An old saying goes that time drags on or flies by depending on one's emotions.
And right now, there was someone embodying that truth with every fiber of their being.
Syl Argent.
When Lucas Argent—the bastard who wasn't even treated like a person in their family—formally requested Proxy Blood Fate against her,
days blurred into a hellish crawl for Syl, slower than torture.
Sleep evaded her completely, forcing her to rise each morning with bloodshot eyes, grinding her teeth in rage.
But worst of all was her father, who had always turned to her whenever she called.
The mere thought that Wolfram's gaze had lingered on that trash of a bastard for even a single second twisted her guts and burned her throat with nausea.
In fact, she'd vomited onto the floor several times, unable to hold it back.
Yet emotions like anger follow a predictable course.
First comes denial, a desperate refusal to accept it.
Then sharp, searing fury.
Followed by forced compromise, the reluctant admission that there's no choice.
And finally, a deep depression as all feelings settle into the pit of the stomach.
At the end of that long tunnel lies one final emotion.
Acceptance.
Once that unfamiliar calm of acceptance washes over you, the human mind twists in strange ways, rebuilding shattered thoughts into bizarre new shapes.
Syl was no different.
The moment acceptance arrived, a wholly different emotion stirred in her heart.
'Entertainment.'
Yes, this was a game.
Lucas Argent up until now?
She'd openly scorned him as a bastard, but that was the extent of it.
She'd treated him like an asset to sell off someday, never daring to lay a hand on him.
But this Proxy Blood Fate was different.
A formal duel under the family name.
A legitimate contest.
A righteous victory.
A justified humiliation.
The perfect chance to crush Lucas's honor, pride, breath, and very gaze—legally, with no one to say a word against it.
And under the whimsical "winner's prerogative," with her father's blessing on her back, she could smash him just short of death.
Just like she'd done to her own slaves—
Etching painful, repetitive lessons into him until his mind shattered, reminding him of his place below her, over and over, until he choked on his last breath.
The moment that thought burrowed into her mind, Syl's time escaped the sticky mire of anger.
Her stagnant emotions evaporated like mist, replaced by a hot, buoyant surge of anticipation.
Finally, she realized it.
This Proxy Blood Fate would be the perfect stage to reclaim her lost pride and drag that bastard into the mud.
And just like that, a month flew by.
The day she'd been waiting for had finally dawned.
Syl arrived at the arena an hour early, buzzing with excitement.
Wolfram's training facility, reserved solely for the Argent Family's First Heir.
In the center of the colossal coliseum-like duel ring, a strange smile played on her lips.
"They say in the East that even a lion gives its all when hunting a rabbit. It means no matter how exalted you are, arrogance spells your end. And right now... I'm heeding that wisdom."
As her words ended, the man beside her bowed deeply.
"A most astute judgment, Lady Syl."
Standing silently at Syl's side was a massive knight clad in jet-black armor.
Black plate that seemed to devour light, with a presence so heavy not even his breath could be heard.
Just his existence pushed the surrounding air back half a step.
He was one of the elite guards assigned exclusively to the four heirs of the Argent Family: a Black Iron Knight.
They moved only at the command of heirs or the family head, their prowess said to surpass even the high knights of most kingdoms.
And one of them now stood quietly behind Syl Argent's shoulder, holding his breath.
Syl lifted her chin slightly, savoring his presence.
And murmured to herself.
Today.
Today is the day I completely break that bastard!
"Garin. Let me say it again: end it quickly, but... don't damage that beastkin girl Piel too much. She's about to become your opponent soon."
"As you command."
Syl's eyes rolled back slightly in glee.
"Thorough. Ly. Understood? It's rare to find someone who could become a close friend, and it'd be a shame if you ruined her too badly before I can mold her to my tastes."
This Proxy Blood Fate was a fight with the outcome decided before it even began.
That little fox beastkin who'd clung to the bastard a month ago, looking half-dead.
No matter how she'd recovered, combat experience? Skill? Training?
She knew nothing of any of it.
How could this even be a fight?
No, it wasn't even a tiger letting its guard down against a rabbit.
It was more like being told not to accidentally crush an ant underfoot.
So Syl was certain.
A monster like a Black Iron Knight could knock out a single beastkin child without a scratch.
Her order to Garin was far from difficult.
Just handle it like a passing breeze—a routine matter, nothing more.
And with five minutes left until the appointed time,
Other servants and heirs besides Syl began filing into the stands outside the arena—
Followed soon after by Family Head Agram himself, come to witness the Proxy Blood Fate in person.
The moment he stepped into the arena, despite knowing his aura well, Syl felt a chill prickle the back of her neck.
Wolfram, Seratina, Walter, and the three heirs knelt in unison, as did every servant, offering silent salutes to the family head.
The air instantly grew heavy with the weight of the Argent Family.
"Welcome, Family Head."
Second Heir Seratina bowed primly, and Agram responded with a brief downward glance.
"Indeed. ...Where's Lucas?"
"He hasn't arrived yet. If there's any chance he's fled, I can assemble a pursuit team right now and drag him back."
"No need."
Agram's voice was coldly low.
"He will come."
Without hesitation, he took the grandest seat in the stands.
But his gaze never once turned toward Seratina.
As if he already knew the answer, he stared silently at the opposite entrance where Lucas would appear.
Everyone around tilted their heads at the sight.
A Proxy Blood Fate worthy of the family head's personal attendance? This was unprecedented.
Proxy Blood Fate sounded grandiose, but within the Argent Family, it was a frequent event stemming from the heirs' competition for the next head.
In truth, it arose most often from petty squabbles between heirs.
After all, it was their slaves fighting to the death, not the heirs themselves.
So the family head rarely—if ever—showed up for such things.
As far as Seratina knew, not once.
Yet today, Agram had come in person for a Proxy Blood Fate forced by a mere bastard.
No one could help but be shocked.
The atmosphere settled into an odd hush, and the time until the Proxy Blood Fate began narrowed to one minute.
That was when it happened.
"...He's coming."
Agram, who had stared ahead in silence, finally spoke.
All eyes turned at once.
And in that instant,
From the shadows of the opposite passage, two small silhouettes stretched long and began to emerge.
A young boy.
And trailing silently behind him, a small fox girl.
The arena fell utterly still, as if holding its collective breath.
Lucas Argent had finally arrived.
"Lucas Argent..."
"He actually showed up..."
"I thought he'd run away in secret... Does he really think he can win?"
Murmurs spread slyly through the arena.
Lucas entered without a hint of fear, his expression almost sheepish.
His nonchalance and brazen attitude drew suspicious whispers and stares from the servants filling the stands.
But not a single voice cheered him on.
Pity, contempt, sympathy, mockery—only those gazes abounded.
And Syl was right there in that mold.
No, deeper than anyone.
"Lucas Argent. I didn't think you'd actually show. By the way, the proxy I'm sending for this Proxy Blood Fate is one of the strongest knights in the Argent Family—a Black Iron Knight!"
At her words, the black-armored figure strode past Syl toward the arena's center.
Heavy footsteps echoed from within the plate armor.
And his bluish sword slammed into the ground with a thud.
In that moment, gasps and stifled cries erupted from spots throughout the stands.
Some maids flushed red, whispering his name.
"Garin... Lord Garin!"
"He's so cool..."
Lucas merely shrugged in response.
Instead, stepping forward was the complete opposite of the ebony knight.
A petite fox beastkin in a maid outfit: Piel.
The stands' atmosphere flipped on its head.
"Oh my... That girl's facing Lord Garin?"
"Think she stands a chance...?"
"She'll get herself killed."
It was a matchup so lopsided it felt cruel to even mock.
Monster versus child.
Professional killer versus an underdeveloped beastkin girl.
Syl swelled with pride at the reactions.
"Garin! Remember my order?! Don't damage Piel!"
"Of course, Lady Syl."
No one in the arena believed Piel could win.
Everyone saw her as the pitiful victim dragged into this by a foolhardy bastard, with no choice but to endure.
Syl did. The heirs did. The servants did. Even Garin, her opponent, did.
Everyone except one person.
Piel's 'master'.
"Piel, ready?"
At that voice, Piel's eyes changed completely.
"...Yes, of course, Master."
Those were no longer the eyes of a suppressed, tearful little fox.
Garin's brow twitched.
"Hoh..."
Even a black knight who'd felled countless lives had to acknowledge that spirit.
Not the eyes of prey.
The eyes of a hunter.
"Take up a weapon."
Garin nodded toward the weapon rack.
"At least with eyes like that, I'll give you a fair fight."
But it was a meaningless courtesy.
"No need."
Piel quietly raised her hand.
"I already have one right here."
Weapons were trivial, after all.
She could just make her own.