"He has always wanted to marry Lady Matruska," she said briefly. "From the very beginning."

Liona, who was sitting beside them, suddenly chuckled.

"Not just wanted," she replied casually. "A few days before that... before he asked for… my unwashed underwear."

Silvara almost choked on the spot, and Lucas was slightly taken aback as well.

Liona simply shrugged, looking relaxed as she told the story.

"I saw it myself," she continued. "He begged the Baroness. Literally begged—almost crying—asking her to send a marriage proposal letter to Lady Matruska."

Lucas went quiet for a moment, then asked in a low voice,

"Wait… he was that obsessed with a woman named Matruska?"

"Yes," Silvara answered without hesitation.

Lucas lowered his head slightly. His thoughts started spinning again.

Everything's getting weirder now.

Damn it… especially that face—

Silvara turned toward him. "Why? Are you interested too?"

"Huh? No," Lucas denied immediately. "I'm just surprised. I didn't even know about the request, and suddenly I got rejected."

Silvara gave a short nod. "Understandable."

Lucas took a breath, then looked at both of them.

"Then… can you tell me more about Lucian's life before I got here?"

Silvara and Liona exchanged a brief glance.

For some reason, the atmosphere felt looser. Not tense. Not formal. As if once that name was spoken, the restraints collapsed along with it.

Silvara snorted softly.

"If it's just about Lady Matruska, that's not even the worst of it."

Liona nodded in agreement.

"Lucian is… consistently exhausting for everyone around him."

Silvara crossed her arms.

"He's overly confident. He believes the world should bend to him. If something doesn't go the way he wants, he immediately blames someone else."

"And rough," Liona added without hesitation. "A lot of female servants told me, almost every one of them had cried because of him."

Silvara glanced briefly toward Lucas.

"He likes to apply pressure. Using his family name. Using his status. If he can't get something the polite way, he switches to dirty methods."

Liona let out a small laugh, devoid of humor.

"And the most ridiculous thing is—according to most of the female servants—he always sees himself as the victim, in a strange way."

Lucas stayed silent, listening. Their stories kept flowing—like water in a gutter filled with mud and trash.

Just from their accounts alone, it already sounded bad enough. Far too bad to be dismissed as merely a "spoiled noble."

He stared at the ground in front of him, his brows knitting together.

If what's on the outside is already this bad…

then what does the Lucian core — sin edition even look like?

That thought made his chest feel uneasy.

---

The break came to an end.

Liona stood up first, tidying the empty basket in her hands.

"I'll head back," she said lightly. "Don't die during training. You have to win later."

She looked much more relaxed now—there was none of the trembling fear she had when they first met.

Lucas raised one hand briefly.

"Yeah."

After Liona left, the training ground fell quiet again.

The training resumed.

Lucas took a breath, then extended his hand.

A Hoe appeared in his grip, its weight instantly familiar.

Across from him, Silvara let out a short breath and summoned her own weapon.

A Claymore took shape—heavy, solid.

"Begin," she said.

Lucas stepped forward and attacked immediately.

But—

CLANG!

Silvara blocked it easily. Too easily.

She frowned and stepped back half a pace, watching Lucas closely.

"…Your ability dropped."

Lucas stopped his attack.

"Are you tired?" Silvara asked.

"Not tired," Lucas answered honestly. "I need about ten minutes before my ability goes back up."

Silvara fell silent for a moment.

"…Strange," she said quietly. "Is that an innate limitation?"

"More or less," Lucas replied. "You could call it a special ability."

Silvara narrowed her eyes.

"What's it called?"

Lucas almost answered on reflex.

Hoemanship—

He stopped mid-breath.

"…Late Buffer," he said at last.

Silvara stared at him for a few seconds, then clicked her tongue softly.

"Terrible name."

Lucas gave a faint grin.

"The effect matters more than the name."

The training ended as evening arrived.

Lucas stood there, panting, sweat soaking his back and temples. His arms felt heavy, as if they no longer belonged to him. He lowered the Hoe, then completely shut off the flow of mana.

"…tired," he muttered.

In his mind, his thoughts moved on reflex.

Where's today's EXP?

He glanced to the side, then inward.

…Oi. Where's my EXP today?

The panel appeared casually, almost lazily.

[(￣▽￣)ノ

Oi oi~ take it easy.

This isn't a wheat field for stupid EXP farming~]

Lucas clicked his tongue softly.

[(≧▽≦)

Remember~ what gets recorded is progress and effort.

Not just numbers going up and down~]

Lucas let out a long breath.

"…Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "What a pain."

There were no further complaints. He was too tired for that.

----

Like yesterday, Silvara refilled mana into the Loticentra and watered the plants.

After finishing the watering, they started walking back.

Lucas walked slightly ahead, his steps heavy, his shoulders slumped. His back was damp with sweat that began to cool in the evening breeze.

Behind him, Silvara walked quietly.

Her gaze unconsciously drifted to Lucas's neck. The faint traces of sweat left behind. The movement of his muscles as he walked.

Silvara's fingers twitched.

She quickly looked away—too late.

The tips of her ears felt hot.

My Silver Lady.

The words surfaced in her mind without warning.

Silvara grabbed her own hair, her fingers tightening slightly.

…Did he say that because he thought he owned me?

Her steps slowed for a moment.

An old memory slipped in as well—the incident in the cave back then. Brief. Crystal clear. Enough to make her chest feel unsettled.

Silvara clenched her jaw and shook her head.

Lucas didn't look back.

He noticed nothing at all.

----

The same place as earlier that morning—the spot where Lucas ordered baskets for the harvest.

The afternoon sun slanted across old wooden boards and piles of woven baskets in the corner.

A man arrived.

His attire was neat. A dark coat with a clean cut, leather shoes without a speck of dust. On his face was a strange pair of glasses—covering only his right eye. The lens glimmered faintly, clearly not an ordinary item.

Pinned to his chest was a small metal badge.

A logo of a hand giving and receiving.

He stopped in front of the place, then cleared his throat softly.

"Excuse me."

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