The old butler's smirking face eased the heavy feeling in my chest, if only a little.
Come to think of it, Ken and Maria were the ones who had watched over Alphonse and me for the longest time. If that was the case, then maybe Ken already knew the answer to this problem.
But I couldn't ask Ken about him.
If they had sensed anything strange about Alphonse, they would have told us right away. And even if they hadn't, Maria would never have left Alphonse alone. That was just the kind of person she was.
Given Maria's personality, she would have pitied a child who grew up without knowing his mother.
She would have paid attention to every small detail, worried over every change in mood, and tried to fill in whatever was missing. And yet, despite all that, Alphonse's emotional wounds had never truly healed.
That meant the problem couldn't be solved by servants or outsiders.
To resolve this, family—true family—had to step forward.
As that thought settled in my mind, a man's face surfaced clearly before my eyes.
The sharp gaze. The rigid posture. The presence that alone could fill a room.
The moment I remembered that face, I spoke without hesitation.
"Ken. Go and tell my father. His son wants to spar for the first time in a while."
Ken blinked, clearly caught off guard.
"Yes? All of a sudden?" he asked.
His eyes swept over me from head to toe, his brows knitting together. "But is that really okay in your current condition? Even when you're at your best, you come back looking like a slime that's been beaten flat. And right now…" He sighed. "You look exhausted. Wouldn't it be better to rest today and do it tomorrow?"
His concern was written plainly on his face, and for a moment, I almost wavered.
"It's fine," I said, shaking my head. "I don't plan on making it as intense as usual today."
That was the truth.
I wasn't going there to win or lose.
I just wanted a conversation.
A conversation between a son and his father—one that didn't rely on words.
Ken studied my expression for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether I was being reckless or stubborn. In the end, he let out a quiet sigh and nodded.
"…Understood."
Then, as if a troubling thought had occurred to him, he added, "Still, this will be a problem when it comes to the aftermath."
"Don't worry…"
"Even if the young master says that," Ken interrupted, his tone weary, "it's not likely to end normally, considering the nature of the Duke and his son." He rubbed his temple. "At the very least, please be careful. What if Lady Edelweiss gets surprised?"
"I'll make sure not to surprise her."
Ken's expression twisted.
"No. I'm telling you not to get hurt too badly," he said flatly. "You can't just come back covered in blood. What am I supposed to do if the lady faints from shock?"
"..."
For once, I had no rebuttal.
After giving me one last look—half worry, half resignation—Ken turned and left to inform my father.
Left alone, I exhaled slowly.
The air felt heavier than before, pressing down on my shoulders as if it already knew what was about to happen.
Without wasting any more time, I headed toward the training ground behind the castle.
Each step felt deliberate.
The familiar path stretched out before me, one I had walked countless times since childhood. The scent of earth and iron lingered in the air, memories clinging to every corner of the grounds.
Today wouldn't be about technique.
Nor strength.
It would be about facing him—and, perhaps, finally understanding something that words alone had failed to convey.
***
As befitted a renowned sword family, the Kraus family possessed several training grounds.
Among them, the training ground located directly behind the castle was special. It was a place reserved solely for those who carried the blood of the Kraus family. Even knights who had sworn their loyalty under the family's name were strictly forbidden from setting foot inside.
That alone spoke volumes about how important this place was.
After arriving at the training ground, I walked toward the weapon rack and picked up one of the swords prepared in advance.
It had no blade.
The surface was smooth, its weight carefully adjusted to perfectly mimic that of a real sword. There was no need to spar with sharpened steel unless one intended to kill. In the past, countless lives had been lost during training due to carelessness and overconfidence. Because of that, the Kraus family had long abandoned the use of real swords during practice.
Still, that rule only applied to ordinary people.
For a swordsman capable of wielding aura, the presence or absence of a blade made little difference. Once aura flowed through the weapon, even a blunt sword could cut through flesh and bone as easily as steel.
I loosened my grip slightly, rolling my wrist as I adjusted to the sword's balance.
Then, I waited.
The silence didn't last long.
The mana in the air, which had been calm and still, began to tremble. It was subtle at first, almost unnoticeable, but soon the flow of free mana surged violently. Like a raging current, it was being pulled toward a single point, drawn by an overwhelming force.
My breathing slowed.
"Are you here?"
I spoke quietly, though I already knew the answer.
At the center of the swirling mana, a figure stood.
A man.
He hadn't been there just moments ago, yet now he occupied the space as if he had always belonged there. His presence alone bent the flow of mana around him, pressing down on the surroundings with an invisible weight.
A Sword Master.
Even without drawing his sword, the pressure radiating from him was enough to make my skin prickle.
This was the difference between those who merely wielded a blade and those who had reached the peak of swordsmanship.
The mighty presence of the man who had reached the highest realm—something he usually kept tightly suppressed—was released without restraint.
The air around us grew heavy, pressing down on my shoulders like an invisible weight.
"Yeah. But I'm surprised you asked me for a spar first," my father said calmly. "Did you gain some sort of enlightenment?"
His eyes were sharp, filled with genuine interest rather than suspicion.
Seeing that look, I shook my head.
"No. That's not it."
I tightened my grip unconsciously.
"I just needed a place to vent my anger," I continued. "And I thought it'd be good to talk to my father after such a long time."
For a moment, he said nothing.
He only looked at me—exactly the same way he always had. Calm. Measured. As if trying to see through my bones rather than my words.
The silence stretched.
Then—
With a single blink, a sword appeared in his previously empty hand.
No flash of light.
No dramatic movement.
It was simply there, as natural as breathing.
I let out a slow breath and raised my own sword in response.
No words were exchanged.
There was no need.
The instant our stances settled, the peaceful training ground shattered.
Clang—!
The sound of metal crashing against metal echoed sharply through the air.
My arms vibrated as I slid back half a step, boots digging into the ground.
So heavy.
Even without fully exerting himself, every strike carried an overwhelming pressure.
I lunged forward, pouring my frustration into the next swing.
Our blades collided again, sparks bursting between us.
"You're sloppy," my father said flatly, parrying my strike with minimal movement. "Your emotions are bleeding into your form."
"I know," I replied through clenched teeth, forcing another attack. "That's the point."
He blocked it.
Then countered.
I barely twisted aside in time, the edge of his blade grazing past my shoulder and slicing through a strand of hair.
Cold sweat ran down my back.