I Got Married to a Yandere Queen

Ashtoria still stood tall, the training sword lowered in her hand, but her voice remained sharp and clear like the edge of a blade.

"In general," she said softly, "there are four fundamental styles of swordsmanship."

Riven, still half-crouched with one hand resting on his knee, slowly lifted his head, listening.

"First, the straight and precise style. It prioritizes accuracy. Every strike aims for a weak point. The movements are minimal but deadly."

Ashtoria took a slow step forward, as if sketching the motion into the air. "It's typically used by calm, calculating swordsmen."

"Next is the heavy and powerful style," she continued without pause. "It relies on physical strength, momentum, and frontal impact. The movements are slow, but a single strike can break the enemy's blade. This… isn't a style that suits you."

Her eyes swept over Riven's slender frame from head to toe.

Riven wasn't offended. He knew Ashtoria never spoke to belittle.

"Third, the swift and agile style. This one resembles a dance. Attacks come from unexpected angles, full of feints and shifts in rhythm. It's difficult to master but deadly in the right hands."

Ashtoria stopped in front of Riven and slowly sat on a flat stone nearby. Her blood-red eyes had softened—more intimate, more personal.

"And lastly… the soft and flowing style. Like water. It doesn't oppose force directly, but redirects it, flows with it, then strikes from unseen openings. This style suits those who are patient and deeply attuned to the rhythm of combat."

Riven listened in silence, allowing every word to sink in and settle.

Ashtoria looked deep into him. "Before you can craft a sword style of your own, you must first master one or perhaps two of the foundational schools that resonate with who you are."

Riven gave a slow nod. "So you think… the swift and agile style suits me?"

Ashtoria gave a light shrug, as if refusing to impose her view. "It's only a guess. I know you, but I'm not you. The one who best understands your body, your instincts, your way of thinking… is you."

A silence hung between them. The wind carried the scent of dusk and the dry dust of the training yard.

Riven lowered his gaze, fingers curling around Crysthalis now resting in his lap. He ran his hand along the wooden blade, as if trying to feel the answer from within.

He closed his eyes for a moment, replaying each description in his mind:

Straight, precise cuts...

Heavy, crushing blows...

Movements swift as shadows...

A style that flows like water...

He didn't respond immediately. He didn't want to rush.

Because for the first time… it felt like he was stepping toward something real.

Something that might define how he fights and perhaps… how he lives.

Ashtoria stepped into the center of the training grounds. The light of dusk framed her silhouette, casting copper-red tones across her neatly pinned hair. In her hands, the training sword looked ordinary. Until she gripped it, and it became part of her.

"Watch," she said quietly, her eyes glowing with a strange serenity. "The four fundamental sword styles."

She exhaled and lowered her stance. Her steps grew heavier, breath steady, and then—

With a single downward slash, the ground in front of her cracked slightly. Dust flew from the force of the impact. The strike was not fast but it was powerful. Riven watched the way her shoulder rotated, how the muscles in her back tensed to channel the full force into the blade.

"This is the heavy and powerful style. Strong, crushing, destructive. But if it misses… the gap you leave is enormous."

Her voice was calm, but the blow could have flung a grown man off his feet.

Then Ashtoria stood tall once more and shifted her posture. Her body became fluid, her steps like a graceful dance. The sword no longer struck—it flowed, circled, moved gently but constantly aimed at vital points. She turned, evaded, and struck from impossible angles.

"The soft and flowing style. It moves like water, striking when the opponent is exposed. It's not about strength… it's about rhythm and direction. You let the enemy strike first, then lead them into their own downfall."

Riven observed closely. The movements defied reason. They looked light, even beautiful, yet hid a lurking threat. But he knew his body… could never bend like that.

She wasn't finished.

Ashtoria changed again. Her body sharpened, stance low and light, her weight leaning forward. Then—

ZRAK!

In a blink, she moved. One horizontal slash, followed by an upward thrust, then a retreat into a low strike. Her speed nearly outpaced Riven's eyes.

"Swift and agile. Move before your enemy can react. End it in a breath and by the time they realize, you're already behind them."

Riven froze. That style… felt natural. As if his body understood it just from watching. A style built on reflex, momentum, and split-second decisions.

But there was one more.

With a final motion, she assumed the simplest stance—standing straight, sword pointed forward, one hand behind her back for balance. Every step was measured. When she struck… it was precise, clean, nearly without waste. Every slash—thrust or cut—executed with absolute efficiency.

"The straight and precise style. Direct, sharp, focused on a single point. Every movement is calculated… to kill through the smallest opening."

Her eyes briefly met Riven's. "This style… demands calm and absolute conviction in your intent."

Ashtoria lowered her sword. The sky had darkened, orange fading into a red that resembled blood. She studied Riven silently.

"Before you can shape your own path, you must understand the ground you walk. There are four core styles in swordsmanship. Each has strengths and weaknesses. Understand them… feel them… and choose the one that becomes your foundation."

Riven didn't speak right away. He simply nodded, his face serious. In his mind, the four styles rotated, one after another. The heavy style felt too slow. The flowing style… too flexible for his stiff body. But the swift style… and the precise one?

She took a slow step closer, the gravel beneath her boots crunching softly.

"You can master all of them eventually, but you only need one to build your foundation. And remember… you cannot use multiple styles at the same time. You can shift between them when the moment is right, but never all at once."

Riven glanced at her, just for a moment—then his gaze dropped, distant.

He recalled how he moved during real combat. How instinct always pushed him to find openings, to strike fast, from unexpected angles.

And how—though he hadn't noticed—he always aimed to make every strike count.

Ashtoria watched him in silence. As if she knew he was still thinking. As if she sensed… the answer was close.

That night descended slowly over the Valderacht Estate, like mist slipping quietly through the cracks of time.

In the distance, the soft clatter of carriage wheels echoed faintly, rolling over cobblestones still damp from the afternoon rain. At first, it sounded ordinary. Just another carriage passing by, perhaps. But in the stillness of night… every sound felt heavier, more vivid, more significant.

The outer courtyard lamps had not yet gone dark when a carriage pulled up to the front gate.

It was not large, but clearly expensive: a glossy black wooden body, iron-rimmed wheels designed for speed, and thick glass windows shrouded by velvet curtains. A small crest marked the side, not the sigil of House Valderacht… but of someone who once held the right to speak as equals.

Two men stepped out.

The first: tall, slender, arrogant. His long coat was navy blue, with gold embroidery along the cuffs and a high collar brushing his jaw. Black hair streaked with gray was slicked neatly back. He carried a black cane capped in bronze, not for support, but as a symbol… or a warning. His gaze was calm, yet disdainful—as though detecting an unpleasant odor in the air.

The second: younger, wilder in bearing, yet unmistakably noble. His black hair fell freely past his shoulders, and his gray eyes gleamed like judgmental blades.

One of the gate guards straightened as they approached. The night air seemed colder, as though the wind itself paused to listen.

The older man, still gripping his cane, stopped a few paces from the gate and stared down the guard with the quiet chill of one used to giving commands not requesting permission.

"Inform Marquess Valderacht," he said, his voice quiet yet clear, "that his guest has arrived… and wishes to speak with him."