Motoyasu rose. His legs were steady. His hands were steady. His spear felt light in his grip.
"How do we get her back?"
Alistair looked at him, and for a long moment, the old man seemed to crumble. Not his body—he stood straight, proud, the way he had when they first arrived. But something behind his eyes. Something that had been holding him together for weeks, maybe months.
"I should have told you," he said. "Yesterday, when you came. I should have told you everything."
Motoyasu waited.
"But Valerius's men—the ones stationed here, watching us—they were still in this house when you arrived. They heard every word we said in the courtyard. Saw every face. Every weapon. Every wagon of supplies." He swallowed. "If I had told you the truth then—if I had said 'my daughter is being held hostage, the men who threatened her are in my home, help me'—they would have killed her before you could draw your spear."
Elena's hand tightened on her sword. "They would have risked attacking a Hero?"
"They would have risked nothing." Alistair's voice was hollow. "They had one order. One purpose. If anyone came to help us—if anyone threatened Valerius's plan—they were to take Rishia and run. Not fight. Not bargain. Just... disappear with her. Into the mountains. Into Valerius's territory. Somewhere we could never follow."
He looked at the ruined room around them. The empty walls and the shattered frames.
"I thought... if I said nothing, they would do nothing. If I greeted you like any other visitor, if I played the grateful lord receiving aid from a passing Hero, they would wait. Watch. Report back to their master. But they wouldn't run. They wouldn't take her. Because there was no reason to run. You weren't here for them. You didn't know about them. You were just... a Hero passing through."
He closed his eyes.
"I was wrong."
"They knew the camp would fall," Lesti said quietly. "They knew a Hero would make short work of common bandits. So they didn't wait to see the outcome."
"They waited just long enough." Alistair nodded. "Until you left. Until the gate closed behind you. Then they moved. Destroyed everything that might be used as evidence. Took everything of value. And took her."
"How long ago?"
"Six hours. Maybe seven. We couldn't stop them. We couldn't follow." He looked at Motoyasu, and there was nothing in his eyes now but grief. "I should have told you. I should have begged you to take her with you, to hide her, to do something. But I thought if I just... kept quiet... she would be safe. I thought the best way to protect her was to make sure no one knew she needed protecting."
He shook his head slowly.
"Cowardice. All of it. I was so afraid of what Valerius would do if he knew we were fighting back that I forgot to be afraid of what he would do if we didn't."
The room was silent. Motoyasu looked at the old man's face, at the ruin of his home, at the empty space where a daughter should have been.
"You were protecting her," he said. "The best way you knew how."
"Don't." Alistair's voice cracked. "Don't make excuses for me. I let them take her. I let them walk out my door with my daughter, and I did nothing, because I was afraid."
Motoyasu crossed the room in three strides. He stopped in front of Alistair, close enough to see the tears tracking down the old man's cheeks, close enough to see the grey of his hair, the lines of his face. He could see it now. The weight of everything he'd carried alone.
"You didn't do nothing." His voice was low. "You sent word to the Heroes. You found Welst, somehow, and you told him you needed help. And when we came, you let us in. You trusted us. Even when you had every reason not to."
Alistair stared at him.
"That's not nothing," Motoyasu said. "Do you hear me? That's not nothing."
He stepped back, hefted his spear, felt its weight, its balance, the familiar grip that had become second nature in the weeks since his summoning.
"Now tell me. The men who took her. Which way did they go?"
Alistair blinked. Swallowed. "North. Through the mountain pass. Valerius's territory is on the other side. If they reach his walls before you catch them—"
"Then we don't let them reach his walls."
He turned to his party. To Elena, fierce and ready, her hand already on her sword. To Rino, pale but steady. To Lesti, cold and precise, her noble's mask firmly in place but something else flickering behind her eyes.
"The mountain pass. How long?"
Elena was already calculating. "If we ride hard, we can reach it by nightfall. But we'll need fresh horses. Faster horses."
"There are horses in the stable." Alistair's voice was stronger now. "Valerius's men left theirs when they fled. They're not fast horses, but they'll carry you."
Motoyasu nodded. "We'll make do."
Lesty stepped forward. "We need more than speed. Valerius's territory is fortified. If they reach the pass before us, if they get behind his walls—"
"Then we don't let them reach the pass."
Motoyasu was already moving toward the door, his spear across his shoulders, his stride long and purposeful. The others followed. Behind them, Alistair stood in the ruins of his home, his hands shaking, his eyes wet.
"Lord Hero," he called. "My daughter. Please. Bring her home."
Motoyasu paused at the threshold. He didn't turn around. But his voice, when it came, was steady as stone.
"I will."
They rode until their horses were foam-flecked and heaving. Until the sun began its slow descent toward the mountains. Until the pass rose before them, dark and narrow, a wound in the rock that swallowed the road whole.
Elena pulled up first, her horse skidding to a stop. "Tracks. They went through here."
Motoyasu saw them—fresh hoofprints, three horses, pressed deep into the muddy ground of the pass. Hours old, maybe. Not enough.
"Then we go through." He urged his horse forward, but Lesti's hand shot out, grabbing his rein.
"Motoyasu. The pass narrows ahead. If they have archers waiting—"
"They don't know we're coming. They think we're still at the camp, counting bodies and patting ourselves on the back." He pulled free. "We can still catch them. We have to catch them."
He kicked his horse into a gallop before anyone could argue.
The pass was worse than he expected. The road narrowed to a single track, the walls closing in on either side, the sky a sliver of fading light above. His horse stumbled on loose stone, recovered, kept going.
They emerged on the other side as the last light bled from the sky.
And there, at the bottom of the hill, were the walls of Valerius's territory.
Torches lined the ramparts. Men moved behind them—shadows against the firelight, their shapes blurred, but their purpose was clear. The gates were closing. Already closing, the great iron doors grinding together, sealing off the only entrance.
And in front of them, just before the gates, several horses stood riderless. Their saddles was empty and their reins trailed on the ground. All of them were still breathing hard, still lathered with sweat, evident after effects of the long ride.
Motoyasu's heart stopped.
He kicked his horse forward, down the hill, toward the gates, toward the walls that were closing faster than he could ride. Elena shouted something behind him. Rino screamed his name.
He was halfway down when the gates closed. The iron boomed shut, a sound that echoed off the mountains, that shook the ground and rattled in his chest like a second heartbeat.
He pulled up at the base of the wall, his horse rearing at the abrupt stop. He raised his spear, and shouted, his voice raw with fury.
"Give her back!"
Silence. The torches flickered. The shadows on the walls shifted, resolved into men with bows, arrows nocked, strings drawn.
And then a voice. Smooth. Amused. The voice of a man who had won everything.
"Oh my. How pitiful."
Motoyasu looked up. A figure had appeared on the ramparts, silhouetted against the torches, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed. Valerius. He didn't need to see the man's face to know it. He could hear the smile in his voice.
"The Spear Hero," Valerius said, savoring the words. "Dead while trying to save the Ivyred territory from a band of runaway criminals. What a tragedy. What a loss. What a story."
Motoyasu's blood ran cold.
Behind him, he heard Elena's sharp intake of breath. Heard Rino's whispered prayer. Heard Lesty's silence, which was worse than anything she could have said.
Valerius tilted his head, still smiling. "The body will be found in the pass, I think. A noble death. A Hero's death. And my territory will be safe from the bandits that plagued it. The bandits that you so bravely pursued. The bandits that killed you in your moment of triumph."
His voice dropped, soft and intimate, meant for Motoyasu alone.
"A fitting end for a man who thought he could save everyone."
He raised his hand.
Motoyasu's body moved before his mind caught up. He threw himself from his horse, hit the ground rolling, came up with his spear raised, his shield—he didn't have a shield, he was the Spear Hero, he didn't need a shield, he had speed, he had strength, he had—
Arrows darkened the sky.
He parried the first, the shaft shattering against his spear. The second grazed his arm, tearing cloth, drawing blood. The third he didn't see coming—it took his horse in the chest, and the animal went down screaming, thrashing, dying.
Elena was beside him, her sword a blur, deflecting arrows, pulling him toward the cover of a rock outcropping. Rino had thrown up a barrier, the air shimmering with heat, arrows bursting into flame before they could reach her. Lesty was—Lesty was gone, vanished into the darkness, and Motoyasu didn't have time to wonder where.
"Fall back!" Elena's voice was sharp, commanding. "We can't take the walls! Fall back!"
"Rishia—"
"Is inside! And we're dead if we stay here!" She grabbed his arm, dragged him toward Rino's barrier. "We regroup. We get help. We come back. But we can't help her if we're dead!"
Another volley of arrows. Rino's barrier flickered, buckled, held. Her face was white with strain, sweat beading on her forehead. "I can't—I can't hold it much longer—"
" I'm sorry..." Motoyasu's voice sounded strange to his own ears. Hollow. "Let's go. We're retreating. We get help. We will come back."
He looked up at the walls one last time. At the torches. At the silhouettes of archers, already notching another volley. At Valerius, still standing on the ramparts, still watching, still smiling.
And behind him, just for a moment—a flicker of green in the torchlight, a flash of a face pressed against a window high in the walls, a girl with green hair and green eyes and a mouth open in a silent scream.
Then Rino's barrier collapsed, and Elena was dragging him away, and the darkness swallowed them whole.
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.
They rode through the night.
Not toward Ivyred. There was nothing for them there but failure and grief. Not toward the capital. That was too far, too long. They rode south. Toward Reichnott territory. Toward where Noritoshi should be right now.
The moon was high when they finally stopped, their horses blown, their bodies broken, their hearts still racing. Elena slumped against a tree, her sword still in her hand, her eyes fixed on the road behind them. Rino was crying, silently, the tears cutting tracks through the dust on her face. Lesti sat apart from them, her hands folded in her lap, her face turned toward the stars.
Motoyasu stood in the center of them, his spear planted in the ground and his hands still shaking.
"We'll go back," he said. His voice was rough. "We'll get Noritoshi. We'll get Naofumi. We'll get everyone. And we'll go back."
No one answered.
He looked at his hands. At the cuts from arrows, the bruises from the fall, the blood that wasn't his.
"I promised him," he said. "I promised I'd bring her home."
Elena rose. She crossed to him, took his hands, held them steady.
"Then we will." Her voice was firm. "We will. But first, we have to survive if we want that to happen. Then we tell Noritoshi what happened, and then we make a plan, and then we go back."
She looked at him, and her eyes were fierce, and her grip was strong, and she did not look away.
"Rishia Ivyred is still alive. You said you saw her. I think I saw her too. She's alive. And while she's alive, there's still a chance."
Motoyasu looked at her and nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah. There's still a chance."
He pulled his hands free, hefted his spear, turned toward the south.
"Then let's go get Noritoshi."
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The Reichnott estate rose out of the morning mist like something from a dream—white walls, tall windows, gardens that stretched for acres. It was the kind of place that belonged in paintings, in stories, in the memories of people who had never known fear or hunger, but Motoyasu barely saw it.
He kicked his horse through the gates, past guards who shouted and scrambled out of the way, up the long drive toward the mansion's entrance. Behind him, Elena and Rino followed—slower, their horses blown, their faces grey with exhaustion. Lesti brought up the rear, her eyes scanning the windows, the gardens, the shadows where archers might be hiding.
He didn't care about archers. He didn't care about guards. He didn't care about the pristine white walls or the carefully manicured gardens or the way the servants stared at him as he rode past.
He needed Noritoshi.
He threw himself off his horse before it stopped moving and hit the ground running. With his spear still in his hand, he ran, his boots slipping on the polished stone of the courtyard.
"Noritoshi! Noritoshi!"
The doors to the mansion were open. He ran through them, into a hall that opened into a grand atrium. It was a space that was full of people who were not Noritoshi.
Demi-humans. Dozens of them. Servants, maybe, or guards, or—it didn't matter. They stared at him with wide eyes and suspicion, with fear. He was covered in blood. His clothes were torn. His hands were still shaking. He must have looked like a madman.
He didn't care.
"Noritoshi!" His voice echoed off the high ceiling, bounced back at him, unanswered. "Where are you? Noritoshi!"
Footsteps. Rapid, measured, the sound of someone who moved with purpose. Ren appeared from a side corridor, his hand on his sword, his face already set in that familiar mask of cool detachment.
"Motoyasu." His voice was clipped. Annoyed. "Not only are you late, but you're also causing trouble for our patro—"
He stopped. His hand fell away from his sword. The mask cracked.
Motoyasu saw it happen—saw the moment Ren's eyes registered the blood, the torn clothes, the shaking hands. Saw the moment his brain finished analyzing the damage and started wondering what could have caused it.
"Motoyasu..." Ren's voice was different now. Softer. He had never heard Ren speak like that. "Are you alright? What happened?"
The softness nearly undid him. Motoyasu's throat closed. His eyes burned. He couldn't—he couldn't think about that, couldn't think about what happened, couldn't think about the girl in the window or the arrows or the promise he'd made and failed to keep.
"Noritoshi!" He pushed past Ren, stumbling further into the atrium. "Where is he?! I need his help!"
Ren caught his arm. His grip was firm but not hard, the grip of someone holding a friend up rather than holding them back.
"Calm down." His voice was steady, measured, the voice he used when things were going wrong and he needed them to go right. "Take a deep breath."
Motoyasu tried. The air caught in his chest, stuck there, and it wouldn't move.
"Welt." Ren's head turned, his voice sharpening with command. "Please heal them. Fetch Welst too, if you feel it's necessary."
The white-haired mage appeared at Motoyasu's side, his hands already glowing, his face carefully blank. Healing light washed over him, closing cuts, mending bruises, easing the ache in his bones. It didn't touch the weight in his chest. It didn't bring back what he'd lost.
"No." Motoyasu tried to pull away, to move forward, to find Noritoshi. "I need—I have to—"
Ren's grip tightened. "No. Stop moving, Motoyasu." He stepped into his path, blocking him, forcing him to look at him. "Noritoshi is here. He's coming soon."
The words took a moment to register. When they did, some of the frantic energy drained out of Motoyasu's limbs. His shoulders sagged. His spear dipped toward the floor.
"He's coming," he repeated.
"He's coming." Ren's voice was softer again. "Now. Tell me what happened."
Motoyasu opened his mouth. Closed it. The words were there—Rishia, Valerius, the walls, the arrows, the promise—but they wouldn't come out. They were stuck behind the image of a girl with green hair pressed against a window, behind the sound of gates closing, behind the weight of a man's hope that he'd carried into a trap.
"Later," he said finally. His voice was hoarse. "When Noritoshi gets here. I'll tell you both. I'll tell everyone." He looked at Ren, and for once, he didn't try to hide what he was feeling. "I messed up, Ren. I messed up bad."
Ren studied him for a long moment. Then he did something Motoyasu never expected.
He put his hand on Motoyasu's shoulder. Squeezed once. Let go.
"We'll fix it," he said. "Whatever it is. We'll fix it together."
Behind them, footsteps echoed in the corridor. Fast. Measured. The sound of someone who knew what it meant when a friend came home broken.
Noritoshi stepped into the atrium.
His eyes swept the room—Elena slumped against a pillar, her sword still in her hand. Rino sitting on the floor, her face wet with tears she was too tired to hide. Lesty standing apart, her hands clasped behind her back, her face turned toward the windows.
And Motoyasu. Standing in the middle of it all, covered in blood that wasn't his, holding a spear that felt heavier than it had yesterday.
Noritoshi's expression didn't change. But something in his eyes did. Something that looked like understanding.
"Motoyasu." His voice was calm. "Tell me what happened."
Motoyasu looked at him. At Ren. At his party, broken and bleeding and waiting for him to say something that would make this right.
"The Ivyred family," he said. "The bandits. They weren't bandits. They were..." He swallowed. "There's a noble. Valerius. He has Rishia. He has her, and I couldn't—I promised I'd bring her home, and I couldn't—"
His voice broke. He couldn't help it. The words he'd been holding back spilled out, messy and broken and wrong.
"I saw her, Noritoshi. She was in the window. She was right there, and I couldn't reach her."
The atrium was silent. The demi-human servants had withdrawn, melting into the shadows, leaving only the Heroes and their parties. Elena pushed off from the pillar, came to stand beside Motoyasu. Rino rose, wiping her face. Lesty turned from the window.
Noritoshi's gaze moved across them, cataloging, calculating. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.
"We'll get her back."
Motoyasu looked up. "How? He has walls. He has archers. He has—"
"He has a territory." Noritoshi's voice was still quiet. "We have four Heroes, three armies of adventurers, and a network of spies that stretches across the continent." He met Motoyasu's eyes. "He has one night to enjoy his victory. And then we take it from him."
Motoyasu stared at him. The frantic energy was gone now, replaced by something else—something that felt almost like hope.
"You mean it."
Noritoshi's lips curved, just slightly. "I never say things I don't mean."
He turned to Ren. "Send word to Naofumi. Tell him to finish what he's doing and meet us at the border. And send word to the capital. I want everything we have on Valerius. His holdings. His allies. His weaknesses."
Ren nodded. "Already on it."
Noritoshi looked back at Motoyasu. "You did what you could. You brought us the information we need. That's not nothing."
"I lost her."
"You lost a battle." Noritoshi's voice hardened. "We haven't lost the war."
He turned and walked toward the doors, his stride measured, his back straight. At the threshold, he paused.
"Eat something. Rest. You'll need your strength." He looked over his shoulder, and for a moment, his mask slipped. "We'll get her back, Motoyasu. I promise."
Then he was gone, and the doors closed behind him, and Motoyasu was left standing in the atrium with a spear in his hand and a promise in his chest that he hadn't failed. Not yet.
He looked at Ren. "He's scary when he's like that."
Ren's lips twitched. "He's scarier when he's not."
Behind them, Elena laughed—a small, exhausted sound that was almost human. Rino joined her, then Lesti, her laugh quiet and surprised, like she hadn't meant to let it out.
Motoyasu let his spear drop to his side. The weight was still there. The guilt was still there too. And... the image of a girl in a window, pressing her hand against the glass, was still there.
But something else was there too. Something that felt like the beginning of a plan.
They were going to get her back. All of them. Together.
He looked at his hands. They had stopped shaking.
Then, they were ushered by the servants, still with suspicion in their eyes, to their private quarters to rest. He'd spent the hours since Noritoshi's departure sitting in a chair that was too comfortable, staring at a ceiling that was too high, trying to make the images in his head stop playing on a loop.
The spear in his hand felt heavier than it had yesterday. He'd set it against the wall, then picked it up again, then set it down, then picked it up. His hands couldn't seem to decide whether to hold or release.
A knock at the door.
"Come in."
Lesti entered first, her steps silent, her expression composed. Behind her, Elena and Rino followed, looking cleaner than they had when they'd stumbled through the gates, but no less tired.
"Noritoshi wants the full account," Lesty said. "Everything we saw. Everything we heard."
Motoyasu nodded. He rose from the chair, grabbed his spear—better to have it, even if he didn't need it—and followed them out.
The room Noritoshi had commandeered was at the end of a long corridor, its windows facing east, toward the mountains. Maps covered the walls. Papers were spread across a massive oak desk. Ren stood by the window, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Noritoshi sat at the desk, his eyes sharp and waiting.
"Tell me."
Motoyasu sat. Lesty took the chair beside him. Elena and Rino stood by the door, silent witnesses.
He told them everything. The ambush at the camp. The bodies, more than they'd expected, more than the scouts had reported. The way they'd fought—not like bandits, not like desperate men, but like soldiers. Like men who knew they were buying time for something else.
He told them about returning to Ivyred territory. About the farmhouse that looked nothing like a noble's home. About the empty walls, the shattered frames, the space where a daughter should have been.
Lesty filled in the gaps. The Crown's decrees. The stripping of authority. Valerius's rise, his methods, his reputation. The sabotage that became theft, the theft that became violence. The adventurers who came unbidden, the bills that followed, the bodyguards who stayed.
And Rishia. The daughter who loved magic, who mastered all beginners magic from all affinities before her third year, who asked for nothing and received less. The girl with green hair and a shy smile and a father who watched her being taken and could do nothing to stop it.
Motoyasu told them about the ride north. About the pass, the walls, the gates closing. About the voice on the ramparts, smooth and amused, laying out the story that would be told when the Spear Hero's body was found in the morning.
He told them about the arrows. About Elena pulling him back. About Rino's barrier crumbling. About the girl in the window—just for a moment, just long enough to see—and then nothing.
When he finished, the room was silent.
Noritoshi's fingers had stopped tapping the desk. His eyes were fixed on the map of the Northern Territory, his expression unreadable. Ren had turned from the window, his arms still crossed, his face shadowed.
"He planned it," Noritoshi said. It wasn't a question.
"All of it." Lesty's voice was cold. "The bandits, the sabotage, the debt. He created the problem so he could sell the solution. And when we came to fix it, he used that too."
Ren's jaw tightened. "And he planned to use a Hero's death as cover. Our death. He was going to claim Motoyasu died fighting the bandits he himself had sent."
"That was the story." Motoyasu's hands tightened on his spear. "The Spear Hero, dead while saving the Ivyred territory from bandits. A tragic loss for this continent, he said. And no one would ever know what really happened to Rishia if Elena wasn't there. I'm...a really reckless dumbass."
The silence stretched. Noritoshi's eyes moved across the map, tracing routes, counting distances, calculating. Motoyasu could see it happening—the gears turning, the possibilities narrowing, the shape of a plan emerging.
"We need to move on Rabiel first."
Motoyasu's head snapped up. "What? No. Rishia—"
"Rishia is alive." Noritoshi's voice was calm but firm. "Valerius won't kill her. She's leverage. A bargaining chip. Something to hold over Ivyred, something to use against us if we move too fast." He met Motoyasu's eyes. "She's safe for now. Rabiel's children aren't."
The words landed like a full power punch to the solar plexus.
Motoyasu wanted to argue. He wanted to scream, to rage, to grab his spear and ride north until his horse collapsed and then keep running. But Noritoshi was looking at him with that calm, steady gaze, and behind it was something Motoyasu hadn't expected.
Understanding.
"I know you want to go after her." Noritoshi's voice was quieter now. "I know you promised her father you'd bring her home. I know what it feels like to carry that weight."
He paused, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Old, as if he was reminiscing about… a memory.
"But we can't do both. Not yet. Rabiel's operation is too big, too entrenched. If we move on him with divided attention, we lose. Not just the operation. Not just the children. Everything."
He turned back to the map, tracing a line south with his finger.
Motoyasu stared at the map.
"We can't leave her there," he said. His voice cracked.
"We're not leaving her." Ren spoke from the window, his voice steady. "We're making sure we have the strength to bring her back."
Motoyasu lowered his head in silence.
"We wait for Naofumi first," Noritoshi continued. "As expected, the situation is Slora is the most dire of all. He may need extra time to complete his mission. Expect a few days longer than what we planned."
"And after Rabiel?"
"After Rabiel—" Noritoshi's hand moved north on the map, tracing the mountain pass, the walls, the territory beyond. "After Rabiel, we go get Rishia."
Motoyasu looked up and held his gaze. He wanted to believe him. He needed to believe him.
"Together," he said.
Noritoshi's lips tugged. Just slightly.
"Together."
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The days that followed were… a lot different than he expected.
Motoyasu had thought they would be grinding levels. Unlocking new forms. Upgrading job levels. Maybe even something like Ren's mastery methods—the kind of systematic, numbers-driven progress that made sense in a game.
And they did, some of that. Rino spent hours with the Reichnott mages, her spellcraft sharpening into something almost dangerous. Lesty spent most of her time with Noritoshi's party, particularly with Myne. Everytime he found her, she's always either with Myne in the archives searching for dossier, intelligence, map, and what not or she's with Noritoshi, Welst and Ren, helping on planning and calculating...the plan? He didn't know what they were discussing. Honestly everytime he tried to join the room, he didn't understand a single thing and would leave soon after.
But the majority of the time was spent on the field.
"Aghh—"
Motoyasu hit the ground for the fourth time that morning, his spear clattering out of his grip, Elena's practice blade pressed against his throat. She eased off immediately, offering him a hand up.
"I don't get it." He took it, let her pull him to his feet. "I should be stronger than you. I'm a Hero. My stats are—"
"Your stats are higher than mine." Elena retrieved his spear, handed it back to him. "That's not the issue."
"Then what is?"
She circled him, her practice sword loose in her grip, her eyes sharp. "You're sloppy."
"Sloppy?"
"All of the things you've ever pulled off in a fight—the camp, the ambush, everything before that—it's only been possible because of your stats. Your speed. Your strength. Your endurance." She stopped in front of him. "In a restrained spar like this, where those advantages are limited? It becomes very apparent that you don't know how to use a spear."
Motoyasu winced. "Ouch. That kind of hurts."
Elena's expression softened, just slightly. "Motoyasu." Her voice was gentler now. "You are amazing. Never put yourself down. Do you understand?"
He blinked at her sudden intensity. "I was just joking—"
"I know." She didn't look away. "But I mean it. You have something most fighters spend their whole lives chasing. Instinct. Speed. Power. You just..." She smiled, small and warm. "You need to learn how to use it."
Motoyasu found himself smiling back. "You're serious as ever, huh?"
"I am serious." She raised her blade again. "Now, again. And this time, watch my feet. Not my hands."
"As serious as ever," he repeated, settling into his stance. "And thank you. For teaching me. I had no idea about any of this. If you hadn't offered to help..."
Something flickered across Elena's face—a blush, quick and fierce, gone before he could name it. "Of course," she said. "You can always rely on me, Motoyasu."
A shout from the next field drew his attention.
Ren was sparring with one of the Reichnott guards—a woman with silver hair and a blade that moved faster than Motoyasu could follow. They were a blur of motion, steel ringing against steel, footwork so precise it looked choreographed.
Ren's sword came up, blocked a strike that should have taken his arm off. He pivoted, his counter so fast the guard barely got her blade up in time. She retreated, reset, came at him again—low slash, high slash, a thrust that Ren sidestepped like he'd known it was coming.
His blade traced a line through the air, a perfect arc that ended at the guard's throat. She stilled. Then she laughed, lowering her weapon.
"Good," she said. "Again."
They reset. The dance began again.
Motoyasu found himself drifting toward them, Elena beside him. They watched Ren dismantle the guard's offense piece by piece—reading her patterns, exploiting her openings, moving with a precision that didn't look like it belonged in a real body. It looked like something straight up from a game.
The guard finally called a halt, breathing hard, her face flushed. "You're good," she said. "Better than good. Where did you learn to fight like that?"
Ren's expression didn't change, but something in his posture softened. "Practice."
The guard snorted, shaking her head. She walked off, leaving Ren standing alone in the training field.
Motoyasu couldn't help himself.
"Ren!" He jogged over, Elena following. "How did you get so good at swordsmanship? It couldn't be—" He gasped dramatically. "Are you a protagonist just like Noritoshi?!"
Ren's eye twitched. "Knock it off." His voice was flat, but there was no heat in it. "Seriously, what are you talking about."
"A protagonist! A main character! Someone with a secret past and hidden powers and—"
"I played VR games." Ren cut him off. "That's it. That's the secret. I spent thousands of hours in simulations, fighting opponents who were faster, stronger, better than anything real. I learned how to read patterns. How to predict movements. How to react before my opponent even knew what they were doing." He shrugged. "I'm just good because of that."
Motoyasu stared at him. "Man... what a cheat."
"Your entire existence is a cheat. You're a summoned Hero with Legendary Weapon and Strengthening methods that shouldn't be possible."
"Fair point."
Beside them, Elena tilted her head, studying Ren with the same sharp focus she used when analyzing an opponent. "Ren. I noticed something."
He looked at her. "What?"
"Your movements. You fight with almost no hesitation. Your sword knows what to do before you think about it. But..." She paused, choosing her words. "It's like your body is catching up to something it already knows. The motions are right, but the weight behind them—the muscle memory, the grounding—is unfamiliar. Even though you move like you've done this ten thousand times, it also looks like you haven't done it in a very long while."
Ren was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer than Motoyasu had ever heard it.
"In the game, I was the strongest." He looked at his sword, turning it over in his hands. "When you reach the top of the leaderboard, when you're fighting people who are trying to do the same thing you're trying to do—basic swordsmanship becomes useless. It becomes about speed. About who can swing faster, who can land more attacks in a second, who can exploit the smallest gap in the lag between actions." He paused. "You forget, after a while, what it feels like to actually fight. To read an opponent. To move with them instead of through them."
He looked up at Elena.
"I forgot the joy of it. When I reached the top, it was just... numbers. Optimization. Efficiency. There was no joy in winning. There was just winning." He turned his sword over again, watching the light catch the blade.
Elena was silent for a long moment. Then she smiled, one that although small, feels genuine and warm.
"Your movements are a little rusty," she said. "Another spar might help. Would you care for one?"
Ren's lips curved slightly. "Sure."
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