Chapter 21
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 21
Chapter Title: Dumfries (4)
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-It's not your fault.
A faint silhouette flickered in the dimness.
Even though her face wasn't visible, he knew who it was.
-It's not your fault.
A heavy weight settled deep in his chest, and something hot surged up his throat.
No.
It's my fault.
He tried to say it as he reached out toward the silhouette.
But the more he struggled, the farther she slipped away.
He extended his scarred little hand toward her.
-It's not your fault. So don't be sad. You have to live, freely. For my sake too!
Just as his hand was about to touch her, he forced his mouth open wide to speak.
But his hand didn't reach, and his voice didn't come out.
-Goodbye.
The silhouette bidding farewell grew fainter and fainter, and watching it made his chest tighten even more.
Yet his limbs wouldn't move, as if he'd sunk into quicksand.
-You have to live, Blake...
With all her might, she flailed her tiny limbs that were little more than bones. And with desperate effort, she uttered words he hadn't spoken aloud since that day.
Finally, his hand brushed against her silhouette, just barely.
"...!"
Blake's eyes snapped open.
A strange sensation wrapped around his entire body, and he bolted upright like a coiled spring.
His muscled upper body, covered in wounds large and small, glistened with sweat.
"Hoo."
Blake took a deep breath.
Even so, his pounding heart refused to calm.
It was a dream he had only once or twice a year at most, but tonight felt different.
The hazy outline of the silhouette, always indistinct in his dreams, had been faintly visible. And the hand he'd always reached for but never touched had finally made contact.
On top of that, he'd even called out to her by name.
He had no idea why it had happened now, but it was a startling and bewildering change.
"...!"
But as Blake wiped his face, he flinched at an even more tangible and bizarre physical change.
It wasn't sweat covering his face.
It was tears.
And the hot tears were still flowing.
"..."
He stared blankly for a moment, tears streaming down.
He couldn't quite grasp what this heat pouring from his eyes was.
And rightly so, for as far back as his memory reached, he'd never once shed a tear in his life.
"Hm."
Blake impassively wiped away the tears and blinked hard a few times.
The tears soon stopped.
His racing heartbeat returned to normal as well.
With everything back to usual, he rose from his spot.
He still couldn't make sense of what had just happened, but he decided not to dwell on it.
Wasting energy on something unknowable was inefficient.
"I don't like this feeling."
He muttered softly under his breath, then quickly dressed, grabbed his sword, and headed out.
A few diligent mountain birds cried out, but otherwise, the predawn backyard was silent.
In his black leather pants and sleeveless shirt, Blake held the True Demon Sword—a blade he hadn't drawn since leaving the fortress.
Standing at one edge of the yard, he raised it overhead with one hand.
"Hoo."
Savoring the chill wind that happened to blow through, Blake lightly regulated his breathing.
A glint flashed in his usually indifferent deep-blue eyes, and the muscles in his sword arm swelled like a venomous serpent poised to strike.
In an instant, a massive blade traced a line.
Shing!
A light, sharp sound sliced through the dawn air along with the swing.
Whoosh!
The low shrubs before him split perfectly in two, as if sliced directly by the blade, forming a narrow path.
Shoulder, arm, and sword.
Forming an almost perfect straight line, Blake raised his arm again. Then he struck down once more.
Shing! Shing! Shing!
Short whistling sounds like air being rent echoed continuously in the dark yard.
After repeating single-handed downward strikes for a while, he suddenly halted.
"Hoo."
Blake slowly caught his breath.
After a couple more breaths, he switched the sword to his left hand and repeated the same downward strikes exactly as before.
Swish! Swish!
Finishing the left-handed strikes in the same time, he raised the sword overhead.
"Hooo."
A deep, even breath escaped with his exhale, long and steady.
He gripped the handle tightly with both hands.
And without hesitation, brought it down.
Ping!
A eerie whoosh, subtly different from the one-handed swings, leaked out.
Ping! Ping!
It was hard to believe such sounds came from a broadsword over 140 centimeters long with a blade width three times that of a standard longsword.
That's why the person secretly watching Blake swing it stared wide-eyed in disbelief.
'Amazing...'
Mia watched Blake's training with saucer eyes.
In the dim center of the backyard, sharp whooshes like arrows loosed from bows rang out, parting the thick fog and flattening the shrubs.
It was as if that massive blade had carved a path.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
The sound of arrows leaving strings kept stimulating her ears.
Mia's gaze was fixed on Blake.
There wasn't the slightest waver; he brought the sword down in the exact same direction and angle every time. It was awe-inspiring. Sword and body seemed one.
Standing amid the gradually thinning fog, Blake exuded an inexplicable solemnity, even beauty.
Just then, the morning sun rose, its rays reaching the yard.
Peeing!
The blade reflected the sunlight, scattering a cold gleam through the air.
"Saa..."
Blake drew his foot back in and took a deep breath.
White breath rose in a long arc over the cool air before slyly vanishing into the sunlight.
"Ah."
An indescribable feeling made Mia shudder unwittingly.
Clang!
Then the sword slid into its sheath. Blake turned.
For a moment, his eyes met Mia's in the air.
"Ack!"
Startled, Mia hurriedly hid behind a pillar.
She hadn't done anything wrong, yet her heart raced.
Thud, thud.
The closer Blake's footsteps grew, the faster her heart pounded.
She feared he might scold her for violating the no-talking, no-minding condition.
But nothing like that happened.
Swish.
Blake ascended the corridor from the yard entrance and passed her by as if nothing had occurred.
In the motion, she missed the round sandbags wrapped around his wrists and ankles.
"Phew."
Mia sighed, standing alone behind the pillar, watching Blake's broad-strided back recede.
It felt lonelier and sadder than when he'd told her not to speak to him.
"Oh my! Miss, what are you doing out here?"
A sturdy maid from the mansion staff approached with a basket on her hip and spoke up.
"Ah! Nothing. Just taking a stroll..."
Mia shook her head hastily.
"I see. Oh, right! Have you seen that guy by any chance? The knight you brought a few days ago."
"Knight?"
It was probably Blake, but Mia feigned ignorance.
"You know, the one with the scary face, tall and huge."
"Ah! Mr. Blake. What about him?"
"Well, get this—that knight ran five full laps around the inside of the mansion wall without stopping!"
"Five laps?"
Mia's eyes widened at the unfamiliar story.
The Old White Mansion's walls spanned a kilometer around.
"Yes! And super fast too. Isn't it weird? I asked why he was running, but he didn't even answer—just blew right past! And those solid pecs. Where do you even find a stallion of a man like that... Oh dear! What am I saying in front of the young miss! Hohoho! Enjoy your walk. Don't be late for breakfast!"
The maid, chattering dreamily with glazed eyes, burst into flighty laughter and trotted off.
"Hmph!"
For some reason irritated, Mia kicked an innocent pebble and walked away.
Her figure soon vanished into the mansion.
"Hm. So that's how it is."
Blake, watching Mia from afar, turned away.
"That's why."
Now he understood.
Why seeing that little girl made him feel off, and even conversing with her brought a vague unease.
A silhouette floated in Blake's mind.
The one from his dream that dawn, the one that had made him shed tears.
And that silhouette and Mia White, this little girl...
"She resembles her."
That was the reason.
That's why she stirred that strange feeling.
For over a decade, he'd seen her in dreams but never touched her.
And after her death, he'd never uttered her title.
A word now faded from memory, once so intimate but now utterly awkward, finally slipped past his parched, cracked lips.
"...Sis."
Standing still for a moment, Blake strode off again.
His eyes, taking those long steps, sank back into cold indifference.
"Hahaha!"
"Hohoho!"
In the center of a gaudy yet somehow tacky hall, lively laughter rang out amid a scene straight out of a noble-themed novel's party—cliché and all.
"What a cookie-cutter sight."
"Pardon? What was that?"
When a young man muttered under his breath, the hall's host, Baron Mamong Lancaster—who'd been eyeing him—asked back.
"Nothing. Care for a drink?"
The young man smiled brightly and lifted his wine glass.
"Y-yes!"
Baron Lancaster beamed deferentially and clinked his glass lightly against the young man's.
"I hope we can continue to count on you, Sir Swent."
Though over forty, he bowed and scraped before the man in his mid-to-late twenties.
The young man responded with a smile as dazzling as his looks.
"What power could I possibly have?"
"Nonsense! As Lord Darlington's prospective son-in-law, the Blue Hawk Knights' youngest division commander and acting captain no less—who else has power if not Sir Roderick Swent?"
"I'm grateful for the words, but we haven't even had the betrothal ceremony, and I'm only acting captain. Nothing's set in stone."
"Haha! It surely will be. And if there's even the slightest hurdle... this Lancaster stands ready to lend his strength, so please don't forget."
Unable to shake his merchant habits, Baron Lancaster rubbed his palms, his beady eyes twinkling amid pudgy cheeks.
"Of course I won't."
Even as other nobles subtly grimaced at the blatant flattery, Roderick Swent showed no displeasure, offering a refreshing smile.
"Haa."
Ladies of all ages sighed wistfully, glancing at him.
Fine golden hair framing his neck, sharp features, and a towering 180-centimeter frame.
His slender yet toned build and pale skin made Roderick stand out even among the well-heeled from Nolford and Northway at the party.
And it wasn't just looks—his status and background were formidable too.
Enough that the greedy Lancaster had glued himself to Roderick since the party began.
Then someone approached Baron Lancaster and whispered cautiously.
It was the mansion steward.
"Baron, um..."
"What?"
Interrupted from his talk with Roderick, the baron frowned slightly.
"...What?!"
But as he heard the whisper, his face changed, eventually twisting into fury.
"Something wrong...?"
Intrigued by the shift, Roderick asked softly.
"Ah! N-no, nothing. Just a minor house with a grudge against my family pulling some nonsense."
The baron flinched but forced an awkward smile.
"Nonsense, you say?"
"Hahaha! Well, this ruined White Family up and challenged my house to a duel of honor out of nowhere!"
"White Family?"
Roderick showed interest.
(To be continued in the next installment)