Eric had surely grown a little rusty during his recent period of rest—at least, that’s what everyone was counting on. The knights approached today’s sparring match with the hopeful intent of paying him back for the brutal drills they’d endured under his former command.
Today’s training was simple: each knight would face him using their weapon of choice. And since Eric stubbornly insisted on using that old-fashioned greatsword of his, surely someone would eventually get the better of him.
Or so they thought.
Clang!
The smirk vanished from the knights’ faces the moment a chain meant to bind Eric’s sword snapped clean in half with one swift motion.
Sir Meland, whose iron mace had been shattered like brittle wood, stumbled backward and waved his hand in panic.
“I yield! I yield!”
And that was after Eric had clearly gone easy on him. Even so, the man’s armor was nearly caved in.
Axes, spears, and now maces—Eric had crushed them all with a single blade.
No one laughed at the defeated. They all knew their turn was next.
“The next challenger wields a spirit musket. Lord Eric,” announced the new Knight Commander.
A spirit musket?
This, at last, stirred hope among the knights. Perhaps only a ranged weapon imbued with cultivation-enhanced energy could properly test someone like Eric, a swordsman who had stepped half a foot into the realm of sword saints.
Guns versus swords.
Normally, it would be no contest. But against Eric?
Still… he can’t win this one, right?
At last, they thought, they’d witness the former commander humbled. Perhaps they’d even get to see him raise his hand and admit defeat.
The musket-wielding knight stepped forward.
Eric remained calm, not even catching his breath between duels.
“Begin,” came the call.
Boom!
The knight fired the first spirit round the instant the duel was declared.
Ping!
Eric’s blade deflected it with ease.
A second shot rang out—
Ping!
Again, the blade danced, and the shot was neutralized mid-air.
The third shot never came.
Slash!
A piercing, metallic screech echoed through the arena. The musket’s barrel had been sliced clean off.
The knight stared at his ruined weapon, teeth clenched, as Eric closed the distance in a blur.
With a desperate grunt, the knight drew a dagger hidden at his thigh.
“Sir Ark! Only one weapon per duel!” shouted the Knight Commander.
But before the dagger could even reach Eric’s flank…
Wham!
Eric, unflinching, raised a foot and struck the knight square in the groin.
“Guaaaah!”
The man crumpled, writhing.
The watching knights all winced, reflexively covering their lower dantians.
Eric remained utterly composed, watching his opponent roll in pain like it was a minor inconvenience.
“Spirit muskets are formidable at range, but utterly useless once that distance is closed. Daggers, on the other hand, are built for close combat—but only if you can get inside your opponent’s range. A dagger can’t outrange my leg. If you were going to draw it, you should’ve waited. Then again… poor choice of backup weapon.”
He calmly sheathed his sword.
The Knight Commander stood frozen in place. So did the rest of the knights.
Eric was just about to call for the next match when—
A wave of spiritual pressure swept across the courtyard. From afar, Ella raised her hand, fingers fluttering like a fan, commanding silence. The knights instantly bowed their heads.
She clicked her tongue and said coolly to Eric, “That’s enough. If you keep offering your guidance, our royal knights will all be reduced to ash.”
Eric bowed respectfully.
Ella glanced at the knight writhing on the floor and addressed the commander sharply.
“Have that one bring me a cold brew. Two cups, heavy on the ice.”
The commander hesitated. “Your Highness, we have palace maids for that…”
“So what? Whether knight or maid, everyone within this palace serves
me
. What does it matter who brings it?”
She cast a chilling gaze between the commander and the fallen knight.
“Oh? Is this… disobedience I smell?”
Sir Ark suddenly sprang up, understanding the gravity of the moment—though still doubled over in pain.
“N-not at all, Your Highness!”
Ella watched him limp away and muttered, “Funny how a man too cowardly to defy an order still finds the gall to break the rules.”
Truly, the shameless only grow brave when it comes to their shamelessness.
And that kind of false courage? Ella found it… laughable.
It happened when Lord Ark came in, dripping with sweat, and offered coffee to Eric and Ella.
Ella, clearly waiting for the right moment, looked at Eric and asked:
“You only get to use one weapon. So bringing two—doesn’t that count as cheating? And no warning? Aren’t knights all about that performative discipline nonsense? Like beating someone a hundred times to boost morale, then hanging them up naked for public shame or whatever?”
Still walking stiffly—likely from lingering soreness in his lower half—Lord Ark froze, paralyzed by her words.
But Eric, taking the coffee, simply replied with indifference:
“I said use your main weapon. I didn’t say use
only
your main weapon.”
“…What?”
Ella stared at him in disbelief.
Eric turned to Ark and said calmly, “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Yes, sir!”
Ark gave a quick salute and retreated.
Ella watched him go, shaking her head.
“Isn’t that the kind of thing you’re supposed to
just know
not to do?”
“I would think so,” Eric replied, taking a sip of his coffee.
For some reason, a dark shadow lingered beneath his eyes.
“But… not everyone’s like that.”
Ella clicked her tongue.
“That’s your problem. You’re a principle-abiding cultivator—but also absurdly lenient toward others. Most rule-followers don’t extend that courtesy.”
She narrowed her eyes, noticing how Eric’s usually composed expression had turned strangely languid—eyelids heavy, his aura dim.
After studying him for a bit, she spoke, as though the realization had just struck her:
“So
that’s
why you look a bit less dazzling today. Haven’t been sleeping, huh?”
Eric gave a slow nod. Ella muttered to herself,
“Of course… must be the newlywed phase…”
“…What are you imagining?”
Eric spoke wearily, rubbing his half-closed eyes.
“Lady Imelin and I didn’t—”
He cut himself off, glancing behind Ella to where Kai stood.
Not her usual attendant. Not someone he could trust implicitly.
Could this Kai be trusted to hear the words
sham marriage
and not repeat them?
Eric pressed his lips together.
Though it wasn’t for the reason Ella assumed, it was true:
Eric’s sleeplessness
was
because of Imelin.
He’d told the servants he’d been up answering letters.
But in truth, it was because he had to share a room with her.
There were plenty of guest rooms in the manor. He could have slept anywhere.
But for a couple who had just caused such a stir in the capital with their marriage to sleep in separate rooms on the very first night—
That would spark gossip among the servants, especially those already suspicious of Imelin.
So Eric had done what he had to do: lay down next to her and try to sleep.
The bed was wide. Lying beside her didn’t mean touching—not even a fingertip’s brush.
All he had to endure was her breathing and the occasional mumble in her sleep.
‘Mmm… Why won’t this open…? If I just open this, the gold’s all mine…’
Ridiculous muttering, yes—but not exactly unbearable.
Eric had once camped on the frontier, surrounded by the howls of night-dwelling demon beasts.
Compared to that, Imelin’s breathing was practically a lullaby.
But after one hour…
Then two…
He began to notice how loud it felt.
Her breathing, steady and relaxed, filled his ears—an odd sense of irritation blooming within him.
‘How the hell is she sleeping so peacefully?’
When I’m lying right next to her.
I may be her husband, sure, but I’m still a man.
And yet—Imelin slept like a rock.
Eric ignored the unspoken implication behind his own confusion—
How is it you can sleep so easily, when I can’t?
He shifted slightly on the bed, glancing over toward Imelin.
A small suspicion took root.
What if she’s only pretending to be asleep?
If that were the case… maybe he could exchange a few words. Just a few.
Something like…
Stop causing trouble, Imelin.
Let’s try living righteously, please.
You’ve already driven the steward to near madness today—what do you plan to do tomorrow?
…Did the food suit your taste today?
Can you… breathe better now?
His gaze drifted to her cheek, slightly puffed from being pressed into the pillow. Her lips parted softly, releasing steady breaths.
A stray cat.
That this stray cat had wandered its way not into the cold night but onto this bed beside him—into his world—gave him a peculiar sense of relief. Was it pity? Sympathy?
She just wanted to be held…
Perhaps it was simply compassion for a soul long trapped in the echoes of her childhood.
That’s how Eric chose to define the emotion stirring within him.
Maybe he had felt this way ever since he first saw Imelin within the duchy manor.
Kindness… is something only the strong can afford.
Pity wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling for Eric. As a noble of considerable power and status—a cultivator whose qi had long since solidified into the foundation of an aura swordsman—offering mercy to others had never felt like a weakness or a flaw. It was natural, expected.
After all, if those with strength and wealth don’t share, who else will? And where would sharing begin?
It was a truth he carried effortlessly, like breath itself, without shame or need for concealment.
But when it came to Imelin… something was different.
He didn’t
want
her to know.
You hate strong, overbearing men, don’t you?
More than pity, what troubled him now was the feeling that he didn’t want her to hate him.
That—
that
was unfamiliar.
He didn’t want her to know he was an aura cultivator. Didn’t want her to know he’d lent Helena money. Why? What was he afraid of?
With no answers to those questions, his sleeplessness continued.
By dawn, he gave up on sleep entirely and packed for the palace.
—
“……”
Snapping out of his thoughts, Eric glanced across the garden pavilion to the princess.
She was staring intently at something. Only after following her gaze did he realize what had captured her interest: the shirtless torsos of knights in training.
Eric narrowed his eyes and said firmly, “Do not entertain improper thoughts.”
“Improper? What, like—wanting to drag one of those knights over there and do indecent, forbidden things until they can’t walk?”
Behind them, Kai coughed awkwardly and turned his head.
Eric, unfazed at this point, responded dryly, “They are oath-bound warriors who’ve sworn to preserve their purity.”
“That’s exactly it. Just who are they saving that purity for, I wonder?”
“You’re going to get us in serious trouble.”
Eric’s brow twitched.
He hurried to change the subject, steering the conversation back to its original purpose.
“Lady Margaret has granted us a month and a half of leave.”
“I know. You sent a spirit hawk.”
Ella leaned back into her chair as if weary of it all.
Eric bowed slightly, a touch of guilt in his voice. “I didn’t expect the Duke of Orléans to go that far. Nor did I think the Temple would respond so quickly to his words.”
The Duke.
Not
my father
.
Just…
the Duke
. Ella tapped the condensation on her coffee cup with her fingertip.
“Who would've known… Anyway, about that spirit stone mine contract. Doesn’t your clan have a mine too? Can’t we just sign a deal with them?”
“You mean the Blue Oak mine?”
The Blue Oak mine was a territory owned by the House of Orléans, but the usage rights belonged to one of the Elders, Oskar.
To secure those rights, Oskar had once groveled beneath Eric’s father’s feet for years.
Even Eric, back then still a knight in the sect, had heard the tale and shuddered in disgust.
“The Duke would never sit idly by. You could say the entire Orléans clan walks in step with his will.”
“…Still, can’t you, I don’t know, work something out behind the scenes? Quietly?”
Ella crossed her legs and tapped on the table with smug ease.
“…”
“…Yeah, what was I expecting from a guy who’d go against his own father just to stay righteous.”
Ella ran a hand through her hair in exasperation.
“I’m the fool for expecting that from you. Forget it. I’ll look elsewhere. I’ll tap into my own network.”
“How exactly?”
Eric furrowed his brows. Ella snorted, as if the question itself was ridiculous.
“How? Connections, of course. My birthday’s in just over two weeks.”
“Ah…”
Eric let out a small sound, his expression faintly complicated.
Ella waved her hand dismissively as she sipped her coffee.
“No need for that face. Sure, I’ve been called cursed since birth—born the same day Her Majesty the Queen died. Bad luck, unlucky star, all that nonsense. But I’ve got no regrets about my birthday.”
Whether that was truly without regret, or just masking it—Eric couldn’t tell.
With his master, it was often hard to distinguish jest from sincerity.
“It’s just… a little hard to decide. Do I wear mourning robes for my mother’s death anniversary? Or dress to dazzle, since it’s also my birthday?”
Eric caught the quiet emotion trailing at the end of her words.
He wasn’t the only one. The attendant standing behind Ella stiffened as well.
So it was a lie—saying she had no regrets.
Unlike Imelin, most people couldn’t help but give themselves away when they lied.
Imelin, on the other hand, was the exact opposite—her truth was the one that always showed.
Fidgeting fingers, restless limbs, or a soft blush blooming on her cheeks…
Without meaning to, Eric recalled Imelin’s face.
Even the feel of her small hand when he held it.
“You’re smiling.”
“…?”
Before he realized it, Ella had leaned forward, raising her finger close to his face.
She twirled it playfully and accused:
“Look at that. You’re smiling. Big, muscle-bound body, but smiling like a delicate little deer. And you’re doing it while I’m trying to decide whether to mourn my dead mother or wear something fabulous—seriously?”
“I… it’s not like that…”
Eric began to explain, then gave up.
He
had
been rude. No excuse.
“…Apologies. My thoughts wandered.”
“Oh? To that red-haired girl, perhaps?”
“No.”
“…Then?”
Ella’s sharp gaze cut through him, and Eric frowned slightly.
He looked off into space, hesitating.
“You said you hate big, strong men! You like guys who are delicate and gentle, like a flower deer!”
“…Just… thinking about a man like that. Like a delicate flower deer…”
As soon as he said it, Eric’s face twisted involuntarily.
He couldn’t help but imagine how Imelin might react to a man like that.
Chapter 59