Lamia was furious.
Granada had just tried to kill her—there was no mistaking that lethal intent—and now the old woman expected her to simply... what? Forget it happened? Pretend it was some kind of test?
Targeting me? Bullying me? What is she playing at?
Lamia had thought they were on the same side. That Granada, despite her sharp edges and colder-than-ice demeanor, was someone she could trust within the household.
But perhaps she'd been wrong all along. Perhaps this was the moment Granada's true colors would finally show.
Granada approached without a word, her expression unreadable save for the cynical smile curling at her lips.
Lamia retreated step by step, watching that smile grow wider with each backward movement.
Just one more step...
The moment Granada came within range, Lamia would draw the hidden blade strapped beneath her skirt and strike without hesitation.
Granada took another step forward.
Now!
Lamia didn't hesitate.
Flutter!
Her hand flashed to her thigh, yanking the concealed knife free. The blade whistled through the air in a vicious arc aimed directly at Granada's face.
Against any normal opponent, the strike would have carved a deep, bleeding gash from temple to jaw.
But Granada was far from normal.
Thwack!
Granada's prosthetic right leg moved in a fluid crescent kick, the motion deceptively slow yet impossibly fast. Her foot collided with Lamia's wrist before the blade could find its mark.
"Ah!"
The knife flew from Lamia's grip, spinning end over end before clattering against the stone wall and falling uselessly to the floor.
Lamia stared in disbelief.
The movement had seemed slow—almost languid—yet she'd been unable to react in time. Granada's counter had been perfectly timed, devastatingly strong, and executed with a grace that belied the old woman's sixty-seven years.
Granada chuckled softly, her eyes gleaming brighter than Lamia had ever seen them.
That cynical smile transformed into something genuine—the kind of rare, honest expression that only appears when someone encounters something truly interesting.
"I knew you had good survival instincts and decent reflexes, Lamia. But I didn't realize your dynamic vision was this sharp."
Before Lamia could respond, Granada lightly kicked her thigh with the same prosthetic leg.
"Ah!"
The strike wasn't particularly powerful, but it made Lamia cry out—more from indignation than pain.
"Why are you doing this?! Why target me like this? I need to know why!"
Granada silenced her with a single raised hand.
"You become surprisingly slow when you're not feeling the immediate threat of death."
"So what?!"
"I think you'll need training. Rigorous training that will draw out your full potential."
"...What?"
Lamia glared at Granada, her eyes blazing with rebellion and confusion.
"What training? You're not just making up nonsense because you got caught trying to kill me, are you?"
Granada walked past her without even blinking, utterly unbothered by the accusation.
"From now on, you are Madam's personal bodyguard."
"...What did you just say?"
Lamia turned to stare at Granada's back, convinced she'd misheard.
"Madam was nearly attacked by an old woman recently. She needs a bodyguard—someone who can protect her at all times."
Lamia hurried after her.
"There are plenty of other knights! Why me?!"
"She needs a bodyguard she can trust completely. Someone she can entrust her life to without reservation. The knights belong to our master, not to Madam."
"So you want me to become a knight?"
"Not a knight. A bodyguard."
"That's the same thing! Just a different title and salary! How can I possibly—"
Granada chuckled.
"Simply consider Madam's life as your own. That's all you need to do."
And then, without warning, she attacked.
The killing intent blazed to life so suddenly that Lamia's body reacted before her mind could catch up. She leapt backward, barely avoiding Granada's strike.
The killing intent vanished just as quickly as it had appeared.
Granada laughed.
"See? You have the talent. Starting tomorrow, come to the training grounds after your regular duties. And from now on, don't carry any unauthorized weapons within the castle walls. That's illegal—unless you're Madam's official bodyguard."
The message was clear: if Lamia wanted the legal right to carry a blade, she would have to accept the role.
Lamia stood there, mouth hanging open in disbelief.
"...Are you serious?"
Callius let out a long, weary sigh as he set down the ancient record he'd been reading.
Exhaustion was written plainly across his face.
Time was slipping away like sand through his fingers, and Chloe's condition worsened visibly with each passing day. Yet no matter how many texts he scoured, no matter how deep he dug into forgotten histories and obscure rituals, he could find no way to stop the curse.
I might have to ask the sorcerers.
The thought made his stomach turn.
It was a sorcerer who had cursed Chloe in the first place. Calling upon another sorcerer to undo the damage felt like inviting the wolf back into the henhouse.
In his experience, dealings with sorcerers always ended badly. The only ones who ever truly benefited were the sorcerers themselves.
But if there was no other way... what choice did he have?
Callius gritted his teeth and shook his head sharply, forcing the weak thought aside.
No. I need to stay strong.
Weak, foolish thoughts always crept in during moments of desperation and impatience. He couldn't afford to give in to them.
Callius forced himself to refocus on his work.
But after a while, the weight of helplessness and creeping dread became too much to bear alone.
He stood and made his way to his mother's prayer room—the small, humble space where Saint Ilya had once knelt in communion with God.
The prayer room was barely large enough for one person to kneel comfortably. It had always been a place of quiet solitude, where Ilya had sought guidance and strength.
Now, Callius sat down on the worn cushion where his mother had once prayed, and he let himself collapse forward in anguish.
How did Mother endure hardships like this?
Even when he was ten years old and lost her, he hadn't sought comfort like a child. He'd borne his grief silently, stoically.
But now—now that he was a grown man—he found himself searching desperately for something to hold onto.
God, my old friend and benefactor...
He prayed with every ounce of sincerity he possessed.
Please save my wife, Chloe. She is my one and only.
It was a heartfelt prayer—raw, honest, desperate.
Chloe wasn't someone who would simply pass through his life and disappear. This wasn't a fleeting connection.
She was irreplaceable.
Callius clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white and his nails bit into his palms.
The prayer settled into his heart like an anchor, restoring some measure of strength to his exhausted body.
Let's get up. Let's strike at Kavala right now. If risking my life can save Chloe, then so be it.
In that moment, the people of Ronheim—the territory he was sworn to protect and lead—didn't even cross his mind.
He had always put Ronheim first. Always.
But now, Chloe mattered more than anything else.
It was Chloe who had helped him rise again after losing Ilya, when he'd nearly collapsed under the weight of grief. If he lost her too—if she died because of Kavala—
I won't be able to get back up. Not again.
Callius took a deep breath and looked up, ready to stand and march straight to Arental if necessary.
As he rose to his feet, his gaze fell upon a stone tablet inscribed with ancient letters.
For a moment, it was as though something unseen compelled him to pause.
He lifted the tablet and placed it on his lap, reading the inscription he had never fully finished before.
"...the beast that God had given them was offered on the altar, and the evil was transferred to it. The sick person was cured, as if they had been washed clean."
The words stirred a memory—something Ilya had said to him long ago, when he was still a child.
"New life can only be obtained by sacrificing another life."
Young Callius had frowned at that.
"Then don't you feel sorry for the lives sacrificed for others?"
"Of course I do. But that's simply the way things are. For one life to survive, another must make a sacrifice. That is what sacrifice means. You pass the evil onto the offering, present it to the gods, and in return, you receive a powerful life force."
"But what about the innocent sacrifices? The animals give their lives to humans and then die. Isn't offering sacrifices... cruel?"
"Well, think about the food you ate today. The meat on your table and the offering on the altar serve essentially the same purpose."
"Ah...?"
"You have to know how to see the essence, Callius."
Ilya had spoken gently to the young boy, who looked both enlightened and confused at the same time.
"That's how the world was made. That is the order God gave to this earth."
"Why did God give us such an order?"
"Well, how can human wisdom fully comprehend the will of an omnipotent God?"
"Don't you know, Mother? You're the Saint—the one closest to God."
Ilya's faint smile that day had been so vivid, so real.
"Even a Saint is just a human being."
Callius replayed that conversation in his mind, then read the inscription on the stone tablet again from the beginning.
His mother's voice echoed in his ears.
"You have to know how to see the essence, Callius."
And then—
His eyes widened.
This inscription... it's not about the Holy Grail.
Because the stone tablet had been placed beneath the Holy Grail, he'd naturally assumed the inscription would relate to the relic itself.
He'd been frustrated—grieving the loss of the Holy Grail and its miraculous power.
But the essence was different.
This is a story about sacrifice.
A sudden realization struck him like lightning.
Mother didn't accomplish everything simply with the power of the Holy Grail.
She understood the essence of sacrifice.
The answer was never in the Holy Grail itself—
It was in what the Holy Grail represented.
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