Chapter 255 : Chapter 255

Chapter 255: Side Story One: Eleanor’s Life

The ‍​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌‌‌​‌‍beginning of her memory was the rough feel of her fingers touching the hilt of a wooden sword.

Eleanor ‍​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‍Astrea remembered that feeling for the rest of her life.

She ‍​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‍had probably been four years old at the time, during a garden evening banquet held at the Astrea family’s summer villa.

The ‍​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‍main residence blazed with light, illuminating the carefully tended garden as though it were day. The rustle of velvet gowns dragging across the lawn, the crisp chiming of crystal glasses, the low hum of men discussing politics, magic crystal veins, and border tensions, the women’s soft laughter and murmured talk of fashion, marriage alliances, and the latest court drama...

All ‍​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‍the glittering noises of the adult world formed a boisterous backdrop.

The ‍​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‍children had been arranged in a specially prepared area on the other side of the garden, where thick carpets imported from the East had been laid out and piled high with gifts enough to make any child shriek with delight.

There were dolls in silk dresses with sapphire-inlaid eyes, little bronze bears fitted with tiny clockwork gears that could toddle forward, pop-up maze books depicting famous battles, and even an entire set of child-sized ceremonial armor plated in silver that gleamed beneath the magic lamps.

The little ladies gathered together, changing their dolls’ clothes and imitating their mothers by holding tea parties. The little knights, meanwhile, waved around blunted ceremonial short swords or crowded around the dazzling armor, their laughter and boasting endless.

Eleanor Astrea wore a pale violet satin dress covered in elaborate lace and pearl buttons, a thing her mother had insisted upon. Her flame-red hair had been combed smooth with not a strand out of place and tied with ribbons of the same color.

She thought the lace at her collar made her neck itch, and the stiff underskirt made it hard to move.

So when the maid watching over them turned away to stop two boys who had nearly started fighting with toy swords, Eleanor quietly lifted the long hem of her dress, went barefoot across the cool, damp grass, and slipped away toward a shadowed corner of the garden where the lights grew dim.

Here, the moonlight and the distant spill of lamplight became thin and sparse, and the shadows deepened.

For some reason, that made her feel at ease.

Then, beneath the shadow of an ivy-covered gazebo, leaning against the mottled leg of a stone bench, she saw it.

A small, old wooden sword.

It was the plainest sort imaginable, probably something a gardener’s child or a servant’s child had carved by hand. The wood was rough and unpainted, the blade and hilt marked with scratches and wear from long use. The grip had been worn smooth, even darkened in places.

It did not belong in this splendid banquet at all.

It was like a plain little thing from another world, forgotten and misplaced among all the luxury.

The children’s laughter in the distance and the sound of music seemed suddenly muffled, as though hidden behind a thick fog.

Eleanor crouched down and reached out a small hand. Her fingertips lightly touched the rough wooden hilt. There were tiny splinters, but it felt astonishingly real.

She closed her hand around it and picked it up.

It was very light, and just the right size for her small hand.

Her father, Duke Leo Astrea, stood not far away in the shadow of a colonnade, speaking in a low voice with another equally distinguished minister.

Yet his deep gaze passed through the shifting crowd and mottled light and fell upon his daughter in the corner. His expression was unreadable, but he did not call out to stop her. He did not, like most noble fathers, treat it as improper for a young lady to touch such coarse weaponry.

He only watched her quietly, from afar.

She did not turn back to look at the glittering dolls, the clever little mechanical bear, or the dazzling but useless set of armor.

She only gripped that small wooden sword tightly in both hands and stood up.

From that moment onward, that crude little wooden sword became Eleanor Astrea’s closest companion. It became, almost, an extension of her own body.

From then on, the days flowed through the broad courtyards of House Astrea, beneath the morning sun and the evening glow, carried forward by countless swings, thrusts, and parries.

Sweat soaked through her linen training clothes, darkening the fabric across her back. Her arms grew so sore that they twitched in her sleep. Blisters formed on her tender palms, burst, and hardened into thin calluses.

Her father became her swordsmanship instructor, a man known for his strictness. His lessons were dull and mercilessly demanding, utterly unlike those of the young noble girls around her, who studied court etiquette, dancing, the harp, and poetry.

Yet Eleanor never found it bitter.

Within the arc of a blade cutting through air, within focused breathing and shifting footwork, the world became exceptionally clear to her. Her will lay where her sword pointed.

Children her age, whatever their background, usually could not last more than three or five exchanges beneath her increasingly sharp and precise sword.

When she entered the Lower Division of Saint Roland Magic Academy, the name Eleanor Astrea quickly became known. Not merely because of the illustrious Astrea surname, but because of the outstanding sword in her hand.

In her first year’s academy tournament, she won the Lower Division swordsmanship championship by an unquestionable margin.

In the second year, she successfully defended her title.

In the third year...

In the third year, she stood upon the square arena in the final match, facing the eldest son of the Crawford family, a house famous for martial valor. He was talented, diligent, and no weak opponent.

The stands were packed beyond capacity with students, teachers, and even some nobles who had come to watch. The cheering and cries of encouragement nearly seemed enough to lift the roof off the arena.

In Eleanor’s hand was the ceremonial longsword her father had given her on her twelfth birthday, its sheath engraved with the Astrea family crest. Now the sword was unsheathed, gleaming coldly.

She took up the opening stance she had practiced a thousand times over and fixed her calm gaze upon her opponent.

And yet, her heart suddenly hollowed out.

A groundless unease coiled around it like a snake, tightening without warning.

Everything was too smooth. Too natural. Too inevitable.

So inevitable that it made her... uneasy.

It was like a carefully painted masterpiece missing only its most important stroke. Like a soaring piece of music that lost a single note just before its climax.

It felt as though something vital had been forgotten, as though this scene, this position, this very moment before she won by drawing her sword, was fundamentally wrong.

She should not...

No. Perhaps it was that she should not be standing here like this, about to win this victory.

And yet the sword still moved, following the memory of her muscles and the instinct of combat.

Steady. Swift. Her angle was as sharp and treacherous as a serpent’s tongue, striking precisely at the weak point in her opponent’s blade.

There came a crisp ringing sound.

Her opponent’s sword flew from his hand, arcing through the air before landing near the edge of the arena.

After an instant of silence, the applause and cheers burst forth with even greater force.

She was surrounded, lifted up by an excited crowd. Praise poured over her like a tide.

The jewel of Astrea.

The future Sword Saint.

Senior Eleanor is invincible!

And yet the hollow place in her heart was not filled.

Instead, it widened abruptly.

A cold wind howled through it, bringing with it a sense of loss and bewilderment she could not put into words.

She stood at the very top of the podium. The heavy champion’s medal, set with jewels, hung at her neck and reflected a dazzling light.

Yet her gaze kept drifting, over and over again, across the flushed and excited faces below, over the cheering crowd.