World of Terror

They moved to the center of the training ground with wooden swords, while I leaned against a post off to the side, arms crossed. This would be Belle's first time sparring Roswell seriously. Belle stepped forward, stretching her arm.

"Don't go easy on me," she said.

Before they began, I waved over one of the maids standing nearby. "Miss Anna, can I get some cold berry juice?"

"Certainly," she replied and left.

Roswell took a few steps back, holding a wooden sword in his right hand, his left resting behind his back. Belle mirrored him, gripping tight, eyes focused.

Roswell gave a nod. "Begin."

Without hesitation, Belle lunged forward. Her first swing was fast, but Roswell simply shifted his weight and sidestepped, barely moving more than a few inches. With a subtle twist, he tapped her shoulder with the flat of his blade.

"Too reckless," he said calmly.

Belle stumbled slightly and turned back. "Again!" she said.

She changed her movement and came at him with another slash, then a quick follow-up. Roswell blocked and redirected her strikes like they were nothing.

The ground showed the impact of her power. Small craters formed where her feet struck, and the force of her swings kicked up clouds of dust, leaving shallow grooves in the sand. One missed strike slammed into the ground hard enough to send sand spraying in all directions.

I watched with wide eyes. I couldn't believe she was doing all this with just a wooden sword. Belle wasn't even awakened yet, and she was already this strong.

"I guess I'm not gonna let Belle get mad at me anymore," I muttered, half-joking.

She didn't give him room to breathe and followed up with another swing, but he deflected it easily. Their wooden swords clashed before breaking apart again, both adjusting their stance as dust swirled around their feet.

Then, in a sudden flash of movement, Belle stepped in with a horizontal slash, hoping to trick Roswell into blocking. But he didn't fall for it. Calm and fast, he ducked under the attack, turned on his heel, and brought the flat of his wooden sword down on her wrist.

Belle let out a small gasp as her fingers loosened. Her sword slipped from her hand and dropped into the dust with a dull thud.

She stood still for a second, staring at it, breathing heavier. Then she stepped back, brushing her hand against her skirt, her shoulders tense.

"I lose," she said.

Roswell lowered his sword. "Good effort," he said calmly.

She brushed a strand of hair from her face and let out a quiet sigh. Her usual energy was still there, but she looked a little disappointed.

"Your turn," she said.

I handed her a drink. "Here."

She took it and gave a small smile. "Ohh! Thanks."

"You did pretty well," I said.

"Not enough," she muttered, taking a sip.

"Don't worry. I'll beat him for you," I said with a half-grin.

She let out a small laugh. "You? Good luck."

…

I gripped my wooden sword with both hands. Sir Roswell stood across from me, his expression serious, sword ready.

"I'm coming," he said, then lunged with a quick strike from above.

"Ahh!" I braced myself and blocked his first strike. A second swing came right after, aiming for my wrist. Our swords clashed, and the force knocked me back a few steps.

"Not good... I barely blocked it," I muttered, catching my breath. Then I pushed off the ground and rushed him.

Roswell blocked my attacks one after another, always calm. He went for my wrist again, but this time, I let go of my sword and grabbed his right wrist. I swung my right fist toward his face, hoping to land a clean hit, but he caught my arm. I quickly jumped and tried to kick his neck, but he still blocked it.

Taking the chance, I pushed off him and jumped backward to get some distance.

"Damn... that should've been a headlock," I grumbled. My breathing was heavy, and my arms ached. This small body of mine was wearing out fast. Even little movements threw me off balance or sent sharp jolts through my limbs.

"Damn body," I muttered.

Roswell steadied himself, sword poised.

I took a deep breath, raised both arms, and stared him down. "Time to get serious."

"Here I go," he said.

He dashed forward and lunged again from above. I ducked low, crouching to the side to dodge. I slipped in close and kicked his side with my left foot, trying to follow up with a chop behind his knee. But I missed.

I landed awkwardly and stepped back, raising my hands. He charged again, giving me no time to react, but I watched his stance closely, searching for an opening. With a sharp sidestep, I slipped past his guard and tackled his side with my elbow. He grunted, but before I could move, his hand clamped down on my shoulder. I twisted, dropped low, and rolled out of his grip, kicking up a cloud of sand as I slid back to my feet.

I crouched back, then dashed forward, bracing for a strike. As soon as he moved, I threw a handful of sand into his face. His reaction was quick, but not quick enough. My fist landed on his side with a hook punch. I went for an uppercut, but before I could hit anything, he disappeared from in front of me.

I dropped to the ground, gasping for breath. Then I turned my head, grinning toward where he reappeared.

He stood there, looking surprised. Then his expression softened.

"I… I lost," he said.

"What?! Master lost to Lucy?!" Belle's voice rang out as she ran over, amazed.

Sir Roswell walked toward us, now smiling. "You two did really well today," he said, then added calmly, "Training's over. We'll take a day off."

Belle gasped, eyes wide. "Lucy, did you see that? He smiled! I can't believe he can actually smile."

Shaking her head, she added, "Still can't believe you actually won, though."

I groaned and tugged at her hair, completely drained. "Help me. I can't walk," I mumbled. My whole body hurt, and this was just light sparring. Sigh.

Belle gave me an irritated look but crouched down and let me climb onto her back. As she carried me toward the hall, Miss Anna trailing behind, she muttered, "You're so lame."

…

The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of the estate as Sir Roswell changed from his sparring gear into his formal uniform. He moved steadily through the quiet halls, hand drifting to his right side, pressing lightly against his abdomen, a small grin tugging at his lips as he recalled the day's events.

Before he could knock, the door to Count Luke's office swung open. The Count stood there with a wide smile, clearly already informed.

"I heard you lost to my child," Count Luke said, eyes bright with amusement. "Tell me. Are they blessed?"

Roswell gave a light nod. "From what I saw today, there's a strong possibility. Your family does carry the blood of giants, after all."

The Count's expression flickered with a hint of concern. "Really?"

"Yes," Roswell replied honestly. "The young lady already shows incredible power. She handles the sword with precision, and her form is well beyond what I'd expect from someone her age."

"And Lucian?" the Count asked, arching an eyebrow. "He's always been the quieter one."

Roswell paused, thinking back. "He's… the opposite of his sister in many ways. He lacks the same technique or power. But when I sparred with him, it felt like I was fighting a cornered beast."

Count Luke leaned forward slightly, intrigued. "Why's that?"

"At first," Roswell explained, "he tried using basic sword forms, but quickly realized he couldn't keep up. He abandoned the sword and rushed in bare-handed. It wasn't elegant, and it certainly wasn't trained. But his aim—" Roswell shook his head with a faint chuckle, "—it was very precise. He struck toward my neck, my eyes, my guts… and, well, the groin."

The Count raised a brow, a spark of humor building. "Sounds like northern fist technique."

Roswell shook his head. "No, not that refined. It looked random at first, but the targets were specific. It wasn't for honor or sport. It felt like… survival. That's what caught me off guard."

He paused, brows furrowed.

Roswell had fought opponents who battled for greed, honor, or even madness. But the Lucian fought like someone who had to survive. Which was bizarre. He's eight years old. He's never seen battle, never even held a real sword before. He's been in the manor all his life.

Roswell's thoughts started to wander. Reading books? Training in secret? He couldn't be sure.

Before he could speak, Count Luke burst out laughing.

"So you lost because he went for your thing, huh?" the Count said between laughs.

Roswell straightened a little, caught off guard. "Senior, t-that's not—"

But the Count kept going, slapping Roswell as he laughed. "You've survived wars, monsters, and cultists. But one little punch from my son and you're scared?" He laughed harder. "You're a warrior, Roswell! A real, battle-hardened soldier!"

Roswell rubbed the back of his neck, a bit red in the face. "It wasn't exactly like that…"

"Stop making excuses!" Count Luke said, still grinning wide. "Just admit it."

Roswell replied, "Yes, sir. I did." He gave a small, resigned smile.

The Count's laughter finally slowed, though the smile remained. "They might turn out even better than I hoped," he said softly, looking toward the window.

Roswell nodded. "Yes. I believe they will."