Arslan leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Then he glanced toward the doorway where Luna stood quietly, her pack still slung over one shoulder.

“Luna,” he said, voice steady but softer than usual, “could you please go bring Elaine from the tavern? It should be about time for her to finish up there.”

Luna inclined her head without a word. “Of course.” She moved toward the door, her footsteps barely stirring the floorboards, and slipped out into the night.

The room grew a little quieter after she left, the lamplight casting long shadows across the table. Viola shifted in her chair, then squared her shoulders and met her father’s eyes.

“I’m going to stay the night here,” she said. “But tomorrow morning I’ll head back to Grandfather’s.”

Arslan nodded slowly, his gaze softening. “I’d like to keep you here longer,” he admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “but I can see how much you’ve grown. You’re not the little girl who used to follow me into the training yard anymore.”

Viola’s cheeks colored faintly, but she held his gaze. Arslan reached across the table and squeezed her shoulder once, firm but gentle. “Stay the night. Rest. Tomorrow you can go back knowing you’ve made me proud.”

Viola nodded back, the weight of the labyrinth’s trials sitting a little lighter on her as she relaxed into the chair. The house, though still quiet, felt warmer.

The front door creaked open a little while later. Warm night air spilled into the quiet house along with laughter and the faint smell of ale. Luna stepped in first, holding the door, and Elaine swept in behind her like a storm.

Before Ludger or Viola could brace themselves, Elaine had both of them in her arms. “My babies are back!” she cried, voice full of relief and exasperation.

Her arms were steel wrapped in silk. Ludger’s spine popped audibly; Viola’s eyes went wide as her ribs protested under the squeeze.

“Air—!” Ludger managed between gritted teeth.

Elaine only squeezed harder for a heartbeat before finally letting them go. “Two months and not a word except rumors,” she said, brushing dust off Ludger’s shoulders with brisk hands. “You’re both too thin. And you—” she flicked a glance at Viola, who had already straightened her tunic—“you’re pale as a ghost.”

Ludger coughed once, catching his breath but smiling faintly. “We’re fine, Mom. Really.”

Viola’s mouth twitched, half a wince, half a smile. She flexed her fingers experimentally. “Ribs intact,” she murmured.

“Barely,” Ludger said under his breath, and then, drier: “Good thing I can patch us up later.”

Elaine’s eyes softened. “Patch yourselves up after dinner. You can’t heal on an empty stomach.” She turned toward the kitchen like a general commanding troops. “Sit. I’ll have something hot on the table in minutes.”

Arslan watched from his chair, the tiredness in his face easing as he took in the scene. For the first time that night, the house felt like a home again—warm, noisy, and whole.

Morning light spilled through the kitchen windows, painting the table in gold. The smell of porridge and fried bread lingered in the air. Everyone ate in companionable quiet—Elaine bustling about, Arslan with his mug of tea, Viola and Luna already dressed for travel.

After breakfast, Viola slung her pack over one shoulder but didn’t head for the door. Instead she set it down and turned to her father, eyes bright.

“Father,” she said, “before I go back to Grandfather’s…I want a spar.”

Arslan raised an eyebrow over his mug. A slow smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The heavy exhaustion from the night before had melted away; a full night’s sleep without whispered death scenarios had put color back in his face.

“A spar, huh?” he rumbled. “Haven’t had one of those with you in a while.” He pushed his chair back and stood, rolling his shoulders. “Sure. Let’s see what you’ve learned.”

Viola’s grip on her stone sword tightened, but there was a flicker of excitement behind her serious expression. Luna quietly moved to the doorway, folding her arms to watch.

Ludger leaned back in his chair, a faint grin spreading across his face. “This should be interesting.” He grabbed his mug and followed them out to the yard, settling on the steps. After two months of training and exploration, she’s probably itching to test herself against someone who actually hits back.

Arslan stepped into the middle of the yard, the morning sun catching in his hair, and beckoned his daughter forward with a hand. “Show me, Viola.”

Arslan rolled his shoulders and planted his feet in the packed dirt of the yard, giving Viola a small, beckoning gesture. She drew her stone sword with a sharp rasp, eyes locked on him, the morning light flashing off the blade’s rough edge.

Ludger leaned against the doorframe, mug in hand, a lazy grin creeping across his face. “Careful, Father,” he called. “You’ve been sitting at a desk listening to doomsday rumors for two months while she’s been swinging that thing at elementals. You might lose.”

Arslan shot him a sidelong look. “Oh?”

Ludger raised his brows, mock-innocent. “Hey, if she wins, she gets to be man of the house. I’ll even make a plaque.”

Viola’s cheeks colored, but a flicker of a smile cracked her focus before she forced it back down. “I’m not interested in a plaque,” she muttered.

Arslan chuckled low in his chest, a sound like distant thunder. “Is that so? Guess I’ll have to make sure I don’t lose, then.”

He dropped into a loose stance, all trace of fatigue gone, and crooked a finger at his daughter. “Come on then, ‘man of the house.’ Show me what you’ve got.”

Ludger snorted into his mug and settled back to watch, the yard suddenly alive with the charge of an impending clash.

Viola exhaled once and then moved. Her boots dug into the packed dirt, a surge of mana rippling from her feet into the blade. The sword came down in a sharp, diagonal arc—fast enough that the air hissed.

Arslan caught it on his sword with a muted clang, the impact pushing him half a step back. His brows went up. “Heh.”

Viola didn’t pause. She pivoted and drove forward with a “Crimson Horn” thrust, the blade’s edge glowing faintly as grit swirled around her boots. Arslan shifted sideways, bringing his guard up to catch and deflect, but the weight behind the strike still forced his stance open.

Ludger whistled low from the porch. “Told you she’d make you work for it.”

Arslan’s grin sharpened. The easy looseness in his posture vanished; he dropped his center of gravity, as he started using real footwork instead of the lazy sway of before. Each time Viola’s blade came in he met it with a block or a parry, deflecting at the last moment to bleed off her momentum.

But she wasn’t budging. Even as he tried to angle her off balance, her feet stayed rooted, mana flowing down into the ground to steady her. Every thrust landed heavier than the last, like fighting a moving pillar of earth.

Arslan slid back another half-step, boots grinding a furrow in the yard. “You’ve grown,” he muttered, voice low enough for only her to hear.

Viola’s eyes stayed locked on his, sweat starting at her temples. “You told me to.”

Ludger leaned forward, mug forgotten, watching the pattern unfold. His father was blocking and parrying perfectly—but not once had he managed to make her lose her stance.

The yard filled with the rhythmic sound of blade against blade, the morning sun glinting off every exchange.

Arslan’s eyes narrowed, the playful glint gone. “Alright,” he said, voice dropping to a low rumble, “my turn.”

He shifted his weight and in the same motion moved his sword with a sound more warning than music. Viola’s brows lifted, but she didn’t retreat. Her knuckles whitened around the sword.

Arslan stepped in fast, the first strike a clean downward cut that met her guard with a shockwave of force. The next was a diagonal feint into a real thrust, forcing her to pivot and bring the blade across to catch it. Steel rang against steel, dust rising around their boots.

From the porch, Ludger whistled again. “Here we go…”

Arslan kept pressing—no wasted movements, no wild swings. Each strike came from an angle meant to off-balance her, to make her commit too early or open a gap. He wasn’t going for power; he was showing the weight of experience, the rhythm of someone who had been fighting longer than she’d been alive.

Viola’s breathing quickened, but she didn’t falter. Her feet stayed rooted, earth affinity locking her stance; every time his blade struck, her arms and core absorbed it like bedrock taking rain. She was forced onto the defensive now, sword flashing up to block and redirect, but each parry still had bite behind it.

Arslan arced another strike and felt the vibration run up his arm. She’s not losing power, he realized, eyes flicking over her stance. She’s matching me there.

Dust spiraled around them as the rhythm of strike and parry built, father and daughter locked in a pattern of steel and stone—one showing hard-won skill, the other refusing to be moved.

Arslan stepped back half a pace, rolling his shoulders. His breathing deepened, the kind of slow, deliberate inhale Ludger recognized from his own training.

Then the air shifted.

A low hum built in Arslan’s chest and spilled out through his skin. For a heartbeat the yard felt like it was sitting on the edge of a forge—the scent of hot iron, the shimmer of heatwaves, an invisible weight pressing down.

Ludger straightened on the porch, mug forgotten. That’s not just brute force, he thought. That’s Overdrive polished until it’s a blade.

Arslan’s eyes locked on his daughter. “This is the strength you’re aiming for,” he said, voice like stone under pressure. “Stand and see it.”

Then he moved. He covered the distance in two strides, his training sword a blur of precise arcs. Not wild swings, but measured, perfect cuts—each one angled to batter her guard without wasting a single drop of motion.

Viola braced and blocked, mana pouring into her arms and legs. Her blade met steel with a series of cracks that echoed off the yard walls. Each clash sent shockwaves through the dirt, scattering grit and pebbles.

She held her guard, but every impact pushed her back—half a step, another half, boot heels gouging trenches as she fought to stay upright. Sweat ran down her temple, her teeth clenched against the pressure.

Arslan didn’t slow. His aura burned brighter, a heatless fire rippling off him with every strike. He wasn’t trying to break her sword; he was showing her the gulf between solid and unshakable.

From the porch Ludger watched, eyes narrowed. He’s going all out, but not to crush her. He’s showing her the mountain she’s climbing.

Viola planted her feet again, dragging mana up from the ground to steady her stance, and raised the stone blade for the next impact. Dust and sunlight swirled around father and daughter, steel and stone ringing in a rhythm that spoke more clearly than any lecture.

Arslan’s last strike crashed down like a hammer on bedrock. Viola caught it on her sword with a strangled gasp, her arms trembling from the effort. The impact drove her back two paces and her right knee hit the dirt with a dull thump.

Sweat dripped from her chin onto the packed earth. Her breath came in harsh, ragged pulls; the glow around her blade flickered and died. She stayed upright on one knee, but only just.

Arslan let the blade drop to his side and exhaled slowly. The forge-heat of his aura faded, leaving only the morning sun. “Enough,” he said quietly.

From the porch Ludger raised an eyebrow, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Trying to fight like that right after breakfast didn’t help much, huh?” He set his mug aside and added, dry as ever, “Shame. Guess you won’t be the man of the house after all.”

Viola shot him a glare from under sweat-matted bangs, too winded to muster a comeback.

Arslan’s stern face softened; he knelt down, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You held your ground longer than most grown fighters could. That’s no small thing.”

Viola straightened a little under his touch, still catching her breath but eyes bright despite her exhaustion.

Ludger chuckled and folded his arms, watching the two of them. “Don’t worry. You’ll get another shot at the title.”

The yard smelled of dust and sweat and breakfast long gone, but under it all there was a sense of pride—quiet, heavy, and real.

Arslan straightened, sliding his training sword back into its scabbard. “That’s enough for today,” he said, voice steady again. “You’ve seen the gap; now you know where to push.”

Viola tried to stand but her legs wobbled. Before she could topple, Luna was there, silent as ever, slipping an arm under her shoulder. With her free hand she swung both Viola’s and hers packs off the fence and over to the porch in one smooth motion.

“Easy, my Lady” Luna murmured, dabbing a cloth across Viola’s face and neck to wipe away the sweat. She didn’t comment on the tremor in Viola’s arms or the dirt on her knees; she just worked with practiced efficiency.

Viola took a few slow breaths, letting Luna steady her. “Thanks,” she managed.

Luna only nodded. Her expression was unreadable, but she didn’t look like she wanted to usher Viola toward a bath or a change of clothes. “We’ll hit the road soon,” she said quietly. “You’ll cool down on the way.”

Arslan watched the exchange, eyes soft. “No shame in being spent after a bout like that,” he said. “Next time, you’ll last longer still.”

Viola gave a weak but proud smile, straightening a little under Luna’s support.

Luna’s mouth twitched, just barely, as she hoisted the last pack. “We should go before the sun climbs any higher.”

The morning air smelled of dust and bread crust, the yard still echoing faintly from the clash. Viola wiped her palms on her leggings, took one last look at her father and half brother, and squared her shoulders for the road.

A note from Comedian0

Thank you for reading!

Don't forget to follow, favorite, and rate. If you want to read 40 chapters ahead, you can check my patreon: /Comedian0