It wasn’t until I’d holed up in my lodging for two days, devouring every volume of The Lustful Dragonian Maid, that I remembered I’d gone to the library to research Anuata.
In a dusty, moldy corner where no one paid attention, I saw it.
“Be prepared.”
She spoke, and I nearly let out a girlish scream. My heart almost stopped…!
Knock, knock.
“Paramir, you in there?”
Jasmine’s voice came from beyond the door, accompanied by knocking.
For a moment, I hesitated, wondering if this was another trick by the dead forest troll’s dark magic. But I snapped out of it.
That damned troll, already dead, kept shoving her crushed face into my senses without warning.
In theory, assassinating a swordmaster is near impossible.
Anyone approaching me would be caught by my heightened senses.
It’d only be possible if I were deeply asleep and they used every trick in the book.
I took a deep breath and gulped down some cold water (well, lukewarm). Shaking my head like a wet retriever, I banished the terrifying vision that had made me jumpy.
This is driving me insane.
Keeping my sanity with Anuata’s apparitions popping up unpredictably was no easy feat.
Calming my pounding heart, I opened the door.
“Paramir.”
This time, I really thought my heart would give out.
Through Jasmine’s lengthening hair, catching the sunlight just right, I saw Anuata’s face glaring at me from her shadowy silhouette.
Damn it… I’m not gonna die of old age at this rate.
“…? What’s wrong, Paramir?”
Jasmine looked at me, frozen, with her usual angelic concern.
“N-Nothing. Just some dust here. Haha, haha…”
“Oh? Thanks.”
She smiled softly as I awkwardly pretended to brush nonexistent dust off her shoulder.
As Anuata’s face vanished like sea foam breaking on waves, I prayed to a god for the first time.
Even a swordmaster can’t cut a ghost.
Just as you can’t kill something already dead.
I’d faced her, cut off her head, but somehow, I hadn’t won.
What do I do? Should I visit an Elon temple?
I’m seriously considering it.
Moriah, the library keeper and high priest of the Elon Sect, didn’t seem to know I was a swordmaster.
Or maybe he knew and pretended not to. But it didn’t seem like it.
Swordmasters don’t just pop up in every village. No one could stay that calm if they knew. I should visit a temple and ask about Anuata.
Maybe the priests of Elon could exorcise this forest troll ghost haunting me.
“Paramir? Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing.”
I quickly shook my head. The rough, tomboyish Jasmine from before was nowhere to be found.
They say love makes a woman bloom like a flower, and that fits Jasmine perfectly. Who’d have thought?
“If you’re free, can you spare some time today? Surabar’s busy.”
She spoke cautiously.
“Of course.”
I nodded, expecting this.
Not a date—she wanted me to be her bodyguard for the day.
Not exactly a bodyguard, but more like carrying stuff and running errands by her side.
“Going to Aunt Srell’s, right?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“How could I not?”
Aunt Srell, a midwife and healer, had said Jasmine was in a delicate, cautious stage.
Every mother carrying a child is in a precarious state until delivery.
“Thanks, Paramir.”
“It’s my job.”
I don’t have a girlfriend or fiancée, but I’m about to become a “father.”
Not a real father, but a godfather is still a father, right?
Since the leader bowed and asked me himself, I’d protect Jasmine and her child no matter what.
“Let’s go, my lady.”
Jasmine, carrying a basket full of yarn, smiled brightly.
***
In his study, alone, the Border Count of Mosul, Tolland Hemilton, sipped wine and sank into thought.
His heir, Garland Hemilton, had already returned to his room.
When asked what would make a fitting gift for the King of Bers, Garland had answered, “A fox,” without hesitation.
“A fox…”
He likely meant it literally.
Garam Forest was home to many glossy, crimson foxes with a golden sheen.
Fox pelts were one of Mosul’s few specialties, considered luxury items even in the imperial capital, Eden.
Garland’s “fox” probably referred to these.
The wine in his glass gleamed blood-red. Tolland thought that while Garland’s “fox” wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, it was still a decent gift for the King of Bers.
“A fox, huh? The young master’s got a sly side,” came a voice.
Swish… From a hidden door behind the study, a woman emerged and approached Tolland.
Draped in translucent fabric that revealed her skin, her appearance was utterly provocative. She wrapped her hands around Tolland’s head, kissing his face and neck.
A sticky, heavy breath enveloped them like fog. Tolland pulled her to sit beside him, and she nestled into his arms, half-naked.
“…He’s still a child who knows nothing.”
Tolland answered belatedly, his gaze fixed on the clear wine glass.
“Oh, you’re still keeping it a secret?”
The woman, Medeia, gently took the glass from Tolland and drank from it.
It could be seen as impertinent for someone addressing the city’s ruler, but Tolland said nothing.
Their relationship was far from ordinary for such trivialities to matter.
“It’s not time to tell him yet.”
“If that’s Your Excellency’s will.”
She took the remaining wine into her mouth and kissed Tolland, the ruler of Mosul, again.
A passionate kiss and steamy intimacy followed. As the study’s heat cooled, Tolland thought of the tasks ahead, savoring the afterglow with Medeia, eyes closed.
“How’s Your Excellency feeling these days?”
Her hand trailed from his neck, across his chest, to his navel, tickling as it went. Tolland pondered quietly.
His mood? It was beyond perfect.
It felt like reclaiming the youth he’d experienced fighting the Demon Army long ago.
All thanks to the King of Bers’ gift and this woman’s counsel.
Ten—no, thirty years younger. Not just in feeling—lately, Tolland tackled his duties with the vigor of a teenager.
He woke before the servants, dressed in his regalia, and worked later than anyone, tirelessly.
His desire surged endlessly, his energy overflowed, and even sleepless nights left him unfatigued.
If she hadn’t asked, he might not have noticed the change.
Savoring her warmth and teasing touch, Tolland spoke.
“Better than ever. Like time’s been rewound.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful.”
“…Indeed.”
Medeia looked at the necklace around Tolland’s neck—a gift directly from the King of Bers.
The middle-aged Border Count’s sudden shift to a lustful life rivaling or surpassing his son’s wasn’t without reason.
Tolland had forsaken the god he’d served and chosen a new one: Hokhma. Medeia gazed at the silver idol.
A god who soars among the stars, granting people’s desired futures… For that power, Tolland betrayed his faith in Elon.
“Medeia.”
She looked at the Border Count, still lost in the afterglow, stroking her hair. He stood abruptly, wearing only trousers, and returned to the study.
Medeia, the witch, followed. Tolland stood before a decorative suit of armor, holding a sword.
“I think I can do it.”
“No way…”
Impossible. The thought flashed through her mind. But then she reconsidered. Impossible? Is anything impossible for our god?
Indeed. Medeia served Hokhma, as did the King of Bers.
And now, Tolland Hemilton, a man wielding significant power in the Human Empire, served Hokhma too.
Medeia, adjusting her translucent garb, watched the unfolding scene without blinking.
Crackle.
Aura?
The impossible had happened.
Tolland’s sword, which had never borne such power, was now wreathed in ominous purple lines of lightning—the mark of a swordmaster.
Tolland’s blade sliced through the armored mannequin—top to bottom, left to right, diagonally. Slowly, very slowly… With a final crackle, the aura vanished.
Thud, clank… The decorative armor collapsed in pieces.
“Good gods…”
Medeia, stunned, stared between Tolland and the wreckage of the armor.
A swordmaster? Tolland Hemilton, the Border Count, whose only recognized talents were troop deployment and quick judgment?
Unbelievable, but it happened before her eyes.
Tolland sheathed his sword and turned. Medeia, unsure what to say or what expression to wear, stood still. But that was exactly what he wanted.
He strode toward her, grabbed her chin, and kissed her. The kiss was long, and Medeia gasped for air, overwhelmed by its intensity.
“Pha… Congratulations… Tolland. You’ve become a swordmaster…”
After the prolonged kiss, the witch spoke, her excitement undisguised.
Tolland’s eyes had turned fierce, wild—like a wolf howling under the moonlight.
“No, this is just the beginning.”
Wetting his hand with Medeia’s saliva, as molten silver, Tolland revealed ambitions long concealed.
“…I see.”
Thrown onto the bed, Medeia gave a bitter smile. Tonight would be longer than usual.