24. Out on the Training Ground
Out on the Training Ground. Seria's hellish training regimen, which had started a few months back, was in full swing. Her logic was that no matter how vast your mana reserves, if your basic stamina sucked, you'd tire out in no time. She wasn't wrong, so I couldn't argue and just got dragged along for the ride.
"Alright, three laps around the Training Ground, then one hundred push-ups."
"One hundred? What am I, an orc?!"
"No backtalk—get started. Or should I whack you with a wooden sword myself?"
"You're too harsh! Evil drill sergeant!"
I grumbled but shrugged off my outer shirt and started running anyway. Once I got going, my competitive streak kicked in, and I threw myself into it. Damn this win-at-all-costs mentality of mine.
Huffing and puffing, I circled the Training Ground, sweat pouring as I cranked out push-ups.
"Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... one hundred!"
"Good. Next, five hundred wooden sword swings."
"Have mercy..."
I collapsed spread-eagled on the grass, gasping for air. At this rate, I was gonna die for real.
"Young master, you're exaggerating. How will you manage if you tire out from just this much?"
"Isn't it weirder if I don't get tired?"
I shot a glare upward at the voice above me. And there was Seria in my line of sight.
...She's insane. For real.
Fourteen-year-old Seria. All traces of her childhood chubbiness were gone, replaced by the full bloom of girlhood. Her jet-black hair, tied high for training, swayed in the breeze. Sweat beaded on her pale, smooth nape, sparkling in the sunlight. And those deep red eyes of hers. Just standing there looking down at me radiated this seductive aura.
I could see why the young knights and merchant guild staff coming through the Lord's Castle blushed and fumbled whenever they spotted her. Total ice beauty. Ice beauty through and through. She's scary pretty. Objectively speaking, isn't this national treasure-level looks?
"Why are you staring like that? Is there something on my face?"
Seria tilted her head curiously.
"Huh? Oh... no. Nothing."
I cleared my throat awkwardly and looked away. Was it puberty hitting? Lately, I kept zoning out whenever I looked at her. I'd seen that face every day since we were kids, and I always knew she was pretty, but...
Feeling embarrassed for no reason, I grabbed the hem of my shirt and yanked it up.
"Ugh, so hot! Sweating buckets here."
I wiped my face with the shirt.
"Y-Young master! Why'd you suddenly lift your shirt?!"
"Why? It's hot. It's just us—what's the big deal?"
I glanced at her, shirt still hiked up, no deeper thought than that. But Seria's reaction was weird.
"..."
Her gaze was locked on my abs. Those red eyes shook like there was an earthquake.
"Huh? What's up?"
I looked down at my own stomach. The result of months under Seria's hell training. Not quite adult-level bulk, but for a twelve-year-old, the six-pack was pretty defined.
"Whoa, my abs are killer, huh? Your training's paying off big time, Seria. Wanna feel?"
I teased, thrusting my stomach out playfully. Then—
Pssshhh—!
Seria's face turned beet red in an instant, from her earlobes to her nape, like a radish.
"A-A-Are you insane?! Wh-Where do you think you are, stripping like that?!"
"I'm not stripping, just wiping sweat..."
"Put it down! Now! You'll catch a cold! It's hideous anyway!"
She slapped her hands over her eyes and spun away. But her fingers were peeking through the gaps.
"What's that? 'Hideous,' but you're peeking through your fingers?"
"I-I'm not looking! Who said I was?!"
She yelped, jumping in place. Her flustered panic was adorable. Grinning, I stood up and sneaked behind her.
"Seriaaa~ You sure you didn't peek? I worked my butt off. C'mon, take a look."
"D-Don't come closer! One-meter no-approach zone!"
"Aw, c'mon. Let's check if you've got abs too. Can I poke?"
I jabbed a finger at her side. She shrieked and bolted forward.
"Eek! Don't touch me! I'll hit you with the wooden sword for real!"
"Puhahaha! Look at our shy little Seria!"
"I'm not shy! You're delirious from the heat—add ten laps to the Training Ground!"
"What?! Hey, that's too much!"
"Twenty before you know it—start running!"
Still fanning her crimson face, she huffed indignantly. Giggling, I took off running again.
"If I do twenty laps, can I poke then?"
"Shut up! Save your breath for running!"
Her sharp voice from behind only made me laugh harder. A cool autumn breeze swept in.
Yeah, what more could life want? Bickering and laughing every day with my pretty, cute escort knight.
"Young master! Form's slipping—straighten your back!"
"Got it, got it! Evil drill sergeant!"
—
One day, our territory shot to fame thanks to the Martel Special Herb Shampoo.
And? It meant annoying hassles incoming.
"Son! Take a look at this!"
Father burst into the study, waving a gold-embossed envelope that glittered.
"The Roan Earl from the neighboring territory sent a banquet invitation! They're honoring our family as guests of honor!"
"Oh? Nice."
I flipped through my book on the sofa, half-hearted.
"So you'll go alone, Dad? I'll stay home and tinker with magic..."
"Nonsense!"
He jumped in front of me, clasping his hands and hitting me with the world's most pitiful, pleading puppy eyes.
"Son... let Dad brag about you a little! I wanna shout from the rooftops that our genius made this shampoo! What's the point if you don't come?!"
"But if I go, people will bug me..."
"Of course our proud Seria comes too! With her standing guard as your escort knight, it'll be so reassuring! Please? It's Dad's dream!"
He looked ready to grab my pant leg. Seria, off to the side, seemed secretly hopeful too—she'd never been to a banquet hall.
"Ugh..."
How could I say no to that? I threw up my hands in surrender.
"Fine, I'll go. When is it?"
"Exactly one month from now! Haha! Time to get banquet attire tailored!"
Father danced out gleefully. I sat up from the sofa, a bad feeling brewing.
Banquets were noble socializing central. Sure, great food, but with our recent fame, folks would swarm us. Super annoying.
And one more thing—the biggest headache.
"Seria."
"Yes, young master."
"You know how to dance, right?"
She tilted her head at my question.
"Dance? You mean sword dance? Gracefully spinning while slicing enemy throats..."
"No, no—not throat-slicing. Like waltzes, social dances where guys and girls hold hands and twirl."
"..."
Her mouth clamped shut. Those red eyes wandered into space.
I'd just asked casually, but...
"Oh no. As guests of honor, we'll have to dance at least one song."
"D-Do you know how, young master?"
"Me? Obviously..."
I trailed off. As if I'd know waltzes—I'd never even been near a club in my past life. But pride wouldn't let me admit it.
"I mastered it perfectly from books. Theory's down pat."
"Just theory?"
"Practice starts now. C'mon."
I dashed to the library, yanking out a dusty thick tome titled The Quintessential Social Dance: A Noble's Footsteps.
We cleared the parlor table for space. I flipped open the book and cleared my throat.
"Okay, it says here: 'The man stands tall like a graceful swan, right hand gently encircling his partner's lower back. Maintain a fist-and-a-half distance, put 70% of your weight on the front foot, and advance with the flow.'"
"...A fist-and-a-half is dagger range. Perfect for enemy ambushes."
"Why does your mind always go there?! This is a banquet—no assassins! Imagine it!"
"And 70% weight on the front foot leaves your lower guard wide open. Ankle's toast."
"Argh, seriously! Ignore the sword stuff and just follow instructions!"
I slammed the book shut and stood before her. Our heights were almost even now, eyes level. Awkwardly, I placed my right hand on her waist. Her body stiffened like a log.
"Seria, relax a bit. Feels like I'm hugging a rock."
"B-But man and woman this close is against etiquette..."
"It's dancing. Left hand on my shoulder."
She tentatively placed her hand. Our faces neared, and her faint lavender shampoo scent wafted over. I swallowed unconsciously.
Such flawless skin. Not a blemish. Her red eyes darting in panic were kinda cute.
"Here we go. Boom-cha-cha, boom-cha-cha."
I counted the beat aloud and stepped.
"Right foot first... whoa!"
Thud!
"Ow!"
My foot got stomped right away.
"S-Sorry! My footwork tangled!"
"You put your full weight into that! Thought my toe broke!"
"Reflex—my legs tensed... Let's try again!"
We reset. Boom-cha-cha, boom-cha-cha.
Thud! Whack!
"Ow! Hey! Why'd you shin-kick this time?!"
"St-Step tangled!"
"You're totally trying to assassinate me!"
The parlor turned into chaos in seconds. I figured she'd be good at anything physical, but Seria was a total dunce at dancing.
"Haa... haa..."
Thirty minutes later. My feet felt stomped about seventy-nine times.
"Young master, you okay?"
"Nope. I'll need a wheelchair before the banquet."
"Sorry... I think I lack rhythm."
She hung her head dejectedly. Seeing her down like that softened me up again.
"Sigh, fine. One last try. This time, full turn from the book."
"Yes! I'll remember!"
We clasped hands. I tensed up too, and luckily, she tried relaxing—so the first steps flowed decently.
"Nice, Seria. Feeling good now."
"Really? Feels like my lower guard's exposed... uneasy."
"Just trust me and follow. Now—turn!"
I tugged her hand lightly per the book, leading the spin. She twirled beautifully, black hair tracing an arc in the air.
Perfect!
The instant I thought that—
"Eek?!"
Her foot caught the carpet edge mid-turn. She lost balance and toppled toward me.
"Seria!"
I instinctively shot out my arms, yanking her waist into a hug. But my stance was off too.
Crash! Thud!
We tumbled tangled together across the parlor floor.
"Ugh..."
Luckily, I hit bottom. And cradled in my arms was Seria, sprawled atop me.
"..."
Silence fell. Her hands braced on my chest, my arms locked around her waist. Our faces inches apart. Her red eyes quivered massively right before mine. Each breath, her warm exhale tickled my nose. Shampoo scent flooded my head, blanking my mind.
Thump, thump, thump.
A massive heartbeat—whose?—pounded in my ears. Her gaze drifted slowly from my eyes to nose to lips, then snapped back up.
"Y-Y-Young master..."
Her face blazed red. Mine too, obviously.
"S-Seria. You okay? Not hurt?"
My voice cracked embarrassingly high.
"Y-Yes! N-No, not hurt! Y-Young master, you're so sturdy it didn't hurt!"
She babbled, pushing off my chest to scramble up. But she rushed too much—her foot tangled again, knee slamming my gut.
"Guhk!"
"Eek! S-Sorry, young master!!"
Romance? Bull. I clutched my stomach, rolling on the floor. Seria flailed around me in panic.
"I-I'll call the doctor!"
"No need... I'm fine..."
I hauled myself up to the sofa. She sat far away on it too. Both tomato-faced, staring into space. Awkward tension filled the room.
"Ahem."
I broke the silence first.
"Seria."
"Y-Yes."
"At the banquet... we just stick to the wall and eat?"
"...Yes. Full agreement. Dancing's just nobles' frivolous pastime."
"Right? Let's carve some meat."
We nodded without eye contact.
That night, Seria's lingering warmth and scent kept me tossing and turning late.
—
"*Sniff sniff*... Young master's scent..."
Seria was the same.