Chapter 9

Scrape, scrape. The sound of a razor gliding over skin rang softly in the room. Kate, with his usual precision, finished shaving the last strand of Duke Belvan’s beard with flawless skill. As he reached for the mirror, Belvan waved his hand with a light-hearted chuckle.

“There’s no need to check. I trust you did it perfectly, as always.”

“No, Your Grace. There’s always room for improvement.”

Belvan smoothed his freshly groomed beard and spoke again.

“Now then, what is it you’ve been wanting to say?”

Though his expression was kind, Belvan’s tone was serious. Kate smiled bitterly, hiding a sigh. I’ve failed again. He had hoped to serve without causing worry, without revealing emotion—but he had been caught again. Caught daring to worry for his master.

Kate bowed deeply, his voice low and sincere.

“My apologies.”

“I understand, Kate. You love Fiore as much as I do. Of course you’re concerned—about my decision to give Amelia a chance.”

Kate no longer held back.

“I understand Your Grace’s heart. You cherished Lady Ailey deeply, and her passing brought you great sorrow. But allowing Lady Amelia to take the succession trial… is unreasonable.”

Kate’s voice was firm, unwavering.

“If she tarnishes the sanctity of the trial, the other Tiers will not stand by quietly.”

“Especially Isana. He loves Fiore so much, he refused to become head of the house.”

“Without their trust, Fiore’s foundation will falter.”

“I believe in Amelia. She must have a plan. And this time… I want to be her grandfather, not just the Duke.”

Kate faltered at that. Belvan’s voice softened, tinged with a rare vulnerability.

“Even if it stains my honor as Duke of Fiore, I want to believe in her, and give her this chance.”

His deeply lined eyes trembled faintly.

“Because of this name, I couldn’t protect my beloved daughter. I abandoned a sick child.”

“Your Grace…”

“For the final chapter of my life—for just this brief moment—I want to be her grandfather, not the Duke. Please understand… as my oldest friend.”

Kate could press no further. But he couldn’t fully yield either.

“I pray Milady will not betray your trust. As your servant… I cannot bear to see your honor tarnished. Not as your old friend, either.”

Belvan laughed heartily.

“Thank you, Kate.”

Everyone doubted her. But Belvan truly believed Amelia would perform a miracle.

‘I wish to inherit the title of Duke of Fiore.’

Those words were sincere, and the look in her eyes had been too. Reckless, perhaps—but not hopeless.

Bang!
In the empty training grounds, a gunshot echoed like the wind. Though no one was visible, in an instant, the target shattered into pieces. The sharp, air-splitting shots continued for 30 minutes. Finally, after fifteen precise gunshots, Meysarina stepped out.

Wearing a figure-hugging velvet dress, a black musket slung over her shoulder, she walked to the shattered target, breath labored but eyes gleaming. Ten shots hit the mark precisely; five strayed slightly—but even so, Meysarina looked pleased.

“Fifteen shots in thirty minutes. That’s more than enough.”

After all, was there any point in being serious against someone who couldn’t even shoot?

“She’ll only humiliate herself. What can she do with that weak, dying heart?”

Musketeers were mages who used guns as conduits for magic. They shaped their mana into bullets, called magic rounds (matan). Creating even one matan required immense mana and time, so they usually served as long-range snipers.

Hidden from sight, striking the enemy before they could blink—this role was crucial in war. Facing an invisible foe was a terror few could withstand. Plus, each matan carried elemental magic, making it devastatingly powerful.

Their only weakness was speed. Without rapid-fire capability, once discovered, they became vulnerable. Most Tiers could conjure ten matans in thirty minutes. Meysarina had created fifteen—undeniably impressive.

“This is a guaranteed win. Still, I’ll crush her thoroughly—make sure she never shows her face again.”

From afar, Isana and Kallen observed her training. Kallen couldn’t help but be impressed.

“Wow. Lady Meysarina’s pretty good. Fifteen shots in thirty minutes, and she doesn’t even look that tired.”

Isana, lazily sucking on a lollipop, responded with a shrug.

“But only ten were on target.”

“Her primary matan is wind-based. Decent power, and her cover skills are solid. With improved accuracy, she’s definitely the top contender. Honestly, the outcome seems decided.”

“What’s with the confidence when the trial hasn’t even started?”

“The trial’s tomorrow, and there’s no one with her skills.”

Isana raised a brow and mentioned the wild card.

“What about Lady Amelia?”

Kallen’s expression darkened sharply.

“Lady Amelia… ha. She’s the strangest of them all. For starters, she’s not even using a musket…”

“Not a musket?”

The once-indifferent expression on Isana’s face shifted into curiosity. For a Musketeer, a musket was essential. Since rapid fire was impossible and their only option was long-range combat, they had no choice but to use a musket. But now…

“A revolver.”

“A revolver?”

“Yes. And she hasn’t fired a single shot. She’s fighting with a sword.”

“Haa… haa…”

Amelia stood, gasping for breath, her entire body drenched in sweat. The once-lustrous waves of her hair clung to her skin in tangled disarray, soaked through. Gone was her usual neat dress—replaced by a dirt-streaked, loose shirt and equally soiled leather trousers. In her hand, she gripped a revolver that fit snugly in her palm.

Before her stood Eclite Riot Clio, holding a wooden practice sword with unyielding presence. While Amelia was clearly exhausted, Eclite remained composed, his attire impeccable, as he looked at her with calm focus.

Amelia met his gaze, tightening her hold on the revolver.

“Let’s continue.”

At her words, Eclite lunged without mercy, his practice sword slicing through the air. Amelia dodged quickly, raising her revolver with precision aimed directly at his head—yet Eclite dodged just as swiftly, counterattacking with a sharp strike.

A duel of sword versus gun.
When Eclite attacked with his sword, Amelia would avoid the strike and aim her revolver at his head or chest in response. Of course, she never fired.

For the final strike, Eclite thrust his sword, and Amelia, evading perfectly, aimed the revolver at his forehead and froze mid-step. Her breathing was ragged, her whole body trembling with exertion.

Eclite, watching her intently, finally spoke. Though they had moved together, not a single breath of his seemed out of rhythm.

“You missed a few of my attacks, but you did well.”

Amelia summoned the last of her strength to reply.

“I can’t afford to miss. If I do, I die… Haa, haa… One more time.”

Eclite glanced at her hand and lowered his sword.

“Let’s rest.”

“No. I can keep going… The trial is tomorrow. I can’t afford to rest…”

“I’m tired.”

Amelia gasped.

“Liar! You don’t look tired at all! Honestly, it’s infuriating! You could’ve moved faster, couldn’t you? You’re going easy on me, aren’t you?!”

“Not at all.”

Suddenly, Eclite took her hand and pressed it firmly against his chest. The heat and solidity of his skin startled Amelia, causing her to cry out.

“W-What are you doing?!”

“Can you feel how fast my heart is beating?”

“What…?”

Eclite’s gaze was serious, unwavering, and Amelia, flustered, focused on the thundering rhythm beneath her palm. Though he had shown no sign of fatigue, his heart was pounding violently, so much that her hand trembled from the force.

“I can feel it… It’s really fast.”

Eclite swallowed back his tension and replied coolly.

“That’s how much… effort I’m exerting.”

“…Right. That’s amazing. You didn’t look tired at all.”

Amelia, genuinely awed, kept her hand on his chest, feeling the rhythm. The beat was growing even faster.

“It feels like it’s… speeding up even more…”

“Then let’s rest for a bit.”

Unable to resist, Eclite gently pulled Amelia’s hand as he spoke.

“Alright, just a little while.”

Amelia sat down carelessly on the ground, catching her breath. Eclite exhaled his own pent-up breath and sat across from her.

“Do you have something to say?”

Without responding, he reached for the hand she had used to grip the revolver.

“H-Hey!”

Amelia tried to hide it, but he held her hand more firmly. As he applied pressure, she couldn’t help but let out a small cry.

“Ow!”

Her palm, which had clutched the revolver, was red and chafed. Eclite, visibly displeased, retrieved a small tin of ointment from his pocket.

“I’m fine…”

“It’s your trial tomorrow. Even the smallest injury can become a serious problem. I told you — self-care is also part of your skill.”

At his cold tone, Amelia instinctively closed her mouth. Eclite’s fingers moved lightly over her palm, applying the ointment with a touch so gentle it almost tickled. As his hand lingered, Amelia became increasingly aware of his touch, a subtle heat rising to her fingertips. Flustered, she forced her mind elsewhere.

“You really aren’t going to ask me why I’m doing all this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this. Why I’m training this way.”

That day, she had asked him for help with her training — specifically, to attack her with a wooden sword while she defended herself using a revolver. A musketeer training without practicing marksmanship or magic, instead engaging in close combat? To anyone else, it would seem insane. But he never once questioned her, helping her to the very end.

“I told you. I trust you.”

“You act like you know everything about me. Even those close to me are worried.”

“Who?”

“Mami. She’s really anxious.”

Of course she was. With the trial tomorrow, Amelia had yet to fire a single shot in practice.

“Still… I like this. Watching you like this.”

His sudden words made Amelia blink.

“What?”

“You move so well. You’re really good at it.”

“What?”

Eclite lifted his gaze, and his beautiful blue eyes sparkled. Amelia’s heart began to beat wildly.

‘There it is again… that look… Why does he always look at me like that?’

“And I get to see you all disheveled.”

“W-Wait, what do you mean by that?”

Amelia’s eyes widened in disbelief. How did she appear in his eyes right now?

‘Even if I’m not perfectly composed, I still have some dignity as a lady!’

Well, yes, it’s only natural to look messy during intense training. But did he have to point it out?

‘I thought he might lack etiquette, but I at least expected some manners!’

Slightly miffed, she muttered with a hint of sarcasm.

“Sorry I look such a mess. Still, you’re one to talk. When we first met… Well, I was a little scared, but I didn’t dislike you or anything—”

“I never said I disliked it.”

His voice was low, eyes never leaving hers.

“I said I liked seeing you like this.”

Amelia suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to pull her hand away from his. They were just supposed to be resting, yet her heart felt like it was beating faster than his had earlier. She absolutely did not want him to hear the sound of it — that relentless, betraying thud.

Isana and Kallen were observing Amelia’s training while perfectly concealing their presence through expert stealth techniques.

“She’s pretty quick, and her reflexes are sharp. Her stamina seems decent too.”

“What good is that for a musketeer? Tiers are supposed to hide and snipe. And they’re supposed to use rifles, not revolvers!”

“You’re right. A revolver has a short range since it’s meant for close combat. But compared to a rifle, it allows for freer movement.”

Kallen grew increasingly frustrated with Isana’s offhand comments.

“What’s the point of mobility? A revolver is for suicide. When a Tier is discovered by the enemy, they use it to die with honor rather than be tortured.”

“Well, it wasn’t created for suicide per se. It’s just that no Tier has ever really been able to use it properly.”

Isana recalled the way Amelia dodged sword strikes and aimed precisely for vital points with her revolver.

“If you’re facing a sword in close combat, a revolver could be deadly. You can move fast, and since it’s small, the enemy won’t see it coming. She could wipe out her opponents cleanly.”

“Wipe them out? More like get herself killed. Fighting with a revolver? She won’t have time to create a single mana bullet. She’ll die right there on the spot.”

“What if she can fire repeatedly?”

Isana’s words were curious, but Kallen immediately cut in.

“No Tier has ever done that. It’s impossible.”

“Of course, it is. Firing repeatedly would require an insane amount of mana. And you’d have to generate mana bullets instantly. Maybe an ancient mage could’ve done it, but humans today? Their hearts wouldn’t last. But if it’s possible…”

“Huh?”

“If it’s possible, no one could beat her.”

Isana didn’t take his eyes off Amelia as a bright smile formed on his lips.

“How do you beat a genius? A musketeer with no weaknesses.”

Kallen stared at him as though he’d lost it.

“You’re seriously saying weird stuff again.”

“She’s been strange from the start.”

“No, seriously weird. Her stamina’s insane. She’s been moving nonstop, and you’re telling me she has a weak heart?”

At that moment, Isana’s expression stiffened. He grabbed Kallen and quickly pulled them both behind a tree. Eclite was glaring coldly in their direction. Unaware of the situation, Amelia stood up and spoke.

“Shall we start again?”

Eclite turned his back, shielding her with his body.

“Let’s begin.”

Kallen swallowed nervously and whispered to Isana.

“D-Did he spot us?”

“Probably.”

Isana grinned, as if entertained. Eclite had looked exactly in their direction and then blocked Amelia from view. No, he hadn’t just blocked her — he had protected her. Their eyes had only met across empty space, yet the chill in the air had made it hard to breathe. That kind of killing intent — it had been a long time since he’d felt it.

“But how…? Did we mess up our stealth? No way. We completely hid our presence…”

“That’s why they call him the monster duke.”

“What?”

“He won every battle he started. Oddly enough, the weather always helped him. Snowstorms, wind, rain — all in perfect harmony.”

Isana casually walked away. Staying any longer felt like risking his life.

“Anyway, I wonder what the weather will be like tomorrow.”

The sun had set, and the new dawn was still unknown. But one thing was certain: no matter which way the winds blew, a new flower would bloom tomorrow.

“This trial… I’m really looking forward to it.”