Chapter 193: Training and Connections

The impact of the spears echoed through the training field like a dry thunderclap.

Damon slid a few steps back, his feet carving shallow furrows in the hardened earth as he tightened his grip. His left arm still vibrated from the shock, an uncomfortable numbness rising to his shoulder.

“Damn it…” he murmured, adjusting his posture. “You’re going too hard.”

Esther didn’t respond immediately.

She remained motionless in front of him, the spear resting naturally on the ground, as if the previous blow hadn’t required any effort at all. Her posture was impeccable, her body erect, her shoulders too relaxed for someone in combat. Her gaze, cold as always, analyzed Damon from head to toe.

Then she smiled.

Not a gentle smile. Not an amused smile.

A smile of calculated disdain.

“Funny,” she said, her voice too calm for the tension in the air. “You defeat thirty useless guys, break bones, humiliate an entire escort… and now you want me to go easy on you in training?”

Damon clicked his tongue.

“That wasn’t training.”

“No,” Esther agreed. “That was luck mixed with someone else’s arrogance.”

She twirled the spear in one hand, the movement fluid, almost elegant.

“Here,” she continued, “you have neither.”

Before Damon could respond, she lunged forward.

It wasn’t an explosive attack. It was quick, direct, economical. The spearhead cut through the air in a straight thrust, without any flourish.

Damon reacted instinctively, shifting his body and raising his own spear to parry. The metal clashed with a sharp crack—and, in the next instant, Damon felt the pressure.

A lot of pressure.

His arms gave way half a hand’s breadth, his muscles protesting.

“Huh…?” — he grunted, surprised.

Esther twisted her wrist.

The force shifted direction, trickling down his defense like icy water. Damon felt his balance crumble and had to leap back to avoid falling.

She didn’t chase him.

“First flaw” said Esther. “Your base.”

Damon frowned.

“My base?”

“Unstable” she replied, taking a slow step forward. “You fight like someone who adapts well to chaos… but relies too heavily on it. Against amateurs, it works. Against poorly trained soldiers, it works even better.”

She raised her spear again.

“Against someone who knows exactly where to step… it’s a weakness.”

Damon took a deep breath and adjusted his feet on the ground.

“Then show me” he said. “General.”

The air around them changed.

It wasn’t immediate, but it was perceptible.

A subtle chill began to spread across the training field, as if the very atmosphere were holding its breath. The earth beneath their feet began to acquire a thin, whitish layer. The vapor from their breaths became visible.

The spears began to glow.

A pale blue coursed across Damon’s metal, following the discreet inscriptions near the blade. His icy aura manifested itself in a raw, direct way—ice particles forming and dissipating in the air around the weapon’s tip.

Esther’s spear, on the other hand…

It was different.

The glow was more restrained, deeper. An almost transparent blue, like ancient ice, compressed for centuries. The cold around it didn’t spread aggressively—it imposed itself.

The field fell silent.

Then Esther advanced again.

This time, there was no warning.

She attacked in sequence.

A high thrust. A sideways slash. A downward strike.

Damon defended the first, dodged the second, blocked the third—and yet he was forced to retreat. Each impact came with cruel precision, always at the exact point where his defense was weakest.

“You raise your guard too early,” Esther said, advancing slowly. “You expose your left flank.”

Damon tried to counterattack, spinning his spear in a wide arc, using his ice aura to expand its reach. Fragments of ice shattered from the blade like shards.

Esther leaned forward.

The attack passed inches from her face.

“Too much force,” she commented, before spinning her own spear and striking the hilt of Damon’s weapon with a sharp blow.

The impact made his fingers sting.

“You rely too much on the raw power of your aura,” she continued. “Your ice is unstable. You release it without fine control.”

Damon gritted his teeth and advanced, now more aggressive. The ice around his spear intensified, the ground freezing beneath his steps. He attacked in rapid succession, trying to press down on her.

For a brief instant… it worked.

Esther took a step back.

Just one.

And then everything changed.

She planted the spear in the ground.

The ice exploded.

A cold wave spread in a perfect circle, freezing the surface of the field instantly. Damon felt his feet lose grip and had to fight to avoid slipping.

Esther moved at that exact moment.

She didn’t run. She glided.

Her body seemed part of the ice, moving with it, not against it. The spear appeared in front of Damon like a natural extension of the cold itself.

He raised his weapon to defend—too late.

Esther’s blade struck his chest with enough force to send him flying backward. Damon rolled across the frozen ground, stopping only when he hit a wooden post, the air being expelled from his lungs.

“Gh…!” he gasped.

Esther was already above him, the tip of the spear stopped just inches from his throat.

“Technique,” she said coldly. “It’s not about who hits harder. It’s about who controls the field.”

She pushed the spear away and took a few steps back, allowing Damon to stand.

He rested his hand on his knee, breathing deeply, his whole body aching.

“You…” he began, breathless. “You fight as if you were… years ahead.”

“Because I am,” Esther replied without hesitation. “And you know it.”

She spun the spear once more, the ice rearranging itself around the blade.

“You’ve learned to survive. To improvise. To win by quickly reading the enemy.” Her gaze narrowed. “But your spear technique is full of vices.”

She began to circle him.

“Your actual reach is shorter than it seems. You compensate with aura.” One step. “Your attacks are efficient, but predictable after three switches.” Another step. “And the worst…”

She stopped in front of him.

“You don’t respect your own weapon.”

Damon looked up, surprised.

“What?”

“You treat it like a disposable instrument,” she said. “Something to win the fight. Not like an extension of your body.”

She raised her own spear, the tip trembling softly.

“A spear isn’t just about reach. It’s about rhythm. Space. Absolute control of distance.” She pointed at his chest. “While you fight reacting… I fight deciding.”

The silence between them grew heavy.

Damon gripped the spear shaft.

“So…” he said, his voice firmer now, “teach me to decide.”

For a brief instant, something almost imperceptible passed through Esther’s gaze.

Approval.

She resumed her stance.

“Very well,” she said. “Then stop trying to win.”

The cold around them intensified once more.

“And start learning to fight for real.”

…

The training courtyard of the Duchy of Arven was immersed in a steady rhythm of steel and breath.

Morgana moved like a living blade.

The sword in her hands traced precise arcs, each cut accompanied by a calculated step, each swing ending with the tip aligned with the imaginary target. The stone floor creaked beneath her feet, marked by ancient cracks—scars from years of brutal training.

Sweat trickled down her temple, but her expression remained hard, focused, almost furious.

She attacked an enemy that wasn’t there.

Or perhaps it was.

“Again,” she murmured to herself.

She advanced.

Upward strike. Hip rotation. Horizontal cut. Direct thrust.

The last movement was interrupted in mid-air.

Not by mistake.

But because she sensed the presence.

Morgana held the sword raised for a second longer before slowly lowering the blade and turning her face to the side.

The butler stood at the entrance to the courtyard.

Momentary. Silent. As always.

She didn’t turn fully to face him. “If you’re going to give me orders,” she said dryly, “you can leave now.”

The butler didn’t answer immediately.

He simply waited.

Morgana closed her eyes for a brief moment, took a deep breath, and then plunged her sword into the wooden holster beside the field. The metal vibrated, echoing through the empty courtyard.

“Speak,” she said, wiping the sweat from her brow with her forearm. “What do you want?”

“The duke wishes to speak with you,” the butler replied, his voice controlled.

Morgana’s body stiffened.

She laughed.

It wasn’t a light laugh. It was short. Harsh.

“I have nothing to say to a bastard who chooses his wife over his own daughter.”

She pulled the sword from the holster in a swift movement and turned sharply.

The blade stopped inches from the butler’s neck.

“Then tell me,” she continued, her eyes burning. “What does he want?”

The butler did not back down.

He showed no surprise.

He simply raised his hand calmly and placed his fingers on the side of the blade, gently pushing it aside. The steel moved away from her neck without resistance, not because Morgana had yielded—but because she allowed it.

“Control,” he said softly. “It’s still a weak point of yours.”

She narrowed her eyes, but didn’t answer.

“This isn’t personal,” the butler continued. “It’s about a knight.”

Morgana frowned.

“A knight?”

“Yes.” He paused briefly. “His name is Damon.”

The world stopped.

The distant sound of the wind seemed to disappear. The courtyard, once so solid, seemed to lose weight for a second.

The sword slipped a few inches in Morgana’s hand.

“…What?” she asked, her voice lower than she intended. “What happened?”

The butler watched her reaction with silent attention.

“He was seen,” he said, “at Wykes Manor.”

The name sounded like a dry blow.

“Wykes…” Morgana murmured.

“Yes.” He nodded. “There was an incident.”

She stepped forward, her earlier aggressive posture completely broken.

“What kind of incident?”

The butler took a deep breath.

“The Duke’s escort was training in the manor courtyard. Thirty knights. Veterans. Men who survived royal campaigns.”

He paused briefly, calculatingly.

“Damon was training alone.”

Morgana’s heart pounded.

“And…?”

“There were provocations,” he continued. “Underestimation. A conflict started by our men.”

Morgana’s fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword.

“They attacked him…” she said, more as a statement than a question.

“Yes.”

The silence grew heavy.

“Damon defeated them all” the butler concluded. “Alone.”

Morgana felt breathless for a moment.

“All…?” she repeated.

“All.” He held her gaze. “Some were seriously wounded. A knight died trying to attack him from behind, even after the fight was over.”

She closed her eyes.

For a moment, old images flooded her mind: a boy too thin holding a spear bigger than himself; wounded hands; repeated falls; eyes too determined for someone of that age.

“Idiots…” she murmured.

“The duke was present” the butler continued. “He saw everything.”

Morgana opened her eyes slowly.

“So now he knows.”

“Yes” the butler confirmed. “He knows that a knight trained at Arven’s academy defeated thirty men from his own escort.”

She let out a low, bitter laugh.

“Of course that’s how it was…” she said. “Damon always had a knack for unintentionally causing trouble.”

The butler inclined his head slightly.

“The duke wishes to speak with you about this.”

Morgana raised her sword again—not threateningly, but out of habit—and rested the blade on her shoulder.

“He wants to use me,” she said. “He wants a bridge. A way to get closer to Elizabeth Wykes using Damon.”

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