The other two girls in the room, in stark contrast to Biqi's poised demeanor, offered Lance looks tinged more with sympathy than mockery. Sabina, inheriting her mother's softer disposition, possessed a naturally kind heart, a trait that seemed to extend towards her half-brother in these trying times. Irene, the Viscount's adopted daughter, shared this gentle nature, her presence in the family adding a layer of warmth and understanding.
"What has father conveyed to you, Brother Lance?" Irene's voice was a soft whisper, her concern genuine as she perched delicately on the edge of her bed.
Lance hesitated momentarily, then offered a dismissive shake of his head paired with a resigned smile, "Nothing of consequence, merely some minor matters. I was drawn here by the sound of your laughter; I thought to see what joy I was missing."
At this, Biqi reacted with exaggerated surprise, her words sharp with accusation "Visiting us? Was it not enough when you were caught spying on Irene during her bath?"
Caught off guard, Lance's initial reaction was one of shock, his mind racing. "Was there really such an incident?" he wondered silently, mortified at the thought.
Internally, Lance grappled with the reprehensible actions attributed to the body's previous occupant. Despite the lack of blood ties, he viewed Irene with the respect and regard one would for a sister, making the accusation all the more appalling. In this tangled web of familial relations, the boundaries of decency remained inviolable, leaving Lance to navigate the murky waters of accusations and past transgressions.
Lance found himself momentarily at a loss for words, trapped in a maelstrom of embarrassment and misunderstanding. The sight of Irene's flushed face, marked by a silent confirmation of the awkward situation, did little to alleviate the discomfort swirling between them. Though no words were exchanged, the air was thick with unsaid acknowledgments and accusations.
"Your performance tonight was less than impressive…" Biqi pressed on, her words laced with a cold, relentless scrutiny. "I truly cannot fathom why our father bestows such favor upon you, lavishing you with rare opportunities to master magic, opportunities not even afforded to his own daughters."
The flash of envy in Biqi's eyes was unmistakable, a vivid testament to the underlying familial tensions that simmered beneath the surface. Lance was acutely aware of the resentment his privileged position had stirred among his siblings, particularly given his perceived shortcomings. His unique status as a favored son, despite his apparent lack of talent or accomplishment, had long been a source of contention, igniting sparks of jealousy and dissent, unlike the unequivocal affection and acceptance shown by the more understanding Irene and Sabina.
As he stood there, the weight of years of familial discord bore down on him, a reminder of the complex web of relationships and expectations within which he was entangled. Lance realized the challenge ahead was not merely one of proving his worth to his father or mastering the arcane arts, but also of navigating the intricate and sometimes hostility of his own family.
In the face of escalating tension, Irene's intervention served as a much-needed reprieve. Her genuine interest in the literature Lance had previously shared was a testament to their shared moments of peace amidst family discord. "Brother Lance, the book you lent me was a fascinating read. May I visit your room to borrow another?" she inquired, her voice carrying a note of youthful enthusiasm that momentarily lifted the heavy atmosphere.
Lance's response, marked by a genuine smile, was a silent nod to the simple joys they shared, unaffected by the complex dynamics that often muddied the waters of their familial relationships. "Of course," he replied, the warmth returning to his tone.
Irene's reaction was immediate and joyful. She leapt from her perch with the exuberance unique to the carefree moments of youth and proceeded to lead the way, book in hand, her bare feet tapping lightly against the cold stone floor.
As they departed from the company of the other girls, Lance allowed himself a small, private victory, escaping Biqi's piercing glare of envy. He acknowledged Sabina with a courteous nod, following Irene out of the room with a sense of relief. However, he maintained a cautious distance, ensuring Irene led the way to mask his own uncertainty about the location of his room.
The innocence radiating from Irene was a stark contrast to the complicated web of Lance's current existence. She chattered animatedly about the stories from the "Lonitas Tales," particularly touched by the narrative of the crow and the scarecrow. Lance, caught between the remnants of his past self and the stark reality of his present, could only respond with noncommittal murmurs. The truth lay heavy on his heart; he was no longer the person who had once shared those tales with such enthusiasm. Now, navigating the chasm between his past and present selves, Lance was reminded of the delicate balance he must maintain in this new chapter of his life.
Fortunately, Irene remained oblivious to Lance's internal turmoil as they swiftly navigated the corridors to his room, her presence a comforting constant amidst his brewing storm of emotions. Noting the location of his chamber for future reference, Lance entered with a mixture of gratitude and relief.
Irene's observant nature didn't miss the lack of preparation in Lance's quarters. "Huh? Why didn't Aunt Xili prepare hot water and candles for you tonight?" she inquired, her tone laced with genuine concern as she surveyed the sparse room. Lance, caught in a moment of vulnerability, could muster no response, his mood dipping as he was reminded of his altered status within the castle.
However, Irene, ever the beacon of resourcefulness, quickly found a solution. She located a candle on the desk and lit it, bringing a soft, welcoming glow to the otherwise dim room. Her actions, small yet significant, eased the chill of neglect that had begun to settle over Lance.
"I'll just return this book to where I found it and then pick out another," Irene declared with a playful smile, her spirits undampened by the room's initial gloom. She moved gracefully to another part of the room, her silhouette dancing in the candlelight as she busied herself in the adjoining cubicle.
Left alone, Lance exhaled a weary sigh, a mix of fatigue and quiet appreciation for Irene's presence. He closed the door gently, sealing himself away from the world's expectations and judgments, if only for a moment. Settling into the chair at his desk, he allowed himself a brief respite, the day's events weighing heavily on his shoulders as he contemplated the quiet solitude of his room, now slightly brightened by the flicker of a single candle.
As the Viscount's second son, Lance's chambers indeed bore the marks of his rank, sprawling more expansively than those of his sisters. He took a moment to acquaint himself with the space: a cozy bed tucked into one corner, a practical table and closet near the entrance, and two modestly sized compartments adding to the room's functionality. Lance mentally cataloged the layout; one compartment served as a private bathroom, a luxury in its own right, while the other functioned as a dedicated study, a sanctuary for intellectual pursuits.
He ventured into the study, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and appreciation. The room was lined with three rows of bookshelves, a testament to the previous occupant's love for literature and knowledge. In an era where books were considered treasures for the elite, the collection was impressive. Each volume, procured by traders who ventured through the castle, hailed from distant cities, making them rare gems in the local market.
Lance's gaze wandered through the study, taking in every detail. Besides the book-filled shelves, a sizable desk stood as the centerpiece of the room, equipped with a full set of writing tools: quill pens, bottles of ordinary ink, and stacks of thin, finely made paper, the likes of which Lance could not immediately identify. This space, a haven of thought and creativity, held the remnants of the original owner's intellectual endeavors, now waiting to be explored anew by Lance in his current guise.
Lance ambled across the room, his steps measured and curious. Reaching out, he grasped a piece of the thin paper, its texture unfamiliar beneath his fingers. Mentally commanding, "Scan and analyze the material of the paper," he awaited the response from the embedded [Fox] system.
{Command executed}
{The analysis of the paper material is completed. The results suggest that its composition is a unique blend of plant fiber and animal fat, indicative of a sophisticated, possibly ancient, papermaking technique. However, the specific process and finer details remain elusive due to the lack of comprehensive data.}
Lance's amazement swelled as he reflected on the distinct characteristics of this world, especially given the advanced nature of such a simple item as paper in an era of presumed lower productivity levels. The lightweight and delicate texture under his fingers belied an intricate manufacturing process that seemed beyond the time's technological reach.
This led him to ponder even deeper mysteries. If this was the standard for ordinary paper, then how extraordinary must the paper used for magical studies be? The thought piqued his curiosity, igniting a flicker of excitement within him. Although his mind harbored shadows of information related to magical materials — remnants of the original owner's knowledge — the lack of personal experience left these memories hazy and incomplete.
The disparity between what was remembered and what was lived lent an aura of mystique to the magical practices of this realm. Lance found himself drawn to the enigmatic nature of magic here, its artifacts, and its rituals, yearning to bridge the gap between secondhand memories and direct understanding.
Irene's curious face emerged from behind the bookshelves, her presence like a burst of sunlight in the otherwise somber room. The contrast between her bright golden locks and her fair skin was striking, while her sapphire-like eyes sparkled with an innocent curiosity, all contributing to her naturally gentle and serene demeanor.
Caught somewhat off guard by her sudden appearance and inquiry, Lance endeavored to maintain his composure, masking his brief lapse of memory with a veneer of calm. "Well, it truly varies with personal preference," he replied, adopting a tone of nonchalance. "To be entirely candid, I don't recall the details of 'Lady's Diary.'"
"Really?" Irene's voice was tinged with a hint of skepticism as she posed the question, her brow furrowed in gentle confusion. "But just last week, I saw you deeply engrossed in it when I visited. Has it truly slipped from your memory in such a short span?"
Lance could feel the onset of an internal panic as Irene pressed for details he couldn't possibly know. Scrambling for an explanation, he responded in a hurried manner, "My memories of it are vague; I only glanced through it superficially. You understand, preparing for the magister's exams requires significant focus. Mastering magic isn't straightforward."
The words felt hollow even to his own ears, a hastily constructed excuse that he half-expected Irene to question. Yet, to his surprise, she accepted his words with a solemn nod, her belief in the complexity and mystique of magic unwavering. "I understand, spells are indeed enigmatic. Only a select few achieve the status of a mage in our world. Brother Lance, you must persevere; I have faith that you can rise to be a distinguished wizard like Lord Amman."
The sincerity in her words and the supportive gleam in her sapphire eyes ignited a flicker of warmth within Lance's chest. In that moment, he realized that despite the underlying tensions and the complex web of alliances and animosities within the castle, he was not entirely isolated. Sister Irene's genuine concern and belief provided a semblance of solace, a reminder that amidst the intrigue and expectations, there existed pockets of pure, unaffected kinship. In this grand, often cold edifice, Irene represented a beacon of goodwill, reinforcing Lance's resolve to navigate his new life with as much grace and wisdom as he could muster.
After selecting "Lady's Diary" for her reading, Irene departed, leaving Lance alone with his thoughts. He gently closed the door behind her, sealing himself away from the world outside his quarters. Drifting towards the window, he gazed out at the sprawling coastline that lay under the cloak of night. The summer season did little to tame the sea's breezy howls, which carried a surprising chill as they swept over the land.
A soft, ethereal mist began to ascend from the obscured waters, blurring the line between sea and sky, weaving a tapestry of haunting beauty and serene melancholy. It was a sight that, despite its chill, held a mesmerizing allure, a silent witness to the complexities and mysteries of the world Lance found himself in.
With a gentle tug, he closed the window, cutting off the cold maritime wind and wrapping his room once again in quiet solitude. The day's events, marked by revelations and emotional undercurrents, weighed heavily upon him. Drained, he surrendered to the call of rest, allowing his tired body to collapse onto the bed. As his eyes drifted shut and sleep slowly enveloped him, Lance's last thoughts lingered on the day's encounters and the uncertain path that lay ahead, before fading into the peaceful embrace of slumber.
…
Early in the morning, Lance bypassed the usual morning rituals, merely acknowledging Aunt Xili, the diligent caretaker tasked with attending to the needs of the Viscount's offspring, before swiftly departing from the stately confines of the castle.
Perched atop the sheer cliffs of Wangfeng Mountain, the Viscount's fortress presented a formidable visage, with the relentless sea churning against the rugged reefs below, while the opposite vista offered a sprawling expanse of the land. The castle's solitary link to the external world was a slender road and bridge, acting as a slender artery to the pulsing heart of Shoufeng Town nestled below the mountain's shadow — a bustling hub that stood as the crown jewel among the five towns under the Viscount's dominion.
Yet, Lance's current quest led him not towards the vibrant streets of Shoufeng but along a different path altogether, leveraging his unique liberties granted by the Viscount to venture towards a destination set apart from the usual hustle and bustle — the abode of Master Amman, known as Moonlight Tower, a solitary structure perched along the scenic coastline, a mere two miles from the castle's stoic grandeur.
The morning sea breeze caressed Lance's skin with its salty kiss as he inhaled deeply, savoring the pristine air that was a stark contrast to memories of a polluted Earth. Every breath felt like a cleansing ritual, washing away the remnants of past lives and former worlds.
Accompanying him was a stern-faced soldier. Tasked with ensuring Lance's safety, this guard, once a familiar fixture within the castle's walls, was handpicked by the captain of the castle patrol following orders that Lance's journey to Moonlight Tower was to be shielded at all costs. Despite the known safety of the route, underlining the journey was an unspoken rule: no harm must befall Lance under their watch, for the wrath of Viscount would be unfathomable if his favored son were to encounter misfortune. Thus, despite the peaceful reputation of the path between Watchwind Castle and Moonlight Tower, the soldier, a formidable swordsman, maintained a vigilant guard, ensuring the young master's well-being as they moved towards their enigmatic destination.
As they traversed the path, Lance decided to engage the silent figure trailing him, breaking the monotony of their journey. "Your name is Poirot, isn't it?" he inquired with an air of nonchalance, casting a sidelong glance at the soldier.
Poirot, perhaps unaccustomed to casual conversation during his duty, responded with a hint of surprise masked by professionalism, "Yes, master."
Seizing the moment to learn more, Lance probed further, "How proficient would you say your swordsmanship is?"
A fleeting look of disdain flickered across Poirot's face, likely born from the soldier's pride in his martial prowess and the unexpected nature of the question from someone perceived as less familiar with the ways of combat. However, maintaining his respect for the hierarchy, Poirot replied, "Among the patrol, I am considered among the top three in swordsmanship. But I must admit, I stand no chance against your brother, Master Griffin. He is a formidable warrior, one who aspires to kindle the sacred fire and has already ascended to the rank of Silver Swordsman at a remarkably young age."
Lance absorbed this new information, the wheels turning in his mind. It painted his brother, Griffin, in a new, more formidable light, someone of significant martial skill and ambition, attributes Lance had not fully appreciated before.
Curiosity piqued, Lance continued his inquiry, "What forms of swordsmanship are you versed in?"
Without hesitation, Poirot listed his skills, "I have mastered the kingdom's basic military sword techniques, the [Spirit Fox Swordsmanship] that was imparted to me by Lord Viscount himself, and the [White Tooth Swordsmanship], which I picked up during my days as a mercenary."
Intrigued, Lance commanded with an unexpected calmness, "Very well, demonstrate all these forms of swordsmanship to me."
"Now?" Poirot responded, a mix of surprise and hesitation lacing his tone.
Lance confirmed with a firm nod, "Yes, now."
Despite his initial reluctance, Poirot understood the weight of a direct command from the Viscount's son. With a quiet murmur of acquiescence, he resigned himself to the task at hand. Going off the road, the two stood on the beach. Illuminated by the early morning light, the soldier began to showcase the martial skills he had acquired over the years: the disciplined precision of the kingdom's military techniques, the cunning agility inherent in the [Spirit Fox Swordsmanship], and the rugged, unorthodox movements of the [White Tooth Swordsmanship].
Lance observed attentively, noting the distinct styles and stances, the flow between aggression and defense, and the unique characteristics that each form of swordsmanship brought to bear.
After the intensive display, beads of sweat adorned Poirot's brow, a testament to the exertion of showcasing his varied and demanding sword techniques. Sheathing his long sword, he addressed Lance with a mixture of respect and subtle inquiry, "Master Lance, I have demonstrated all the swordsmanship at my disposal."
Poirot harbored his own suspicions regarding the unusual request, contemplating its purpose. To him, it seemed like a sudden caprice from Lance, a fleeting interest in the art of the blade. The soldier's mind did not wander to deeper implications or hidden motives; he took the exhibition as a straightforward, if peculiar, command from the young master.
Observing Poirot's performance, Lance's expression subtly shifted, a faint smile gracing his lips, hinting at a satisfaction or knowledge not fully shared. "Very well, thank you," he responded, his tone laced with genuine appreciation. "Let's proceed to the Moonlight Tower."
With that, the two resumed their journey, leaving the impromptu arena of swordplay behind.
As they made their way along the path, an internal prompt reverberated through Lance's consciousness, a gentle yet distinct voice distinct from his own thoughts: {The classification, collection, and recording of the data have been completed. Please name the three data sets separately.}
In response to this internal command, three ethereal circular icons materialized in Lance's field of vision, visible only to him. With a mental touch, each icon expanded, revealing a spectral image of Poirot mid-demonstration, a visual echo of the sword techniques displayed earlier.
Lance, embracing this unique interface, assigned names to each data set based on the demonstrations he had just witnessed:
• "[Basic Military Swordsmanship of the Hussar Kingdom]"
• "[Spirit Fox Swordsmanship]"
• "[White Fang Swordsmanship]"
With the naming complete, a new message floated into his awareness: {Naming is complete. Analyzing the data. The analysis process will take about half an hour.}
Lance felt a deep sense of satisfaction as he pondered the capabilities of the main chip, [Fox], nestled within him. This advanced tool was more than a mere repository of information; it was an extension of himself, capable of scanning, storing, classifying, and analyzing any data he deemed necessary. The immediate access to such precise and detailed breakdowns of swordsmanship presented him with an unprecedented advantage. Should he choose to delve into the martial arts, [Fox] would enable him to approach this learning with unparalleled accuracy.
However, Lance understood that the decision to adopt and master any of these swordsmanship styles hinged on the forthcoming analysis from [Fox]. Only if the techniques proved to be of significant utility would he consider integrating them into his skill set. This pragmatic approach to potential knowledge and power was a new aspect of his life, offering pathways to personal growth and proficiency that were once unimaginable.
As they continued their journey, the rhythmic sound of waves accompanying their steps, the Moonlight Tower gradually came into view, its silhouette a stark contrast against the backdrop of the early morning sky. The structure stood solitary and imposing by the sea's edge, a beacon guiding Lance's path forward. The sight of it sparked a mixture of anticipation and resolve within him.