The laughter of the young lady echoed through the hallowed halls of the manor, light and unexpected. Even the staff paused, momentarily bewildered by the unfamiliar sound. Amelia's laughter gradually subsided, but a soft smile lingered on her lips as she rose to her feet and gently dusted off her dress.
"Let's go. Darren is waiting for us," she said, her tone returning to its usual poise.
As they made their way to the training grounds beyond the manor, Amelia's smile slowly faded. Tristan glanced at her, a quiet sadness stirring within him. He didn't know the full details of her situation, but something inside him understood—he felt it. The weight she carried, the conflict she faced... even a lazy man could see it in her eyes, because it was all too familiar to him.
The walk was silent—not the awkward, hesitant kind, but the heavy, solemn quiet of soldiers marching to war. A dramatic thought, perhaps—but not entirely unfitting.
They reached the training grounds, an open expanse surrounded by lush grass, punctuated by various obstacles: towering wooden walls, a pit of quicksand, and a deep pool of water, each demanding in its own right. Standing at the center was Darren, clad in a form-fitting combat suit. A sleek iron cuirass protected his torso, gauntlets molded to his hands like second skin, and sturdy combat boots grounded him firmly.
"What's with the armor?" Tristan asked bluntly.
Darren tapped the breastplate with a metallic clink and replied proudly, "When you fight the Fallen Stars, their talons and vile fangs can rip through flesh like parchment. That's why we use the Suited Tactical Armored Reaper—or STAR, for short."
Tristan smirked, looking off to the side. "Creative," he said with a quiet chuckle.
Without warning, Darren tossed a star-shaped metal emblem to him and gestured to his chest. Tristan, puzzled but compliant, placed the metal where his heart lay. Instantly, the metal began to shift and expand—wrapping around his body, forming first a skin-tight suit, then layering into a cuirass, and finally solidifying into armored gauntlets.
Tristan raised his hands and admired the suit—sleek, mobile, and remarkably comfortable despite the protective layers. It was unlike any armor he had known in his former world. Patting his body, he looked up, concern flickering across his face.
"What happened to the clothes I was wearing before?"
"Nothing," Darren answered. "The armor layers itself over your clothes. Think of it as... external protection."
Amelia then activated her own STAR armor. Unlike the standard design, hers was clearly custom. The suit was a deep emerald green; her silver cuirass bore the insignia of House Green. Instead of traditional gauntlets, elegant black gloves formed around her hands, and a skirt-like fauld draped from her waist. It was stunning—regal, refined, and undeniably hers.
"Amazing, isn't it?" Darren said with admiration. "Of course, I have one of my own, but nothing compares to my lady's custom STAR."
Tristan couldn't deny it. He felt a twinge of envy but was content with his own armor—for now.
"Alright, let's begin," Darren said, his voice shifting into that of an instructor. "Amelia, agility training. Scale the wooden walls."
He just called her Amelia? Tristan noted silently.
Amelia gave a silent nod and sprinted toward the towering walls. Meanwhile, Tristan turned toward Darren.
"So, what's my task?" he asked, readying himself.
Darren handed him a longsword—identical in weight and size to the one Tristan had wielded at the boutique—and began positioning him.
"Stronger hand on top, weaker one below," he instructed, adjusting Tristan's grip. Then he straightened the boy's posture with careful precision.
"You're going to swing that sword—one hundred times."
Tristan's expression twisted in disbelief. A hundred swings? Even the Queen's elite guard couldn't manage such a feat casually. He took a deep breath and began.
With Darren observing, Tristan swung. Though unfamiliar with swordplay, his body adapted quickly, his form evolving into that of a fledgling but promising swordsman. Still, by the thirtieth swing, his muscles burned and his breath came in gasps. Sweat poured from his brow like rain.
Each time he faltered, Darren's commanding voice struck like thunder.
"Do not stop! In a fight against a Fallen, there are no breaks—only relentless attacks. If you rest, you die!"
Tristan pushed forward, grit overtaking fatigue. Somehow, he made it—one hundred swings. He collapsed to the ground, chest heaving, limbs trembling, drenched in sweat.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Amelia still training. She climbed the towering walls with feline grace, dodged arrows with uncanny precision, and even deflected a few when armed. She was clearly far ahead of him in skill—but he wasn't deterred. If anything, he was inspired.
He gritted his teeth, picked up the sword, and swung it ten more times before his arms gave out completely.
"You didn't have to push yourself that hard," Darren said with a grin, ruffling Tristan's red hair. "Honestly, I expected you to pass out after thirty. You proved me wrong. Well done."
Though dissatisfied with his performance, Tristan acknowledged this was only day one—and for now, that was enough.
"Amelia, that's enough for today."
She nodded and made her way back to them at a measured pace. As she approached, Tristan voiced a question that had lingered in his mind.
"Why do you call her 'Amelia' during training, but 'my lady' other times?"
Darren burst into laughter, wiping away a tear.
"A few years ago, Lady Amelia scolded me for calling her 'lady' while we trained. She said on the battlefield, we are warriors—equals. She ordered me to treat her as such during training sessions."
"I see," Tristan replied, quietly impressed.
Amelia arrived just as the two were finishing their conversation, raising a brow at their shared laughter.
"What's so funny?" she asked.
They answered in unison, "Don't worry about it."
They deactivated their suits. Strangely, all the sweat that had soaked Tristan's body had vanished.
How...? The suit must absorb and filter it... but where does it go? he wondered.
He reached out to return the metal emblem to Darren, but the man shook his head.
"Keep it. We'll be training for the next two weeks. You'll need it."
"Alright," Tristan replied, tucking the emblem into his pocket.
The three made their way to the manor's front entrance, where a carriage awaited to escort Tristan and Darren home. They boarded, and as the rhythmic motion of the carriage lulled him, Tristan drifted into a deep sleep.
Darren watched him for a moment, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Then he turned to the window, gazing out at the fading light.
"You'll make a perfect partner for my lady," he said softly.