Chapter 15: Are you hurt?

Amid the stunned gazes of everyone present,

the female knight’s entire body suddenly erupted with a pale silver light.

Those familiar with Morfiana knew exactly what that meant—

it was the hallmark of the Heinetionshu family’s exclusive magic warrior technique: the activation of the “Strong Crown.”

With the burst of momentum, the training longsword in her hand became enveloped in an almost tangible silver magical aura, humming softly.

By mobilizing all of her magical power, her physical abilities could be enhanced up to three times their normal limits for a certain duration.

Thanks to this unique magical bloodline,

Morfiana once single-handedly slew a Dia Dragon fierce enough to threaten a small town fortress—

a true embodiment of the Strong Crown among all troops.

“Fight me seriously!”

She roared, her body transforming into a silver streak of light that surged forward several times faster than before, charging like a cannonball toward Vis, who had just regained his footing and appeared completely unprepared.

Even as fellow Holy Crusader Knights, Morfiana’s swift assault—capable of piercing a Dragon’s tough chest scales—was not something others could easily react to.

Norsen’s smile stiffened instantly.

It wasn’t sudden pity that caused this, but genuine surprise.

Though it was under his own orders, he hadn’t expected Morfiana to lose control in her single-minded pursuit of victory—by rights, a proud Holy Crusader Knight should not have behaved like this against mere mercenaries.

The longsword infused with magical energy tore through the air, carrying the aura of deadly intent.

Just as it was about to strike Vis’s head, he furrowed his brow sharply.

(Do you want to surrender and not be taken seriously? Was my earlier throw not hard enough, or was my act of pain too fake? Surely not—I’m no amateur actor.)

To be honest, this so-called sparring was little more than a provocation in Vis’s eyes—

just the noble knight heirs trying to assert their presence.

After all, these were all hot-blooded youths, nobles with some skill and status. If it were him, he’d probably be even more arrogant, full of youthful pride.

For such childish displays of bravado, Vis only wanted to go through the motions and not waste his trump cards or props.

Besides, the other party’s wish was merely for a match, fulfilling the noble knight’s desire to demonstrate her strength. Once the willpower was collected, that should be enough.

So, this meaningless fight should be handled lightly and quickly.

But it was obvious now that things were not going as planned.

He hadn’t expected the other side to be so relentless, even using magic,

and clearly going all out.

—Can’t dodge!

At the last moment, Vis raised his hand to block, and in that instant, quickly plunged his hand into his pocket to retrieve the pocket watch hidden in his side pouch—

“Item (Blue): Private Time”

“Unique Active: Destroy to activate, creating a half-meter radius time-dilation field centered on the user, lasting 1.5 seconds (duration and degree of slowing increase with user’s magic capacity).”

—Hum.

At the moment he crushed the watch, the chaotic sound of reality blending with nothingness erupted,

as if causing an illusion, a subtle and invisible ripple of time and space instantly spread out from Vis.

Within the close-range field, everything—whether physical movement or magical effects—was slowed down by half.

Vis barely sidestepped, just enough for the sword blade enhanced by “Strong Crown” to graze across his chest.

The sharp sword wind cut through his collar.

Though he had no intention to escalate the fight, it didn’t mean Vis would just keep dodging.

You’ve already gone too far; wouldn’t it be rude if I didn’t teach you a lesson in return?

Since you don’t know when to stop, I’ll help you hit the brakes.

Vis took the opportunity to reach back into his inner pocket again.

But before he could pull out another item, a much more overwhelming and domineering force—like an invisible hurricane—broke through the “Private Time” slowdown area.

At the same moment, Morfiana, having just recovered from the spatial slowdown, stared in disbelief at her missed strike.

Before her sword-swing could end, an overwhelming force slammed into her from the side.

“Boom!”

The thunderous crash echoed louder than anything else on the field.

The magical shield surrounding Morfiana shattered instantly like fragile glass.

As if swept away by a tsunami, the air current tore through her armor, producing a grievous wail under the strain.

The female knight was thrown sideways, flying higher and farther than the mercenary youth had moments ago.

She crashed heavily into the training ground’s wall, sliding down limply and losing consciousness.

A few seconds of silence passed as the violent air settled and the dust dispersed, revealing a shallow furrow gouged into the ground.

The entire training field was deathly silent.

Only then did the knights—still too shocked to speak—clearly see the figure who had intervened like a storm.

—Golden Lortisa.

The young soldier captain was already standing calmly in front of the mercenary youth, retracting her fist from the punch she had just thrown.

Her golden hair fluttered lightly in the air currents caused by her rapid movement, her breathtakingly beautiful face masked by a coldness that could chill the soul, emerald eyes dimmed of their usual light.

She paid no heed to the knight who had been blasted away by her punch, quietly turning her head to glance at Vis, who was standing just behind her:

“Are you hurt?”

Vis looked at the soldier captain’s delicate yet imposing figure, hesitated a moment, then swallowed hard.

“N-no, I’m fine.”

He shook his head, managing a faint smile,

while his eyes couldn’t help but flicker toward the female knight by the edge of the field.

The soldier captain’s single punch had sent a lord-class Ogre scrambling in retreat—Vis had witnessed that firsthand last night.

If the female knight had taken a hit like that, was she dead?

If she died, there’d be no willpower collected at all.

At the training ground’s edge, Norsen’s face grew extremely ugly, shifting between pale green and white.

He lost all composure befitting a noble knight, and the faint smile left on his lips was forced and strained.

He subtly raised his chin in silent command.

The nearby knights snapped out of their daze, hurried over to check on Morfiana, and quickly fetched stretchers to carry her to the medical healer.

“Lady Lortisa—”

Norsen’s expression was almost twisted, but he still restrained himself within the bounds of knightly etiquette.

“Thank you very much for your timely intervention. Lady Morfiana was a bit headstrong, overly fixated on the sparring and attached to its form and outcome. This truly reflects my failure in command and insufficient restraint.

As the Knight Captain, and on behalf of Morfiana, I offer you both my sincere apologies and hope you will accept them.”

His tone was full of “regret,” his demeanor exceedingly humble,

yet in his simple words, he effortlessly shifted all blame onto the “out-of-control” Morfiana, completely exonerating himself from fault—leaving no room for criticism.

At least before outsiders, Norsen’s attitude was sincere enough,

fully embodying the image of a responsible and reasonable Knight Captain.