Recarnation of the villainess.

Adam stepped back, his stance relaxed but his eyes sharp.

"Alright. Defend yourself."

Salira raised her wooden sword with both hands. Her arms ached from the last few rounds.

"No holding back?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

Adam smirked. That infuriating, unreadable little smirk.

"What would be the point?"

CLACK!

She barely managed to block the first strike, and the second one sent her stumbling back two steps, nearly tripping over her own boots.

"Again," he ordered, calm and cold.

She grit her teeth and forced herself to her feet. Her lungs burned. Her shoulders throbbed.

"Again."

She raised the sword. The grip was slipping from her sweat-soaked hands.

CLACK.

"Again."

Her breathing was ragged now. Her body felt like it had been dipped in lead. The sun was blazing overhead. Her vision began to swim.

But she didn't stop.

She couldn't.

Because her whole body might've screamed in exhaustion,

But her heart?

It screamed louder.

Then, gripping the sword tighter, with sweat pouring down her back and her braid sticking to her neck, she whispered through grit teeth:

> "This pain… it's nothing compared to what I've survived."

And she charged.

Adam blinked. For a split second, she looked... unbreakable.

That fury—messy, wild, burning—surged through every step.

She wasn't trained, not properly. Her footing was off, and her arms were too tense. But her eyes—those eyes were full of war.

A flicker of surprise passed through Adam's expression.

> "Will she—?"

BONK!

One flick of his wrist and the wooden sword flew from her hands again.

The clatter echoed across the training ground for what felt like the hundredth time.

Silence.

Even the soldiers who had gathered to watch didn't know whether to applaud her effort—or bury their faces in embarrassment.

Salira stared at the fallen sword. Then up at Adam.

"…Seriously?"

Adam tilted his head, casually resting his wooden blade on his shoulder. "You said no holding back."

She glared, rubbing her sore wrist. "You didn't have to bonk me like I'm a misbehaving goose."

His lips twitched.

Was that—

No.

No way.

That was almost a smile.

But it vanished too quickly.

"I could go easier," he said, stepping closer. His voice dropped, softer now. "But you wouldn't respect me if I did."

She blinked. "That's… surprisingly accurate."

He leaned in, just a little. "Then stop holding back."

Her heart stuttered.

"Excuse me?" she said flatly.

Adam pointed at the wooden sword on the ground. "You fight like you're scared to hurt me. You flinch. You second-guess. You're surviving, not attacking."

"Well forgive me for not knowing how to fight a prince on two hours of sleep and a missing blueprint I still haven't found," she snapped.

That smirk returned. Infuriating. Confident.

"You'll get used to it."

She narrowed her eyes. "You like seeing me suffer, don't you?"

He didn't answer.

But his silence said it all.

"Sadist."

"War criminal."

"Arrogant, overpowered—"

"You talk a lot when you're losing."

"Oh, and you breathe dramatically whenever you're being annoying!"

Behind them, the soldiers whispered:

> "Is… this training or flirting?"

"His Grace yells at us for breathing wrong—look at how soft he is with her…"

"I think she just called him a war criminal."

"...He didn't deny it."

"Do you think they'll kiss or kill each other?"

Adam ignored the murmurs and walked past her, retrieving the fallen sword and holding it out.

"You want to hit me?"

She took it.

"No," she said.

Then smiled.

"I want to win."