The duel had ended, but Viola’s pride had not.

She sat on the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed tightly, her broken sword tossed aside like trash. Her lips were pressed into a scowl so deep it looked carved into her face, and every time Ludger so much as glanced her way, she turned her head with a sharp huff.

The rest of the day went by much the same. At lunch, she pushed her food around her plate instead of eating. During the afternoon, she refused to return to the carriage, insisting with folded arms that she wasn’t leaving until she understood how someone younger, shorter, and supposedly less experienced had beaten her.

Arslan tried. He really did. He crouched beside her, putting on his best charming grin, his voice dripping with false patience. “Viola, come on now. It was just one spar. You’ve got talent—more than I did at your age! But your brother’s got… let’s call it special circumstances.”

“Don’t care,” she snapped, glaring at the ground. “I’m not going home until I know what he does that makes him stronger.”

Arslan scratched the back of his head, beads of sweat forming. “Well, you see, uh… strength comes in many forms, and—”

“Not listening.”

He sighed, glancing at Ludger, who sat beneath a tree quietly wiping down his guards as though none of this involved him. Why is it always me caught between two storms…?

Finally, Arslan straightened, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Fine, fine! You want to know what he does? Then you’ll see it yourself. Ludger doesn’t just fight once a week and call it training—he works every day, morning to night.”

Viola’s scowl softened ever so slightly, curiosity sparking in her eyes despite her stubbornness.

Arslan grinned nervously, rubbing his cheek. “Might actually be a good idea to let you watch. Maybe then you’ll understand why he’s… well, a little tougher than he looks.”

From her tree, Elaine’s voice cut sharp as a blade: “And if she collapses trying to keep up, don’t come crying to me, Arslan.”

He stiffened instantly, smiling weakly. “Yes, dear…”

Ludger smirked faintly, fastening the last strap of his guards. So now she wants to walk my path? I guess it will be a good experience.

The entire morning left Viola staggering. Selene’s endless drills, Harold’s strength exercises, Aleia’s sharp-eyed precision training—it was no wonder Ludger moved the way he did. By the time Cor added mana control exercises to the mix, Viola’s legs were trembling so much she could barely stand.

But for Ludger, this was just the start.

After lunch, while Viola collapsed into a chair, he rose again without hesitation and headed to the tavern. Elaine was already waiting with her hands on her hips, and Ludger fell into the rhythm of work without complaint—carrying crates, helping with the kitchen, greeting customers with a polite smile that hid his exhaustion.

When that was done, and the sun began to dip, he didn’t rest. Instead, he made his way to Aronia’s alley. There, he scrubbed and cleaned the narrow passage while chatting with the elderly woman, listening to her stories with the same quiet patience he showed in training.

And just before dinner, when even adults would have been ready to collapse into bed, Ludger sat cross-legged in the courtyard. His face was pale, his body still aching, but his eyes were sharp with focus. He pushed his mana pool to the bottom again and again, then forced himself to control the wisps that remained. His [Spiritual Core] throbbed with every breath, refining itself as the blue mist of the world curled into him.

It was a regimen that would break most grown men—yet Ludger bore it at only seven years old.

Viola watched, her scowl deepening with each passing hour. Compared to him, her own days were a mockery. Three hours of training in the morning under her grandfather’s eye, and the rest filled with lessons in etiquette, history, arithmetic, and the other things nobles considered “fitting.” She had never seen such a brutal, relentless routine.

And worse, she had never considered that someone could endure it.

Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her newly replaced wooden sword, sweat still dripping down her brow. So this is what it takes to be stronger than me…

Viola sat on the tavern’s back steps that evening, her new wooden sword resting across her knees. The sounds of clattering dishes and laughter drifted through the windows, but she barely noticed. Her arms ached, her legs burned, and her pride felt heavier than all of it combined.

Watching Ludger’s daily life had left her stunned. He wasn’t stronger because of luck or favoritism—he was stronger because he carried a burden no one else his age would dare shoulder. And unlike her, he had chosen it.

She clenched her fists around the hilt of her wooden blade. I want that strength too… but can I even reach it?

Her mind drifted back to her grandfather’s stern eyes, the weight of his expectations. Lord Torvares had already lost his daughter. Viola knew it, even if he never spoke of it—he was holding on to her as if she were the last thread keeping him steady.

He had no other heirs. No other family to carry the name forward. If she broke herself chasing Ludger’s pace, if she fell into recklessness the way her pride pushed her toward, she wouldn’t just be letting herself down. She would be breaking her grandfather as well.

Her grip tightened, her jaw set. No… I can’t do that to him. He’s given me everything. If I ruin myself, he’ll lose everything again. My duty isn’t just to my pride—it’s to him.

She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. The frustration still burned, but underneath it was something steadier, calmer. She had responsibilities. If Ludger trained like a storm, then she would be the stone wall that never broke. Not as flashy, not as wild—but enduring.

She opened her eyes again, watching Ludger through the window as he helped his mother wipe down tables, still moving even after a full day of work and training.

When Viola finally returned to the Torvares estate that evening, the tension was palpable. Lord Torvares was waiting in the main hall, his arms folded, his expression as severe as ever. The guards stiffened at the edges of the room, and even Arslan—standing awkwardly near the door—looked like a boy about to be scolded by his teacher.

“You were supposed to return the same day,” Lord Torvares said, his voice low but hard. His gaze cut past Arslan and landed on Viola, sharp enough to pierce through her scowl. “And yet here you are, late, exhausted, and with another bunch of broken wooden swords. Do you think this is some game?”

Arslan opened his mouth, trying to form one of his usual excuses, but Viola stepped forward before he could speak. She bowed her head slightly, not in shame, but in resolve.

“Grandfather,” she said firmly, her voice carrying across the hall. “I will become stronger. I’ll train harder, fight smarter—and I’ll make you proud. I won’t abandon my duties as your heir, and I won’t break myself chasing after what isn’t mine. But I will become someone you can rely on.”

The hall went silent.

For a heartbeat, Lord Torvares’s stern mask didn’t crack. Then, slowly, something unfamiliar spread across his face. His lips curved—not in mockery, nor in the faint smirk of a strategist—but in a genuine, unrestrained smile.

A smile so rare that even the guards blinked in shock.

“Viola…” he murmured, his voice softer than anyone had ever heard it. He stepped forward, placing a hand on her shoulder, then pulled her into a strong embrace. “You’ve grown.”

Viola stiffened for a moment, startled, then leaned into the hug. Her grandfather’s arms, heavy with age and strength, wrapped around her like an anchor.

Arslan, still by the door, let out a long sigh of relief. “Well, at least someone managed to make him smile…”

For once, Lord Torvares didn’t glare at him. His focus was entirely on his granddaughter, his pride shining brighter than any noble crest.

That night, long after the household had gone quiet, Lord Torvares sat alone in his study. The crackling of the fireplace was the only sound, casting flickering shadows across shelves lined with books, scrolls, and relics of a storied lineage.

In his hand, he held a goblet of wine, untouched. His gaze was distant, fixed not on the fire but on the memory of Viola standing tall in the hall, her voice steady as she made her vow.

How much she’s grown…

He remembered the frail child who could barely lift a practice sword, who had once cried in frustration at lessons she could not master. The girl who clung to her mother’s skirts before fate tore her away. The granddaughter he had sworn to protect, to mold into the heir their family desperately needed.

Now she was stronger, more determined, and more willful than ever. And though he would never admit it aloud, he knew where part of that fire had come from.

His jaw tightened. Arslan.

The name still tasted bitter. The fool who had dishonored their family’s bloodline, the scoundrel who laughed his way through life without shame. Torvares hated him—yet he couldn’t ignore the truth.

In some twisted way, Arslan had given Viola something the estate never could: a rival, a challenge, a spark. Watching her younger brother push himself, seeing his strength grow from constant training and reckless determination—it had lit a fire in her that no formal tutor could ever kindle.

Lord Torvares set down the goblet, his lips pressing into a thin line. As much as I despise admitting it… the part of life Arslan brings with him is shaping her. And perhaps, in the end, it will forge her into something greater.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes closing as a rare peace settled in his chest. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to believe—not just hope—that his granddaughter would carry the Torvares name with pride and strength.

Back at home, Ludger sat cross-legged in his small room, the moonlight spilling in through the window. His forearm guards leaned against the wall, still scuffed from the spar with Viola. The ache in his arms reminded him of the clash, but his mind was elsewhere.

Overdrive was a huge step forward, he thought, closing his eyes. But one skill, no matter how strong, won’t carry me through the future. I need more tools. More options.

The steady thrum of his [Spiritual Core] pulsed in his chest, filling him with energy even after a long day. His mana pool, once drained to emptiness after a few spells, now refilled steadily, almost eagerly. He could feel it—his foundation was finally solid.

If my regeneration keeps growing, then I don’t need to be stingy with my spells anymore. I can push harder without worrying about running dry.

His thoughts drifted to the dusty corner of his status screen: [Druid Lv. 03]. A useful class , overshadowed by Pugilist, Sage, and the drills his father’s party threw at him. But even with just a taste of it, [Healing Touch] had shown him their value.

If I improve the skill now, I’ll cover my weaknesses. Healing, support, versatility… things even Overdrive can’t give me.

He smirked faintly, leaning back against the wall. Besides, I don’t need to fight like Viola. She wants to swing her sword until it breaks. Me? I’ll have enough tools to deal with any kind of fight—and no one will see it coming.

The hum of mana in his veins felt steadier than ever, and for the first time, Ludger welcomed the thought of opening that old path again.

The next morning, the courtyard rang with the sharp sounds of sparring. Ludger tightened the straps on his guards and stepped forward, his eyes locked on Selene. Today, he wasn’t going to coast through the first few exchanges—he would press her from the very beginning.

He launched forward without hesitation, fists driving toward her chest and shoulders, legs snapping into quick kicks meant to force her back. His strikes carried all the force his seven-year-old body could muster, each one sharp, focused, and relentless.

Selene, however, didn’t so much as flinch.

Her forearm snapped up, catching his punch with a hollow thud. Her shin guard absorbed his kick with a crack that made Ludger’s toes ache. Every strike he threw met cold iron—her blocks weren’t just solid, they hurt.

Ludger winced as pain shot through his knuckles, but he gritted his teeth and kept pressing. Punch, block, kick, block—the rhythm went on, each exchange stinging worse than the last.

Selene’s eyes narrowed as she shifted slightly, her voice calm even as she deflected another blow. “What’s this? Attacking me head-on instead of waiting to counter?”

“I need to push harder,” Ludger growled, his fists reddening from the impacts. “If I hold back, I’ll never catch up.”

Selene blocked another kick with her shin guard, the impact jolting up Ludger’s leg until his knee wobbled. Still, he pressed forward, his strikes snapping faster despite the pain.

From the sidelines, Harold chuckled. “The kid’s got guts. Look at him hammering away like that.”

Aleia smirked, resting her chin in her hand. “Guts, sure. Bones, maybe not for long.”

Cor said nothing, but his eyes narrowed in quiet observation.

Selene finally shoved him back with a single heavy push, forcing him to stumble a step. Her lips curled into the faintest smirk. “If you insist on fighting this way, you’ll learn something important today—what it feels like when your own strength turns against you.”

Ludger rolled his shoulders, wincing at the sting in his arms. And yet, his grin only widened. That’s exactly what I came here for.

Ludger shook out his sore fists, pain throbbing through his knuckles and shins with every heartbeat. His body screamed for him to slow down, but instead, he steadied his breathing and did something unexpected—he closed his eyes, if only for a moment.

A faint green glow shimmered at his hands , spreading across his arms and legs. [Healing Touch]. Warmth pulsed through his body, knitting bruised flesh and easing the strain on his bones. The ache dulled, the sharp sting faded, and his stance steadied again.

Selene’s brows furrowed as she watched the light fade. “You’re healing yourself mid-spar now? Hmph… clever.”

Ludger opened his eyes again, the fire back in them. “I’m not stopping.”

And then he charged.

His fists cut through the air once more, sharper than before, his legs snapping out with renewed strength. The guards on Selene’s limbs rang with every impact, the pain that had nearly buckled him moments ago dulled into something he could endure.

Selene’s smirk widened slightly as she caught his fist on her forearm. “So you’re going to use magic to push your body past its limits. Not bad. But if you think that makes us equals—” She twisted, her counterstrike slamming into his side, forcing him back a step. “—you’re still dreaming.”

Ludger skidded, but instead of faltering, he planted his foot and surged forward again, his fists driving with the same intensity. Each time she blocked, he repaired himself, refusing to give her the satisfaction of watching him crumble.

From the sidelines, Harold barked out a laugh. “He’s too damn stubborn!”

Aleia grinned. “Or too damn reckless. Can’t decide which.”

Cor, however, adjusted his glasses, his eyes narrowing in thought. So he’s weaving healing into combat already… At his age, no less. Dangerous—but undeniably effective.

Selene caught another strike, shoving him back again. Her smirk had grown into something fiercer now. “Fine, Ludger. If you’re set on this path—then I’ll stop holding back.”

Ludger wiped the sweat from his brow, his grin unshaken. Good. That’s exactly what I wanted.