"Are you ready?" Lucas's voice cut through the crisp air, his gaze fixed on Mira and Number Eight as they stood poised at the starting line. Both nodded, their expressions taut with determination. With a swift wave of his hand, Lucas shouted, "Begin!"
Like hounds unleashed—or rather, like arrows loosed from a bow—Mira and Number Eight exploded into motion, their feet pounding the snowy ground. The air buzzed with the intensity of their sprint, the distant straw dummy their singular focus.
Mira's wings fluttered, catching the wind and lending her an almost ethereal lightness. With each powerful stride, her toes barely grazed the earth, propelling her forward with a speed that felt like flying. She glanced back, a triumphant smirk tugging at her lips as she saw Number Eight falling behind. 'I've got this,' She thought, her confidence soaring. The gap between them widened with every heartbeat, her beastman stamina outpacing his human endurance.
Number Eight, however, remained unruffled. His movements were steady, deliberate. He held his recurve bow in one hand, an arrow already nocked, his grip unwavering despite the jarring pace of his run. The distance between them grew, but he didn't falter, his eyes locked on the target ahead. 'No need to rush,' He thought. 'One shot is all I need.'
The kilometer distance shrank rapidly as they closed in on the straw dummy, its silhouette growing larger against the snowy horizon. At a hundred meters, Mira's speed surged even more, her wings beating rhythmically to propel her forward. 'Eight seconds,' She calculated, her heart pounding with exhilaration. 'I'll reach it in eight seconds.'
But at seventy meters, Number Eight skidded to a halt. In a single fluid motion, he raised his bow, aimed for a mere second, and released the arrow. The projectile sliced through the air with a sharp whoosh, streaking past Mira so closely that she felt the rush of wind against her cheek. Her eyes widened in shock as the arrow buried itself in the dummy's head with pinpoint precision. She stumbled to a stop before the target, her momentum carrying her just close enough to touch it—but too late.
Mira stared at the arrow embedded in the dummy's straw skull, her breath catching in her throat. The outcome was undeniable: she had lost again. Two seconds—that's all it would have taken for her to reach the target first. Two seconds, and yet the gap felt like an eternity. She turned, her gaze settling on Number Eight, who stood calmly at seventy meters, his bow lowered. The distance was staggering. If she had tried to shoot an arrow from that range, she doubted she could have hit the dummy's body, let alone its head. Her defeat was absolute, and for the first time, she felt a grudging respect for her opponent's skill.
Her footsteps were heavy as she trudged back to the group, her breathing ragged from exertion and the weight of her second loss. The War Wolf Squad stood in silent formation, their disciplined presence a stark contrast to her growing sense of defeat. She stopped before Lucas, her green eyes meeting his faint, knowing smile. A glance at Amelia, standing quietly to the side, sent a pang of guilt through her chest. 'Am I really going to return to Big Sister empty-handed?' The thought was unbearable. She had been tasked with guarding Stone Mountain, and Amelia's disappearance had been her failure. Now, having found her, she couldn't even persuade her to come back. Big Sister's disappointment loomed like a storm cloud.
"There's still one more round," Lucas said, his voice breaking through her thoughts.
Mira shook her head, her shoulders slumping. "No need," She said, her tone heavy with resignation. "I've already lost." The weight of her words settled over her like a shroud. She glanced at the War Wolf Squad, her mind racing. She had chosen her opponents at random, and yet they had bested her effortlessly. A chilling realization hit her: every single member of the squad might be stronger than she was. The thought was humbling, and it stung.
"If you don't want to continue, that's fine," Lucas said, nodding. He turned and began walking back toward Sedona City, the beastgirls and elves falling into step behind him, their chatter light and carefree.
"Wait!" Mira's voice cracked through the air, her expression a tangle of determination and hesitation. "The third round… Can we do it?" Her heart raced as she spoke. She wasn't ready to give up—not entirely. A spark of curiosity flickered within her. What would the assassination round be like? Could she salvage some shred of pride by winning? Even a single victory might dull the sting of her earlier defeats.
Lucas paused, glancing back with a raised eyebrow. "Oh? Changed your mind?" His voice was calm, but there was a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "If you want to compete, follow me."
"Yes," Mira said, her lips pressing into a determined line. She hurried to catch up, her wings twitching with nervous energy. The third round—an assassination challenge—promised to be her last chance to prove herself. Her heart thrummed with anticipation, her mind already racing through possible strategies.
Mina leaned toward Lucas, her cat-like ears twitching as she whispered, "Master, she's still not giving up, is she?" Her voice carried a mix of amusement and pity as she glanced at Mira.
"Just a flicker of hope," Lucas replied, waving a hand dismissively. The day's challenges had been more than a test of Mira's skills; they were a probe into the capabilities of this world's assassins. So far, he wasn't impressed, but he was curious to see how far Mira would push herself.
Annie's fox ears perked up, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Master, why agree to a third round? It's unnecessary." Her voice was tinged with suspicion. This didn't seem like Lucas's usual calculated approach.
Lucas's lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile. "The drunkard's aim isn't the wine," He said cryptically, striding forward with purpose.
Annie blinked, her expression one of utter bewilderment. "What does that mean?" She exchanged glances with Mina and the other beastgirls, their eyes reflecting the same confusion. 'Is he saying the drunkard doesn't like wine? Or is he already drunk?' The metaphor sailed over their heads, leaving them puzzled as they followed.
Fifteen minutes later, the group arrived back at the castle, the midday sun casting long shadows across the stone courtyard. The air was thick with the promise of a hearty lunch, and Mira's stomach growled despite her lingering frustration.
"Nicole," Lucas called, beckoning her over. He leaned in, whispering something in her ear that made her eyes widen in shock.
"Master, is this for real?" Nicole asked, her voice tinged with disbelief, her usually composed demeanor faltering.
The others exchanged curious glances, their interest piqued. Nicole's reaction was unprecedented, and they couldn't help but wonder what Lucas had said to elicit such a response.
"It's real," Lucas said, waving her off. "Go prepare, and I'll explain later." He settled into his chair at the head of the table, his expression unreadable as he waited for lunch to be served.
The beastgirls and elves took their seats, their eyes darting between Lucas and Mira. The third round—an assassination contest between the two—was the talk of the table, and the anticipation hung heavy in the air.
"Lord Lucas, can we start the third round now?" Mira asked, her voice earnest. She was itching to win at least one challenge, to prove she wasn't as outmatched as the previous rounds suggested.
"No rush," Lucas said with a light chuckle. "The entire afternoon is for the contest. There's plenty of time." He leaned back, his casual demeanor a stark contrast to Mira's intensity.
"Starting now?" Mira asked, her brow furrowing.
"Yes," Lucas replied, waving a hand. "You can begin preparing whenever you're ready. But first, I'm having lunch." His tone was almost teasing, as if the contest was a mere afterthought.
Mira's jaw tightened, her competitive spirit bristling at his nonchalance. "Fine, I'll eat first, then prepare," She said, her voice firm. His indifference made her victory feel less satisfying, but the memory of the morning's sandwiches—warm, savory, and bursting with flavor—lingered in her mind. She was eager to see what culinary delights awaited her now.
Forty minutes later, Nicole returned, her expression unusually grave. She led a procession of seven or eight maids, each carrying trays laden with a dazzling array of dishes. The aroma was intoxicating—roasted meats, fragrant herbs, and something sweet and tangy that made Mira's mouth water. The table groaned under the weight of the feast, a spread far more lavish than she had expected.
"Nicole, why so many dishes today?" Ayesha asked, her purple eyes gleaming as she leaned forward, practically salivating over the food.
Nicole stood at the head of the table, waiting for Lucas's nod before speaking. "There's a rule for today's meal," She said, her voice serious. "Each person gets two dishes to choose from. If you eat one, you're fine. If you eat both, there's a chance something… might happen."
"What?!" The room erupted in stunned gasps, every pair of eyes fixed on Nicole. The beastgirls, elves, and Mira stared in disbelief, the strange rule hanging in the air like a riddle.
"Nicole, you're joking, right?" Annie asked, her fox ears twitching as she frowned. "What kind of rule is that?"
"It's the Master's rule," Nicole said, her eyes flickering with an unreadable emotion.
Lucas's voice cut through the murmurs. "Serve the meal," He said calmly.
"Yes, Master," Nicole replied, nodding to the maids. They moved with practiced grace, placing two dishes in front of each person at the table, the plates steaming with promise and mystery.
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