I woke up early in the gentle gray hours of dawn and called for a maid to help me prepare. As the room still held traces of sleep and low-hung candlelight, I dressed deliberately—not for courtly beauty, but for the rigors of training.
I slipped into a violet corset-style blouse with puffy sleeves that brushed my skin like a soft whisper, paired with tailored black pants. My half-knee brown boots, secured with a stout sash, provided both stability and a nod to my status.
Today, my long hair, which usually cascaded freely, was swept away from my face and tied in a high ponytail. I fastened an arm pad and a knee pad, choosing to leave out makeup and jewelry, for these would only hinder my focus and movement.
Once ready, the housekeeper escorted me to the training grounds. The cool marble beneath my feet and the early sunlight slowly illuminating the courtyard lent the moment a quiet gravity. There, my attention was immediately drawn to the back of Lyle—standing alone amid a row of wooden swords he examined with methodical precision. Clad in a simple blouse, black pants, and sturdy boots, he embodied the understated excellence of a seasoned warrior.
I sensed him attune to my presence even before he fully turned around. The moment my footsteps drew near, he lifted his head, and his silver eyes caught mine. With a slight bow—each movement measured and respectful—he greeted, "It is a lovely morning, Lady Madeleine."
I returned his greeting with a warm smile and a formal tone: "It is, Sir Lyle."
He frowned ever so subtly, remarking, "You will not need to address me like that."
I met his minor reproach without hesitation, replying, "No, you will be my trainer today, and since you are a sword master, a Marquis, and the Captain Knight, you deserve nothing less."
That was the truth. Even in the book, I had held him in high regard—as the enduring standard. Back in our old world, the fans had spoken of Lyle as the epitome, the very definition of their dream man.
Meeting him in person affirmed it all; everything written about him resonated in his unbothered, stoic face that, though typically appearing bored and stiff, betrayed a brilliant, caring soul beneath.
"We will start by working on your stamina," Lyle announced as he opened his notebook, his fingers gliding over neatly listed training routines. His clear, concise voice etched the plan into the morning air.
"First, you need to run at least five laps from here," he instructed firmly, pausing to add, "Drink water first." I took the offered water, feeling its coolness run along my throat, and began the run without complaint.
Midway through my first lap, I felt my heart pounding erratically, each beat louder than the last. My breaths became shallow and rapid, and my thighs trembled with fatigue.
I paused, leaning onto the cool ground to catch my breath. "What? Is this body truly that weak?" I wondered silently. Still midway, I was already overwhelmed by weariness.
I stopped and gathered my strength, the world momentarily reduced to the pounding in my ears and the burning in my muscles. When my breathing calmed, I resumed running, stopping each time my legs threatened to give out until finally, I completed the lap. Lyle handed me a glass of water. "Are you feeling thirsty?" he asked gently.
"A little," I managed in between labored breaths.
"You should wait a minute before you drink," he cautioned. I obliged without protest—after all, he was my trainer, and he knew what he was doing.
After that respite, the training shifted to basic exercises—jogging, jumping jacks, push-ups, curl-ups—a steady litany designed to test every fiber of my endurance. Lyle watched every move, his keen eyes recording progress and noting flaws in his small notebook. I sensed his growing concern as he scribbled a remark: this body was weaker than I'd assumed.
Finally, Lyle directed me to sit on a bench as he stood before me. His tone softened slightly, yet remained resolute: "Before we move on to sword training, you must enhance your stamina and strength. You are too weak to even lift a real sword. That is why we will focus on building your stamina through rigorous exercise, a nourishing diet that builds muscle, and proper rest—never staying up late." I was taken aback; it was the longest talk I had ever heard him give, and it stung with truth.
"O... okay," I replied, my voice small yet determined.
Next, he offered me a wooden sword. "I want to see if you can even assume the proper posture," he said. I smiled in anticipation, immediately grasping the sword.
We stood side by side for a moment. Then Lyle moved behind me, his steady hands gently but firmly straightening my back and guiding my arm to the correct angle. When I looked over his shoulder, he had stepped back several meters and struck a pose.
"Take a look at my posture," he declared. "This is the correct stance when you hold your sword—a ready attack posture." I nodded, silently memorizing every detail of his demonstration.
He then taught me how to hold the sword firmly yet fluidly, how to block incoming strikes, and how to initiate attacks with measured precision. Every word, every adjustment was absorbed—etched into my memory with the slow, deliberate certainty of a lesson meant to last a lifetime.
After that very tiring morning, I freshened myself and ate breakfast before retreating to the library, where Lyle taught me once again. My days passed by in a steady rhythm—each morning devoted to training and study. Before long, a month and a half had passed. My body, once feeble and hesitant, now kept pace with the rigorous routines Lyle imposed. I felt an immense pride swell within me: this was the first tangible achievement I had ever garnered.
That day, as usual, Lyle and I engaged in our training, though with slight modifications. My left hand was bound, my left eye concealed beneath a patch, and my right leg was weighed down. Lyle, too, adopted the same restrictions. "This is how you learn to fight even if your arm is cut, your eye blinded, or your leg paralyzed or injured," he explained quietly, his voice carrying both resolve and reassurance.
I recalled the previous session when he blindfolded me and attacked with arrows while I defended with a real sword. That experience had honed my senses to their limit—every faint sound or shift in the air made me alert.
I could differentiate the softest footsteps, the subtle rustle of fabric, and even the distant clink of metal. My hearing, eyesight, and sense of smell had become as sharp as a honed blade.
I must admit, Lyle is an exceptionally good teacher. He never failed to amuse me, even as our training pushed me to my limits.
Suddenly, Lyle sprinted toward me. I swung my sword instinctively, and soon our blades clashed with a resonant clang. Yet, as frustrating as it was, I never seemed to land a proper hit on him. Instead, I ended up bruised and knocked down time and again. I seethed with frustration—at moments, I even wanted to drive my sword against his neck and force him into submission!
His movements were unlike those of the other knights; they were unpredictable, fluid, ever-changing. Whenever I began to familiarize myself with his technique, he would vanish into the distance, only to reappear too quickly for my eyes to register his motion. I wondered aloud, Is it his power? Or is he simply taking our training so seriously that he never lets down his guard?
As he sprinted away, I noticed a deliberate pattern: a two-step back would often indicate that he intended a slow approach from below. Gritting my teeth, I bit my lower lip and launched myself toward him. In a heartbeat, he shifted his pose—from a low attack to a forward sprint—with his sword resting at his side. That change signaled his intent to aim at my neck.
When he neared, his hand lifted his sword, preparing to slice—but just then, I took a step back, halting my advance. I noticed that his left ear and the exposed portion of his neck were vulnerable. Seizing the opportunity, I gripped my sword tightly, aiming for that accessible spot.
However, he managed to block my furious attack. With a swift step back, he positioned his sword where I had been aiming. The block, though not entirely complete due to the sudden change, left me stunned. I stood there dumbfounded, staring at his neck as dark red blood seeped down, staining his clothes with vivid streaks.
A shock rooted me to the spot—I was momentarily paralyzed by the sight. I should have felt triumph at finally scratching him; instead, my body froze. I dropped my sword, and as some knights rushed to his aid, a panicked hush fell over the training grounds.
I could not understand my shock. "Are you alright, Lady Madeleine?" Lyle's voice cut through the silence. How could he ask that, when clearly he was the one who needed medical attention? I felt a burst of indignation. Surely he should be the one seeking a physician.
Before I could process the contradiction, my hand, almost on its own accord, reached toward his still-bleeding neck. "I am not doing this—I am not that kind of person," I thought, horrified at my own reaction. Was there something in me inherited from Madeleine? I forced my hand away, desperate for self-control.
"I am fine. It will heal after a minute," Lyle assured me calmly. I looked at him, eyes wide, and then pulled my hand away as if it burned. My cheeks suddenly felt hot—was I blushing? In such a dire situation? I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.
Then, an angry voice—"My Lady!"—rang out. Lyle's shout echoed across the training grounds, catching everyone's attention. I was startled. Why was he yelling at me? Before I could speak, his thumb gently wiped something from the corner of my lip. I saw him trembling—a sight that unsettled me further.
"Let us go inside," he said firmly, and I followed, my mind swirling with doubts. A dark aura seemed to settle over him; his frown deepened. Was he upset with me? Had I caused this? Did he despise the thought of me, perhaps, injured and vulnerable because of my uncontrolled impulse?
My thoughts raced—maybe he was angry because I had bitten my lip and let it bleed. "No, no, no," I chide myself. I must not let such thoughts linger. It could not be what my heart began to whisper in secret—that we felt something more than mutual respect simply because we had known each other for so long.
With a heavy sigh, I murmured internally, "Calm down, Adeline. It cannot be that way; nothing in the book suggests it. We only care for each other because we have shared countless trials." I nodded to myself, trying to convince my racing mind.
Later, a doctor examined both of us. His touch was clinical and efficient, each movement practiced. When he finished, he left without ceremony. I hesitantly asked, "Does it hurt?" I was, of course, most concerned for myself—since Lyle, as always, was able to heal himself.
I had never known before that he could. The book was silent on his vulnerabilities, so I had never pictured him wounded.
"No," he answered simply, his tone dismissive of discomfort.
I brushed aside the emerging thoughts and feelings. I needed to focus on the plan—such distractions must not hinder me.
"The succession ceremony will take place next month, two days before Laura's coming-of-age celebration," I said, switching to matters of state. "How are the preparations coming along?"
Lyle's expression remained steady. "The Archduke has already held a meeting with the vassal houses, and they have given their stamps as tokens of agreement."
I nodded, absorbing the news. "You will also have a meeting with the heads of the Neutral Houses and their companions?"
I recalled the significance of the day: Madeleine's birthday falls the day after Laura's. Being only a year younger, my birthday had always been relegated to a quiet affair—a small cake in my private chamber, coupled with token gifts from those less affluent. The Emperor had never bothered to celebrate it grandly.
Now, that same day was chosen for an especially important celebration and ceremony—a day meant to leave a lasting impression and ignite whispers and gossip among the court.
"The Neutral Houses are: The Augustenburg, The Windsor, The Borgia, and The Bavaria," Lyle continued. Our world, with its ancient power dynamics, bore a striking resemblance to the German or European monarchies of times past. The timeline, too, echoed the Middle Ages—a setting the author had once explained at a signing event when fans inquired about the foundations of the story's world.
I turned my thoughts to another matter. "Did you gather all the data I requested?" I asked quietly. I had spent hours hunting for the details of an information guild mentioned in the book—a guild whose name had slipped my mind. The only name I recalled was that of its founder, Abelard.
Lyle nodded. "Yes. He already handed an envelope to me—I forgot to bring it along yesterday." I returned his nod with quiet satisfaction. If the meeting were to unravel, I would use that envelope as leverage. Though I already knew their weaknesses, presenting tangible proof would leave no room for doubt.
Then, Lyle asked, "Are you still having nightmares?" His tone was gentle, yet laced with genuine concern, as if he knew the weight of my secret burdens.
Nightmares? I blinked, unsure. "About your death?" he clarified. I formed an 'o' with my mouth, startled by his perceptiveness.
"I am not dreaming anymore," I replied, my voice edged with both relief and a hidden sorrow. "Perhaps because I have been working on strengthening my mental resilience." It was a statement that blended truth with a measure of deception. In truth, I still dreamed—a recurring nightmare stained by the echo of Lyle's anguished cries. Whether it was a memory of Madeleine or something unresolved, I could not say.
His face softened as he said, "I am glad to hear that you are well, My Lady." I simply nodded, rising from my seat. "I will return to my chambers to rest," I announced, and with that, I left the room.
I had a meeting to prepare for. Even though the Neutral Houses were considered "neutral," I knew gaining their approval would not come easily. I needed to devise the simplest and quickest means of securing their support and wrapping up the meeting—a calculated, strategic move.
It is a battle, and I must be prepared. If I fail, I will not only lose influence—I might truly lose my life.
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