The baron and his entourage returned to the castle at noon on the third day. Freya stood at her bedroom window, watching the cavalry slowly make their way into the castle. The once gleaming armor of the guards was now dulled by dust, and their eyes were bloodshot, clearly deprived of rest. However, the baron at the forefront seemed in relatively good spirits.
In addition to their usual gear, each horse carried several black burlap sacks, from which a dark red liquid dripped down. It appeared they had been quite busy over the past two days. After a brief glance, Freya turned away, uninterested in further observation.
The rift between the baron and Berta was now beyond reconciliation. Although the conflict had not yet erupted, the recent events within the territory indicated it was imminent. The baron had been making preparations, as evidenced by the current state of the guard and enforcement squads. According to Damstine, a contingent of the guard had been stationed permanently at the mines, personally led by Howard. With a knight-level warrior overseeing the site, it seemed well-secured.
Though these matters did not directly concern her, Freya kept them in mind. The afternoon sky was overcast, thick white clouds pressing down, creating a sense of foreboding. She glanced up. "It looks like it might rain today," she murmured.
As summer transitioned to autumn, any significant rainfall required the castle to take precautionary measures. The drainage system, a simple network of ditches, was inadequate for heavy downpours. However, such weather usually afforded the castle's servants a lighter workload.
Dressed in her practical swordswoman attire, her golden hair loosely tied, and her two swords fastened to her side, Freya descended the stairs. The castle seemed more crowded than usual. Servants greeted her respectfully, to which she responded with a polite nod. Passing a room, she glimpsed Mary, the housekeeper, sternly addressing two maids.
Despite being the baron's favored daughter, Freya had no substantial duties within the castle. As a child, a tutor had been brought from Byron’s imperial capital to teach her basic education, but her youthful mischievousness had driven the elderly scholar away within months. Consequently, beyond literacy, she had little formal education and had grown into a tomboy under her father's indulgence, until an encounter with vagrants led to her current transformation.
To most in the castle, she remained the same unruly girl, and her recent interest in swordsmanship was likely seen as a passing fancy, even by the baron. Yet her skill had grown significantly, perhaps due to Osiris’s influence, allowing her to touch the threshold of knight-level prowess. Her sparring matches were only a modest display of her abilities, and she sensed that her opponents often held back.
While her character and actions had noticeably changed, her age provided a convenient excuse for such transformation. The most remarkable change, however, was in her brother, Erik. Once a disheartened and fallen boy, he had begun to show promise, no longer the subject of negative gossip. Occasionally seen practicing with a wooden sword, he seemed to be emulating the baron, shedding his previous timidity.
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Freya, holding a drink requested from a maid, pushed open the training room door. This spacious room had become her exclusive domain. Sipping the slightly tart drink with a hint of fresh grass aroma, she placed it on the room’s sole table and drew her swords.
Her training with the rapier was now second nature. Her current focus was integrating recent insights into her swordsmanship to develop her unique combat style. Along with physical prowess, she needed techniques tailored to her strengths to become a knight-level warrior. Drawing her swords, she practiced her movements.
The thin whistle of the blade slicing through air indicated minimal contact surface, maximizing speed and efficiency. Freya's expression remained contemplative as she moved, envisioning an invisible opponent. Her dual swords were not just for attack; they blocked and parried, their agile movements hinting at a deadly dance.
The speed of her strikes increased until her twin blades resembled a swirling silver thread, each attack executed with fluid precision. Lost in the rhythm of her practice, Freya felt a slight heat emanating from her chest, a subtle sign of something awakening within her.
Suddenly, her speed surged, the sword light transforming into a hurricane of slashes, capable of shredding anything in its path. A nearby sword rack, unable to withstand the onslaught, shattered into pieces.
Freya stared at the fallen rack, her hand trembling from the exertion. Despite the fatigue, a clarity dawned on her, and her body felt lighter. “Knight-level…?” she pondered, touching her chest where the heat had originated. “Not quite,” she concluded, recalling her father's words about the true signs of reaching knight-level: an unmistakable sense of qi and a significant increase in physical capabilities. She had sensed the qi but not the latter, indicating she had merely stepped onto the threshold.
This realization reassured her that full mastery was within reach. Achieving such prowess at fourteen, in just under two months, was deemed impossible by many. Yet, she had done it, perhaps owing to her father's physical attributes or her exceptional learning ability. Regardless, she had become a formidable force.
Calming her excitement, she sheathed her swords. Despite her growing strength, she had no intention of revealing her capabilities prematurely. Hidden strength and the element of surprise were vital for survival, a lesson ingrained from her past life.
Finishing her drink, she was about to return to her room to reflect on her newfound abilities when she heard faint footsteps outside the training room.
The door creaked open, and the baron, still clad in his silver armor, entered. His stern face softened into a smile upon seeing his daughter. “Freya, practicing your swordsmanship?”
“Yes, Father,” she replied, bowing slightly. “I was just finishing up.”
“Very well, carry on.” He patted her head affectionately. Though he appeared spirited, the weariness in his disheveled hair and tarnished armor was evident.
She knew the recent events had weighed heavily on him. As she passed him, ready to leave, he called out, “Freya, the noble academy's enrollment starts next month. Prepare yourself; I will take you to Kent City tomorrow. You can enjoy some time there while I attend to some matters. How does that sound?”