David S.R
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Chapter 33
🕑 Added 2025-09-08 19:16:42 +0000 UTCThe temperature in the room dropped instantly.
Elaine’s chair creaked as she leaned forward, her green eyes narrowing into slits sharper than any blade. A shadowy presence seemed to bloom behind her, dark and suffocating, filling every corner of the room. Even though she wasn’t a fighter, and she had never cast a single spell in her life, the sheer weight of her fury pressed on everyone like an invisible storm.
The phantom shape of a towering, spider-limbed figure loomed behind her, its eyes glimmering with crimson light. The Star Widow’s Wrath—her imaginary stand—spread its jagged aura across the tavern, rattling the mugs on the shelves and making Arslan visibly pale.
“Bring. My. Son.” Her voice was calm, but it carried the weight of a death sentence.
Selene froze mid-drink, her mug halfway to her lips. Harold’s laughter died in his throat. Even Cor adjusted his glasses a bit faster than usual, his lips pressed tight.
Arslan laughed nervously, sweat pouring down his forehead as he raised his hands in surrender. “O-of course, I was just suggesting! Not saying he would! Hahaha, see? Totally flexible idea! We can—uh—we can leave him here, no problem!”
Elaine’s aura pressed harder, and for a moment, Ludger could have sworn he heard the hiss of phantom fangs.
She’s not even a fighter… and yet she’s scarier than any monster I’ve seen so far, Ludger thought with a dry swallow. That’s the power of Mom’s stand. Truly invincible.
The Star Widow’s Wrath loomed one last time before fading back into nothingness, leaving only a bone-deep silence in the room. Arslan slumped into his chair, wiping his brow.
“Right,” he muttered weakly. “So, uh… Ludger stays. Message received loud and clear.”
Ludger kept quiet as Elaine’s aura receded and his father sat in silence, still sweating buckets. On the surface, he looked calm—his usual, unreadable self—but inside, his thoughts spun in sharper directions.
So I’m not going to the capital, huh?
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His mother’s decision was absolute—he respected that. But still, the idea of the capital lingered in his mind. Not because he cared about Viola’s tournament, or about the nobles strutting around with their crests and banners. No—there were other reasons.
The capital must have goods that Koa could never offer. Rare materials, enchanted items, exotic herbs, maybe even knowledge hidden in books you can’t find in a backwater town. If I buy smart, then sell it here for the right price… He smirked faintly at the thought. I could build another source of income, one that grows on its own.
It wasn’t just about coin, though. The capital meant information—new people, new perspectives, a wider picture of the world. What’s the point of being reborn in another world if I don’t expand my horizons? If I stay in one place, I’ll never know what’s out there. And knowing is the first step to using it.
He let out a quiet sigh through his nose, hiding it from Elaine. For now, he would accept her decision. He still had training to do, skills to sharpen, and money to build up. The capital wasn’t going anywhere. When the time came, he’d go see it with his own eyes—on his own terms.
I won’t stay in this small corner forever. Not when the whole world is waiting.
Morning came in thin gold strips across the table, the kind that made dust look like it had ambitions. The house smelled like yesterday’s onions and fresh bread because Elaine believed in feeding problems until they left on their own. Mine didn’t. It just sat in my head like a stone in a shoe.
I pushed coins into neat stacks—one silver, five coppers, the math of not-going—then unstacked them again. Efficient, productive brooding. Very seven-year-old of me.
Elaine watched me from the hearth, pretending to stir a pot that didn’t need stirring. Her wooden spoon made soft circles, like she could draw a better answer into being if she just kept moving. The air trembled with that almost-aura of hers enough to make the spoons in the jar lean together like gossiping birds. Even the fire popped once, politely.
“You’re quiet,” she said, which was a kind way of saying I’d been staring at nothing for an hour and rearranging the same three coins like they were chess pieces. “Quieter than usual.”
“I’m innovating,” I said. “New techniques in… coin stacking.”
A smile tried to climb her face and failed halfway. Guilt shaded the rest. She set the spoon down and wiped her hands on the apron she always forgot to untie when she was nervous. Then she crossed the room and crouched so her eyes were level with mine. Up close, the green looked tired at the edges. I hated that more than I hated being short.
“I was… firm yesterday,” she said. “I thought it was right. Maybe it was just fear wearing a crown.”
“That’s the popular fashion this season,” I murmured.
Her mouth twitched. “Ludger.”
I met her eyes, because if you’re going to disappoint someone, do it honestly. The room clicked into a stillness I knew too well—no tavern noise, no Arslan swagger, no Selene’s boot tapping like a metronome of violence. Just a mother and the problem she made by loving too hard.
“I can see you’re thinking,” she said softly. “I know about that look; it’s the one you wear before you do something clever and exhausting. I don’t… want you to look like that because of me.” The words snagged, small and raw. “I put my foot down. Maybe I put it on you.”
Behind her, a tiny tremor shivered through the room. The stand that didn’t exist flexed like a shadow telling the furniture to mind its manners. She noticed and winced; the air calmed by degrees.
“I’m sorry,” she said. No theatrics. Just that. “What do you want to do?”
The question landed like a bell—clear, heavy, leaving rings. Somewhere, the part of me that counted risk and reward sat up straight and took minutes.
What do I want to do?
The easy answer: go. Prove a point. Pretending to be seven years old and that I didn’t need that much protection. The honest answer was messier. I wanted rounds. I wanted money. I wanted leverage. I wanted to live long enough that this conversation didn’t become a ghost I argued with for the rest of my life.
I glanced at the coins. At her hands—clever, chapped, capable of both soup and apocalypse.
“I want to grow,” I said. “Faster. Smarter. Not… louder.”
Elaine didn’t answer right away. She sat back on her heels, green eyes darting to the window where the morning light was still thin, almost shy. Her hands knotted in her apron, untying and tying again, like she needed rope for the thoughts she couldn’t quite hold down. The silence stretched long enough for me to wonder if she’d let the stand answer for her—slam the door shut, lock it with guilt, keep me caged in safety wrapped like a blanket I couldn’t throw off.
But then she breathed out, slow. Like she was surrendering something sharp inside her.
“You want to grow,” she repeated, softer now. “Then… maybe you should. Not just here. Not just in the yard or in meditation. Out there. In the world.”
I blinked. My sarcasm tripped over itself, because that was not the answer I expected.
Her smile came next, but it was the kind of smile people wear when they’re holding back tears, when their heart’s already halfway cracked. “Your father’s party will be in the capital. Viola will be there, too. She’s reckless and proud, and she’ll need someone by her side who doesn’t just swing a sword until it breaks. Someone who thinks.”
“You mean me,” I said flatly, because seven years of reincarnation hadn’t made me any less allergic to sentiment.
“Yes, you.” Her voice trembled. She covered it with a little laugh that didn’t fool either of us. “If you’re going to grow, then go see the world. Help her. Test yourself. Make mistakes. Learn. All of it.”
Her hands fell into her lap then, limp, pale fingers tapping once against the wood like they needed to drum courage out of it. “But know this, Ludger—” She looked straight at me, and I felt the weight of that gaze in my bones. “I’ll be lonely. Really lonely. Terribly lonely. I’ll miss you so much it will feel like I can’t breathe some mornings. That’s… what I am.”
Her voice cracked, but she didn’t stop. “But my instincts—my obsessive, foolish instincts—cannot be the chain around your ankle. They can’t hinder your growth.”
The air around us trembled with the echo of her aura, sharp as broken glass but hollow at the center. She looked like she wanted to pull me into her arms and never let go, but she stayed where she was, forcing the leash on herself.
I stared at her, words chewing themselves to bits inside me. Sarcasm was my armor, but right then, it felt thin.
“…You’re serious,” I said finally.
“I am.”
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then I slid one coin off my little stack and held it up like a seal. “Then it’s a deal. I’ll grow. I’ll see the world. I’ll help Viola. And I’ll come back.”
Her laugh this time was wetter, messier. But her eyes shone, fierce and proud, even through the loneliness already setting roots in her.
“You’d better,” she whispered.
And just like that, the choice was real. Kind of.
Ludger found his father leaning against the fence, boots caked in mud and his shirt hanging half-open as though misplaced buttons could be covered by sheer charisma. Arslan tossed a stone into the air, catching it lazily with the ease of a man who had never truly carried the weight of his own choices.
“Talked with your mother, huh?” Arslan asked when he noticed his son approach.
Ludger folded his arms, his expression sharper than his age should have allowed. “She said I should go. Grow. Help Viola.”
That earned a rare flicker of surprise from Arslan. He whistled low, shaking his head. “Didn’t think she’d bend that far.”
“Neither did I,” Ludger replied. His tone carried none of the usual childish hesitation, only a quiet demand. “But she did. And if I’m going, I need to know why you wanted to bring me along. You’ve been pushing since the offer came through. Why?”
The stone stopped in Arslan’s hand. He rolled it between his fingers, suddenly solemn. His easy grin faltered. “Alright,” he said at last, scratching the back of his neck. “You deserve the truth. It wasn’t my idea.”
Ludger’s brow lifted. “Go on.”
“It was Lord Torvares,” Arslan admitted, the words reluctant. “When he hired us to guard Viola during the tournament, he also… requested you.”
“Requested me,” Ludger repeated, flat and unimpressed.
“Yeah. I may have—” Arslan’s mouth twisted into a wince, “—bragged a little about your healing.”
“A little?”
“Fine. A lot,” he confessed. “I might’ve said things like ‘my boy heals faster than the temple clerics, and cheaper too.’ Fatherly pride, mixed with impeccable salesmanship, you know?”
Ludger pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. “So because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, her grandfather thinks Viola needs a pocket healer at her side.”
Arslan shrugged, guilt tugging at his grin. “In fairness, he isn’t wrong. Viola throws herself at challenges like they’ve personally insulted her ancestors. Torvares may be proud, but he’s not blind. He knows she’ll need someone to patch her up when her pride gets ahead of her sword.”
“And that someone is me,” Ludger concluded.
“Yeah,” Arslan said quietly. “That someone is you. He trusts me to guard her, but he asked for you. Said he wanted Viola to have someone her age nearby. Said maybe you’d even… balance her out.”
Ludger let out a sharp laugh. “Balance Viola? I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t stab me during warm-ups.”
“Maybe,” Arslan allowed, though the grin crept back onto his face. “But I think the old man was hoping. And maybe… so am I.”
Ludger studied him for a long moment. Part of him wanted to be angry—dragged into noble politics because his father couldn’t resist bragging. Yet another part knew it no longer mattered. His mother had given him the choice, and he had made it.
“Alright,” he said finally. “So it’s Lord Torvares’ idea. Fine. I’ll heal her. I’ll balance her. I’ll do what needs to be done.”
Relief softened Arslan’s posture, and pride flickered in his eyes despite his attempt to look casual. “That’s my boy.”
“Don’t push it,” Ludger muttered. “If Viola cuts me in half, I’m haunting you.”
Arslan laughed, tossing the stone high and catching it again. “Fair enough.”
But even as laughter rolled through him, Ludger caught the truth hiding behind it—the sharp glint of pride in a man who couldn’t stop himself from boasting. Arslan had bragged him into this. Now Ludger would have to prove him right.
And that, Ludger realized, was the real trap.
Arslan tossed the stone into the air again, caught it, and this time didn’t grin. He seemed to weigh his words with the same care he rarely spared for anything else.
“This tournament,” he began, “it’s not just a simple job. It’s a competition. Happens every five years in the capital—an event where all the noble brats get tossed into a ring to prove they’re worth the titles they’ll inherit. A little of everything: swordplay, duels, spellcasting, even written tests and lectures to show off who’s clever enough to run a household one day.”
Ludger arched an eyebrow. “So, what—like a fair? Except instead of candy and games, it’s kids bleeding on stage while old men clap?”
Arslan winced. “That’s… not entirely wrong.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the right rhythm. “Usually, they show up with their school groups—trained, polished, and paraded like well-fed dogs. But then you have ones like Viola. Private tutors, family name, and a streak of fire that doesn’t exactly fit into neat rows. For girls like her, this is a chance to prove they don’t need the school’s backing to shine.”
The stone flipped again, catching sunlight as it fell. His eyes followed it, softer now. “It’s not just about fighting. It’s politics. A way to promote the family’s name, prove their next generation is strong, and catch the eye of allies. A child who impresses the crowd can raise the family’s standing overnight. A poor showing can shame them for years.”
“And Viola’s going into this circus with you as her safety net,” Ludger said dryly.
“Not just me,” Arslan corrected. “All of us. But yes—especially you, if Torvares gets his way. He knows Viola’s reckless. She’ll push too far, try too hard. A healer at her side—one her age—might mean the difference between impressing the court and limping off the field.”
Ludger considered that, chewing the thought like gristle. His father’s grin had returned, faint but genuine, though the pride behind it was harder to ignore now.
“So,” Ludger said slowly, “a noble-sponsored exhibition match with politics attached. And we’re the support crew for Viola’s stage play.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Arslan admitted.
“And if she wins, the Torvares family looks stronger, gains allies, and the Empire notices. If she loses—”
“They’ll whisper about it for years,” Arslan finished, voice heavy. “Which is why Torvares wants every advantage he can get. And why… I might’ve bragged you into this.”
Ludger let out a breath, thin and sharp. “A show for nobles. Politics dressed as sport. And I get to be the emergency kit in the corner.”
Arslan laughed quietly, but there was no mockery in it. “Something like that. But don’t underestimate what it means. People remember healers, too—especially the ones who save noble heirs in front of the whole capital.”
That, Ludger realized, was the real truth buried in his father’s words: this wasn’t just about Viola’s name. It was about him.
