Debutante (4)
A short distance from Lenz lay a vast mountain range, a breathtaking spectacle. Spurs of peaks stretched left and right, and upward, converging into one grand mountain. From its summit, overlooking Lenz, the view was nothing short of sublime. It was said that one king, ascending to that spot, was so captivated by the sight that he resolved to build a villa there. He summoned countless laborers and mages, sparing no expense on the finest materials, and the villa was completed. It was built in autumn, and as the king marveled at the vista from its windows, he declared it the place where one could feel the season's beauty more deeply than anywhere else in the world. Thus, the villa came to be known as the Autumn Palace.
Since then, the Autumn Palace had been favored by many kings. Unlike the royal palace, centered on administrative duties, this was a haven for pure enjoyment. Events like the debutante ball were held there.
The debutante ball was in full swing in the grand hall. Beneath glittering chandeliers, young men and women danced with elegant grace. Light poured from the silver chandeliers, flowing along the ceiling, while splendid attire sparkled below. But in some shadowed corner untouched by the glow, a woman in dark military uniform stood quietly against the wall.
A young couple approached her, chatting amiably.
"Wow, eight years of sword training? That's incredible!"
"It's nothing. Our family starts young..."
Then they noticed the soldier. Her presence, shrouded in the heavy uniform, only now caught their eye. The moment the man met her gaze, he fell silent. Her height alone was surprising—taller than him—but it was the rigid discipline and intimidating aura unique to a soldier that struck first. Hair darker than shadow, amber eyes. A proud, icy beauty.
"Oh, h-hello."
The man greeted her awkwardly. She nodded silently. That was greeting enough. Overwhelmed by her presence, the couple hurried away.
At that moment, a subordinate approached and reported.
"Major Quyrhalstein, the palace rear garden is clear."
"Relieve Squad Two and have Squad One patrol the audience hall corridor."
"Yes, ma'am!"
The soldiers snapped salutes and turned on their heels.
Hildegard von Quyrhalstein was alone again. She let out a soft sigh and gazed up at the ceiling. Then she drew the sword from her belt.
Twenty-two years. The time she had lived with this blade in hand. Since that day at age four, when her grandfather had vanished amid flames and ash, she had trained without fail, day after day.
Click. She half-drew the longsword from its scabbard. The pristine blade gleamed faintly.
For justice and courage, for truth—this sword.
The inscription etched into the blade made her heart ache with old memories.
Grandfather, when will I reach your realm?
The swordmaster she had idolized as a child—wielding his blade amid golden flames—that image still burned vivid in her mind. Twenty-two years had passed, yet she hadn't attained it. She wondered if she ever could. It felt like an immense wall before her, impossible to breach or scale.
She slowly sheathed the sword.
Still...
Hildegard swept her sharp gaze across the entire hall once more. Most of the guests expected for the debutante had arrived. But two seats remained empty.
Leo and Elizabeth.
She checked her wristwatch. The ball was about to begin in earnest, yet they hadn't shown.
Then a young man approached her. Oily slicked-back hair, a rose in hand.
"Beautiful lady, why stand here alone?"
"...I'm on duty. And you are?"
"Albert Rollingel."
His voice brimmed with confidence, certain she'd be intrigued.
"May I have your name?"
He offered the rose. Hildegard hesitated, then accepted it with a reluctant expression.
"...Hildegard."
"Oh, a memorable name. You seem military—what's your rank?"
"Major."
"Haha, a friend of mine's a major too. Remarkable. Care to join me for a drink over there?"
He gestured to the beverage table in the corner.
"I'll pass."
"One drink won't hurt."
"Alcohol is forbidden on duty."
"No one will mind. I've got you covered."
Albert Rollingel—fiancé to the princess, young head of the Rollingel ducal house. Few here could defy him.
But Hildegard said, "I am promised to another."
Albert faltered briefly, then flashed a sly smile.
"A drink is just... casual conversation, no? I only want to get to know you."
"I'll accept the sentiment."
Her line was firmly drawn.
"Haha... playing hard to get?"
Albert's smile faded, his eyes mixing faint contempt and irritation.
"Hildegard, was it? I'll remember that name."
"Yes."
"I'm promised too. To Mandelria de Lenz. Her father is this kingdom's king."
"I see."
"And my uncle is a general."
"Yes."
Hildegard nodded with unwavering eyes. Albert scowled and pressed on.
"Don't you get it? One word from me, and you'll have a hard time."
"Is that a threat?"
"Threat? Just come have that drink."
Albert forced a relaxed smile, but his eyes had lost their playful flirtation.
Hildegard narrowed her gaze and spoke softly.
"You call it 'just one drink,' young master Rollingel, but it doesn't feel like mere kindness to me."
She glanced down at the rose in her hand. The language of power atop such beauty.
"And no matter how refined the threat, it's still a threat."
Albert's brow twitched. He stared at her—lower status, lower rank. Yet here, he was losing ground.
Hildegard tossed the rose onto a nearby table.
"You must love that man dearly?"
"More than anything in the world."
No hesitation.
"Hmph. Didn't expect that from a major."
Albert glanced at the rose, then lifted his chin with a smile.
"I'll remember you, Major Hildegard von Quyrhalstein. Quite the impression."
"Thank you. I hope it lasts."
Her tone was resolute, her voice calmly steady—cold, even.
Albert exhaled sharply and stepped back. Mindful of the onlookers, he plastered on a fake smile.
"Then, enjoy the evening elsewhere. Sorry for the interruption."
He turned gracefully, but his fist clenched so hard veins bulged.
Rumble...Boom!Kaboom!Crash!!
Crimson lightning bolts tore through the murky night sky, striking mercilessly. The earth quaked. The impenetrable darkness blazed brighter than daylight under the barrage. The chill gripping the forest turned to scorching heat in an instant.
Boom, boom, boom! Three per second. Sometimes a dozen or more, upheaving the ground. But they weren't random. They seemed haphazard at a glance, yet every bolt was under Elizabeth's control. She set coordinates, channeled mana, and lightning struck precisely.
The bolts exploded shadows' bodies, shredded them, incinerated them.
"Aaaagh!!"
"S-save me!"
The shadows fled in panic. Blinded by the onslaught, they lost direction but instinctively bolted away from her. Futile.
Aloft in the air, Elizabeth looked down on them like ants. Mark their escape paths, and it was over.
Kaboom! A bolt crashed ahead of one shadow. Its right arm and leg burst apart. The explosion hurled it three meters into a tree. But it lived—she'd spared it on purpose.
Truthfully, no need to calculate paths. Just drop lightning on them. No matter how fast, they couldn't outrun bolts.
But she held back for this:
"P-please, spare me."
The mangled shadow bowed toward her in the sky.
—to witness this.
Ihenvalt's vaunted elite forces were massacred pitifully by Elizabeth alone. She was a high mage, yes, but the key was her Omangseong Blessing.
Lightning bolt was a 6th Circle advanced spell, devouring vast mana. Even top 6th Circle mages struggled beyond ten casts a day—an ultimate attack. Potent, but not for spamming. Each required care.
Yet Elizabeth had unleashed over fifty. Her heart housed near-infinite mana, vast as the sea. To her, bolts were a mere finger snap.
Then—
A sharp bang! from the battlefield's edge. A hidden shadow fired a concealed pistol.
Sensing the threat, Elizabeth twisted midair in a frantic spin. The bullet grazed her temple, but the evasion disrupted her spell, sending her plummeting. Her right ankle twisted on impact.
"Ngh..."
Regaining poise, she glared at the shooter, catching her breath. Ankle throbbed, but no reason to stop. Expression unchanged, she extended a hand.
"You first."
Her voice was low, firm.
Kaboom! The shooter vanished without a chance to react.
And—silence.
Lightning ceased; crimson flashes faded from the sky. Ash from scorched forest remained. And one shadow.
"Please, please, spare me."
He groveled obsequiously. With the apocalyptic barrage halted, darkness reclaimed the woods. But heat and death's echo lingered thickly. No other living presence.
All shadows but him were dead. That realization terrified him more.
Thud. Elizabeth descended gracefully. She clenched and released her fist, gauging her power.
Not bad for a first time casting in battle.
Real combat magic was new. Easy enough—unleash area spells wildly. But the ankle injury from carelessness nagged.
Throb.
Killing humans was also a first. No guilt, though. They'd tried to kill her and Dad. If anything, regret for not making it slower, more painful.
"Who sent you?"
Elizabeth looked down at the shadow.
"K-King Siegfried!"
"Why."
Short, icy query.
The shadow whimpered, gasping.
"Leo Valentine... rejected the proposal... so he ordered the hit!"
"That marriage offer?"
"...Yes."
"Hah."
Elizabeth recalled last week. During dance practice, she'd glimpsed Father's face—calm on surface, but angry. So that's why.
The king summoning him to school for marriage, rejected, sends assassins. On debutante night—when she'd confess to Dad.
"..."
She steadied her breath, suppressing rising hatred. Ankle pain stabbed, fueling fresh rage. No proper dancing now.
As if the world itself conspired against her.
"I-I told you everything, so now..."
The shadow trailed off cautiously. Elizabeth turned wordlessly and walked away.
He watched her back, sighing in relief. Then grinned and bolted.
Pop. His body burst.
Elizabeth limped to the carriage. A gust brushed dust from the wheels; she boarded carefully, hiking her skirt to check her ankle. The right one was swollen. In battle, she'd ignored it, but now: twisted inward, ligaments torn badly.
Snap! A figure burst from the woods.
Elizabeth yanked her skirt down.
"Elizabeth."
"Dad."
Leo. Breathing ragged, bloodied, striding toward her. Neat part disheveled, clothes splattered.
"You okay? Hurt anywhere?"
"...I'm fine. You?"
Leo spread his arms demonstratively.
"That was a swordmaster, right? Really okay?"
"Dad's a swordmaster too. And a 6th Circle mage. Easy win."
Eight years without a blade didn't erase the skill gap. He couldn't end it quick, but he'd survive.
"But... what now?"
"What?"
"...We were heading to the debutante."
"What else? Home."
Leo stated the obvious. But Elizabeth slowly shook her head.
"...Can't we just go?"
"Go? Where?"
"The Autumn Palace."
Leo fell silent. Elizabeth exhaled softly, lifting her gaze.
"If not tonight... I don't think I can."
Her voice was lower than usual, trembling faintly. Wind from beyond the trees tousled her hair. Moonlight pierced tangled strands and gray clouds—a sliver like the end of this day, this feeling.
Ankle still hurt, but her heart ached more.
Wind passed. Dress hem fluttered; forest's residual heat hung in the air.
She said no more. No need. Her mind was set.
There, in that moment, face him—
And say it then.
So now, just go.