Three days had passed since the Jenora incident.
It was morning. The sun bathed the family garden in golden warmth.
Xylia moved through the greenery with careful grace, plucking a glowing sprig from a tangle of foliage. Her fingers were precise, practiced—herbs, or some exotic magical flora that pulsed faintly in her palm.
From his perch on the house steps, Piers watched with quiet curiosity.
In the yard, Rigas practiced with Styx, who wielded a new practice sword that looked more like a club in her small hands.
"Alright, Styx! Feel the weight of the blade—yes, just like that! Now, imagine it's a giant carrot. You're starving. You want that carrot. And—WHAM!"
Rigas swung his own blade, sending a shower of leaves into the air.
Styx planted her feet, brow furrowed in fierce concentration.
She swung—
And hit the ground. Hard.
"Good effort!" Rigas called cheerfully. "Again, but try not to fight the lawn."
She tried again.
The sword slipped from her grip and sailed toward the garden.
Xylia didn't look up.
Her hand snapped out and caught the blade mid-spin between two fingers, like it was nothing more than an annoyance.
"Styx, darling," she said, calm and firm, "perhaps a little less force, and a little more focus, hmm? We don't want any accidental beheadings of the magnolias."
She tossed the sword back. Styx caught it clumsily, nodding sheepishly.
"Yes, Mama. I'm sorry."
Rigas cleared his throat. "She's got the spirit, though! That's important, right?"
Xylia merely raised an eyebrow—maternal judgment in a single motion.
Rigas chuckled, scratched his neck, and adjusted Styx's grip.
"Alright, this time imagine the carrot is... smaller. And significantly less explosive."
Piers watched, absorbing every detail.
Understanding the rules that governed this world—the history, the magic, the hidden mechanics—remained necessary.
The house now held books. Dozens of them, purchased in Jenora. A solid foundation. But knowledge was a hunger never truly satisfied. Each answer spawned three new questions.
Still.
Recent evidence suggested emotional development was... more efficient.
Three days of reading had reduced corruption by 0.3%. One night with Mutou and Gyuunyuu? Nearly 10%.
The math is simple. Emotions reduce corruption faster than knowledge acquisition.
The implication was clear.
Books can wait. This... this is more important.
He could study magical theory later. Right now, observing family dynamics provided better data.
He settled on the steps, watching Father and Styx in the garden. Not just watching technique. Watching the way Father grinned when Styx tried too hard. The way Mother caught the flying sword without looking.
The patterns humans called "love."
Fascinating.
And apparently, therapeutic.
Then the earth shuddered.
A deep rumble rolled beneath their feet, sending cracks splintering across the garden soil. The air thickened with the sharp scent of crushed leaves and sap.
Shadows lengthened unnaturally.
The ground split open.
A mass of thorned vines erupted upward, lashing out with terrifying speed. Their surfaces bristled with jagged barbs, movements unnervingly deliberate—as though guided by some unseen will.
Before anyone could react, they coiled around Xylia.
One snapped tight around her wrists.
Another coiled around her legs.
A third constricted her torso.
The last wrapped menacingly around her neck, thorns grazing her skin.
In an instant, she was dragged back toward the herb beds, pinned and bound by living roots that groaned as they tightened.
Her elegant composure cracked just enough to reveal shock—eyes wide, breath sharp.
"Rigas!" she barked, voice tight. "Do something!"
For a heartbeat, Rigas just stared.
Then his grin vanished, replaced by a fierce snarl.
"You dare," he roared, drawing his blade. "You dare bind what is mine?!"
The vines pulled tighter, thorns digging shallow lines into Xylia's skin.
Behind him, Styx leapt in place, fists pumping.
"Go, Papa! Chop the ass off that weed monster!"
Rigas charged.
His sword cleaved through vine after vine, each swing scattering shredded leaves and barbed fragments. The roots screamed like wood splitting in fire, writhing as they fought to hold their prey.
The battle was brutal but short.
With one final strike, Rigas split the thickest root down the middle.
The rest recoiled violently, retreating into the soil with a hiss, leaving only shredded thorns and splinters across the garden.
He turned, triumphant, chest puffed.
He expected praise.
Perhaps even a kiss.
He sheathed his sword with exaggerated flair, grinning at his wife.
"See, honey? Handled. No need to thank me—just doing my job as a loving husband and protector."
The last of the vines slid off Xylia and fell lifeless at her feet.
She stepped forward, dusting her gown as if she hadn't just been bound by nature's wrath.
Her grey gaze fixed on Rigas—cool and utterly unforgiving.
"Rigas," she said, her voice low, calm, and far more terrifying than a shout. "You defended my honor... admirably. Truly."
She paused.
"Almost makes me forget that you taught our daughter a word that would make a priest choke on his prayers."
Her smile curved upward, sharp and terrible.
Dark mana shimmered at her fingertips like the promise of retribution.
Rigas's grin faltered.
"Ah. About that, love... I-I can explain, heh. It just sort of slipped out. Heat of battle—"
She stepped closer, her voice dropping into a velvet purr.
"Oh, I'm sure it did."
Her hand clamped onto his collar, dragging him toward the house with merciless grace.
"Come, my foolish husband. Corrupting our child's tongue comes with consequences."
Rigas managed one final glance at the children, his face caught between dread and misplaced pride.
"Heh. Kids—wish me luck."
The door slammed shut behind them.
Piers observed with detached interest.
Botanical attack. Targeted. Mom could break free easily—she's allowing capture. Testing Father's response time?
Or... genuinely surprised? Rare.
He filed the data and continued watching.
Styx turned to him, eyes bright.
"Papa's in trouble again," she whispered with glee.
Piers said nothing.
But he filed the information away.
Note: Don't teach Styx curse words.