Ace Thornevale had just passed her like a cold wind through the woods, his presence lingering like shadowed mist in daylight.
But something in her — pride, instinct, or perhaps duty — wouldn't let it go.
Her hand clenched slightly, and her voice escaped in a single, clipped command.
"Stop."
Ace halted mid-step. The shift was precise — controlled. He slowly turned his head, then his body, facing her fully.
White hair, silver eyes, emotionless.
His gaze was distant, sharp, and most of all — irritated.
"What?" he asked, his tone as dry and sharp as flint.
That tone struck something deep inside her. A high elven princess, daughter of the World Tree's sworn bloodline, questioned like a common merchant?
Her pride snapped.
She stepped forward, her violet eyes flashing.
"How dare you," she hissed, barely above a whisper, yet firm.
"To walk so casually with that unsightly demonic blade. That thing should be sealed. Not paraded like a trophy!"
Ace looked down at his black-sheathed sword, then back at her.
And smirked.
With a casual tilt of his head, he gestured toward the air beside her.
"You are your tiny pets are unsightly too." he said with disdainful amusement, "Why don't you seal them too."
Emilia's heart skipped.
Her breath caught.
She turned — and saw her spirits still trembling in the air behind her. Hidden from mortal eyes. Invisible to anyone without the rarest of gifts.
Only those deeply attuned to nature, born under ley-rich soil or raised by spirits, could even sense them. To see them clearly was something few elves managed by adulthood. Even she, born with high affinity, only began seeing and understanding them properly years after her naming ceremony.
And Ace…
A human.
A human just pointed at them like they were birds in the trees.
Her jaw tightened. "You… you can see them?"
Ace didn't respond. He turned and walked off — his long coat brushing against the wind, the demonic sword at his hip humming ever so faintly, like it too had mocked her.
Emilia stood frozen, her pride and sense of reality shaken.
How…? Even high-ranking sages in the elven court couldn't see them without aid.
And yet he dismissed them like insects... saw them like a child sees butterflies.
What... is he?
The rumors came back to her.
The cruel noble.
The executioner.
The prideful monster who bowed to none.
The one who walks with a blade of death on his hip, smiling.
And yet…
He saw the spirits. No human had ever done that in front of her. Not even once.
Emilia stepped back, her spirits still flitting nervously around her.
For the first time since leaving the safety of her forest kingdom, she felt uncertain. Not because of what she'd been told… but because of what she saw.
He doesn't feel like a villain…He feels like a force of nature. One we never learned to name.
Further ahead in the garden,
Lucy Thornevale was standing quietly near a marble bench, gazing at the flowering spirit bushes that shimmered faintly with mana. Despite her training and growth, there was a hint of nervousness in her stance.
She wasn't alone for long.
Footsteps approached, and her heart sank slightly.
Pete, the hero — golden-haired, holy-sword at his side — walked toward her, flanked by three sons of dukes, the same who were just insulted by Ace. Their faces bore a blend of smugness and mischief, barely hidden under masks of concern.
Pete took a step ahead, his voice laced with conviction and a tinge of false gentleness.
"Lady Lucy," he said, "You don't need to pretend anymore. You're safe here. The Thornevales… they can't keep you under their boot within these walls."
Lucy blinked.
Her fingers curled into fists. But she didn't speak.
Another step. "I know what he's done to you. What they've all done. If you need protection, I will stand by you. I swear on the name of the Hero chosen by the Goddess."
The duke's sons nodded behind him, wearing expressions that said, Look at us, doing a good deed.
One of them chimed in softly, just loud enough for her to hear:
"Poor girl. Treated worse than a servant. No dignity left in that manor."
"Raised like a slave, really."
Lucy's jaw clenched. She held back the rising heat in her chest.
How dare they?
But she didn't speak. Not because they were right, but because she knew exactly how dangerous the political web around her was. Offending the hero? Or three ducal families? Even if she could break their noses — which she very much wanted to — the backlash would be a disaster as she was just an illegitimate daughter.
So she mimicked Ace — she stood taller. Chin up. Unbending. Silent.
And then… they all froze.
The nobles' confident smirks shattered.
Lucy eyes glowed as she thought they were afraid of her,
But the nobles noticed someone approaching.
A cold presence swept through the garden like a creeping frost.
Ace Thornevale.
He walked at a leisurely pace, white hair glowing softly in the sun, eyes like moonlit ice, and at his hip, the black-sheathed demonic sword, leaking a whisper of foul mana that turned the air heavy.
Even Pete felt it — the sword's malice brushing against the holy mana of his own weapon like oil over water.
Without hesitation, Pete's hand went to his hilt, and in a single motion, he drew the Holy Sword.
The gleaming blade shimmered with divine energy. His stance was defensive — ready to protect Lucy, or so he believed.
"Ace Thornevale!" Pete called, tone sharp. "You can't just walk around threatening others with that thing. If you want to settle this—"
One of the duke's sons grabbed his shoulder, whispering urgently.
"Hero… don't! You can't fight in the Academy unless it's a formal duel."
Pete's eyes didn't leave Ace. His grip didn't loosen.
"I challenge you to a duel, right here, right now!"
But Ace didn't stop.
Didn't flinch.Didn't look at the sword.Didn't even acknowledge Pete's voice.
He simply walked past them, silent as judgment itself, his presence crushing any further noise.
He stopped only beside Lucy.
With a brief glance, he tilted his head — a gesture barely visible.
Lucy understood immediately and followed him.
They left in silence.
No words. No drama. No spectacle.
Only the silence of power.
Behind them, Pete lowered his sword slowly, his pride and conviction chipped by something he couldn't quite understand — and something he couldn't defeat with just righteousness.
The three noble sons stood awkwardly behind him, their faces pale and sour.
"He didn't even speak," one whispered.
"Didn't need to," another muttered back.
Catherine Solarian, the imperial princess, sat alone on a stone bench beneath a tree blooming with mana-infused blossoms. Her posture was composed, her face unreadable — a portrait of grace honed by imperial blood and countless expectations.
Footsteps echoed through the corridor before a familiar voice cut through the silence.
"Princess Catherine."
She turned slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction before softening.
"Sir Pete," she greeted calmly.
He walked up to her, his tone determined, the holy sword strapped tightly to his back.
"I spoke with Lady Lucy. Those Thornevales… they've treated her like a prisoner. And I'm sure it's worse than she lets on. I swear, I won't let it continue. I'll save her — and you. You won't have to marry into that family. Just wait."
His voice carried sincerity — but also naivety. The kind that made Catherine sigh inwardly.
She tilted her head, her eyes watching the glowing petals fall gently to the stone below.
"Pete," she said, voice like soft silk, "you wear the name of a Hero, yet let the tongues of ambitious men wag your blade."
Pete's brow furrowed. "I know what I saw. What I heard."
She turned her full gaze to him now — imperial, elegant, and layered with emotion he couldn't quite read.
"You heard what they wanted you to hear. That's how it works. Nobles don't lie with words. They lie with truths, chosen carefully."
He took a step closer. "So you're saying I shouldn't help Lucy? That I should ignore what's happening?"
"I'm saying you should see clearly before deciding who needs saving."
But Pete's hand tightened into a fist.
"I've made up my mind," he said, voice firm. "Lucy needs help. And you… You don't deserve to be bound to someone like him. I'll fix this. Just watch."
Catherine's expression didn't change — but her eyes did. For a moment, they held a flicker of pity.
Not for herself.
For him.
"So reckless," she thought. "So eager to save others, yet he never stops to ask if they need saving."
Pete gave her a confident nod and turned to leave, as if a battle had already been won in his mind.
Catherine remained on the bench, watching the final light of day fade behind the treetops. Then, softly, to no one in particular, she whispered:
"He never even noticed… Lucy wasn't afraid."
The heavy doors of the Ace's private training hall closed with a deep thud, muffling the outside world completely.
Inside, the large stone-floored room was brightly lit by floating mana crystals on the ceiling, casting a clean white glow across the space. The air smelled faintly of oil, steel, and mana. Only Thornevale-trained guards stood silently at the edges, their backs to the wall, disciplined and motionless.
Ace stood at the center, arms crossed, the demonic sword sheathed at his hip — its presence heavy, but suppressed.
Lucy followed a step behind, nervous but trying not to show it. She looked smaller than usual in the vast room.
He turned toward her, white eyes sharp but unreadable.
"You wanted to say something to that self-righteous Hero… but didn't."
His voice wasn't accusing — just factual. Calm, but cool.
She opened her mouth… then paused, gathering herself.
"I… I did," she said hesitantly."But… I couldn't. Those nobles were there, and he's the Hero. And… and I'm…"She lowered her head."…just an illegitimate daughter."
A pause.
The only sound was the distant hum of mana crystals.
Ace let out a slow sigh — not of annoyance, but something else. Frustration... and a touch of disappointment, not in her — but in the weight she still carried.
He walked a step closer.
"Raise your head."
Lucy blinked, unsure.
"I said," he repeated firmly,"Raise. Your. Head."
She obeyed, her eyes trembling.
Ace's expression remained composed, but his words cut through the air like a blade drawn clean.
"You bear the name Thornevale. The world might call you illegitimate. But our blood is not diluted by titles or wombs."
He took another step, his voice intensifying.
"If you wish to speak, then speak — to kings, to dukes, to emperors. If your words start a civil war, let it burn. We do not fear war. We do not fear gods. We do not kneel."