#007. Like a Tidal Wave
“Answer me. Who are you?”
Duke Sorvan Etranger was experiencing the most absurd situation of his life.
A knight who had sworn loyalty to his daughter was asking him such a question.
“I am Duke Etranger, Sorvan Etranger. I have business with my daughter—step aside.”
In terms of authority, there was no problem. After all, he was the head of the Etranger ducal house.
But the knight did not move.
“That is unacceptable.”
“…What did you say?”
If words could resolve the matter, he had intended to send Anastasia back into the mithril restraints and dismiss the knight at most.
“Do not do something you will regret. I am Sorvan Etranger, the head of the only remaining family of mages on this continent.”
Magic was originally the domain of dragons, and after being passed down to humans, the first inheritor had been the Chanterie lineage.
Artorius Chanterie found the man before him utterly contemptible.
The only person who could harm him with magic was Anastasia. That extraordinary, overflowing talent and the universe’s generosity had granted her such power.
But the man in front of him was nothing more than an ordinary person clutching a bead and making a fuss.
“Something I will regret, you say…”
Artorius drew his greatsword from his back and drove it, still in its scabbard, into the ground.
Thud.
A low, rumbling sound echoed through the earth.
“Try it. The one I have sworn loyalty to is the princess atop the tower—not you.”
Sorvan exhaled and took the Orb of Ileset from within his robes.
Inside it was filled with Anastasia’s blood.
In Artorius’s eyes, it was nothing more than a revolting object that burned through noble blood capable of wielding magic as if it were fuel.
“I warned you, knight.”
Sorvan’s voice resonated low as his hand opened the orb’s stopper.
A few drops of the witch’s blood rose along his hand. Soon, the droplets transformed into a brilliant golden radiance.
Like the golden osmanthus sword Anastasia had once demonstrated, bright yellow petals stretched out from Sorvan’s fingertips.
They sharpened, condensed, and gleamed brilliantly on their surface.
It was a spear made of light.
“If you step aside now, I will spare your life.”
Even knights from Saden, towering at 2.5 meters, would fall in a single blow if struck by this spell, the “Osmanthus Spear.”
Sorvan was confident he could wipe out the insolent knight before him in one strike.
“Do you know…”
Artorius, without lifting a single step from the ground, drew his sword from its scabbard.
The final sacred sword of the Chanterie dynasty—now forgotten by all.
A blade that had survived two hundred years of corruption in the abyss, yet ultimately preserved his reason and soul, allowing him to bind the abyss itself.
“Half-hearted spells can never defeat what is real.”
Sorvan’s expression darkened.
“Are you saying my spell is half-hearted?”
“If you’re confident… then throw it.”
“…Why isn’t anyone coming up?”
That morning, he had said that Artorius would personally attend to her needs. Given his stature, it would surely be inconvenient, but with Diana’s assistance, it should be manageable.
So she had allowed it.
Then why wasn’t he coming up?
Anastasia tilted her head in confusion, then felt a surge of magical energy from below the tower.
Power was gathering.
“…A spell inside the mansion? And with such a sharp presence?”
A spell capable of killing a person was being cast inside the mansion. There was only one person capable of such a thing.
Her father, Duke Sorvan Etranger.
“What is happening down there?”
Anastasia opened the door she no longer locked and looked down over the tower’s railing.
The shimmering Osmanthus Spear spell glowed from Sorvan’s fingertips, while a pure white greatsword was held in Artorius’s hand, radiating sharp killing intent.
“…A duel, all of a sudden?”
It was somewhat absurd.
The situation was on the verge of explosion.
Artorius fully intended to cut down the man before him.
In truth, no one could match him in raw combat. The age of mystical magical artifacts had declined, and he alone could wield the abyss.
But at that moment, a familiar voice came from above his head.
“…What are you two doing right now?”
It was Anastasia.
Dressed in pajamas and fur slippers, she leapt over the railing and landed lightly beside Artorius.
Like a cloud settling at the edge of a mountain.
“Anastasia. I’ve heard that you took this giant man in as a knight. Is that true?”
Sorvan could no longer maintain his composure. Moreover, Anastasia’s ankle was no longer bound by mithril restraints.
Still.
“Diana… what on earth is that woman doing?”
But punishing a servant who had failed her duties could wait.
“Yes, it’s true.”
Realizing the cause of the commotion, Anastasia glared sharply at Sorvan.
“You’ve lost your fear. Or does this mean you no longer need your father’s love? Have you stopped seeing your family as family, Anastasia?”
His voice simmered with restrained anger.
It was hypocritical and repulsive.
Since when had they been family? Her mother, her elder sister Janice, and her younger brother Aslan—she could understand them, even if barely, with effort.
They were half-siblings. Essentially strangers who merely shared a father.
But the man before her—her father—was unacceptable.
Even that Osmanthus Spear spell was her own magic.
‘Of course it is. It’s magic fueled by my blood. And all he’s ever done is observe the magic I cast.’
Anastasia clenched her small fist and lightly tapped the back of Artorius’s hand twice.
A signal to step back.
“Family?”
“Yes. Family. Are you now refusing to even listen to your father?”
How much had “a father’s words” tormented her?
When she had been exchanged as a hostage in place of Aslan, she had wanted nothing more than to let go of everything and die.
When dragged onto the battlefield and forced to use magic… she had no choice but to slaughter hundreds with her own hands.
The anguished screams of those burned alive in the blue flames of her own magic.
The stench of burning flesh that pierced her nose, the heat that evaporated even tears.
Behind her, her father and officers laughed in triumph, celebrating their great achievements.
She still remembered it all.
And after making me do such things, you call yourself family now?
“Yes.”
“…Say that again.”
Above Sorvan’s grasp, the Osmanthus Spear spun violently, radiating golden light in all directions.
“Do you want to hear it again?”
Anastasia stepped forward, pressing her foot into the grass.
From beneath her toes, dozens of slender branches of flowering trees surged upward.
Bud by bud, time seemed to accelerate as blossoms formed, eventually blooming into radiant golden osmanthus flowers.
“I will never again follow your words. Never.”
Raising her hand, the swirling petals gathered in a sudden gust of wind.
Reverse cross.
It became a sword.
The clustered petals transformed into a brilliant blade, sharp energy lingering at its edge.
“…You may have been born a witch with the blood of that filthy woman.”
The Osmanthus Spear spun even more violently in Sorvan’s grasp, the surrounding winds growing fierce.
“But I have studied spells and visions far longer than you! How dare you flaunt such trivial tricks before your father!”
His face twisted with rage.
His eyes filled with jealousy.
Artorius noticed that Sorvan’s soul was warped, consumed by dark greed.
Then Sorvan’s Osmanthus Spear surged forward like an arrow drawn to its limit.
Anastasia gripped the Osmanthus Sword she had summoned.
“You’re wrong.”
Boom!!!
With a speed even Artorius could not fully track, Anastasia deflected the incoming spell with ease.
The missed spear shattered the lower portion of the tower.
With a thunderous roar, the structure tilted and then collapsed entirely to the ground.
Yet not a speck of dust touched Anastasia.
A fierce gust of wind, carrying osmanthus petals, swirled around her, shielding her.
At the center of it all, Anastasia aimed her blade at Sorvan’s chin.
“My mother was nobler than all of you from the moment she was born. The fact that I carry your filthy blood is disgusting. So do not go around calling yourself my father.”
Each word, though spoken softly enough for only Sorvan to hear, cut like an icy dagger into his heart.
“Remember this.”
Anastasia’s blade lightly pricked his chin.
Blood flowed along the golden blade.
“I could kill all of you at this very moment.”
Shame, rage, and humiliation flickered across Sorvan’s eyes.
He could not tolerate being insulted by a small girl whose chin didn’t even reach his shoulder.
Yet even he could not help but flinch before Anastasia’s deep, abyss-like blue eyes.
Within them lurked resentment, hatred, vengeance, hostility—and a power so deep and unfathomable it was terrifying.
A power that could force him to his knees—or cut off his legs if he refused.
“Do not interfere with my path.”
“…Ghk.”
The Osmanthus Sword dissolved into petals the moment Anastasia released it. They swirled around her like a storm before fading into golden light.
“Otherwise… I will do exactly as I please.”
“…What do you intend to do?”
Anastasia closed her eyes briefly, calming the violent fury within her.
The universe does not lend its power to the wicked. A mage consumed by rage and losing reason will inevitably meet the fate of a villain.
“I will reclaim what is rightfully mine.”
Sorvan did not understand this—and thus feared the cruel future that Anastasia might bring.
“…And if I interfere?”
Anastasia opened her eyes again.
Calm, emotionless, and deep as the sea.
“You would do well to prepare yourself.”
A seismic disturbance in the deep always gives rise to a tidal wave.
“Though preparation may not be enough to endure what is coming.”
At that moment, the mansion’s main gate suddenly burst open. The gatekeeper’s voice rang loudly from afar:
“Sir Esteban Hossongel, the kingdom’s finest artisan and tailor, has arrived!”
Anastasia smiled.
Leaving the frozen Sorvan behind, she walked toward the oak-colored carriage.
