Chapter 64

A near-perfect surprise attack. The swing was sharp, its timing making evasion difficult and defense nearly impossible. Faced with the blow, Harold reached a simple conclusion.

Is that it?

General consensus might have deemed the strike unavoidable, but from Harold's perspective, it was so tepid it nearly made him yawn.

Harold simply shifted his right side back with a grace reminiscent of a dance step. With that single movement, his opponent’s blade cut through nothing but thin air.

Upon closer inspection, the assailant’s weapon was a wooden sword. It carried weight, but its lethality was low; judging by the level of skill behind the swing, it didn't even qualify as a threat.

Having overextended with a vertical strike, the assailant was now wide open. Neutralizing and restraining him would be trivial. In his current forward-leaning posture, the man likely couldn't see anything but Harold's feet.

Harold used his left foot to kick upward, striking both of the man's fists as they gripped the wooden sword. The weapon went flying, and the assailant let out a groan of agony. His face, twisted in pain, reflexively jerked upward.

He looked to be in his fifties, though his stern features and Linkanic beard likely made him appear older than his actual age. Regardless, the man’s age was irrelevant data; Harold immediately followed up his opening.

Drawing his raised leg back like a pendulum, he drove a heel drop into the man's shoulder. Although he held back, there was a solid sense of impact. To the man's credit, his muscle-bound frame allowed him to remain standing, though the price was a moment of total paralysis.

Impressed by the unexpected sturdiness, Harold used his left foot—still resting on the immobile man's shoulder—as a fulcrum. He performed a backflip, snatching the airborne wooden sword out of the sky. He adjusted his posture mid-air and swung the wooden sword down, though he dialed back the force slightly to avoid a fatality.

Finally shaking off the stun, the man crossed his arms over his head in a desperate guard. Even so, the strike was powerful enough that Harold expected his arms to be crushed. Instead, the wooden sword was met with a hard, metallic clack.

A lustrous material peeked through the gaps in the man's torn sleeves. Like a ninja, he had hidden gauntlets beneath his clothes. Perhaps, despite his bulky physique, he specialized in this sort of deceptive combat style.

However, blocking the hit didn't nullify the impact. His guard shattered, the assailant tried to retreat, but Harold refused to let him escape his reach. He grabbed the man by the collar, yanked him forward, and drove a knee deep into his abdomen.

"Gofuh!"

The man let out a muffled retch, spraying saliva. Disgusted, Harold grabbed the man’s right wrist with his left hand and his head with his right. Using the explosive momentum of his innate speed, he slammed the man into the wall.

A thunderous crack echoed through the room.

That was the decider. The man, having been driven full-force into the stone, offered no further resistance. When Harold let go, the man’s eyes rolled back as he slid limply to the floor. The wall behind him was dented and webbed with cracks. He had been tough, but he couldn't withstand that final blow.

While it was well and good that he had repelled the threat, a genuine question escaped Harold’s lips.

"Who the hell is this guy?"

In the great hall, which had fallen into an inexplicable silence, Itsuki provided the answer.

"……That would be Aurelian Berlioz. He is the head of House Berlioz."

"……"

Harold was momentarily stunned. He had just ruthlessly thrashed the master of the house he was visiting.

But if Itsuki was telling the truth, a new question arose.

"Hoh. So, I take it this barbaric display is the Berlioz family's method of welcoming guests?"

Truthfully, Harold knew that if his identity were ever discovered, being attacked on sight wasn't out of the question. However, for the sake of his safety during the stay, he had to clarify the situation. Unfortunately, while preoccupied with that thought, his usual sarcasm leaked out.

"I have no excuses. I am deeply sorry for putting you in danger. Please, allow me to apologize on behalf of my foolish husband."

The person who spoke was a woman who perfectly embodied the word "Madame." She had an intellectual air and didn't seem at all rattled by Harold’s attitude. Since she called Aurelian her "foolish husband," she was clearly his wife.

Beside her stood a woman in her early twenties with pale blue hair, and a young girl clinging to her waist, eyeing Harold with suspicion. One of them—almost certainly the former—was Sylvie, Itsuki’s fiancée. He decided not to dwell on the possibility of it being the latter.

Curiously, none of the three seemed particularly worried about Aurelian. Poor pillar of the family, Harold thought.

Afterward, Erika—fulfilling her role as the game's healer—used her signature magic to treat Aurelian. She had clearly grown in more than just height; watching her work, Harold couldn't help but let out an appreciative "Hoh..." He was genuinely impressed.

The first words out of the resurrected Aurelian’s mouth were: "I like you! To think you handled me so easily!"

Based on that reaction, Harold’s internal evaluation of Aurelian was officially set: the man was a total muscle-brain.

Apparently, Aurelian made a habit of "testing" promising youths in this manner. Itsuki had also been ambushed and had passed the test perfectly. That was likely why the marriage talk with Sylvie had progressed so smoothly.

To Harold, it was just a massive pain in the neck.

Currently, at the suggestion of Sylvie—confirming Harold’s suspicion—the group was seated around a round table for lunch. "Since we're all here, why don't we eat?" she had said. Since the evening celebration would feature a full feast, the lunch was modest.

Having survived the initial introductions, Harold intended to fade into the background, but he was trapped between Aurelian on his left and Itsuki on his right. Being the "guest of honor" made it impossible to stay out of the conversation.

"Still, I never imagined Itsuki had a friend like Lord," Aurelian mused, stroking his proud Linkanic beard. Since there was no Abraham Lincoln in this world, Harold wasn't sure what the local term for the style was, but he couldn't think of any other name for it.

"Was it that unexpected?" Itsuki asked.

"Not unexpected, exactly. It's just that young men these days are so flimsy. I find myself quite fond of youths with backbone, like you and Lord."

"Thank you very much."

"……"

Aurelian nodded with satisfaction while Itsuki offered a polite smile. Harold remained silent, acting as if he were elsewhere. To be described as having "backbone" after his earlier behavior… the thought process of a muscle-brain was truly a mystery.

"The Sumeragi are a martial lineage, so Itsuki-san’s strength makes sense, but I wonder if Lord-san’s family is the same?"

Despite his silent protest, Bridget, Aurelian’s wife, asked a question he couldn't ignore. Knowing Itsuki would bail him out if things got hairy, Harold committed to his persona.

"My family is irrelevant. This is my own talent."

The fact that "years of grueling effort" was translated into "raw talent" was classic Harold. Then again, given his high-spec body, he did grow stronger and faster than others even with the same amount of training. In a way, calling it talent wasn't a lie.

Predictably, Aurelian latched onto the word.

"Talent, eh? Lord, how long have you been training with the sword?"

"Eight years."

"So, since you were ten? Compared to the masters I know, you started late. To reach your level of strength in that time… your claim of talent is no boast."

"Obviously."

"And what sort of training did you do?"

"Actually, I'd like to hear that as well," Itsuki chimed in.

Sylvie and Bridget looked on with interest. Only Noelia, the third daughter, seemed bored, distracted by playing with Erika in the next seat. Harold hoped she would stay that way for the next three days; it would save him a lot of stress.

"Nothing special. I simply swung my sword whenever I had a spare moment and hunted monsters."

"You used to be so reckless back then," Itsuki added. "I remember being shocked when you showed up at my door with broken bones."

"Oh my, how dreadful."

"That sounds so painful..."

"I used to pull the same kind of reckless stunts in my youth! Lord, I think we're kindred spirits!"

The hell we are, Harold thought. He didn't mind passionate men, but their intensity was exhausting. He preferred to keep a safe distance.

"But really, no secret training? You said 'whenever you had spare time,' but how much time are we talking about?"

Asked that, Harold looked back on his early days in this world. There had been much to plan and many strings to pull, but as a child, he’d had an abundance of free time.

Driven by the obsessive need to grow strong enough to survive the future, he had used training as an outlet for his anxiety and stress. Plus, there was a certain novelty in realizing he could actually perform techniques from the game.

He remembered spending literally every spare moment training, relying on the boundless stamina he possessed even back then.

"I didn't have a set schedule, but on average, I suppose about ten hours a day."

" " " " " ……Eh?" " " " "

Every person at the table—except Noelia—froze. Even Erika, who had been focused on the child, was staring at him.

Wait, Erika stayed at the Stokes mansion, shouldn't she know? he wondered. But he had been a shut-in back then, and he’d always hidden his training to avoid prying eyes. Even if someone had spotted him, no normal person would watch a kid swing a sword for ten hours straight.

"Ten... wait, ten hours? Out of twenty-four?" Itsuki asked, bewildered.

"What else would I mean?"

Harold’s response was curt, but he understood the confusion. Even he would think someone was insane for training ten hours a day.

But Harold had a reason he had to be strong. He had the talent to see results, a body that didn't quit, and a desperate will to cheat death. It was a feat only he could achieve.

He wondered how they’d react if they knew his current average had "ranked up" to twelve hours a day. Whenever Justus didn't have work for him, he was honestly bored to tears.

"It seems our definitions of 'special' differ significantly," Aurelian remarked.

"If you think that, then that is the limit of your potential. (That’s not true, though.)"

The atmosphere in the room turned sub-zero. He had just looked the head of the house in the eye and essentially called him a loser.

Aurelian’s shoulders began to quake. Then, abruptly, he stood up, looked toward the ceiling, and roared.

"I am ashamed! To deem something impossible simply because I cannot do it myself—how narrow-minded! Such folly could stifle a talent like Lord’s! I am a fool!"

He wasn't angry. Harold realized he had once again underestimated the "strength equals value" logic of a muscle-brain.

Regardless, the situation was becoming incredibly tedious.

After he finished shouting, Aurelian regained his composure. He gripped Harold’s shoulders with his calloused hands and looked at him with startling intensity.

"Lord, will you take Noelia as your bride?"

"You've clearly lost your mind."

Harold couldn't be blamed for the knee-jerk response. The fault lay entirely with Aurelian’s brain. Apparently, when the mind is dominated by muscle, logic goes out the window.

Noelia, currently eight years old, also voiced her protest.

"I don't want to be Lord's bride! He's scary!"

"The feeling is mutual. I have no interest in marrying a child."

"Don't worry about that! She’s a bit of a runt now, but I guarantee she'll be a beauty in ten years!"

Objectively, Noelia was a cute girl, and given her mother and sister, she would undoubtedly grow into a beautiful woman. But that wasn't the point. Irritation began to simmer in Harold’s chest.

"I'll even give you a room in this mansion so you and Noelia can—"

"……Shut up."

"Don't worry about convincing your family. I'll take care of—"

"Shut up."

"You'd be brothers with Itsuki, it's a fantastic deal—"

"I said shut up! I have—!"

Faced with Aurelian’s jubilant attempts to auction off his own daughter, the blood rushed to Harold’s head. A flash of pure fury.

The outburst was so intense that everyone in the room recoiled, overwhelmed by his wrath.

Harold, having stood up mid-shout, suddenly fell silent. It wasn't because he regretted losing his temper.

He was horrified. He was utterly aghast at the words that had almost tumbled out of his mouth. He felt a sense of genuine despair.

—I have Erika.

Before he could even process the thought, his eyes snapped toward her. Her gaze met his.

She was his natural enemy. A persistent thorn in his side. That was the only reason his heart was racing. Harold desperately tried to force that logic into his mind.

"Tch. I feel sick."

Averting his eyes, Harold spat out the parting shot and marched out of the great hall while the others were still paralyzed.

He needed to get away. He needed a place where he could finally think straight.