Chapter 135: Stress Relief

Following the floating candle through the dark hall, Lady Clarke’s steps were heavy, her mind churning. Though the meal could have ended worse, the lingering weight of Gillian’s words gnawed at her. ‘His family’s honor, and still not enough?!’ The thought sent a spark of rage coursing through her.

Turning a corner, she let her agitation spill out, muttering aloud, “If my child—or even my grandchild—was killed, I’d burn the world! How could he just—” Her rant faltered as her mind brushed against the name that had haunted the conversation. “The Primus…” she muttered, the word cooling her temper slightly. “I guess I can understand, but still…”

Her voice softened as her anger ebbed, replaced by a weary sigh. “All of this is stressing me out.”

Abruptly, she stopped mid-step, a new thought cutting through. The candle hovered a few paces ahead, bobbing gently in the air as if waiting for her. “Excuse me,” she called out, feeling a little foolish for addressing an enchanted object. “Would you mind taking me to see Berthold?”

The candle paused, its flame flickering as though considering it. After a moment, it pivoted smoothly and began floating in the opposite direction, quickly passing her.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice carrying a mix of relief and anticipation as she hurried to follow it.

After several turns and a few staircases, the candle led Lady Clarke to a large stone archway. The faint outlines of shelves came into view, confirming her guess—it was a library.

As she stepped inside, the rows of bookshelves revealed themselves in the candle’s glow. Shadows danced across the walls, and further in, a faint light flickered. She raised her voice. “Sir Berthold? May I trouble you for a moment?”

The sharp scrape of a chair against the floor answered her, followed by deliberate footsteps. The light source moved closer, a familiar voice calling back. “Lady Clarke? I wasn’t aware my father had released you all. How can I assist you?”

Berthold Cross emerged from the shadows, his neatly pressed uniform immaculate as always. His piercing blue eyes carried an unspoken warning—this was not a man to be trifled with. Even as a butler, his bearing was sharp and commanding.

Clarke pushed down the small twinge of admiration that surfaced and got straight to the point. “I was wondering if your earlier offer still stands.” She rolled her neck, a faint crack punctuating her words. “It’s been a stressful trip.”

A spark of light flashed in Berthold’s eyes as he gave a slight bow. “I’d be delighted. Shall we head there immediately, or would you prefer to change first?”

Her gaze dropped to the extravagant gown she still wore, and a sneer tugged at her lips. “One moment.” Without hesitation, she bent down, grabbing one side of the dress and lifting it high enough to reveal a toned, sun-kissed thigh. Her legs, well-muscled and thick from years of training, left no question of her strength.

Berthold swiftly averted his eyes as Clarke reached for the pouch tied to her waist. A faint hum of mana radiated as the gown dissolved, replaced in an instant by a sturdy tunic, fitted trousers, and her steelplate armor. The transformation was seamless, her imposing figure now fully revealed.

“Well?” she said, fastening a leather strap on her shoulder. “Lead the way.”

Berthold nodded, his composure restored. “Of course, my lady.”

Cracking his knuckles as he walked, he began to stretch his fingers. “I’m surprised you’re the first one I’ve seen. Hard to believe it’s this quiet with my sister set free. Let me guess, you were the only one?”

Clarke rolled her shoulders, the clank of her armor filling the hallway. “He wanted to have dinner.”

Sighing, his tone softening. “My father means well, but his methods are... brutish, at best. I hope you’ll find it in you to forgive him.”

“I think the finding it is gonna to be a problem.” Clarke’s jaw tightened, her brow tightening as her thoughts drifted to the cold void she'd floated in. The memory hung heavy in the mind. “Forgive me if I overstep, but aren’t you angry? A blood debt is owed, and he intends to ignore it. I understand the Primus complicates things, but after everything that’s happened—everything that’s still happening—how can he turn his back?”

Berthold walked in silence for a few moments, his footsteps steady and deliberate. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but weighted. “I am angry, more than that. I was very close to my nephew. But try to see, if you can, from his perspective. Once he makes a move, our family will be exposed. In his mind... well, he’s protecting us.”

Clarke’s pace quickened, her frustration boiling over. “But Darius has—”

Berthold raised a hand, cutting her off, “Forgive me, Lady Clarke. Let’s save this conversation for after. A good stretch might help clear your feelings on this.”

Feeling she indeed overstepped, Clarke exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry. Lately, I’ve been struggling to keep my thoughts to myself.”

Berthold waved her apology off, hesitating before he spoke. “Apologies are not needed, my lady. You have to understand, my position here is… complicated.” He paused, his tone turning quieter. “Though my siblings do not fault me, the truth is, I am a bastard. After the mistress passed, Father would venture into the outside world from time to time. Sometimes he would be gone for days, other times months, often returning with stories and gifts. One of those trips, he came back with me.”

Clarke’s brows rose, her expression softening.

Berthold continued, his steps steady. “So, my opinion on matters concerning the family carries little weight. But I’ll offer you this—remember your own position. I say this only because I do highly admire you. Word has already spread about the way you spoke to Father.” A faint smirk crossed his face. “Coward? Very brave.”

Clarke’s cheeks flushed. She coughed, her eyes darting around the hallway as though someone might be listening. “Like I said, I’ve been having trouble with that lately. But I’ll keep your advice in mind. Thank you.”

They quickly exited the castle through a towering door that led to an open field. The chill in the air hit Clarke as soon as she stepped outside, her breath misting in the cold as she walked forward.

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She let the sensation linger for a moment before summoning her mana-forged gauntlets, vambraces, and sabatons. Her radiant aura calmed as they solidified around her, their warmth quickly countering the drop in temperature.

Berthold moved to a metal plaque embedded in the castle’s outer wall. With a practiced motion, he brushed his hand over its surface. The air around them shifted, faint ripples of mana stirring to life. Clarke’s pulse quickened as she sensed the activation of multiple arrays. The controlled hum of power set her on edge—not with fear, but with anticipation.

“I never asked,” she said, her voice carrying across the field. “What class of knight are you?”

“Scout.” Berthold turned, his tone calm and unassuming as he touched his pouch. “From what I’ve heard, you’re a shield knight. But I’ve never faced one who specializes in attacking rather than defending.”

Turning to face him, Clarke raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised. Most scouts favored leather armor for mobility, yet Berthold’s gear was metal plated. Though not full plate, his polished, form-fitting armor shined in the dim light. Her gaze lingered on his hands, and she frowned. “Where're your gauntlets?”

Berthold lifted his hands, revealing black leather gloves with fingerless tips, etched with intricate gold runes. A faint smile crossed his lips. “I don’t wear them. These are enough.” He flexed his fingers, the runes glowing lightly. “Since you’re a guest, and this is a friendly exchange, I should warn you—these are Primordial Artifacts.”

Clarke’s lips curled into a greedy smile as her hand brushed against her pouch. “That makes things easier.” With a flick of mana, she summoned her immense war hammer. The weapon materialized in a flash, its shaft slamming into the ground. “Now I can use this.”

Berthold’s eyes glowed as he studied the hammer. His expression held both admiration and caution. “Mountain Crusher,” he murmured. “A beautiful Primordial Artifact. Temporarily absorbs mana-beasts to strengthen its wielder. Apologies, but most of the tales surrounding your exploits include your hammer.”

Berthold slammed his fists together, the sharp crack ripping through the field. Clarke tensed, startled as a second crack echoed almost instantly. Yet Berthold hadn’t moved.

“These are called Echo Gloves,” he explained, his tone calm but edged with pride. “They double each attack—each strike is mirrored with equal force. But there’s a catch—they only work if I’m not holding a weapon.”

Without waiting for a response, he snapped his arms forward, throwing two blindingly fast punches. The sound split the air—crack-crack-crack-crack—four distinct impacts from what should’ve been only two movements.

Before Clarke could respond, Berthold summoned his mana-forged armor. Water Mana rippled across his body, spreading over him like liquid silver. It hardened in moments, solidifying into jagged, metallic blue ethereal forms that resembled frozen mountain peaks. The edges white, like freshly fallen snow.

She estimated their strength to be nearly equal, placing Berthold at roughly a hundred Cauldrons of Force. But she was confident—she was still stronger.

Without a word, she touched her pouch. A glass orb materialized in her palm. With a focused thought, she summoned her mana-beast, Titan, the Storm-Giga.

The ground quaked as Titan manifested, his massive body towering as the clouds above them began to gather.

Berthold craned his neck, his smile widening as his aura began to swirl, a dense mist of blue mana spiraling around him. “I was hoping you’d brought him.”

Titan roared, and the sound echoed across the field accompanied by thunder. His massive head swayed before snapping downward, his piercing eyes locked onto Clarke. The beast’s glare was unmistakable, his displeasure rolling off him in waves of lightning.

Clarke’s response was immediate. She slammed the shaft of her hammer into the ground, the force sending a sharp crack through the air. Titan growled lowly and happily obeyed, dissolving into motes of light and surging into the hammer.

Berthold’s shoulders sagged slightly as the skies cleared, the excitement fading from his expression. “Shame."

Clarke shrugged, reveling in the surge of power from Titan, her strength increasing by ten cauldrons. “He hates the cold." With a sharp motion, she hefted the weapon into both hands, her golden eyes blazing. “Ready?”

Berthold turned slowly, setting his stance. His body shifted slightly away from hers, one fist extended, the other held loosely at his side. His expression was calm, his aura still. “Ladies first."

BOOM! The ground shattered as Clarke’s hammer crashed down, the force rippling outward. Dust and debris obscured the spot where Berthold had been. Her instincts screamed, and she spun the hammer’s shaft upward just in time to block his strike.

The impact jolted through her arms, her sabatons digging into the ground as she braced. But the second blow from his Primordial Artifact came almost instantly, slamming into the shaft. Clarke gritted her teeth, holding firm despite the force.

Berthold skidded back, his mana-forged sabatons scraping against the ground like jets of ice. His grin widened, knuckles cracking as he flexed his fingers. “As should be expected from the Mountain of Floeur d'Alene. Simply splendid.”

Frost crept up his gloves, spreading rapidly. Shards of ice formed jagged spikes, transforming his fists into weapons bristling with menace. Each movement sent a faint hiss into the air as the cold radiated from him.

He surged forward, the crack of his sabatons shattering the ground beneath him. Clarke barely had time to adjust her stance before his fist hurtled toward her. She swung the shaft up just in time, the clang of metal against ice reverberating like a struck bell. Ice exploded outward in a sharp crackling hiss, shards pelting her armor.

Before she could reset, the echo punch landed on her weapon. The echoing impact sent a thunderous boom through the air, rattling her bones as it forced her back a few steps. Clarke grunted, her muscles straining under the unrelenting weight of his blows. Each strike carried the force of twenty thousand pounds, and Berthold moved with the precision of a predator, the whoosh of his fists cutting through the air as he closed every gap.

His strikes came in rapid succession, each landing with a explosive burst as ice erupted from his gloves. Clarke’s hammer moved defensively, the ringing clash of each block ruptured the ground beneath them. Every impact sent vibrations screaming through her arms, her sabatons digging groaning tracks in the ground to absorb the force.

The rhythm of his attack style was relentless, the numerous cracks of breaking ice and the shockwaves of monstrous impacts turned the field into a battleground.

Clarke’s golden eyes narrowed, her instincts sharpening as she began to adjust to the tempo of his strikes. As another fist came toward her, she braced her hammer against it, leaning into the blow. The shattering cracks of the ice burst rang out, but this time, she absorbed the echo strike with ease.

Berthold lunged again, his fists a flurry of jagged frost and mana-forged steel. Clarke pivoted sharply, the whoosh of his strike skimming past her shoulder. Her hammer swung low in response, smashing into the ground with an ear-splitting boom. The earth beneath them groaned and rippled, cracks spiderwebbing outward as Berthold’s momentum broke.

Seizing the moment, she twisted, her mana surging into her next strike. The roar of Mountain Crusher cutting through the air was deafening, followed by the ear-rattling crunch of steel meeting aura. The impact hit his midsection like a thunderclap, sending him skidding backward. The scraping grind of his heels tearing into the earth echoed as Berthold fought to regain his balance, his mana-forged armor flickering under the force of the blow.

Continuing the advantage, she rushed forward, her hammer a blur as her aura grew. Each swing carried the full weight of her strength, the ground splintering and cracking beneath her boots. The crash of her hammer meeting Berthold’s defenses filled the air, a relentless assault that now dictated the rhythm of the fight.

He knew he couldn't regain control of the fight like this. Though it was only a spar, he understood it was his only option—and she could handle it. He activated a Knight Skill.

“Absolute Cold!”

Berthold’s voice boomed like a thunderclap. As the words left his lips, an immense aura burst from him, surging outward in a wave of ice. Clarke staggered, the force slamming into her chest and driving her back.

Her boots skid across the frozen ground, carving jagged lines until she drove down her hammer, instantly stopping as her aura exploded. Gritting her teeth, her eyes blazed. “Titan Fall!”

Her hammer ignited, blazing yellow and vibrant with arcing bolts of purple. Behind her, the massive image of Titan materialized, the enormous Storm-Giga towered over the battlefield. Its long neck arched, lightning cracking across its immense body. The phantom beast let out a ground-shaking roar before diving forward, merging into Clarke’s hammer in a brilliant flash of power.

In the span of a single breath, both combatants charged their attacks.

Berthold crouched low, his fist drawn back as his other hand steadied it. Water mana swirled violently, condensing into his fist with glacial force as frost erupted from the ground beneath him. His fist became a nexus of frozen mana, shining with power as water particles crystallized in the air.

Clarke’s hammer swelled in response, the head glowing a fiery yellow streaked with veins of crackling purple lightning. The energy coursed through her arms, vibrating with barely contained force. She dug her feet into the shattered ground, channeling her earth mana to anchor her. The air around her buzzed with electricity, the phantom roar of Titan echoing as she braced for impact.

In unison, they lunged.

Berthold’s icy fist collided with Clarke’s hammer in a cataclysmic explosion. Frost and lightning clashed in a chaotic storm of power, their combined forces detonating with an earth-shattering roar. A massive bolt of lightning speared downward from the sky, meeting the freezing energy head-on. The ground heaved violently, great chunks of earth erupting upward as the shockwave rippled out, obliterating everything in its path.

The explosion consumed the battlefield, a blinding light engulfing both combatants.

When the dust and debris settled, silence blanketed the battlefield.

The once-flat field was unrecognizable. Craters and jagged scars carved through the earth as numerous now-exposed arrays lay broken, scattered with shattered ice and smoldering debris. The castle wall stood in the background, its surface undamaged but streaked with frost and blackened scorch marks.

As the haze thinned, Clarke and Berthold’s battered forms came into view.

Both knelt in the heart of the battlefield.

Clarke coughed, blood spattering the cracked ground beneath her. Her breastplate was caved inward, warped by an impact she could still feel stabbing her ribs. Each shallow breath burned as she leaned heavily on her hammer, its weight grounding her.

Berthold cradled his arm, bent at an unnatural angle in multiple places. His once-pristine armor was dented and bloodied, but the flicker of his icy aura remained.

Eventually, a rough chuckle broke the silence. Clarke tilted her head back, her laughter strained but genuine, cutting through the stillness. Berthold’s voice followed, low and hoarse, yet carrying the same weary amusement.

Their eyes swept across the ruined field, taking in the craters, rubble, and shattered remnants of the fight. Their laughter grew louder, filling the desolation with a strange, shared triumph.

The fight was over, and the battlefield lay in ruins, but Lady Clarke felt refreshed, her stress finally released.