Riorem’s fingertips turned pale white.
It was truly an absurd statement.
To endure against Prince Alpheios, who had roamed battlefields since his youth—
and that too as a slave who had never even heard of a sword.
“Moreover, for a ‘long’ time.”
How much time did that even mean?
While Riorem was lost in these thoughts, Prince Alpheios was already standing up from his chair.
“Hm? Listen to this.”
His voice was mocking.
Riorem slowly reached out to grasp the hilt of the sword that had fallen before them.
The hilt was stained thickly with blood and grime—likely belonging to the slave whom Prince Alpheios had killed first.
At that moment, something rushed down above Riorem’s head.
Instinctively, Riorem raised the sword. Across the blood-soaked blade flashed a silver blade horizontally.
It seemed Prince Alpheios had drawn his sword instantly to behead Riorem.
“…Ha.”
The handsome man with red eyes spat out a breath like a curse.
“You’re going to block this?”
Even in this situation, Riorem did not dare meet Prince Alpheios’ gaze.
Instead, Riorem looked at the two hands gripping the sword.
“He’s swinging with genuine intent.”
Riorem knew nothing about swords, but had seen knights draw their blades several times.
Usually, when drawing a sword, one hand holds the scabbard while the other grips the hilt.
But Prince Alpheios was holding the sword horizontally with both hands from the start. There was no showmanship; he truly intended to cut Riorem’s head off with this strike.
Meanwhile, Riorem was holding the sword with only the right hand. Although held vertically to reduce dispersion of force, Riorem was still lying on the ground and thus in a clumsy stance.
Still, Riorem’s sword steadfastly blocked Prince Alpheios’ blade.
The prince, who would understand the significance better than anyone, stepped back while pushing his sword away.
But Riorem was not deceived.
Riorem immediately stood up and stepped back. By then, Prince Alpheios’ sword was already cutting through the spot where Riorem had been.
Riorem looked back at their master.
As always, the master’s face was calm—peaceful and everyday, as if reading a book.
Riorem’s gaze met the golden eyes. Then the master smiled, curving the corners of their eyes.
“Do whatever you can. After all, Alpheios started it first, didn’t he?”
The master’s permission came instantly.
It was only natural. Prince Alpheios had been picking fights with slaves and servants for days and nights.
Each time, the master said they would take responsibility for any ‘injuries’ their followers inflicted on Prince Alpheios.
‘It’s just that almost none of those who got such permission survived.’
Riorem adjusted their grip on the sword.
They weren’t even sure how to hold it properly. Maybe knights held it lower down the hilt.
But instinctively, Riorem knew: to survive, they had to grip the hilt short and wield the sword easily and quickly.
Clang!
At that thought, Prince Alpheios’ sword aimed again at Riorem’s neck.
‘A consistent person.’
Riorem pushed the blade away, thinking.
Their master was a person of near zero consistency.
Sometimes the master would strike slaves or servants in the most painful spots, while other times they would beat less painful places until bloody.
That made dealing with the master always difficult—never knowing when or how they might get angry, or
what punishment might come.
In contrast, Prince Alpheios’ actions were easier to understand.
From beginning to end, he was aiming for Riorem’s neck. There were other weak spots—heart or abdomen—but he seemed obsessed only with beheading.
‘Did he always behave like this?’
Riorem wasn’t sure.
Usually, when Prince Alpheios acted mad, Riorem just kept their eyes on the floor.
But strangely, today the prince seemed even more irritable than usual—
enough to almost avoid death.
“Ha, damn it.”
Prince Alpheios huffed and exhaled sharply.
“Not a single thing about you pleases me.”
Riorem swallowed dryly to hold back the words “You’re the one” that welled up at their throat.
He was truly a man who found nothing pleasing.
Unceasingly proposing to the master.
Having a background and lineage so impressive that no one could stop him from visiting the master.
Being utterly unaware despite disrespecting the master.
But Riorem couldn’t even rush at this man first.
After all, he was the prince of the Kingdom of Arete, and Riorem was just a slave allowed only minor contact with the master.
So, Riorem waited patiently.
Waiting until the master gave permission and until Riorem could return an attack worthy of being accepted by him.
It was a rather long wait, but finally, the opportunity came.
“Just die already!”
Prince Alpheios, provoked, lunged at Riorem. A strong blow filled with genuine intent fell.
It was a very large motion.
Riorem quickly dodged the sword’s trajectory, and in an instant, moved behind Prince Alpheios, swinging the sword diagonally.
Slash.
A few strands of golden blond hair, beautiful like the sun, fell fluttering like a severed thread.
Prince Alpheios’ movement abruptly stopped.
He fumbled, touching the back of his head.
On his neatly trimmed nape, a few strands of hair had been clumsily cut away.
“What…?”
Alpheios’ shoulders shook.
Alpheios Tu Arete was a man who could be said to be an expert in swordsmanship.
Therefore, he could precisely analyze what had just happened.
A slave who had never even held a sword had perfectly controlled it enough to cut just a few strands of hair.
And if that slave hadn’t deliberately twisted the sword’s direction, his own neck would have been cut off.
‘And with a weapon that isn’t even his own sword.’
Alpheios’ body trembled. He felt as if he was turning bright red from head to toe.
This was not anger. It was humiliation.
A slave who had only gotten close to Chernea because of his handsome face dared to toy with him using a sword—this made him shudder.
He could understand it logically.
This was simply talent.
Overwhelming talent, discovered only now because he had never wielded a sword in his life.
But how could he admit that? Especially against this slave?
So Alpheios decided to regain his pride another way.
Instead of recognizing and nurturing the slave’s talent, he would oppress him by status.
Just as Alpheios reached this conclusion and was about to swing his sword again—
Thunk.
Something heavy struck Alpheios squarely on the head.
“Ugh.”
Alpheios grimaced.
Heat suddenly spread through him, but he couldn’t bring himself to get angry.
The thing that had hit him on the head and fallen to the ground was none other than a woman’s shoe.
“That’s enough, Alpheios.”
A woman who had been quietly watching the two all this time approached them.
Though she wore only one shoe, her posture remained upright and steady.
Chernea placed her hand over Alpheios’ sword-holding hand, and Alpheios quietly lowered his sword, following her motion.
Then, turning his head, he met Chernea’s eyes.
The woman, with an expression like a doll’s lifeless smile, whispered kindly:
“If you don’t want to spend the next few months sending letters, behave yourself.”
Chernea quietly revealed her anger and turned her back on him.
Then, she walked back to the slave who still stood straight and spoke:
“You’d better change your shoes. And wash your feet, too.”
“…Yes, Miss.”
The slave, two heads taller than Chernea, bowed deeply.
Then, he put down his sword and followed Chernea as she left the garden.
Alpheios’ red eyes persistently followed the backs of the two.
Chernea never looked back, and instead, the slave bowed his head toward him.
“…Haha.”
Alpheios gritted his teeth.
“This sucks.”
Grinding his teeth, Alpheios glanced at Chernea’s shoe on the ground.
Thrust.
His sharp blade pierced the flower-adorned shoe.
Instead of the smooth face that rarely came within reach, Alpheios muttered as he crushed the woman’s shoe.
“I’ll make sure to kill you. Right in front of Chernea.”