The next morning, the manor was quiet. Servants cleared trays and swept the halls, and a few ribbons still hung in the corners.
Lucian waited in the front hallway near the entrance, glancing at the gates, until Belle came over, calm and unbothered, like last night hadn't earned a second thought.
"You did pretty well last night," she said, folding her arms with a smirk. "Even if you almost got flattened by Ceil."
He chuckled softly, rubbing his sore side. "Yeah, thanks to you. That punch saved me."
Belle shrugged, grinning wider. "Don't get used to it. Next time, I might just let you handle it yourself."
He gave her a look. "You say that, but you didn't hesitate."
Belle scoffed. "He was about to crash into my table. I was protecting my dessert."
"Sure," he said, not buying it.
She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Besides, if you lose too badly, people start looking at our family differently."
That landed harder than her teasing. He glanced toward the main house. "So, you were thinking about reputation?"
Belle shrugged again, but her grin softened. "Of course. You're too weak."
He opened his mouth to reply, but voices near the entrance caught their attention.
Father and Duke Lukas were standing by the gates, deep in conversation. The early sunlight made the duke's sharp features stand out, while Ceil stood at the back quietly.
As they got closer, Father turned to the duke. "Thank you for coming, brother," he said warmly.
The duke nodded faintly. "It was necessary. Next time, you should visit the main house. It's been a while since you visited."
"We will," Father replied with a smile. "It really has been too long since I visited."
The duke glanced at Belle and Lucian, a small grin appearing. "I hope you two come to join the main house."
Belle blinked, visibly confused by the sudden suggestion, her lips parting slightly as if unsure how to respond.
Ceil's gaze shifted to Lucian, studying him for a moment before he spoke in a calm but firm voice. "Next time, I want a fair fight."
Lucian twitched slightly, caught off guard by his change in tone, but he nodded silently.
Then Ceil turned to Belle and gave a polite nod. "Goodbye, my fair lady."
Belle raised an eyebrow. "See you later."
The duke's carriage waited just beyond the gates. The horses were restless, pawing at the ground. With a final nod from Father, the gates creaked open. The duke and Ceil climbed inside, the doors closing softly behind them as the wheels began rolling down the winding road out of the estate.
. . .
At breakfast, Father sat at the head of the table with several documents spread before him. His expression was calm, but serious enough that Belle noticed right away.
"What was the duke talking about?" she asked.
"It's not a big deal," Father said. "We can talk about it after breakfast."
Belle frowned, then asked again. "So, Father. What happened with your mission?"
Father set down his teacup carefully and leaned forward. "The Red Corps returned early this morning. The operation was a success. We recovered several stolen goods, and the pirate ships have been neutralized."
Belle's eyes lit up, but she stayed quiet, sensing there was more.
"As for the Demon Faction," Father continued, tapping one of the scrolls, "our intelligence confirms they tried to set up a base near Linberg. They were likely preparing to summon reinforcements and expand their influence. We disrupted their plans before they could spread."
Belle let out a short laugh, like she hadn't meant to. "A group called the Demon Faction? That's what you're worried about?"
"Yes." Father set the scroll down. "There are three groups the Church watches. That is one of them."
Belle's smile faded slowly. She looked at the scroll, then back at him. "Oh."
"Their origin dates back to ancient times," Father continued. "From what our intelligence says, their primary goal is to bring the Demon God into this world."
Belle was quiet for a moment. That was rare enough to notice.
"You said three groups," Lucian said. "What are the other two?"
Father exhaled once, quietly. "The second is called Desire Lunatics. They are not a cult like the Demon Faction. They don't worship anything. They are scattered organizations, which makes them difficult to track and even harder to eliminate. They chase their desire, so you can't really predict them. They do whatever they want, and they don't care who gets hurt."
Belle frowned. "Is that a real name?"
"It's what people call them," Father said.
"The last is the Sinners." His voice dropped just slightly, not in volume but in something else. Weight, maybe. "The most dangerous. Most of them work alone and hide in plain sight. They could be a merchant, a teacher, even a servant in a noble family." He paused, turning the teacup once in his hand without drinking. "They claim they hear the voice of an Ancient God. Once they start listening, it gets inside them. Little by little, it corrupts them. By the time anyone notices, it has already gone too far."
Belle stared at her bowl. Her fingers tightened around the spoon. "So, they could be anyone."
Father didn't answer. He just nodded.
Then his eyes moved to Lucian. "Lucian. Your notes helped more than you thought. They gave us an advantage and kept casualties low."
Lucian blinked, caught off guard. "It wasn't that serious."
"Still," Father said, "even as a Warrior, I wouldn't have seen it coming. How did you know?"
"Just from reading books," Lucian said.
Father laughed, the sound lightening the room. "Books, huh? Belle, maybe you should start reading more. You'll need both strength and knowledge when you start at the academy this year."
Belle glanced at Lucian, then back at Father, and reached for another spoonful. "This food is delicious," she said.
Father shook his head slowly. "That won't work forever, Belle."
The morning passed quietly after that. Lucian spent most of it in the old study room, turning Father's words over without meaning to, until Belle knocked on the door and told him Roswell was waiting.
. . .
A week passed, and the cold breeze began to settle over Linberg. The mornings were crisp, and the skies held that soft gray hue that hinted at an early winter. The trees in the manor garden had started shedding their leaves, and frost clung to the edges of the stone fence behind the training ground.
Belle and Lucian had been training every morning for the past few days. Mostly running laps around the manor, then repeating the same basic sword swings until his shoulders burned.
His arms were sore. His legs felt heavy.
Belle still looked like she could go another round without even breathing harder.
This morning was no different, except Sir Roswell stood waiting for them in the training yard. His arms were crossed, his expression as unreadable as always.
They bowed. "Good morning, Master."
He nodded once. "Today, I'll show you the Eastern Sword Technique. It also originated from your ancestors."
Belle's eyes lit up. "Wait, really? Finally!"
Roswell stepped forward. A wooden sword rested in his right hand, his left tucked neatly behind his back. Then, without warning, he moved.
Two slashes cut through the air so fast Lucian almost missed them. The strikes landed with a dry hiss, leaving clean, deep marks in the sand at their feet. For a second, he wondered if his tired mind was lagging what his eyes had seen.
He frowned. "Master, how did you do that with a wooden sword?"
Roswell glanced at the grooves, then back at him. "Because the weapon isn't the point. Footwork. Timing. Angle. If your body is aligned, even wood can be a weapon. Aura makes it sharper, but the technique makes it better."
He turned the practice blade once in his grip, as if weighing an invisible edge.
"This technique was designed to end a fight quickly," he continued. "Power and speed. One to three strikes. If used properly, it can kill a monster in a single move. It's for destruction, for finishing things before they start."
Roswell stepped closer and pulled off his glove. A faint bluish steam seeped from his palm, slow and steady. As he moved his hand it waved and trailed behind his fingers like it had weight of its own.
"This is called aura," he said. "As Warriors we refine our spiritual energy into a powerful force. Through training, through discipline, through pushing past every limit until no one can stop us."
He shaped the steam along his palm, pulling it tight until it looked almost solid, almost like an edge wrapped around skin.
"It can protect you like a shield or cut like a sword, depending on how you shape it. The stronger your body, the more it holds. The better your control, the sharper it becomes."
The steam faded as he drew it back inward. His hand looked ordinary again.
"Master, can anyone use aura?" Lucian asked.
Roswell pulled his glove back on. "No. The moment you choose your class, a core forms inside you. It stores and reshapes your spiritual energy into something that uniquely belongs to that class alone. For us Warriors it becomes aura. For others it becomes something else entirely."
Belle cut in before he could finish. "Master, could we do light sparring?"
Roswell looked at her for a moment, then glanced at Lucian, silent but clearly asking the same question.
He shook his head fast. "No."
Belle huffed. "We've been training for a week, but we haven't sparred even once."
"We can't beat him," Lucian said. "We're just kids."
"I know," Belle replied, then paused, tapping the sword again like she was working something out. "What if he doesn't use his aura? If he does, he loses."
Roswell became quiet for a second, then nodded. "Alright. I won't use aura."
He lifted the wooden sword into a ready position. "But remember, this isn't a real match. Just sparring."
Belle grinned. "Sounds good to me."
Lucian gave a small shrug. "Okay. I'll try too. Just don't expect much."
Roswell's gaze settled on them, steady and unreadable. "Good. This is about what you're capable of," he said.