The morning sun spilled over the sprawling manor, glinting off the fountains and illuminating the dew-kissed leaves of the gardens. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass. It should have been peaceful—but Lionel's mind was anything but.
A gentle, concerned voice broke through his daze. "Young Lord… are you okay?!"
He turned, eyes widening. "Wait… are you… Lilia?"
"Of course it's me," she said, a teasing lilt in her voice as she pouted slightly, balancing a cleaning cloth in one hand. "Your beautiful, precious maid. Are you alright? You look like a dumb owl, staring at nothing."
Lionel blinked, stunned. "Wow… still as self-assured as I remember."
He looked down at his hands. They were smaller—thirteen years old, just as he remembered. The reality struck him like a sudden gust of wind: Have I really gone back in time? And Lilia… I didn't think I'd ever see her again.
Lilia busied herself, cleaning yet keeping her gaze on him, the slight pout never leaving her lips. "Young Lord, you can't just sit there," she scolded gently. "The Ceremonial of Swords has already begun."
Lionel's mind raced. Memories, questions, and possibilities collided as he tried to make sense of the strange, beautiful morning, the manor, and the maid lilia who had always held a place in his heart.
Lionel chuckled softly, glancing toward the window. Memories of Lilia flooded back—how she had always stayed by his side, even when he was untalented, overshadowed by his brother. Whenever he fell ill, she carried him through rain and wind to the town's hospital for urgent care. Others would mock her for being tied to a "useless young lord," yet she never wavered. She had always been there.
He clenched his fists, a determined smile forming. "But if this is real… then I guess that won't happen ever again. Whoever did this… I must say I'm thankful."
He opened his mouth to speak again, but Lilia cut him off, crossing her arms with a scolding look. "Are you really okay, Young Lord? Why are you talking to yourself? You're close to being crazy, you know."
Lionel smirked. "If there's one thing I really don't approve of, Lilia, it's the way you talk to me like I'm nothing." He chuckled, shaking his head.
"There you go, laughing at nothing again," Lilia teased.
"Hey! Stop! Don't you know I'm analyzing my thoughts here?" he protested.
"The only thing you need to analyze," Lilia said with a teasing glare, "is how to put up a fight in the Ceremonial of Swords… without being lateee."
Lionel laughed again, feeling a strange mix of nostalgia, warmth, and determination, the weight of the past and the chance to rewrite it pressing in his mind.
Lionel walked beside Lilia through the gardens, the morning sun casting gentle light on the fountains and trees. He glanced at her, concern tugging at his chest.
"Where's my mother?" he asked softly.
"She's still on a mission," Lilia replied, walking briskly to keep pace with him. "The Patriarch sent her to the South Sea."
Lionel's brow furrowed. "I hope she's alright…"
The pair emerged at the entrance to the ceremonial grounds. Hundreds of guards stood in precise formation, their armor glinting in the sunlight, forming a path that led to the arena. Beyond them, nobles whispered in anticipation, their eyes scanning the young contestants. Sons of noble houses, duchesses, and other dignitaries lined the steps, their expressions a mix of curiosity and disdain.
At the very top, on a raised dais, the Patriarch sat with regal authority. His multiple wives flanked him, their gazes sharp and assessing. From this vantage point, he could observe the entire fight below, every move, every falter, every triumph.
Lionel's chest tightened. The grandeur, the scrutiny, the weight of expectation—it all pressed down on him like the shadow of the sun itself.
Lionel's chest tightened as he entered the ceremonial grounds. In my former life… he reflected silently, I was utterly humiliated before a gathering of nobles and dignitaries such as these…
Before he could even summon the name, a familiar figure stepped forward, his presence brazen and insolent.
"Ah… Lord Lionel," Arthur drawled, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "I did not expect to see you grace the arena today. I presumed you would remain secluded within your chambers."
Lionel inclined his head ever so slightly, his expression composed yet cold. "And who might you be, that I should concern myself with your presence? I recognize no weakling among these grounds."
Arthur's grin widened, his tone dripping with derision. "Hah! Posturing before the Patriarch and the assembled houses will avail you naught. Prepare yourself, for I shall see to it that you are made a spectacle before all."
Lionel's gaze remained steady, his steps measured, deliberately ignoring the provocation. But Arthur pressed further, his words venomous, laced with petty malice. "This, precisely, is why those of inferior station ought not speak to their superiors. Perhaps your mother's… shortcomings have rubbed off upon you. It is no wonder you comport yourself with such pretensions. Truly, the son of such a wretched woman cannot hope for refinement."
A cold fire ignited in Lionel's eyes. His gaze met Arthur's, sharp and unflinching, brimming with restrained wrath. Should I… simply extinguish him now?
Arthur smirked, stepping closer, eyes full of mischief. "What's with that look, Lionel? You really want to get embarrassed this early?"
Lionel's hands clenched, heat rising. "How dare you speak of my mother like that?" His voice was low, dangerous. "You reek of your own filth. No wonder your mother is such a disgrace. What did she do to keep your family afloat when money ran out? What vile thing… she sold herself, didn't she?"
Arthur froze for a moment, his grin slipping, shocked by the insult.
Lionel's eyes burned with quiet fury. "Is that why you act like a spoiled brat, thinking the world owes you everything? Because your mother raised you to be shameless, selfish, and worthless?"
Arthur opened his mouth, but Lionel ignored him, stepping past, gaze sharp and daring.
"Don't try anything that will put you in your place," Lionel whispered, his eyes sharp and daring.
Arthur's hand shot to his sword hilt, his lips curling into a sneer. "You arrogant pun—"
Before he could finish, a firm hand clamped down on his wrist.
"Young Lord Arthur, please," said Cairos, the Patriarch's right-hand guardian, his tone calm but commanding. "Do not make such a grievous mistake while the Patriarch watches our every move. Do you wish to ruin a ceremonial that your family has upheld for centuries?"
Arthur's eyes widened, fear flickering across his face. "G-got it," he stammered, letting the sword go. He stepped back, casting a wary glance at Lionel.
Lionel's lips curved into a sly smirk as he mouthed the word slowly, deliberately: C–O–W–A–R–D.
Arthur's teeth clenched, the humiliation burning hotter than any blade.
Lilia leaned closer, her voice a cautious whisper. "My lord… is it wise to taunt Young Master Arthur like that? You do know he will be your first opponent. I'm certain he'll do everything he can to embarrass you."
Lionel chuckled softly, a spark of mischief in his eyes. "Don't worry, Lilia. This time… things will be different."
From a distance, Cairos, the Patriarch's guardian, observed quietly. His eyes narrowed as he studied Lionel. The young lord has been acting… different today. More composed, more calculating.
He shook his head slightly, thinking back to past ceremonies. I know the old Lionel… he would have cried the moment Arthur picked on him. Helpless, trembling, utterly humiliated.
Cairos let out a silent sigh. But I cannot interfere. This is his path. Closing his eyes, he turned and walked away, leaving the young lord to face his destiny.
One hour later, the murmur of the gathered crowd fell into a tense hush. Cairos' deep voice echoed across the ceremonial grounds, carrying clearly over the fountains, the guards, and the watching nobles:
"Lords, ladies, and esteemed guests! The Ceremonial of Swords shall now commence! Each young noble shall display their skill, honor, and valor. Let the first bout begin!"
A ripple of excitement ran through the crowd. Whispers flew from noble to noble, some eager to see the champions of each house, others curious who would falter first.
Lionel straightened, eyes scanning the arena. The golden morning light glinted off the polished swords and armor of the contestants, reflecting in his sharp, calculating gaze.
He caught Arthur smirking across the grounds, still simmering from their earlier exchange. Lionel's lips twitched in a sly grin. This time… things will be different.
The crowd's anticipation swelled, the first duel poised to begin, and the air itself seemed to hum with the promise of skill, strategy, and inevitable rivalry.
"The first representative today," Cairos announced, his voice carrying across the arena, "shall be Young Lord Arthur, son of the Patriarch and the Sixth Duchess, Selvia."
Arthur's mother, Duchess Selvia, stepped forward, placing a hand firmly on his shoulder. Her eyes gleamed with authority, and her voice dropped to a whisper only he could hear.
"Teach that insolent brat a lesson for daring to speak such words to me," she hissed. "Use any means necessary—break his bones, tear his flesh—do not spare him, even if he begs for mercy. Show him that defiance carries consequences."
Arthur's grin widened, wicked and eager. "Yes, Mother," he replied, his voice dripping with arrogance and anticipation.
Cairos' voice rang out once more, commanding silence. "The opponent Young Lord Arthur shall face today is the son of the Patriarch and the Primary Duchess, Duchess Vivianne."
All eyes turned as Lionel strode confidently into the center of the arena. His posture was straight, movements precise, and expression calm—yet a subtle spark of defiance glimmered in his eyes.
The crowd stirred, murmurs rippling through the nobles and spectators.
"Wait… him?" one whispered, disbelief thick in their tone. "The son of the Primary Duchess? I can't believe it… he's barely shown any talent. All he ever did was cry and beg for mercy."
Another voice added, sharp with derision, "Exactly. How could the Patriarch pair his own son with that? It's almost laughable."
Arthur smirked, stepping forward, eyes glinting with mischief. "Don't cry too fast, Lionel. Give the people some entertainment first."
Lionel's lips curled into a faint, dangerous smile. "You want entertainment? Fine. I'll give you entertainment."
Cairos' voice rang out, calm but commanding. "Are the two young lords ready?"
Arthur drew his sword with a flourish, grinning. "Ready!"
Lionel simply stood, composed, and said, "Ready."
Cairos raised an eyebrow. "Pardon me, my lord… but where is your weapon?"
Lionel's smile deepened, eyes glinting with quiet confidence. "I don't need it. I have something better."
Cairos closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh, and then shouted to the crowd: "Let the first march of the Ceremonial of Swords… begin!"
A wave of excitement erupted. The nobles whispered, the maids gasped, and the crowd roared as the arena came alive with the tension of the first duel.
Arthur charged forward, sword raised, his grin sharp with anticipation. He swung with all his strength, aiming to overwhelm Lionel in the first move.
Lionel sidestepped effortlessly, the edge of the blade whistling past him. He muttered under his breath, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, "Slow as a snail."
Arthur froze for a moment, cheeks flushing crimson, embarrassed that his first strike had been so easily avoided.
"Hah… ha-ha! See? I'm just giving you a chance to make this fight last longer. Be grateful!" he stammered, trying to regain his composure.
Lionel arched an eyebrow, his tone dripping with mock politeness. "Wow… gee, thank you for your generosity," he said, voice light but laced with teasing venom.
The crowd murmured, some chuckling, others wide-eyed at the youthful back-and-forth, while the tension between the two young lords only grew sharper.
Arthur smirked, stepping closer with that infuriating air of arrogance. "You know… I took a careful look at your maid earlier. Not bad at all."
Lionel's eyes narrowed, lips curling. "My maid? You mean Lilia?"
Arthur leaned in, voice dripping with mischief. "Ohhh… so that's her name. And when she walked just now… well, it gave me a certain… vibe. Made me want to—"
Before the words could leave his mouth, a precise, lightning-fast punch landed square on Arthur's cheek. The crowd gasped, noble ladies clutching their skirts, young lords whispering in shock. Arthur staggered back, hand flying to his face, crimson blooming across his skin.
Lionel stood tall, calm, a sly glint in his eyes. "I'd advise you to keep your eyes—and your thoughts—where they belong, Young Lord Arthur," he said, voice low but sharp enough to sting.
Whispers rippled through the arena. The duel had turned from clever words to real action, and every spectator leaned forward, eager to see what would happen next.
In his past life… Lionel had always wondered where Lilia had gone. He had gone to her home, asked her family, pleaded for answers, but each time, he was met with the same empty reply:
"She hasn't come here… we don't know where she went."
His mind had raced endlessly, retracing every step she might have taken, analyzing every possibility. Where could she be? The only thing he could hold onto were her last words:
"Don't worry, Young Lord. The other lords will stop picking on you—from this day onward… and forever."
But that promise… had been shattered.
A year and a half later, they found her.
Her body. Naked. Broken. Every inch of her marked by unrelenting cruelty, as though her tormentors had denied her even a moment's rest. Her eyes—wide, vacant, and full of pain—spoke the horrors she had endured, and Lionel could see it all reflected there.
A shudder ran through him as he snapped back to the present, heart pounding. He muttered under his breath, fists tightening. "Now… now I know who did it. I have proof."
A short sword appeared in his hand as if called forth by his will, glinting faintly in the morning light.
Cairos froze, eyes widening in shock. "A skill… to summon a weapon… just like the Lord," he murmured, glancing at the Patriarch in disbelief.
Lionel's gaze hardened, every muscle coiled. He spoke to the sword, voice low, commanding, unwavering: "Show me… your true form."