Chapter 78
Chapter 78
The Floyd Count Family, descendants of founding contributors with sizable territories near the capital, had remained neutral in my past life before abruptly joining the Second Prince Faction midway through the civil war—sealing their doom.
By the war's end, when the First Prince Faction gained the upper hand, they became an example for other fence-sitting nobles and vanished.
And the final rumor surrounding them? That their young lady, barely past adulthood, had single-handedly held the Inner City gates, cutting down a hundred knights before falling.
A knightess born in the wrong era—no, the wrong kingdom. Ellen Floyd.
Given Grandia Kingdom's low regard for women, her legend spread like wildfire.
Her tragic end became ballads sung by wandering minstrels across the land.
'Countless versions of her story circulated.'
Most were tragic romances spun around her, but that only proved how deeply her final stand had shocked the people.
And now, Logan was witnessing firsthand that those rumors hadn't been exaggerations.
Considering her age, the level she'd reached was extraordinary.
And given that she was a noble lady—hardly an environment conducive to rigorous swordsmanship training—
'Her talent might rival Ronian or Victor's.'
What had begun as a perfunctory social obligation had unexpectedly led him to a prodigy.
A mix of curiosity and regret flickered in Logan's eyes.
'The civil war is mere months away. An engagement means nothing now.'
Had it been marriage instead, he could've bound this talent to House MacLaine.
But.
Proposing marriage after a first meeting? Impossible in Grandia's noble circles.
'And I'm hardly a silver-tongued charmer.'
There was no way to recruit her in time.
"......What a waste."
"Huh?"
"Ah, no. My lady. A slip of the tongue... My apologies."
"......It's fine."
"......."
"......."
An oppressive silence settled between them.
"Hmm. Perhaps some tea first—"
"Ah, yes. Then—"
"......."
"......."
Their forced attempts at conversation only deepened the awkwardness.
Finally, Logan sighed and spoke plainly.
"It seems you didn't come here willingly either, my lady."
"Huh?"
"Neither did I. So, how about we drop the formalities and end this?"
Her expression shifted subtly.
"......Are you suggesting we stop wasting time?"
"Yes. Precisely."
"Hmm. Then how about we make this time meaningful?"
"Huh?"
Her sudden shift in attitude—bordering on enthusiasm—caught him off guard.
She almost looked relieved at the idea of cutting the charade.
If this was an attempt to flirt, there might still be a sliver of hope.
"......Meaningful how?"
Thump-thump.
Logan masked his rising anticipation as he watched her.
"I heard you're the Sword Duke's disciple. Would you spar with me?"
"Huh?"
Logan nearly choked back a laugh.
"If even I can't gauge your skill despite you being his disciple, you must be far stronger. Unless... is sparring inconvenient?"
It wasn't what he'd expected, but it was refreshing.
Seeing the earnest look in Ellen's eyes, Logan nodded with a smile.
"Very well. Sparring with someone of your talent at such a young age is an opportunity I'd welcome."
"My lady!"
Laila, Ellen's lifelong maid, clutched her sleeve in a panic, stomping her feet.
Startled, Ellen glanced at Logan walking ahead—thankfully out of earshot.
"Lower your voice! He'll hear!"
"That's not the problem right now! The Count forbade this! Why are you doing this?! I won't survive this!"
"It's different now! This is a proper spar. Laila, don't you trust me?"
Ellen spoke confidently, but Laila shot back firmly.
"No! Absolutely not! How could I trust you after everything?! Ugh, seriously!"
Pfft.
A stifled laugh sounded from afar.
"I said lower your voice!"
Ellen's face flushed as she hissed.
But Logan wasn't faring much better.
"Young master! Sparring with a woman?! You can't be serious! This is unacceptable!"
Rick whispered urgently, his face desperate enough to be comical.
"Stop laughing! If word gets out that you 'sparred'—read: beat up—a woman, the family head will kill me! You must not, under any circumstances, do this. Understood?!"
Logan gave a wry smile and nodded.
"Don't worry. That won't happen."
Even if this girl were only half as skilled as her Force-level reputation suggested, such rumors wouldn't arise.
But Rick, oblivious, heaved a sigh of relief.
And fortunately, Ellen herself eliminated any chance of scandal.
—Rumors would be troublesome.
At her request, Logan opened the Sword Duke's private training grounds—a space usually reserved for his lessons.
The guarding knight eyed them curiously, but Logan offered no explanation.
He, too, was curious about the skill of this girl who'd only gained fame in death.
'And if things go well...'
This could be a chance to recruit exceptional talent.
As he calmly prepared, a sharp voice pierced the air.
"My lady! Since it's come to this, crush him!"
"Are you insane?! Do you even know who our young master is?!"
"Funny! Do you know who our lady is?!"
The two attendants, equally frantic, wore identical expressions.
'The matchmaking's already ruined anyway.'
'Since it's over, at least let our side win.'
With only these two as witnesses, Ellen—now in simple training attire—raised a practice iron sword before Logan.
"Ellen Floyd. I've trained in swordsmanship alone for ten years."
A stance, a salute—the kind of introduction fit for a heroic tale.
But Logan didn't laugh.
The content was too shocking.
"Alone?"
Misinterpreting his tone as mockery, Ellen's face reddened slightly.
"I've defeated knights before. Don't underestimate me. I'd hate to hear later that you held back."
"Ah, my apologies. I was just surprised. Rest assured, 'holding back' won't be an issue."
'This girl's digging her own grave.'
If such words reached his master's ears, the consequences would be far worse than a mere beating.
So, if anything—
"I have no intention of going easy, so forgive me if it gets rough."
Ellen's eyes gleamed fiercely at his firm reply.
And moments later—
Thwack!
"Ghk!"
A blow strong enough to crack ribs slammed into her side.
Laila and Rick clutched their own sides in sympathy, faces pale.
Ellen crumpled, gasping from the pain.
One move.
She'd expected strength, but not this overwhelming gap.
How could someone barely older than her—even as the Sword Duke's disciple—be this much stronger?
"Ugh...!"
Flushed with exertion, Ellen forced herself up, teeth gritted.
Eyes burning with determination, she circled Logan cautiously.
Tap!
A sudden dash closed the distance—
Whoosh!
Her blade, slicing the air lethally, aimed perfectly for his blind spot.
But—
Clang!
Thud!
"Agh!"
Logan's sword deflected hers effortlessly before crashing down onto her skull—mercilessly.
Splat.
Blood spurted from Ellen's forehead, unreal as a lie.
A scream tore from the spectators' throats.
"M-My lady!!"
Laila turned as pale as if she'd been struck herself, trembling violently.
Beside her, Rick stood equally frozen, face drained of color.
'I'm done. I'm finished.'
He wanted to cry.
Visions of Logan gaining infamy as a woman-beater—and himself being flogged by the family—flooded his mind.
Thwack!
"Kuh!"
Another brutal strike to her ribs, but Ellen refused to fall this time.
She'd lost count of the blows, but she wasn't numb to the pain.
Blood—her own, gushing from her head—was something she'd never imagined.
The relentless agony from Logan's strikes was equally foreign.
When she'd challenged him, she never envisioned this.
The pain shattered her romanticized dreams, replacing them with brutal reality.
She wanted to collapse, but couldn't.
Those indifferent crimson eyes seemed to mock her—Is that all you've got?
'I'll land at least one hit...!'
Wiping blood from her brow, she glared at those infuriating red eyes.
She wanted to bruise them just like the blood staining her hands.
"Wipe the blood from your—"
Tap!
"Die!"
A strike aimed mid-sentence—no longer a spar, but a vendetta.
Yet even that was futile.
Clang!
His sword intercepted hers effortlessly, always a half-beat ahead.
She barely managed to twist her blade in time to block the follow-up—more luck than skill.
"Good judgment."
Praise? She'd expected condemnation for the cheap shot.
But to Ellen, even compliments felt like taunts now.
"But your movements need refinement!"
Thwack!
Another jolt of pain blurred her vision.
'Bastard...!'
Was he toying with her?
Tears welled—from pain or fury, she couldn't tell.
Yet even through them, her body moved with newfound efficiency.
The searing agony was unlike anything she'd known.
But strangely, her injuries weren't as severe as the pain suggested, and her movements grew sharper, shedding unnecessary flourishes.
Unaware of this, she fought on.
Meanwhile, Logan watched her evolution with gleaming eyes.
'So this is how my master felt watching me.'
Her talent was undeniable, yet untapped.
Her self-taught habits were flawed, but she corrected them instantly with minimal guidance.
Her skill wasn't just minstrels' tales—it was real.
'Which is why I must end this decisively.'
As he resolved himself, Ellen charged again.
"Raaah!"
A cry—part scream, part battle shout—unbefitting a noble lady.
But the result was undeniable.
Her footwork zigzagged unpredictably, her swordplay now unrecognizable from her initial reckless charges.
Yet—
Logan's blade effortlessly parried hers and drove into her solar plexus.
Thud!
A strike that would leave her immobilized—physically and mentally.
As Logan sheathed his sword, Ellen collapsed, limp.
But still—
"A-Again. Again...!"
Her voice, desperate as a plea, refused to accept defeat.
The sight of her struggling to rise was pitiable.
'Tenacity—pass.'
Logan exhaled softly, steeling himself.
What he was about to do would have lasting consequences.
But—
'She's worth it.'
Resolute, he extended a hand.
"Let me help you up, my lady."
"Again...! I said again!"
"Next time, I'll give you another chance."
"Tch...!"
Logan smiled, pulling her to her feet.
Then, he whispered something into her ear.
"......Huh? What?"
Ellen's baffled expression slowly shifted into a nod.
And soon, those few words would create a situation even more unbelievable than this absurd spar.
One that left their attendants speechless—minds blank, unable to process what had just happened.