The woman stood directly in front of him.

Her face looked mature and elegant.

Her eyes were sharp.

Black pupils, not wavering in the slightest.

Her jet-black hair was tied neatly behind her head.

When she spoke, her voice was slightly deep. Flat. Firm.

"Young Master Voss."

Lucas was still staring.

"…Young Master?" the woman frowned slightly. "Is something wrong?"

Lucas snapped out of it.

"N–no," he replied quickly. "It's nothing."

The woman looked at him for a few seconds, then continued.

"I came to confirm one thing," she said.

"About the duel."

Lucas frowned. "The duel?"

"Yes," she answered firmly. "The duel that is said to truly exist. Is it true that the challenge was issued by you?"

Lucas let out a short breath.

"Yes. It's true."

He scratched the back of his neck.

"It was… because of me."

Lucas found himself staring at the woman's face again, as if his eyes were being pulled by a magnet to focus on it.

For a brief moment, the woman's shoulders stiffened.

"In that case, thank you for your answer, Young Master," she said softly, then let out a breath.

"And once again, please forgive me."

"Huh?" Lucas blinked. "Forgive… what?"

The woman straightened her back, then clenched a fist against her chest.

"I, Matruska Grimhelt," she stated clearly.

"Must declare this without beating around the bush."

Her gaze locked directly onto Lucas's eyes.

"I will never be able — and will never be willing — to accept marriage with you."

Lucas froze.

"…What?"

What the hell is this now?

His mind went blank for a split second.

Marriage?

Since when?

With whom?

Why is this suddenly my problem?

He wanted to argue—then remembered one thing.

He did not possess Lucian's memories.

He had no idea what this body had done before.

Before he could open his mouth—

[POP!]

The system panel appeared casually at the edge of his vision.

[(￣ー￣)

Calm down, King.

Just play along like usual~]

Lucas grumbled inwardly.

Tch… of course.

He looked back at Matruska, his face already devoid of interest.

"I don't care," he said flatly.

"Go away."

He turned around.

"I'm going home."

Lucas walked off, passing Matruska without looking back. Geralt bowed deeply and very politely to Matruska in farewell.

Matruska replied firmly and remained standing where she was.

She did not move.

She simply stood there, watching Lucian Voss's retreating back—his steps careless, his posture lazy, nothing like the noble she had imagined.

Her eyes narrowed.

"…Isabelle," she murmured softly.

Her hand clenched into a fist.

"How could you raise a son this foolish?"

---

Geralt eventually chose a wagon that looked somewhat more respectable than the previous one. It was still simple, but its wheels were sturdy and the seating was higher.

However, the moment the driver saw Lucas—

his face went pale.

"I-I will drive with complete seriousness, Young Master!" he said quickly.

"There will be no jolting! No delays! I swear!"

"Yeah, yeah," Lucas replied flatly.

They boarded.

The wagon started moving.

And sure enough—the driver held himself rigid, driving far too carefully, as if he were transporting explosives.

Before long, they arrived back at the village near the manor.

As soon as the wagon came to a stop, the driver immediately jumped down.

"I-I'll take my leave first, Young Master!"

Without waiting for a reply—let alone payment—he hurried away.

Lucas watched his retreating back for a moment.

He and Geralt then headed toward the tomato field.

The sun had already risen fairly high.

Still morning, but clearly approaching noon.

At the field—

Anya was sitting on the ground as usual, writing on the dirt with a twig. Silvara sat beside her, watching while occasionally correcting her.

Lucas arrived and stopped a few steps away.

Silence.

Geralt glanced over uncertainly.

"Young Master… what should I do?"

"Tidy up the field," Lucas replied shortly.

Geralt's face immediately lit up.

"Yes!"

He grabbed a hoe enthusiastically and started working.

Lucas sat down at the edge of the field.

He looked over the neat rows of tomatoes. The damp soil. The healthy leaves.

His thoughts drifted.

This world…

Then—without realizing it—the image of that face surfaced again.

"…Why that face—"

Lucas shook his head slightly.

"No... There's no need to think about that," he muttered.

"I need to focus."

Focus on the duel.

Time passed.

The sun stood directly overhead.

"Then I'll take my leave, Young Master!"

Anya stood straight, clenching a fist to her chest. "I'm going to the clinic to listen to the tale of the Iron Mathron!"

Silvara let out a small sigh, but nodded.

Geralt finished his work and stood before Lucas.

Lucas took out a single coin.

"Here."

Geralt's eyes widened.

"O-only one, Young Master?"

"You worked half a day," Lucas replied flatly.

"And the change from earlier… you kept it, didn't you?"

Geralt flushed.

He bowed deeply. "P-please forgive my greed, Young Master."

Geralt took his leave and walked away.

Lucas stood up.

He turned to Silvara.

"Ready to train?"

Silvara nodded, her expression returning to its usual cold focus.

"As always," she said.

"Don't die."

Lucas snorted.

"No plans to die today."

And so, the training began once more.

Lucas stood a few steps away from Silvara.

He drew in a slow breath.

Mana was gathered—

focused at the edge of the Hoe's blade.

Thin. Stable.

Not an explosion. Not a brute push.

He regulated his breathing.

Heavy… light…

The Hoe's handle twisted to the right.

The weight distribution shifted instantly.

Lucas stepped forward and swung.

TRANKK—!

The Hoe's blade slammed into Silvara's sword.

Silvara blocked with her plain blade, her foot sliding back slightly as she absorbed the force.

Lucas pulled the Hoe back, twisting the handle to the left—

the weight dropped—

then swung again immediately.

TRANK!

Blocked again.

The vibration ran up Lucas's arm. He clenched his jaw, enduring the numbness.

Then—

[DING!]

The system panel appeared at the edge of his vision.

No noisy effects.

No ridiculous animations.

Just simple text:

[HOEMANSHIP – 00:09:59]

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