Leone glared at Esdeath, who sat expectantly at the dining table with an air of entitlement, clearly waiting for the meal to begin. Irritation simmered inside Leone—especially remembering Esdeath's undisguised contempt when she first spotted the collar around Leone's neck.
It had only been a few days since she'd become a slave, and Leone still hadn't adjusted to this humiliating identity. If Lancer hadn't returned precisely when he did, she'd likely have started cursing out loud already.
Although Leone had been timid around Lancer, it didn't erase her past—years spent toughing it out in the slums had taught her a whole vocabulary of vile insults. In a battle of trash-talk, the arrogant, battle-obsessed Esdeath wouldn't stand a chance. Still, it was lucky Leone had restrained herself; otherwise, the consequences might've been…
But unlike Leone, whose narrowed eyes never left Esdeath, Esdeath herself paid the girl no attention. Her focus was solely on Tiger, who had just trotted from the kitchen alongside Lancer, balancing a tray of dishes.
Even as the daughter of the Empire's most renowned Danger Beast-hunting clan chief, Esdeath had never laid eyes on such a peculiar Danger Beast. While most girls might've been fascinated by Tiger's adorable features or tempted to poke at his squishy paws, Esdeath's curiosity was entirely different. She was far more intrigued by the beast's aura—a subtle, dangerous strength that prickled her senses. It was truly fascinating.
...
Esdeath's sudden appearance had caught Lancer entirely off guard, but aside from their daily sparring sessions, her presence didn't particularly disrupt his routine. She might cause him minor trouble during their fights, but she still had a long way to go before truly threatening him.
Thwack—!
The wooden lance smashed fiercely into Esdeath's midriff. Though she held her footing, her heels carved twin trenches in the ground, and her crossed arms bore painful purple bruises—proof that Lancer had spared no strength in his strike.
"That's enough for today—I need to head to the palace. Rest a bit; Leone will help you with the ointment later."
Lancer eyed Esdeath with a complicated expression. Each battle clearly heightened her abilities, and her growth rate was frighteningly rapid, surpassing even his own training speed.
"Haa…haa… Let me catch my breath first."
Though she'd stubbornly forced herself upright even when certain defeat loomed before, after several matches with Lancer, Esdeath could now calmly accept her losses.
It wasn't weakness that changed her, of course—it was acknowledgement of strength. But her acknowledgement wasn't respect; it was the resolve to keep improving until she finally crushed him.
Watching Lancer stride toward the bathroom in his training shirt, Esdeath licked her lips unconsciously—but at that exact moment, an angry voice snapped at her ear.
"Hmph! You idiot, you'll never beat Sir!"
Had anyone else dared say such a thing, Esdeath would've likely swung the wooden practice sword straight into their face. Yet this time, she merely flashed a mocking smile.
"Oh, please. I've said it already—I have no interest in men older than me. He's merely my prey. Still… I do wonder how delicious such a powerful man's blood might taste."
"Wha—who cares about your creepy thoughts! I'm just telling you to give up wasting your time! Now hurry up and raise your shirt so I can apply the medicine!"
Leone's rough handling drew an irritated scowl from Esdeath, though her expression quickly settled into an arrogant smile. While Esdeath would readily concede to Lancer's superior strength, she wouldn't yield even an inch of ground to someone as weak as Leone.
...
"Hahaha! Fantastic! Truly my most perfect creation!"
A bespectacled man stared ecstatically at the naked figure lying motionless on the operating table. He lovingly ran his fingers across the muscular physique, completely entranced—though beneath his delight lurked an unmistakable sense of frustration.
His body matches that man's perfectly, yet the difference in combat power is immense. Fascinating… What secret does that man hold? Ah, what a pity!
As the Empire's chief scientist, Dr. Stylish wielded vast authority. Normally, procuring a corpse—excluding the imperial family—was a trivial matter. But this time, it seemed impossible. By the end of things, the body he desired would likely be reduced to nothing more than charred ashes.
Just as he was fully engrossed in admiring his handiwork—
Knock, knock—!
A sudden knocking shattered his reverie, souring his expression instantly.
"Who is it?"
This was Dr. Stylish's private laboratory. Everyone who knew of it was a trusted subordinate well-versed in his habits; they would never interrupt him without good reason. Thus, the voice outside the door made his face twist with suppressed anger.
"Dr. Stylish, Mr. Honest sent me to inquire about your earlier arrangement…"
Bang—!
The lab door swung violently open. Dr. Stylish, his expression thunderous, ignored the blond-haired man kneeling respectfully before him. Instead, he glanced beyond—at the several unconscious subordinates sprawled on the floor.
"Your goods are inside. Take them yourself!"
"My thanks, Doctor."
The blond man wasted no further words. He strode past, wrapped the unconscious subject in a sheet, slung the body over his shoulder, and promptly departed.
Only when the intruder vanished from view did Dr. Stylish awaken his fallen assistants one by one.
He understood the man's intentions clearly—this was a deliberate show of force. Understandable, perhaps, but understanding did not mean acceptance.
Someday, you'll lie on my operating table… Then we'll see if you can still act so high and mighty!
Since becoming obsessed with human experimentation, Dr. Stylish had transformed numerous bodies, living and dead, using his authority. The results varied wildly in strength, but never before had he "experimented" on a Teigu user.
Yet, deep down, he knew it was a futile fantasy. Both of them possessed Teigu, but compared to his supportive-type gloves, the other man wielded a genuine battle-ready weapon, a cursed blade. In a direct confrontation, Stylish's odds of victory would be minuscule—unless, of course, he made ample preparations beforehand.
After venting his frustration, Stylish's gaze drifted thoughtfully into the distance.
That a researcher like him, with no family background, had even obtained a Teigu was a testament to his abilities and status. By rights, he should feel profound gratitude toward the man who granted him this position. And in fact, he did. But even gratitude paled before the lure of curiosity.
His proposals for human experimentation had been repeatedly rejected, and he'd even been gently warned to abandon the idea entirely. Thus, if he wished to continue his research within the Empire, he had no choice but to cooperate.
Finally, with complicated eyes, he shut the doors to his laboratory once more.
Whatever happens next is entirely up to that man's scheming…
---
T/N: hmm? a cursed blade? is this a wielder of mura whatever ALSO HELLO ESDEATH?? ARE YOU PART OF THE FILES?