Back at the Manor, the sun had yet to reach its zenith. Edwin and Marcellus disembarked from the boat and made their way through the garden, eventually arriving at the training yard. As they entered, a maid hurried over to Edwin, whispering something into his ear. Marcellus, with his enhanced sensitivity, picked up on her words, "The young lady wishes to have a word with you."
Edwin glanced up and noticed a lady on the balcony, her eyes meeting his. The lady appeared both young and delicate. She had dark, curly hair that gracefully stopped at her shoulders. Her skin, the shade of well-defined eyebrows, was smooth and unblemished, complemented by a straight, refined nose. She was strikingly beautiful.
She wore a simple ferronnière, blue tunic accented with a silver hem at the edges. Draped around her neck were two exquisite necklaces: one was gold-coloured and looped multiple times, and the other featured a captivating green emerald.
Marcellus, too, caught sight of her and realized that he recognized the lady. He quickly averted his gaze downward to Finn, who stood below, drenched in sweat while swinging his sword and diligently practising his breathing technique.
Finn, sensing Marcellus's gaze, responded with what Marcellus would later describe as the most suspicious smile he had ever seen, accentuating his golden tooth.
Edwin promptly dismissed the maid, or perhaps she was a servant—Marcellus couldn't be certain. "Let her know I'll join her shortly," Edwin instructed.
As Marcellus contemplated the situation, he couldn't help but wonder about the lady's identity. Wasn't she the governor's daughter? Was it acceptable for him to not immediately attend to her request? After all, he was merely the governor's nephew, often tasked with menial duties.
Edwin's voice cut through his thoughts, clear and commanding. "Clear the yard, everyone. You may observe from the tree line, but I want the training ground empty."
Marcellus, unable to stifle his nerves, quipped a joke that he instantly regretted. "Are you sure about that? might be quite demoralizing for them to see a knight get tossed around by me. After all, I've already bested two of their ranks."
Edwin's response was devoid of eye contact, his tone carrying a hint of seriousness. "Ah, I might have neglected to mention - she's not just any knight. She is an Aspirant, a Warrior."
Those words sent a chill through Marcellus. A Warrior! To be recognized as a Warrior in the Church of Combat was to achieve mastery akin to that of a sword saint but without reliance on breathing techniques.
The sheer amount of gruelling effort and unwavering dedication required for such a feat was something Marcellus knew all too well. It was the very reason he had fled from his training with the priestess. And now, facing someone who had not only achieved this status but had also undergone the transformative power of the potion – it was like confronting a demon born for battle.
"Martia!" Edwin called out.
A formidable woman approached Edwin and Marcellus, her strides confident and measured. Towering over Marcellus, she matched Tommy Bones in height, an estimate that was hard to miss. In contrast to Tommy Bones' broader frame, she possessed slender shoulders, a silhouette carved by discipline and strength.
Her visage was a canvas of survival, marked with a myriad of scars that crisscrossed her face. Her hair was a chaotic blend of blonde and brunette, cut short in an uneven, almost rugged style that added to her fierce demeanour. In her grip, she wielded a long sword, its presence as much a part of her as her sinewy limbs.
Her approach was that of a seasoned warrior, one who had faced and conquered countless challenges.
"I am expected to cross swords with this... child?" Martia's voice dripped with disdain, her eyes flickering dismissively towards Edwin.
Edwin, maintaining his composure, replied, "The priest has requested that you test his mettle in a duel, yes."
Martia's response was a silent, contemplative pause.
Sensing the need for clarity, Edwin swiftly laid out the rules. "Wooden swords only. The aim isn't to kill or inflict grave injury. Win or lose, there'll be no hard feelings," he stated firmly.
Having set the terms, Edwin retreated from the centre of attention, ascending the stairs to join the lady in the viewing area.
No sooner had he settled into his seat than the duel reached its abrupt conclusion.
Martia emerged victorious.
Her movements were a mirror to Marcellus's aggressive approach, yet she triumphed with a grace and efficiency that belied her opponent's full-throttle assault. It seemed as though she hadn't held back, and yet, her tactics were marked by calculated, low-risk manoeuvres, effortlessly neutralizing and constraining Marcellus's every move.
In the aftermath of their swift clash, Marcellus stood, a mix of shock and newfound elation etched on his face.
The realization that he had been bested so decisively, by someone who appeared to exercise such restraint, was both humbling and enlightening.
Marcellus faced an opponent whose strength was undeniable.
Against a figure like Marcellus, who had single-handedly vanquished seven bandits and earned the title of a true sword saint, instilling fear was no small feat. Yet here stood Martia, a warrior whom even the mere thought of facing her in single combat seemed a daunting task. It was a natural reaction.