"The Garu Protective Sword Art," as the name implies, is a swordsmanship technique the Garu Royal Family developed for self-defense.

But this "Garu" refers not to a single person—it denotes the entire Garu Royal Family.

A dynasty far older than the Fourth Epoch, long buried in history’s annals. No one remembers this art anymore.

In fact, it’d be strange if anyone *did* know this ancient-era sword style.

Naturally, Leona had no idea what it was.

Though labeled "self-defense," as the legacy of an ancient royal house, it was far from weak.

In some ways, it could effortlessly outclass modern royal sword arts.

"'Garu Protective Sword Art'?" Leona repeated the name, her expression stunned.

"Oops. Slipped out," Rhode muttered, a flicker of regret in his voice. He’d just shown off.

"Don’t worry. Scour all of Capulas—you won’t find a soul who knows it," the Black Sword said in a seasoned, almost condescending tone.

"And if you *do* meet someone who does? Run. Far away."

His words offered no comfort—cold sweat beaded on Rhode’s brow.

*Just what dangerous thing did I learn?*

"Let’s begin." Rhode wouldn’t drag it out. He lunged forward in a flash.

Leona reacted instantly, slashing her rapier downward.

Rhode sidestepped smoothly. His dagger slid along her blade, aiming for her sword hand.

With one hand tucked behind his back, his profile shrank—but balance grew precarious.

Yet imbalance wasn’t a flaw. Rhode used the sway to evade even trickier strikes.

Leona finally grasped the consequence: after attacking, she couldn’t retract her sword in time to block.

*Clang!* The dagger tapped her blade—a clean hit.

This wasn’t a deathmatch. No need to press harder.

What mattered: he’d closed the distance. At this range, the dagger reigned supreme.

"..." Leona’s face flushed crimson the moment she lost.

The fluster lasted a heartbeat before she composed herself.

She refused to let Rhode see her like this—too embarrassing.

*Ahem. A princess keeps her dignity.*

"I lose." She sheathed her sword plainly.

Even as sparring, the "duel" ended too fast. Unreal.

"This art’s so cheap," she grumbled.

"I agree," Rhode chimed in. He found it underhanded too.

Back in the Mind Manifest Realm, when Uncle Black Sword used it on him? Total wreck.

Master it fully, and you’re not limited to the left hand—you unlock wilder variations.

How did he know? Every brutal lesson was personally delivered.

"So cheap... and I *love* it," Rhode sighed blissfully.

Leona stepped back, a chill crawling down her spine.

"You’ve gotten way stronger," Leona admitted, resentment lingering despite her loss.

She’d meant to vent Imperial Capital frustrations on him—only to get thoroughly outclassed.

To her praise, Rhode shrugged. "Growth spurt. Happens."

"..." Leona subtly scratched her chest—fingertips meeting cold breastplate.

"What’re you doing?" Rhode asked, puzzled, missing the gesture entirely.

"N-nothing!" she stammered, flustered, then cleared her throat.

"Right. Time to explain those clergy," Rhode reminded her. He hadn’t forgotten their deal.

He wouldn’t have revealed his secret art otherwise.

(And honestly—Leona never threw a white glove to challenge. So unprofessional.)

"That was the Church of Lightsen Gate," Leona began after a ten-second pause.

"I know," Rhode cut in bluntly.

Leona’s fist tightened—*I want to hurl this gauntlet at his face...*

"They were just passing through Clinton. Their destination is the Imperial Capital."

"Imperial Capital? Then none of my concern." Since Clinton was safe, he couldn’t care less.

"*Let me finish!*" Leona snapped, thoroughly annoyed.

"Our elder brother—the Crown Prince—invited them. Probably for missionary work." She grimaced, clearly unimpressed.

"Your brother follows the Church of Lightsen Gate?"

"Yes. I do not."

"I belong to the Temiphic Church," Leona declared proudly, hand on her chest.

"Uh. Right." Rhode didn’t care which deity she worshipped.

The Temiphic Church championed arts and culture—hard to picture a swordswoman like her devoted to it.

"So..." Rhode trailed off.

Seconds ticked by. Why wasn’t she leaving?

Leona stood rooted, gaze locked on him.

"You should go."

"..." She seemed to hesitate.

But Rhode’s resolve held firm. He wasn’t swayed—not even by "princess."

That title held zero charm for him.

*He liked "maids."*

"Time to go," he urged.

"Hmph." Leona huffed inexplicably and spun away.

Watching her retreating figure, Rhode felt nothing—only the urge to laugh.

*Finally. The little princess is gone. Time for my teacher’s field training. Celebration!*

Still... before the next commission, one question nagged him:

Why was Leona—the swordswoman—called the *Ironfist Princess*...?