They moved to the center of the training ground with wooden swords, while I leaned against a post off to the side, arms crossed. This would be our first time sparring Roswell. Belle stepped forward, stretching her arm.
"Don't go easy on me," she said.
Before they began, I waved over one of the maids standing nearby. "Miss Anna, can I get some cold berry juice?"
"Certainly," she replied and left.
Roswell took a few steps back, holding a wooden sword in his right hand, his left resting behind his back. Belle mirrored him, gripping tight, eyes focused.
Roswell gave a nod. "Begin."
Without hesitation, Belle lunged forward. Her first swing was fast, but Roswell simply shifted his weight and sidestepped, barely moving more than a few inches. With a subtle twist, he tapped her shoulder with the flat of his blade.
"Too reckless," he said calmly.
Belle stumbled slightly and turned back. "Again!" she said.
She changed her movement and came at him with another slash, then a quick follow-up. Roswell blocked and redirected her strikes like they were nothing.
The ground showed the impact of her power. Small craters formed where her feet struck, and the force of her swings kicked up clouds of dust, leaving shallow grooves in the sand. One missed strike slammed into the ground hard enough to send sand spraying in all directions.
I watched with wide eyes. I couldn't believe she was doing all this with just a wooden sword. Belle wasn't even awakened yet, and she was already this strong.
"I guess I'm not gonna let Belle get mad at me anymore," I muttered, half-joking.
She didn't give him room to breathe and followed up with another swing, but he deflected it easily. Their wooden swords clashed before breaking apart again, both adjusting their stance as dust swirled around their feet.
"Your grip is too tight," Roswell said.
Then, in a sudden flash of movement, Belle stepped in with a horizontal slash, hoping to trick Roswell into blocking. But he didn't fall for it. Calm and fast, he step back and turned on his heel, and brought the flat of his wooden sword down on her wrist.
Belle let out a small gasp as her fingers loosened. Her sword slipped from her hand and dropped into the dust with a dull thud.
She stood still for a second, staring at it, breathing heavier. Then she stepped back, brushing her hand against her skirt, her shoulders tense.
"I lose," she said.
Roswell lowered his sword. "Good effort," he said calmly.
She brushed a strand of hair from her face and let out a quiet sigh. Her usual energy was still there, but she looked a little disappointed.
"Your turn," she said.
I handed her a drink. "Here."
She took it and gave me a small smile. "Ohh! Thanks."
"You did pretty well," I said.
"Not enough," she muttered, taking a sip.
"Don't worry. I'll beat him for you," I said with a half-grin.
She let out a small laugh. "You? Good luck."
…
I gripped my wooden sword with both hands. Sir Roswell stood across from me, his expression serious, sword ready.
He looked at my feet first. "Your stance is narrow," he said. "Widen it. If I touch you once, you'll fall."
I adjusted, trying to copy what he showed Belle.
"I'm coming," he said, then lunged with a quick strike from above.
"Ahh!" I braced myself and blocked his first strike. A second swing came right after, aiming for my wrist. Our swords clashed, and the force knocked me back a few steps.
"Not good... I barely blocked it," I muttered, catching my breath.
Then I pushed off the ground and rushed him.
Roswell blocked my attacks one after another, calm as ever. He went for my wrist again, but this time I let go of my sword with one hand and grabbed his right wrist. I swung my right fist toward his face, hoping to land a punch.
Roswell caught my arm before it reached him.
"Too high," he said.
Taking the chance, I pushed him off and jumped backward to get some distance.
"Damn… that should've been a headlock," I grumbled. My breathing was heavy, and my arms ached. This small body of mine was wearing out fast. Even little movements threw me off balance or sent sharp jolts through my limbs.
"Damn body," I muttered.
Roswell steadied himself. "Your sharp," he said. ""But your body can't keep up yet."
I took a deep breath, raised both arms, and stared him down. "Time to get serious."
"Here I go," he said.
He dashed forward and swung down from above. I ducked low and shifted to the side. I slipped in close and kicked his side with my left foot, then tried to chop behind his knee.
But I missed.
I landed awkwardly and stepped back, raising my hands.
"Not bad," Roswell said calmly.
He charged again, giving me no time to breathe. I watched his stance closely, searching for an opening.
With a sharp sidestep, I slipped past his guard and drove my elbow into his side. He grunted, but before I could move, his hand clamped down on my shoulder. I twisted, dropped low, and rolled out of his grip, sand spraying as I slid back to my feet.
I crouched again, then dashed forward. As soon as he moved, I threw a handful of sand into his face. He blinked hard.
I stepped in and slammed a hook into his side.
He flinched, and his arm dropped to cover the spot.
That was my chance. I swung an uppercut straight up between his legs.
But before my fist could connect, he vanished from in front of me.
"Hah!" I blurted, half laughing from surprise.
I dropped to the ground, gasping for breath, then turned my head and grinned at him.
He stood there, looking surprised. Then his expression softened.
"I… I lost," he said.
"What?! Master lost to Lucy?!" Belle's voice rang out as she ran over, amazed.
Sir Roswell walked toward us, now smiling. "You two did really well today," he said, then added calmly, "Training's over. We'll take a day off."
Belle gasped, eyes wide. "Lucy, did you see that? He smiled! I can't believe he can smile."
Shaking her head, she added, "Still can't believe you actually won, though."
I groaned and tugged at her hair, completely drained. "Help me. I can't walk," I mumbled. My whole body hurt, and this was just light sparring. Sigh.
Belle gave me an irritated look but crouched down and let me climb onto her back. As she carried me toward the hall, Miss Anna trailing behind, she muttered, "You're so lame."
…
The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of the estate as Sir Roswell changed out of his sparring gear and into his formal uniform. He walked the quiet halls at an even pace, but his hand drifted to his side, pressing lightly against his abdomen.
Not from pain. More like he was still feeling the moment that left him quite impressed.
When he reached Count Luke's office, he lifted a hand to knock.
The door opened before his knuckles touched wood.
Count Luke stood there with a wide smile, clearly already entertained. "I heard you lost to my child," he said. "And I heard how."
Roswell's expression stayed steady, but he felt himself flush.
Luke leaned on the doorframe, eyes bright. "Tell me, Roswell. Did my son really try to punch you there?"
Roswell cleared his throat once. "He did."
Luke's smile widened. "Amazing. You've lived through wars, monsters, and cultists. But an eight-year-old aim a little low and suddenly you got scared."
"It wasn't like that, my lord," Roswell said, stiff.
Luke waved a hand, still grinning. "Relax. I'm teasing." Then his gaze sharpened a little, the humor turning into interest. "Now tell me. Are they blessed?"
Roswell gave a light nod. "From what I saw today, there's a strong possibility. Your family does carry the blood of giants, after all."
The Count's expression flickered with a hint of concern. "Really?"
"Yes," Roswell replied honestly. "The young lady already shows incredible power. She handles the sword with precision, and her form is well beyond what I'd expect from someone her age."
"And Lucian?" the Count asked, arching an eyebrow. "He's always been the quiet one.
Roswell hesitated, then answered honestly. "He's the opposite of his sister. He lacks polish. He lacks proper form. But when I sparred with him, it didn't feel like training."
Luke leaned forward slightly. "Explain."
"At first, he tried basic sword forms," Roswell said. "Then he realized he couldn't keep up. So, he stopped trying to win clean and rushed in bare-handed."
Roswell let out a faint breath that might have been a laugh. "It wasn't elegant. It wasn't trained. But the targets were not random. Neck. eyes. ribs. Gut."
Luke raised a brow. "And the groin."
"Yes," Roswell admitted. "Especially the groin."
Luke chuckled again, but quieter this time. "Sounds like northern fist technique."
Roswell had fought countless opponents with different goals. But the Lucian fought like someone who had to survive.
Which was bizarre. He's eight years old. He's never seen battle, never even held a real sword before. He's been in the manor all his life.
Roswell's thoughts started to wander. Reading books? Training in secret? He couldn't be sure.
He paused, brows furrowed.
Roswell shook his head. "No, not that refined. It looked random at first, but the targets were specific. It wasn't for honor or sport. It felt like… survival. That's what caught me off guard."
"So," Luke said, amusement back in his voice, "my son didn't beat you with talent. He beat you like fighting to survive."
Roswell exhaled once, resigned. "Yes, my lord. He did."
Luke laughed under his breath, then looked out toward the window. "They might turn out even better than I hoped," he said quietly.
Roswell nodded. "Yes," he replied. "I believe they will."