The next week had come to pass, and as many expected, Tristan took the win with ease. It all boiled down to a short fight between Eric and Tristan, in which Tristan abused the Cloud Body Technique to the maximum.

How did he even learn it?

“It’s still red,” said Adrian after he poked Emma’s hand with a finger.

It had been mostly healed but her pale skin was marred with a red mark all across the hand, which was where it had been frozen.

“I dare you to heal faster than me,” she said, a small pout on her face.

Adrian liked her resting bitch face more, but he knew that it was an act that she put to piss off others or impress them.

“I don’t mind as long as you’re fine with it,” he said and shrugged. He looked at the wooden blade in his hand and tightened his fist around it: the handle was rough and coarse, but it was comfortable to the touch.

“Ha, I can beat you up with my eyes closed,” said Emma as she took a stance, which wasn’t quite what he expected.

She held her blade diagonally in front of her, hand parallel to her left hip, arm fully outstretched, in a position from where it seemed impossible to generate any force from but she fought from such a position.

“Hold onto your sword as tightly as possible but relax your arms. You need to be like water. Strong but flexible,” said Emma as she approached him with a casual gait.

Adrian held the wooden claymore in his hand with both hands and held it in front of him.

Hitting her with it as he would with a stick would be the most obvious choice if this was a fight, but this was a lesson and that meant he had to try to learn rather than use the tools he had at his disposal.

So he did.

Adrian gripped the handle even tighter and relaxed his arms.

The tension from before disappeared and he felt like a heavy weight was lifted from his chest.

“Try to hit me,” said Emma after she tapped the tip of his sword with her own, which was also a claymore —different from her saber.

They were in the training area of the Beaumont Estate, which was a spacious area with barren earth among the sea of grass and flowers, right behind their mansion. Various wooden weapons were placed on racks and in barrels. A few dozen meters away from them, there were dummies for the practice of both archery and swordsmanship.

Adrian pulled the sword back and threw a vertical slash toward her shoulders, which was casually dodged by a squat before Emma’s sword reached his solar plexus.

She didn’t hit it, but simply stopped there and after it touched him, she pushed it into his solar plexus to force him away.

There was an uncomfortable sensation at the pit of his stomach.

“You really are a novice at this,” said Emma and shook her head, “Your stance is all wrong. You can’t even properly swing a sword and anyone could slash your head off. Even mortals.”

Even mortals…

Adrian bit his lips after he heard that.

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“Well, I wasn’t trained by the best the city has to offer,” said Adrian quickly after he thought about a response for a few seconds, “There’s no way I could’ve learned it.”

“Your father is the man with the most personal wealth in the city and you complained about that?” hissed Emma, “If your father looked for a Knight Errant to teach you, every single one of them would be lined up outside your door.”

“But-” started Adrian but he was harshly stopped with the tip of Emma’s sword on his lips.

“No excuses. You’re taking it too lightly,” she said.

“But what if I don’t want to fight? I don’t have to fight to become an immortal,” he offered.

The Shadow snorted.

“You have to. Even if you never offend another, there will be those that offend you. And you must be able to stand up for yourself. Especially as a Beaumont,” she said and pulled the sword back, “We’re engaged now and our names are linked. I can’t allow you to slack off.”

She was a lady, wasn’t she?

No, that wasn’t true. Not after she became a Cultivator, at least.

Among mortal men and women, there was a disparity in their physical prowess but for Cultivators, there was none. Stereotypes became invalid and their temperaments, too, changed to fit their capabilities rather than their genders.

“Fine,” Adrian grumbled and twirled his wrist with his hands still holding the sword.

Its weight was negligible and its center of mass didn’t matter.

Not for holding it, at least.

“But why can’t someone else teach me? Like one of the Demon Twins,” said Adrian.

The elder of the two was an expert with the sword, wasn’t he?

“They’re attending the Summit with father. Most of the Young Masters and the knights left as well,” she said, “Dame Michelle is the only one left, and she’s too busy protecting the estate to train you.”

Summit?

Was it that time of the year again?

Then again, it was shortly after the Clan Festival so it added up. He just never bothered to keep track of it before, but he was too deep in the matters of Noble Houses to not notice it now.

Adrian let out a long and exaggerated sigh.

“I shouldn’t have accepted the invitation,” said Adrian.

He was just there to show off and here he was, stuck to this maniac for the rest of his days.

But deep down, he knew that Emma was the least maniacal Young Lady among the Noble Houses.

As one of the merchants’ children, he knew the others. They weren’t friends nor accomplices, but more acquaintances. From their mouths, he’d heard that Elsa Cranford often tortured and killed her servants, the screams of whom could be heard in the northern reaches of the town.

Then there was Edna, the battle maniac that couldn’t stay put for a day: one of the two prodigies from House Ulrich. If she wasn’t sleeping, she was training. Even while she ate, she trained.

Maybe she’d have been easier to deal with.

If she was always training, then she wouldn’t be home all day to yell at him, no?

The minor Noble Houses had several decent ones, but his father wouldn’t allow something as outrageous as that, for his son had to marry an esteemed lady so that his reputation would skyrocket.

If his father was twenty years younger or if Emma was twenty years older, then they’d have been a match made in hell.

But they had a massive age gap, especially if one wasn’t a Cultivator.

Because one wasn’t a Cultivator, for the age difference between Cultivators didn’t matter. Even centuries and millennia were nothing more than a single year for some, after all.

“But you did,” said Emma and tapped him on the nose playfully, a smirk on her face, “So you’re stuck with me.”

“Was that your idea of flirting?” asked Adrian, a smile of his own plastered on his face.

“Maybe,” she said and pointed her sword at him after she walked a few meters away from him, making some distance, “But I’ll have to beat some survival instincts into you.”

Wasn’t that… too early?

That would be an issue of the Mind Refinement Stage, not the Body Refinement Stage.

“Use your legs. Always keep moving. If you move a lot, and away from your opponent, you will be harder to kill,” said Emma as she wildly swung it around near his shin, making large sweeping motions, meant to make him move from his spot rather than hurt him.

Well, it was probably meant to hurt him, as in inflicting pain, but not in the sense of damaging his body.

Not that wood would be able to do that.

It’d get splattered into tiny chips long before it could cause such damage.

He hopped back as instructed, far too used to running away: he did that long before he learned how to throw a punch before he became a Cultivator.

Just as he was getting used to the tempo after thirty seconds, the blade swung up and struck him in the chin.

It was a light hit but it rattled his head and made his head spin for a split second.

His organs were weak spots, and one of the most essential ones happened to be contained within the skull.

“You wouldn’t have been hit if you moved back,” she said and flashed him a toothy grin, “Stay further away. Don’t get close unless you plan to hit your opponent.”

It’d be a long hour until lunch…