[E]ntering the training ground, Ionia quickly noticed the conspicuous absence of the Knights of House Lysander.
Their nonattendance didn't trouble her; quite the opposite, she preferred the solitude of these early hours. By the time the others arrived, she would have concluded her routine and moved on to other tasks.
With measured steps, Ionia strode toward a rack adorned with top-tier wooden swords, exclusively reserved for the elite of the Lysander family. Her fingers glided along the polished wood, appreciating the craftsmanship that had gone into forging each blade.
Selecting a short sword, she assessed its weight with a few precise swings, gauging the strain on her arms. Satisfied that it perfectly suited her current height and strength, she retreated to a concealed corner of the training ground.
There, the morning light filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the ground as she commenced her practice. The rhythmic sound of wood slicing through the air accompanied her solitary training.
"I didn't anticipate that she would dare to set foot on the training ground after the humiliating defeat she endured," a voice murmured from the central corner of the training area.
Ionia chose to disregard the whispers and continued her training. But then, something zipped through the air in her direction. With a fluid and instinctive motion, she swung her sword with precision, deftly redirecting the object back to its source.
"Ahh!" came an exclamation, and Ionia's attention turned with an air of cool indifference.
There, on the ground, sat a girl who appeared to be of similar age, a trickle of blood marking her forehead.
A fresh wave of murmurs begin to spread among the assembled spectators.
"Wh-what was that?"
"Y-yeah? I have no idea!"
With the small, soft rock now resting beside its original owner, Ionia pieced together the unfolding situation.
The girl who had thrown the object, a familiar face, was no stranger.
It was Ellora Gaillot, a girl of common birth who had, in her previous life, managed to outmaneuver Ionia and take her position as Draven Voidbringer's first wife.
Ellora, was the very girl Ionia had challenged to a duel for Draven's affection prior to awakening from her coma, a duel that she had lost.
"Losing a duel is considered honorable," Ionia declared firmly, her voice edged with a veiled threat. With her wooden sword, she executed a controlled, intimidating arc. "But what is this? Throwing rocks at an opponent who has lost a duel with honor, as a form of bullying? Your commoner blood is showing, I must say."
Ellora, still nursing her throbbing forehead, met Ionia's icy gaze with a mix of anger and embarrassment.
Thump-! Thump! Thump-!
Suddenly, another familiar face appeared, hurrying onto the scene with an air of urgency.
It was none other than the infamous Draven Voidbringer, characterized by his distinctive fade undercut and tattoos creeping from beneath the collar of his black shirt, trailing over his neck.
This was the very handsomeness that had once captivated Ionia and been the object of her obsession in her previous life.
"Ellora? Are you okay?" Draven asked with a sense of urgency, clearly concerned for the injured girl.
Then, his gaze shifted to Ionia, growing threatening as he addressed her. "Why on earth would you engage in such behavior? You're tarnishing the honor of the Lysander name."
Ionia couldn't suppress the tightness in her bust, but she brushed it off, being quite accustomed to Draven's reproaches. Rejection and accusations from him had become a familiar part of her life.
"Tsk? Staining the name?" Ionia retorted, her tone carrying a hint of bluntness. She looked at Draven with a mixture of defiance and cold detachment. "I wonder if I'm truly the one bringing dishonor to the Lysander name. Is it considered honorable to throw rocks at an opponent who has gracefully admitted defeat? Draven Voidbringer, by supporting the likes of her, you're the one sullying our noble name."
Draven, taken aback by Ionia's uncharacteristically strong response, found himself momentarily lost for words.
The other knights on the training ground exchanged murmurs and nods of agreement, recognizing the dishonor in bullying someone who had lost honorably.
Yet, what was even more astonishing to onlookers was Ionia's unusual coldness toward Draven this morning.
Wasn't he the one she had once been deeply infatuated with? She had never openly shamed him like this before, marking a significant shift in their interactions.
In an attempt to appear vulnerable and win Draven's favor, Ellora, with teary eyes, tried to break the silence. "I-I apologize. Please, don't be too hard on Draven. He had nothing to do with this."
Ionia let out a weary sigh, ignoring Ellora's efforts at reconciliation. She proceeded to walk toward the rack of wooden swords, with the intention of putting away her weapon and departing from the training ground.
Over the years, she had developed a strong aversion to such dramatic confrontations. Needless to say, young Draven and Ellora were no match for her, especially now that she inhabited the soul of an 18-year-old woman within the body of a 14-year-old.
Before reaching the rack, Ionia came to an abrupt halt and casted a disdainful look back at Ellora. Her eyes held a palpable sense of menace.
"Know your place! Should you ever dare to mock me again, I'll ensure you won't even be able to draw a bow," Ionia declared with bitterness, her words carrying a veiled threat.
The intensity of her hostile aura sent a shiver down Ellora's spine. She had not anticipated such a vehement response.
Meanwhile, Draven, still grappling with the sudden turn of events, collected himself and extended a hand to touch Ionia's wrist. "W-wait... I—"
In a flash, Ionia reacted with a swift and sharp slap, forcefully swatting Draven's hand away. She glared down at him with an expression of utter disgust. "Draven Voidbringer, just because I once harbored feelings for you doesn't grant you the right to touch me. Keep your filth to yourself."
The watching knights couldn't contain their astonishment at this unprecedented exchange. Ionia had never previously looked down on Draven. This life and the current situation were her first experience with such dynamics.
"I-I..."
"If you have nothing more to say, then I shall be on my way."
"Ionia!" Draven, now composed, called out firmly. At 16 years of age, his disappointment was evident in his tone. "I only mentioned it because Marquis will refuse to teach you Lysander's swordsmanship if you continue to cause trouble."
A malevolent chuckle escaped Ionia as she glanced back at Draven with an empty expression. "Lysander's swordsmanship? Hah. Who would want to learn that trashy technique?"
Her words provoked another round of astonished gasps from the onlookers. Just then, amidst the ensuing chaos, a deep and authoritative voice cut through the air. "What's with all the commotions?"