brushing against the bandaged wounds beneath the cloth and bringing a faint sting.
The study fell silent for a moment.
Only the soft crackling of the fireplace could be heard.
“Eleanor,” Leo spoke first.
His voice was much gentler than it had been on the training ground.
“My words this afternoon may have been too harsh.”
Eleanor raised her head slightly, surprise flickering across her face.