Chapter 56
At that moment, Lanje recalled an old memory.
A memory from a future that hadn’t come yet.
In the aftermath of war, her partner discovered the family vault in the ruins of their ancestral home in the East, which had been ravaged by enemy attacks.
There, Lanje had found an old spear and the secret arts of Swanhild.
Back then, it was Lenart who took the secret arts.
Unlike her partner, Lenart seemed more suited for research than fieldwork and was interested in learning new magic.
He had never intended to monopolize them. In fact, he’d offered to teach Lanje several times.
“You were the one who was meant to learn this in the first place.”
“Who would’ve taught me the secret arts? I was never interested. It didn’t seem immediately useful…”
“Your deployments will keep changing. You might end up in a place where this is effective. It’s a technique more versatile than you think.”
“Then I’ll learn it when the time comes. Or you could take the spotlight for once. How long do you plan to keep making me the star of the show?”
Recalling that conversation, Lanje now regretted it.
If I had at least pretended to learn it…
Maybe—just maybe—the current situation wouldn’t be quite so dire.
It was only speculation, not certainty, but still…
Ultimately, it was power she hadn’t chosen. And now, that power—the secret arts of Swanhild—was controlling the entire forest.
The trees and ground around her rumbled in disarray.
The surreal distortion in her vision wasn’t a trick of the mind. The soil and roots really were moving like waves, cutting off every path of retreat.
That’s when Lanje realized it had been a mistake to enter the forest.
She’d thought the open sky would leave her too exposed, especially since her opponent was also a mage. She needed cover, and the forest offered that—or so she thought. In truth, she had walked into a cage.
Maybe I still have a chance…?
Eirik was suspicious of her but also slightly underestimating her. Lanje briefly considered escaping to the villa at full speed using flight magic.
But twisted trees had already formed a dome overhead, sealing her in completely. There was no escape now.
Branches that should’ve been brittle and dry stretched out with unnatural flexibility and lashed around her ankle, yanking her backward.
She managed to slash the branches before she was dragged too far, but she couldn’t avoid falling.
In that brief moment, the battle was lost.
Eirik closed the distance beyond recovery, and Lanje glared at him.
“Do you really have to do this?”
She spoke, hoping that reason still lived within him.
“Why do you insist on taking the most self-damaging path? We could resolve this with words—”
“You still refuse to confess, I see.”
“What if I really am your niece?”
“You made me doubt you, and then you yourself handed me the evidence.”
Talking to a wall would’ve been more productive. Lanje scowled in frustration.
It was clear now—Eirik’s reasoning wasn’t sound. And yet, Lanje had reached the same conclusion.
She would have to subdue him.
The problem was always how.
If they were fighting to the death, it would’ve been simple. But trying to take someone down without causing lasting harm was never easy—especially when you weren’t good with subtle spells.
But Lanje didn’t give up. She kept thinking.
The first spell that came to mind was a mental-type spell Lenart used.
If she could make him faint cleanly, that would be ideal. She’d even learned it for situations like this.
…It won’t work.
Her skill level was too low. Against a fellow mage—especially one with elite training and access to the family’s secret arts—the chance of success was slim. Lenart would’ve chosen a different tactic in this situation too.
This prolonged standstill, the silent standoff, was happening only because Eirik was confident. He wouldn’t give her more than one chance to strike.
She calmed her shaking breath and shifted her thinking.
Attacking him directly won’t work.
Then change the terrain.
Break the dynamic where Eirik had the upper hand.
Why is he so confident?
In truth, their mana levels and experience weren’t that far apart. If they had fought in a neutral area without environmental bias, Lanje was confident she could win.
Eirik Swanhild was a tough and difficult opponent—but not an insurmountable wall.
The difference is… he’s using the secret arts.
Lanje dug deeper into her memory.
When the direct line of the Swanhild family had been wiped out and the secret arts fell into her hands by chance, Lenart never gave up on teaching her. At least once.
He’d dropped hints here and there, hoping she’d show interest.
Now, the fragmented pieces of those memories were all she had to rely on.
He’s not just using brute force to control the forest. If it were telekinesis, he’d have blocked me more simply. Think. He said something—
At that moment, Lanje realized where Eirik had stopped walking—and with it, Lenart’s words came back to her, as if whispered directly in her ear.
A shimmering ripple of water shimmered before her eyes. The hazy memories suddenly became vivid.
“As expected of an ancient lineage, the Swanhild secret arts are rooted in rare elemental magic. You can still feel echoes of ancient beliefs—like spirits—embedded in the incantations.”
From there, the topic shifted to fairies.
Old superstitions, lingering names, the mystery that remains in the natural order humans have yet to fully master—Swanhild’s magic touched that domain.
It was water.
Eirik was manipulating the canopy using water-element magic.
With her mind clearer, Lanje began to sense the ambient mana.
As soon as she understood the method, she gained options.
The most tempting one was…
Burn it?
Even if one has an affinity, handling water element magic without spirit summoning is difficult. Without proper control, the magic itself collapses.
But destruction? Fire was still widely used.
Even a basic mana projectile, if the conditions were right, could start a fire.
Of course, something of that scale wouldn’t be enough to break Eirik’s spell. And if it was enough, it’d be too dangerous to use here.
Then this would be the best choice.
Having selected her card, Lanje smirked.
Only then did Eirik sense something was wrong.
Why is she smiling?
He’d cornered her. He was only waiting for an answer. She had no reason to smile.
But it wasn’t the look of resignation.
Just like earlier, when he knocked her down, one moment decided the next.
Lanje began her incantation swiftly.
“May Rudra press down upon the threshold,
And the lion of the southern skies close his eyes—
You shall be bound in frozen chains.”
* * *
…Am I alive?
Eirik questioned it, then confirmed it—though he still couldn’t feel anything.
His vision was dark. His mind fuzzy.
He vaguely traced the memories before he lost consciousness.
In the end, it was overconfidence on his part.
Just as Lanje had been cornered by her own carelessness, he too had failed to dodge a critical blow because of his.
She probably expected to be treated like family.
He realized now—he had subconsciously been swayed by her appearance.
Thoughts crawled slowly through his head, repeating the same flimsy excuses before finally stopping.
It’s cold.
The chill grounded his frayed nerves. With his body unable to move, he was left with only his own thoughts.
Finally, he could reflect clearly on his mistake.
Why did I do that?
Why make such an extreme decision and hesitate in his heart?
He chose the simplest answer.
I’ve always been a messed-up human being.
The self-loathing didn’t come out of nowhere. Reasons emerged, one by one.
It all started with a truth he couldn’t deny:
In a household with a perfectly healthy eldest son, a second son exists only as a backup.
In the Swanhild family, he was no more than a tool for outdated traditions—like ancient scrolls, ceremonial swords, or ridiculously elaborate uniforms.
The pride and dignity belonged to the heir. The second son existed to support that illusion.
Even that might’ve been a dull but tolerable resentment. But Eirik’s story got worse.
It was the pathetic tale of unspoken heartbreak.
His first love was a servant girl at the main estate. She was two years older, with blushing cheeks.
But even as a youth, Eirik had enough sense to never act on his feelings.
Though his own future looked bleak, as a Swanhild son, he still had value. Any confession would’ve only left scars for both of them.
Then, just before he entered the military academy, the girl became his older brother’s lover.
While Eirik hesitated in silence, his brother leapt into a whirlwind romance—defying their father, getting beaten, and even threatening suicide if she were driven away.
At eighteen, such madness was possible. Even the count couldn’t stop his heir.
Eirik, meanwhile, quietly enrolled and graduated without complaint. That was when a marriage proposal came.
In the autumn of his twentieth year, he met Videllia Morigen.
It was a peaceful time. Both the Swanhild and Morigen houses considered the match ideal.
The Swanhilds had no intention of making the heir’s future illegitimate child the successor, so they pushed hard for Eirik’s engagement.
The Morigens found him a reasonable candidate.
Their heir had scandalous rumors, and Videllia was herself a backup heir—so marrying her off could smooth out succession lines if needed.
Beyond the political calculations, Eirik sincerely hoped for the engagement.
Videllia Morigen behaved as if bored with the world.
But her indifference seemed fair and impartial to all, and Eirik thought: if I stay by her side, I’ll never be hurt.
Maybe he fell for those empty eyes—naively hoping that, over time, her emptiness might fade.
That perhaps then, he too might become meaningful—not just a substitute for someone else.
But once again, it was his brother who stole her gaze.
