“Exactly!”
Luke admitted without hesitation.
His mind-reading ability didn’t just recall keyword-linked memories—it could also tap into muscle memory, letting him learn combat techniques or even copy magic.
True, it was difficult and required prep time. His earlier disadvantage? Simply gathering Charles’s physical data.
“You can’t beat me with imitation alone!”
Charles launched a fiercer assault.
Physically, Charles stood nearly 1.9 meters tall—a burly, powerfully built man.
Luke, by contrast, seemed slender, barely hitting 1.8 meters. With little skill in reinforcement magic, even his higher level couldn’t offset the raw strength gap.
So Charles leveraged his physique, unleashing sword moves only he could perform—too complex to mimic cleanly, or prone to fatal openings if forced.
Against ordinary foes, Luke *would* mimic until they broke mentally. But now? His goal was to earn Charles’s respect. Simple mimicry wouldn’t cut it.
What he truly intended was—
*Clang!*
For the first time, Luke deflected Charles’s downward greatsword swing.
No pause—Charles struck again instantly.
In prolonged fights, having one or two moves read was normal… especially against someone who could mimic.
His only path: unleash a relentless, rain-like barrage, leaving zero time to counter or copy.
*Clang!*
The second strike met steel too.
Charles channeled power into a flaming horizontal sweep. Scorching heat rolled outward; where the blade passed, ice melted, snow vanished, grass turned to ash.
But just before impact, Luke raised his sword—minimal force, perfect angle—and deflected the flaming greatsword with effortless precision.
*Wrong.*
Charles realized instantly: no mystical “feather-moving-mountain” trick. Just precise redirection to neutralize force and disrupt the blade’s enchantment.
“You… saw through it?” Charles stared, stunned.
“Correct. Come then… Lesson time begins.” Luke tucked one hand behind his back, sword held lightly in the other.
As promised, the tide turned utterly one-sided.
No matter how Charles fought—how he used size, strength, or cunning—nothing landed.
Watching Luke stroll leisurely yet elegantly across the field, toying with Charles while wielding his blade with grace, Aelia’s flicker of excitement froze solid.
*(Useless Charles. Pathetic. And I actually held hope for a second!)*
Thankfully, Aelia never wasted breath mourning losers. She pivoted instantly: *How to exploit this?*
Seeing Charles stubbornly charge forward in vain, an idea sparked.
If victory was impossible—lose *spectacularly*. Stir sympathy for the weak. Breed disdain for the victor’s arrogance.
She subtly bypassed the barrier magic and whispered mentally:
*[Enough, Brother Charles! Please stop!]*
*(This won’t kill him…)* Aelia smirked inwardly, devilish.
To her, Charles was a gambling addict deep in the hole—the more you urged him to quit, the harder he’d cling to hollow pride, doubling down until bankrupt.
*[I’m fine, Aelia. Don’t worry.]*
Predictably, Charles replied briefly—then threw himself back into battle, utterly absorbed, forgetting even his parents’ names.
She sent nothing to Luke. He was already basking in showcasing his power and charm… *Perfect.*
Even if Charles wasn’t beloved, he was *their* general. Watching an outsider toy with him so brazenly would stir anger or pity—and cast doubt on Luke’s character.
She hadn’t humiliated Luke today… but painting him as a violent brute? *Victory.*
*(Let the battle rage fiercer!)*
Her inner self roared.
At first, the fight stirred outrage and sympathy. Then… doubt.
“Huh… Boss Charles… is he *enjoying* this?”
Charles’s own subordinates noticed first.
“Is he in battle-crazed mode?”
Others in the Royal Guard caught on fast. Explanations spread: Charles *wanted* this. He sought growth—even through repeated failure, exposed flaws.
“…Kinda extreme?”
Sympathy evaporated.
“Yes—right here. Clear opening…”
Meanwhile, Luke calmly instructing mid-combat looked effortlessly graceful. Noble ladies shrieked in admiration.
Ten minutes later, even the Guard stopped resenting their vice-captain’s defeat.
One willing to teach. One eager to learn. Who were *they* to judge?
A life-or-death duel turned friendly sparring? Spectators seeking drama drifted away, disappointed.
Half an hour on, only Aelia remained—stubbornly watching, hunting for drama.
“Truly, Lady Aelia cares so deeply for the kingdom’s people.”
To onlookers, she stood like a statue of devoted vigilance.
They never guessed the faint furrow in her brow came from fury, not worry.
*(What is this?! You were supposed to fight for me! Punish the rude one! Since when did this become “friendly sparring”?!)*
She couldn’t believe it—Charles, her brother-like guardian, had “switched sides” in a blink.
*(Fake. It’s fake! Damn Charles is just waiting… waiting for him to tire…)*
But no counterattack came.
After nearly three hours of sparring, Charles collapsed from exhaustion.
“Next time we meet,” Luke offered a hand.
“You have my word.” Charles gripped it without hesitation.
They exchanged a smile—warm, genuine, like old friends.
And elsewhere? That scheming pink-haired girl’s inner self fumed straight into oblivion.
