I led Maria to one of the smaller receiving rooms, a quiet space typically used for private conversations between family members. The morning light streamed through tall windows, casting everything in a warm, peaceful glow that somehow made her nervous fidgeting more pronounced.
"Please, sit," I offered, gesturing to one of the comfortable chairs arranged around a low table.
Maria remained standing, wringing her hands as she glanced toward the door. "Young Master, I... I'm not certain I should be speaking of this matter at all."
"If something concerns you enough to request a private audience, then it's worth discussing," I replied calmly. "Whatever it is, you have my attention."
She took a shaky breath, her resolve visibly wavering. "It's about Lady Celia, Young Master."
A slight chill ran down my spine, though I kept my expression neutral. "What about her?"
"I... I clean the training halls after lessons, you see. And sometimes I arrive early to prepare the equipment." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I've been seeing things during Lady Celia's sword training that... that don't sit right with me."
'Here it comes,' I thought, my hands instinctively clenching. "What kind of things?"
Maria's eyes darted around the room as if she expected someone to burst in at any moment. "I don't want to speak ill of Sir Gareth, Young Master. He's a respected knight, and I'm just a maid. But the way he speaks to Lady Celia..." She swallowed hard. "It's always about comparisons."
"Comparisons?"
"To you, Young Master. Every lesson, every correction, every critique." The words came out in a rush now. "He tells her that her brother would never make such basic mistakes. That you understood proper form instinctively while she struggles with fundamentals. That perhaps sword work simply isn't suited for everyone in the family."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. I felt something cold and dangerous unfurling in my chest, but I kept my voice level. "Continue."
"He makes her repeat the same sequences over and over, but every time she improves, he mentions how you never needed such repetition. Yesterday she performed a very good defensive form, and instead of praise, he said..." Maria's voice cracked slightly. "He said it was adequate, but that you had mastered the same technique in half the time with twice the elegance."
My fingernails were digging into my palms now. "What else?"
"When she's tired from training, he suggests that perhaps stamina runs differently in the family bloodline. That some are born for greatness while others..." She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. "He never says anything directly cruel, Young Master, but the meaning is always clear. She's being measured against a standard she can never reach, and he makes sure she knows it."
'Psychological manipulation,' I realized with crystalline clarity. 'He's systematically eroding her confidence by making her feel inferior to me at every turn.'
"There's more, isn't there?" I asked, though part of me already knew.
Maria nodded miserably. "He often speaks about how fortunate the Grand Duchy is to have such a naturally gifted heir, then looks meaningfully at Lady Celia as if to emphasize what that implies about her own prospects. And when she practices alone after lessons, he watches and sighs, mentioning how different her technique is from yours."
The cold sensation in my chest was spreading outward now, but beneath it, something else was building—a familiar protective rage that I recognized from my previous life.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked quietly.
"Because... because Lady Celia doesn't deserve it," Maria whispered, tears starting to form in her eyes. "She's kind to all of us staff, always polite, always trying her best. And I can see what it's doing to her. She used to be so confident, so bright. Now she seems... diminished. Like she's constantly questioning whether she's good enough for anything."
'I should have noticed,' I thought with self-recrimination. 'The constant comparisons, the way her enthusiasm has been slowly draining away.'
"Has anyone else witnessed this behavior?"
"Some of the other maids have noticed the change in Lady Celia's demeanor, but Sir Gareth is always careful to phrase things professionally. On the surface, he's simply a thorough instructor pointing out areas for improvement." She looked helpless. "But the effect is the same."
I stood slowly, my movements deliberate and controlled. "Maria, you did the right thing by telling me. This is not appropriate instruction."
What Gareth was doing was insidious precisely because it wasn't overtly abusive. Constant unfavorable comparisons, subtle implications of inadequacy, the slow erosion of self-worth through a thousand small cuts—it was psychological warfare dressed up as education.
And I understood exactly why he was doing it.
Gareth had been dismissed as my instructor after one assessment, told that his teaching was unnecessary for someone of my "natural abilities." His pride had been wounded, his professional competence questioned. Now he was taking out that frustration on Celia, using her as a vehicle to prove his relevance while simultaneously expressing his resentment about being deemed inadequate for me.
"Young Master?" Maria's voice seemed to come from far away. "Are you... are you alright?"
I realized I'd been standing motionless for several long moments, my thoughts turning darker by the second. When I looked at Maria, she took an involuntary step back, something in my expression apparently unsettling her.
"I'm fine," I said, though my voice carried an edge that made her flinch. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention. You may go."
"What... what will you do?" she asked hesitantly.
"I'll handle it," I replied simply.
After Maria left, I remained in the receiving room for a long time, staring out the window at the peaceful gardens where Celia and I had played just hours earlier. My mind was working through the implications, the patterns, the systematic nature of what was happening.
Sir Gareth wasn't just a poor teacher—he was a wounded professional taking out his inadequacies on a child who couldn't defend herself. Every comparison to me was really about his own failure, his own sense of being dismissed and found wanting.
'How pathetic,' I thought with cold contempt. 'Using a six-year-old girl to soothe your bruised ego.'
I made my way through the estate's corridors with measured steps, my expression calm but my thoughts racing. Several servants I passed seemed to sense something different about my demeanor, offering deeper bows than usual and avoiding eye contact.
Celia's sword training was scheduled to begin in an hour. That gave me time to prepare, time to consider my approach. In my previous life, I'd learned that sometimes the most effective way to deal with a problem was swift, decisive action that left no room for misunderstanding.
I stopped by my room to change into more appropriate attire for what was to come. As I stood before my mirror, adjusting the formal tunic that marked my status as heir to the Grand Duchy, I caught sight of my own reflection.
My eyes held a coldness that hadn't been there this morning. Something ancient and dangerous that belonged to a man who'd stood as humanity's final guardian against extinction. For a moment, the face looking back at me wasn't that of a six-year-old boy, but someone much older, much more experienced in the art of destruction.
'Poor choice,' I thought, the words settling into my mind with absolute certainty. 'Very poor choice indeed.'
I made my way to the indoor training hall where Celia's lessons took place, arriving well before the scheduled time. The space was empty, sunlight streaming through high windows to illuminate the polished wooden floors and racks of practice weapons.
I selected a position near the far wall where I could observe everything while remaining unobtrusive. Then I waited, my mind running through various scenarios, various approaches to what was about to happen.
The sound of footsteps announced their arrival. Celia entered first, her practice clothes neat and her silver hair pulled back in a simple braid. She looked... smaller somehow. More hesitant than the confident girl who'd eagerly looked forward to sword training just weeks ago.
Sir Gareth followed a moment later, his weathered face set in what I now recognized as barely concealed frustration. He glanced around the training hall, his gaze passing over me without apparent interest.
"Let's see if today brings improvement," he said to Celia, his tone professionally neutral but somehow managing to imply that such improvement was unlikely. "Your brother mastered yesterday's sequence on his first attempt. Perhaps with enough repetition, you might achieve something similar."
"Yes, sir," Celia replied quietly, her voice lacking any of its usual spirit.
I watched as he put her through a series of basic forms, each correction accompanied by subtle reminders of how differently I had performed the same techniques. When she executed a movement well, he mentioned how naturally it had come to me. When she struggled, he suggested that perhaps such things were simply easier for some people.
Never directly cruel, never overtly harsh, but every word carefully chosen to reinforce the message that she was the lesser twin, the one who would always fall short of her brother's effortless excellence.
'Enough,' I decided, rising from my position.
But as I started forward, Gareth delivered what would prove to be his final insult.
"Your stance is improving," he said after Celia had performed a particularly good defensive sequence. "Though I suppose your mother will always wonder why such natural talent manifested so differently in her children. Your brother never needed such... extensive correction to achieve basic competence."
The words were spoken with professional detachment, but their meaning was poison. I saw Celia's shoulders sag slightly, saw that familiar light in her eyes dim just a little more.
And that was when something inside me snapped.
My right hand moved to the practice sword at my hip, fingers closing around the grip with deadly familiarity. The weapon felt light in my grasp, balanced and eager. Power flowed through me—not just the mana of this world, but something deeper. Something forged in battles against impossible odds, tempered by the weight of humanity's survival.
For just a moment, the air around me seemed to shimmer with barely contained violence.
'How dare you,' I thought, my consciousness narrowing to a single, crystalline point of focused rage. 'How dare a mere insect like you harm my sister.'
The practice sword cleared its sheath in one fluid motion, the blade catching the afternoon sunlight as I stepped into the training hall proper. My footsteps echoed in the sudden silence, each one a promise of what was about to come.
Sir Gareth turned toward me, irritation flashing across his features as he prepared to voice some complaint about interruptions.
But the words died in his throat as he met my gaze and saw his own death reflected there.