“So, Riley had a go with the sword?”

“Yes.”

Ian reported to Count Stein what had happened yesterday, about how Riley had gone to the training grounds after watching his mother collapse. Ian also added in the fact that the lazy atmosphere that usually surrounded Riley disappeared for an instant.

“Well, he did have a go, but…”

Although it was good news that the lazy child had displayed potential--to some extent--there was an additional piece of information that would counteract the former…with room to spare.

“He lost interest, immediately.”

“Immediately?”

“I assume that he was disappointed with the power of his swing.”

“Hmm.” Count Stein, who had been tapping on his desk with one large finger, nodded, “Alright, you may leave.”

“Master, perhaps you should give-”

“I’m already having a headache with the rat that infiltrated the manor. I already surprised that Riley would only amount to that. There is no reason to teach the swordsmanship of the Iphelleta House to someone who lacks any form of motivation. I’m sure my ancestors would think the same.” After finishing his words, Count Stein flicked his hand, shooing Ian away.

***

I lay down against my preferred apple tree.

It was fairly late, but since I slept after the sun rose, my past memories stayed down--I wonder why it worked like that; but I wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I was tired, but at least it was manageable.

“Haah, Young Master…”

I was pulled out of my light doze with those words, and that very recognizable sigh of discontent.

It was obviously Ian, and he had a dejected look on his face.

“What’s up? You seem more down than usual?”

“...”

The silence carried on as our eyes met.

“Young Master!” Ian suddenly shouted at me, causing me to flinch in surprise, since I honestly didn’t expect it.

“Jeez, you surprised me…” I didn’t have to fake the expression, or tone, of minor irritation this time.

“Will you really give up after that?”

Ahh, I see, it’s about the sword.

But, I already knew how to fight well enough, so training in the rather simple sword style couldn’t help me in any way; I also needed to figure out how to sleep during the night--if I were to take up ‘sword lessons’ just to please this stuffy old man.

“What about it?” I made it sound as though I was asking what the problem was.

Ian curled his hands into fists, before continuing to speak, “I will give you praise for finding those seeds for Lady Iris; she has recovered considerably, thanks to them!”

Well, of course, they weren’t ordinary seeds--I had placed an enchantment onto them.

“But, to give up after only one swing! That’s…That’s…!” His words faltered.

It was obvious that, as the first to see my potential, he was the most devastated by my lack of motivation--and yes, I had read his diary, and saw how he had seen me before I could control the amount of potential I displayed.

“Well, if I can’t win with a sword, I’ll just become a Mage. I like reading better anyway.”

Well, I did admire some of the battle-mages I once knew--with their incredible Magic and physical ability. I had learned Magic, of course, from the Mage in my party in the old world. But, I was only average, since all my spells and physical ability were supplemented by the Holy Sword--so I didn’t need to use as much Mana, and I got lazy when the Mage died.

Ian screamed in frustration, “What, you think becoming a Mage is…”

Is that easy?!

Just when he was about to ask, I turned my gaze elsewhere; I had learned to curtail his rants.

“What are you looking at?”

Perfect, he was distracted easily--his old age was getting to him.

“An apple.”

“Why?”

“Well, I thought that if I were to become a Mage, I could take that apple without having to stand up.” This response was in character, and had caused the fuming Ian to stop, his jaw dropped in shock.

“Young…Young Master!”, Ian shouted, pausing when his breathing grew too disordered, “Don’t change the subject. This time I’ll surely change your--”

“Hmm? Wait Ian! Look, over there! Is that the glint of a blade?” I knew I shouldn’t push him any further, so I drew his attention to something that was really there.

“What are you on…” He started asking, before following my pointed finger, “Hmm?”

Just as I had said, a blade could be seen within the leaves.

It wasn’t a long-sword or bastard sword, like the ones used in the House. It was a dagger, one without a sheath.

Ian looked intrigued by its peculiar purple grip, and jumped towards it. Without apparent effort, he landed on the branch, like a giant…old, wrinkly bird.

The dagger had a crescent-shaped blade.

Even from my position below him, I could see his eyes widen.

“What? What’s going on? Show me as well.” I sat up, pretending to be curious.

Ian dropped down next to me and handed me the dagger, “I believe that this belonged to the dead man we found yesterday.”

“Huh? How do you know?”

“The shape matches to the sheath he wore attached to his belt. We should be able to find out soon.”

Ian accepted the dagger when I handed it back to him.

“Then, I shall go see Master Stein.”

“Huh? Alright then.”

That plan seems to have worked, both allowing them to find some evidence, and also to get the nagging old man off my back…I still needed more sleep.

As Ian left in a hurry, I went back to sleep--in a partial doze that allowed me to keep my senses stretched across the mansion; in case of more invasions, or so I could hear everything; I could sleep and keep part of my brain awake, which had taken a lot of training when I was younger…I only perfected it after around 150 years.

***

“Number 3 is dead?”

“Yes, sir.”

Inside a dark room, a candle suspended from the ceiling burned faintly; this was the hideout of the hooded man.

“How did he die?” A man, who was dressed differently from the other hooded men, asked for a report.

As expected from an experience assassin, the reply came in a dry manner, “We have no idea.”

This would mean that No.3’s death wasn’t suicide.

“And the body?” The better-dressed man bit his lips, before asking another question. It was impossible to tell if it was because he was nervous about something, or holding back his anger.

“It is being held in Iphelleta House.”

“Huh.”

The situation was looking quite bad.

It had happened in the famous Iphelleta House, and if any evidence was found from the body--not just the hideout, but everyone in that room, their lives would be in danger.

“Orelly’s in a bad position.” The man scratched his beard as he thought about his ‘daughter’.

“What will you do?” The hooded man asked.

The bearded-man stood up from his chair, “I will go.”

“Directly?”

“Well, we mustn’t be found out. We leave this evening. Make preparations for a stealth mission.”

“As you wish.” The hooded man bowed and disappeared.

“Well then.”

Standing alone in the room, the man grabbed a mask on the table, placing it into his pocket, “It’s been a while since I last paid a visit to my son-in-law.”