They moved to the center of the training ground with wooden swords, while Lucian leaned against a post off to the side, arms crossed. This would be their first time sparring Roswell. Belle stepped forward, stretching her arm.
"Don't go easy on me," she said.
Before they began, Lucian 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.
Lucian watched with wide eyes. He 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," he muttered, half-joking.
She didn't give Roswell 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.
"Your grip is too tight," Roswell said.
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 stepped back and 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 lost," 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.
Lucian handed her a drink. "Here."
She took it and gave him a small smile. "Ohh! Thanks."
"You did pretty well," he said.
"Not enough," she muttered, taking a sip.
"Don't worry. I'll beat him for you," he said with a half-grin.
She let out a small laugh. "You? Good luck."
. . .
Lucian gripped his wooden sword with both hands. Roswell stood across from him, his expression serious, sword ready.
Roswell looked at his feet first. "Your stance is narrow," he said. "Widen it. If I touch you once, you'll fall."
Lucian adjusted, trying to copy what Roswell had shown Belle.
"I'm coming," Roswell said, then lunged with a quick strike from above.
"Ahh!" Lucian braced himself and blocked it. A second swing came right after, aiming for his wrist. Their swords clashed, and the force knocked him back a few steps.
"Not good... I barely blocked it," he muttered, catching his breath.
Then he pushed off the ground and rushed Roswell.
Roswell blocked his attacks one after another, calm as ever. He went for Lucian's wrist again, but this time Lucian let go of his sword with one hand and grabbed Roswell's right wrist, swinging his fist toward his face.
Roswell caught his arm before it reached him.
"Too high," he said.
Lucian shoved him off and jumped back.
"Damn... this body," he grumbled. His breathing was heavy, his arms aching. His small body was wearing out fast. Even little movements threw him off balance or sent sharp jolts through his limbs.
Roswell steadied himself and threw back the sword. "You're sharp," he said. "But your body still can't keep up yet."
He was right. Lucian couldn't beat him clean. Not with a sword, and not with this body.
He took a deep breath and looked at Roswell. Raised his fists, ignoring the sword in the sand.
He grinned, dragging two fingers toward himself. "Come on."
Roswell glanced at his empty hands. "Here I go."
He came forward with a downward swing. Using his size, Lucian ducked under it and drove his left foot hard into Roswell's side, just below the ribs. Before Roswell could react, Lucian grabbed his sleeve and yanked, throwing his balance forward.
Roswell flinched. Took a half step, one hand dropping slightly toward the spot. His eyes sharpened.
Lucian jumped back to gain some distance, but Roswell was already coming.
Faster than before. Calm as ever. Lucian instinctively grabbed a fistful of sand and threw it at his face. Roswell turned his head just slightly, and Lucian stepped in and slammed his fist into the same spot on his side. He pulled his arm back to go again.
Roswell's leg snapped into his stomach before he could throw it. He didn't even see it.
He was thrown. He hit the sand hard, the impact scraping his back and shoulders across the ground. He rolled onto his side and pushed himself up slowly.
He stayed low for a second, one hand in the sand, the other pressed against his stomach.
There was no way. His arms were done. His legs were shaking. Even if he found an opening he didn't have enough strength to do anything real with this body.
But he got back up.
He'd seen enough in his past life to know. Didn't matter how big, how trained, how fearless a man was. One shot there and it was over. Done it before. Worked every time.
He charged first. Roswell swung and Lucian anticipated the trajectory of the sword and rolled under to close in. Then he swings a hook toward Roswell's ribs, putting everything he had left into it.
He glanced at Roswell's eyes as he moved to block it.
There it was.
Lucian dropped his shoulder, let the swing change halfway, and drove his fist up between Roswell's legs while the other arm was covered his ribs.
Roswell was gone before it connected. The air snapped where he had been standing. Lucian stumbled forward a half step, fist hitting nothing, and nearly fell.
He straightened up slowly.
Roswell stood a few feet away. The faint shimmer of aura still clung to his legs, already fading. He looked down at it. Then at Lucian.
"I lost," he said.
"What?! Master lost to Lucy?!" Belle's voice rang out as she ran over, amazed.
Sir Roswell walked toward them, 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 smile."
Shaking her head, she added, "Still can't believe you actually won, though."
Lucian groaned and tugged at her hair, completely drained. "Help me. I can't walk," he mumbled. His whole body hurt, and this was just light sparring.
Belle gave him an irritated look but crouched down and let him climb onto her back. As she carried him toward the hall, Miss Anna trailed behind, she muttered, "You're so lame."
. . .
The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of the manor as Roswell changed out of his sparring gear and into his formal uniform. He walked the quiet halls at an even pace, but his hand drifted to his side, pressing lightly against his abdomen.
Not from pain. More like he was still turning the moment over in his head.
When he reached Count Luke's office, he lifted a hand to knock.
The door opened before his knuckles touched wood.
Count Luke stood there with a wide smile, clearly already entertained. "I heard you lost to my child," he said. "And I heard how."
Roswell's expression stayed steady, but he felt himself flush.
Luke leaned on the doorframe, eyes bright. "Tell me, Tyrion. Did my son really try to punch you there?"
Roswell cleared his throat once. "He did."
Luke's smile widened. "Amazing. You've lived through wars, monsters, and cultists. But an eight-year-old aims a little low and suddenly you get scared."
"It wasn't like that, my lord," Roswell said, stiff.
Luke waved a hand, still grinning. "Relax. I'm teasing." Then his gaze sharpened a little, the humor turning into interest. "Now 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 quiet one."
Roswell hesitated, then answered honestly. "He's the opposite of his sister. He lacks polish. He lacks proper form. But when I sparred with him, it didn't feel like training."
Luke leaned forward slightly. "Explain."
"At first, he tried basic sword forms," Roswell said. "Then he realized he couldn't keep up. So, he stopped trying to win clean and rushed bare-handed."
Roswell let out a faint breath that might have been a laugh. "It wasn't smart. It wasn't trained. But the targets were not random. Neck. Eyes. Ribs. Gut."
Luke raised a brow. "And the groin."
"Yes," Roswell admitted. "Especially the groin."
Luke chuckled again, but quieter this time. "Sounds like northern fist technique."
"No, not that refined," Roswell said, more to himself than to Luke. He looked up. "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."
Roswell had fought countless opponents with different goals. But Lucian fought like someone who had to survive. Which was bizarre. He was eight years old. He had never seen battle, never even held a real sword before. He had been in the manor all his life.
Reading books? Training in secret? He couldn't be sure. But something about it sat wrong, and he couldn't place why.
"So," Luke said, amusement back in his voice, "my son didn't beat you with talent. He beats you by fighting to survive."
Roswell exhaled once, resigned. "Yes, my lord. He did."
Luke laughed under his breath, then looked out toward the window. "They might turn out even better than I expected," he said quietly.
Roswell nodded. "Yes," he replied. "I believe they will."