On the first day of fencing lessons, Butler Sebas brought a light iron sword so that Marin could feel the weight of a real blade in her hands.
She swung it with fervor.
Then she spent the next two days bedridden, her muscles screaming in protest.
Three days later—still pale, still sore—she dragged herself back to the training ground.
Sebas stood waiting with a guilty expression. This time, he held out a wooden practice sword—the kind children used when first learning to hold a blade.
Marin swung it even more enthusiastically than before. She wanted to prove she could do this.
And once again, she couldn't rise from bed for two days.
Now, with a dejected look, she made her way toward the quiet clearing behind the main building—a training ground hidden by thick bushes, where she had been learning the sword.
Sebas stood at the center of the platform, his back to her.
Marin didn't dare call out. She stopped at the edge and stared at the ground.
With the toe of her low black shoe, she prodded the earth. A small cloud of pale dust rose and settled.
"Miss Marin. Come in."
Sensing her presence, the butler turned and greeted her warmly.
"Hello, Mentor."
Ever since she had begun learning fencing, she addressed him as *Mentor* on the training grounds.
But even as she spoke, she kept her head bowed. Sebas called to her again.
"Miss Marin?"
"Do you..." She hesitated, her eyes still fixed on the dirt. "Do you regret teaching me?"
She had wanted so desperately not to make him regret his offer. Yet barely a week had passed, and already she feared she had driven him to that point.
Her chest ached with disappointment—in herself.
"Ha-ha-ha-ha!"
The butler burst into loud, genuine laughter.
Startled, Marin lifted her head.
"Yes," Sebas said, barely suppressing another chuckle. "I do regret it."
*Ouch.*
That struck deep.
Marin's expression crumpled, and she dropped her gaze once more.
"I regret that I approached the training incorrectly from the start." His voice softened. "I underestimated your endurance—or rather, overestimated it. The fault was mine."
He looked at her with warm amusement, as though he found her struggle endearing rather than disappointing.
"So... you don't regret agreeing to teach me at all?"
When she asked again, timidly, he shook his head.
"How could I? I was the one who offered." He tilted his head. "And you, Miss Marin? Do you regret it?"
"No." Her answer came without hesitation. "I just... despise my own worthless physical fitness."
"Then shall we continue?"
"Yes!" Marin's face brightened, her voice ringing with renewed determination. "Please, Mentor!"
*If the teacher doesn't give up first, I have no right to give up either.*
"Miss Marin—today, we'll use this."
Sebas held out something that looked more like a cane than a sword. A wooden blade, roughly carved, its surface uneven with the marks of hand tools.
"Did you make this yourself?"
"I did." He nodded. "It seems you're still struggling to lift anything heavier."
"I'm sorry," Marin said quickly, guilt flashing across her face.
"No, Miss Marin. The mistake was mine. I was too hasty."
She had no response to that. She forced a weak smile.
*I surprised even myself with how weak I am—let alone him.*
Everyday endurance was one thing. Athletic training was another. And fencing? That was another matter entirely.
"So, starting today, we're changing the plan." Sebas clasped his hands behind his back. "On the first day, one lap around the court. The next day, two. Then three. We'll add one lap at a time."
"Will that really build endurance?"
"It will. Trust me."
He smiled—calm, confident, radiating the quiet certainty of a seasoned master.
"Yes!"
Marin gazed at him with open admiration.
"Today: one lap around the court, then one hundred downward slashes with your new sword."
"Understood." She paused. "But... may I ask something? It's been bothering me since we started."
"Of course."
"Why don't you teach me knife fighting?" She tilted her head. "A dagger is easy to conceal. It's not as heavy as a longsword. Wouldn't it be easier for me to master?"
Sebas chuckled softly.
Then he took a single long stride toward her.
The tall butler stopped so close that Marin could have reached out and touched him. She felt the pressure of his presence immediately—looming, overwhelming.
"This is dagger distance." His voice was quiet, instructive. "To use a dagger effectively, you must stand *this* close to your opponent."
He held the position for a moment, letting her feel it.
Then he stepped back—once, twice—doubling the space between them.
"With a longsword, the distance is twice as far. And with distance comes time. Time to see. Time to think. Time to stay calm."
As he spoke, his field of vision seemed to expand. Marin could almost see the way his awareness widened with each step.
"*Oh!*" Understanding bloomed in her eyes. "I see it now."
Experience made everything clear.
"For someone like His Grace, distance matters less—his abilities transcend such concerns. But even ordinary knights place great importance on controlling distance." Sebas's gaze grew serious. "For someone unaccustomed to the sword, it becomes *critical.*"
"I understand," Marin said, nodding like a diligent student.
"Even if I train you for years, you will never wield a sword like a true knight. That may never be possible." He paused, his expression softening. "But if you can simply *buy time*—hold your ground against an enemy long enough for the Duke's knights to reach you—that alone will be invaluable."
"Yes."
Marin nodded vigorously.
*Buy time.*
An important goal had taken shape in her mind.
Of course, if she ever left the Duke's household, no knights would come rushing to her aid.
*I'll have to manage on my own.*
If she encountered a bandit, she would gain enough time to escape.
Even that would be a tremendous achievement.
"Then—shall we begin?"
"Yes!"
---
Clutching the wooden blade with both hands, Marin settled into her stance and delivered precise downward strikes.
*One. Two. Three.*
Her pink lips pressed together in concentration. Sweat dripped down her face, but she didn't stop.
Her dress—a worn, dark blue thing of the sort maids typically wore—was streaked with dust and damp with perspiration.
*Where did she even find that?*
The clothes looked shabby, almost pitiful. But her diligence made them shine.
She hadn't complained once during the previous lessons. She had held on so well that Sebas hadn't even noticed anything was wrong—until she collapsed the following day.
This time, the sword was light as a feather by his standards. It should be far easier for her than before.
Still, he worried. Knowing her character, she might push herself to the breaking point again out of sheer stubbornness.
"Miss Marin—perhaps we should take a break?"
"I still have thirty left."
Without breaking her stance, she only turned her head.
"Are you certain you're alright? It's better to stop a little early than to overdo it and fall ill again."
"Mm..." She considered. "Then I'll do ten more. I think I can manage that."
"Very well."
"Mr. Butler! *Mr. Butler!*"
A young knight came sprinting toward them from across the grounds.
"What's happened?"
"His—His Grace the Duke! He'll be arriving any minute!"
"What?" Sebas's eyes widened.
Marin froze mid-swing, the wooden blade hovering in the air.
*The Duke is arriving? Already?*
*What about the funeral? What about everything else?*
*How did he cover such a distance so quickly? Did he leave the moment he arrived in the South?*
Questions swirled through her mind as she listened.
"He's crossing the bridge now—"
Sebas cut the young knight off.
"Let's go." He turned to Marin. "Come quickly. I'll see you there."
"Yes."
Sebas broke into a run alongside the knight. Despite his gray hair and weathered frame, the old butler outpaced the youth with ease.
Both vanished from sight in moments.
Marin dropped her wooden sword into the bushes at the edge of the platform and ran.
Before His Grace arrived, the entire staff was expected to gather at the gate to greet him.
"Hoo... hoo... hoo..."
*I'm going to die.*
The laps around the court and the hundred swings had drained every drop of her strength. Her legs felt as though they were filled with lead—heavy, unresponsive, refusing to obey.
In her mind, she was already far ahead.
In reality, she was crawling like a turtle.
A maid walking nearby with dainty, mincing steps glanced at her, then continued on without a word—pulling steadily ahead.
Accepting reality, Marin slowed to a labored walk.
By the time she finally reached the main gate of the castle, the Duke's carriage was already standing there.