Within one of the Roschild clan's expansive training grounds, the sharp whoosh of a wooden blade cut through the air again and again. The training hall was vast, its stone-paved floor etched with faint scorch marks and dents from countless sparring sessions.
Tall practice dummies lined the sides, their surfaces scarred from years of use. Weapons of every kind rested neatly on racks, while the scent of sweat, wood, and steel hung faintly in the air. Sunlight streamed in from high windows, casting long, golden rays across the open space, as if to spotlight the figure at its center.
A boy stood there, his body drenched in effort, swinging his wooden sword in repeated motions. The snug training gear clung to his frame, accentuating the contours of a body already honed by relentless discipline. His hair glimmered like strands of gold under the light, and his eyes—equally golden—seemed to blaze with an inner fire. Handsome to the point of admiration, he was Artur Lancaster, scion of a Roschild branch family, and the second of Leo's closest childhood friends besides Rina.
Yet the Artur who now swung his blade was far from his usual self. Normally, he wore a kind and composed expression, a boy who radiated benevolence. But at this moment, his face was twisted by raw frustration. His swings were sharper, heavier, driven less by form and more by emotion. At last, he even let a curse slip between his clenched teeth—a rare crack in the mask of the ever-smiling young swordsman.
"Shit! How dare she? How dare she reject me?" Artur growled through clenched teeth, his wooden sword cutting through the air with reckless force. Each swing seemed less like practice and more like an outlet for the storm swirling inside him. His golden eyes burned with anger, his jaw tight as he repeated those words like a curse etched into his soul.
His mind replayed the scene from that morning over and over again. He had chosen the perfect spot: beneath the cherry tree in full bloom, its petals drifting like falling snow against the clear sky. He had steeled himself, rehearsed his words countless times, and carried the fragile hope that his childhood friend—the girl he had quietly loved for so long—would finally accept his heart.
But reality had been merciless.
"Sorry… it can never work out between us. You're just my friend."
Rina's calm, resolute voice still echoed in his ears. She had met his gaze directly, her pink eyes unflinching, framed by the soft cascade of her cherry-blossom-colored hair. To Artur, that moment had felt like the world itself had frozen—only to come crashing down all at once.
He stood rooted in place, his chest hollow, until his head finally lowered in disbelief. A poisonous thought crept into his mind, one he had tried to push away countless times.
"Is it… because of Leo?" he whispered bitterly.
He had told himself before it wasn't true, that he was imagining things. But in that instant, the suspicion that had gnawed at him for years clawed its way back to the surface.
Rina, who had been steady until now, suddenly faltered. Her head turned aside, and the tips of her ears flushed crimson as her voice trembled.
"W-What nonsense are you spouting? This has nothing to do with him. I—I'm leaving."
She spun around quickly, her steps hurried, as though staying a second longer might force her to confront something she wasn't ready to admit.
"You're heading to his side, aren't you?" Artur muttered, his head still bowed, his voice shaking with something dark.
Rina halted mid-step. The wind lifted her pink hair as she glanced back over her shoulder. Her reply was simple, spoken without hesitation.
"Of course."
"I see…"
Artur bit down hard on his lip until blood stained his teeth. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles blanched white, veins rising beneath his skin. A seething hatred stirred within him—hatred he had buried deep, thinking it had long died.
He had always resented Leo. As a member of the Roschild branch family, he had grown up in Leo's shadow, forced to watch the one of heirs of the main family shine in the limelight. And yet… Leo had played with him, laughed with him, dragged him into adventures, and shown him wonders. Artur had convinced himself it was enough, that his jealousy was nothing more than childish weakness.
But standing beneath those cherry blossoms, rejected and discarded, all those buried feelings clawed free once more. The resentment. The bitterness. The gnawing hatred.
And this time, they refused to be silenced.
He kept swinging the wooden sword, over and over until fresh blisters rose on his palms, the sting ignored as if it were nothing. Each strike rang hollow in the training hall, driven not by discipline but by something darker—by a furious rhythm that seemed possessed by the god of hatred itself.
I'll make him suffer a crushing fall… I'll drag him so low he loses everything. Then she'll weep for rejecting me. I'll prove myself at the Blessing Ceremony. I was not born to fade into the shadows—I will blaze like the sun. Wait and see. You'll all regret this.
The thought tasted like iron on his tongue as it churned in his mind, and beneath the steady cadence of wood on air, something sinister quietly took root in his heart.
He had no idea where this would lead him, nor like he care. All that matters was the strong resentment brewing within him. She shouldn't have refuse his confession after he gathered his courage to confess, she shouldn't have. She was meant to be his and only his, how dare she. Unforgivable!