Chapter 270: Never Look Back

Another weekend, another mandatory extra class for the Honors.

As I sat in the classroom—barely paying attention to the material since I had already read the exact book the instructor was referencing—I noticed something out of place.

Lechter’s desk was empty. It was a jarring sight, especially since he had finally started showing up to classes again.

Did his mood worsen again, or?

Lionne, seemingly tracking my gaze, leaned in to whisper. “I heard Lechter went back to his family estate. His father’s orders, apparently.”

His father’s orders? So, family matters then.

Well, whatever it was he was dealing with, I could only hope he was doing fine.

As much as I wanted to win the tournament, I wanted to grow stronger even more. If we were ever to cross paths in the ring again, I would love for him to stop holding back.

—

A carriage came to a smooth halt, stopping right before the grand iron gates of the Hailreid Family Estate.

The carriage door opened smoothly as a single figure descended the small steps and onto the cobblestone road below.

The fresh air of the early morning washed over Lechter. Before him stood a large estate, with a modest garden adorning its front courtyard, with marble pillars on the sides of the brickstone road leading to the grand entrance.

"Welcome home, Master Lechter."

A stern-faced house butler stood waiting near the gates, bowing deeply. Lechter gave a curt nod but said nothing. He didn't offer his coat, nor did he wait for the butler to gather his things as he passed the butler by.

The walk toward the grand entrance was quiet, only occupied with the clicking of his boots as he slowly approached the wooden doors.

The butler opened the towering double doors, and Lechter stepped into the grand foyer. Instantly, the soft morning light was replaced by an annoyingly warm Luminite light from the grand chandelier hanging above the main hall.

But the grand chandelier wasn't what dominated the hall. It was the massive, floor-to-ceiling painting that stood at the far end.

It was the first thing that greeted anyone who walked through the doors. The canvas depicted the late Countess Hailreid, a fierce, breathtakingly beautiful woman atop a galloping white steed.

Her posture was flawless as she drew a massive bow, raining down arrows to shatter a devastating wave of monsters. Underneath the frame, a gold-plated plaque commemorated the victory that had elevated their family from humble Viscounts to prestigious Counts.

She was the savior of the family. The woman who had elevated House Hailreid to heights no one could ever have thought of. The woman the Count loved. The woman his sister idolized. Yet to him, she was merely a face in a painting.

"You're late."

The cold, booming voice echoed from above, shattering the calm silence of the hall.

Lechter snapped his head upward. Standing on the second-floor banister, looking down at him with an expression devoid of any warmth, was his father. Count Hailreid didn't offer a greeting, nor did he make any move to descend the stairs. He merely offered a judgmental glance, turned on his heel, and walked back toward his private study.

Lechter gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening. He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and reluctantly followed, his boots clicking heavily against the marble steps.

…

Inside the Count's office, the atmosphere was suffocating. The only sound cutting through the tension was the rhythmic, agonizingly slow tick, tick, tick of a towering grandfather clock in the corner.

The Count sat silently behind a heavy mahogany desk, his eyes buried in a sheet of parchment. He didn't look up at all when Lechter entered. He didn’t even ask how his studies went, nor if he was feeling well, but Lechter had expected as such.

"For what reason was I summoned?" Lechter finally demanded, unable to stomach the quiet any longer. "This had better be important. I had to miss a class for your summons."

Count Hailreid slowly set the parchment down on the desk, his sharp eyes finally locking onto Lechter’s face.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

"I received a report this morning," the Count said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "A detailed account regarding your recent behavior at the academy. It came directly from Yorge."

Lechte’s eyes narrowed, a brief flash of confusion crossing his mind. Why was his personal butler’s name being brought up now? But the answer followed with brutal clarity.

"He tells me," the Count continued, leaning forward and crossing his fingers over the desk, "that you have not touched your bow since the term started. In fact, he tells me you have been frolicking around the training grounds with a sword.”

Lechter’s breath hitched. His eyes widened in a sudden, blinding flash of betrayal.

Yorge…

The butler who always brought him lunch. The one who always stood outside the door to respect his privacy. The one whom he thought was his sole companion in the academy…

So even he was nothing more than an informant.

“Well?” the Count asked. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"What about it?" Lechter snapped.

“‘What about it’?” the Count parroted, his eyes narrowing into a sharp, piercing glare. “Have you any idea what you just said?”

Lechter scoffed, taking a defiant step forward. “I was sent to the academy to train, wasn’t I? So, I trained my skills with a sword. What about it?”

The Count’s hand slammed flat onto the desk; the deafening sound echoed in the room.

"Watch your tone," the Count hissed, his voice dropping low. He leaned over the desk, his eyes burning. "You think you're being clever? You think this is a game? I pay an exorbitant amount of tuition for you to hone the talent this family requires. Not for you to pick up a toy you have no business touching!”

"It's not a toy," Lechter said, his voice trembling as he fought to keep his ground. "It’s a sword. And I’m actually working for it. For once in my life, I’m trying to learn something that isn't just forced on me. It’s called being independent."

"And that is exactly why you are being a fool!" the Count finally roared, standing up to his full height. "What do you even hope to achieve with a sword? You want to struggle? A challenge? Then go! Be a common knight! But you bear the Hailreid name! Your mother secured our future with her bow, and you dare play with a piece of iron?!"

Hearing her being brought up yet again, even after all this time, completely stripped away what little restraint Lechter had left.

"Shut up! Just shut up about her already!"

The grandfather clock seemed to vanish entirely under the weight of his rage. His chest heaved, his eyes wide and bloodshot as he stared dead into the Count's face, his hands trembling on his sides.

“Why do you have to keep bringing her up?! She’s dead! She’s been dead for years! I never even met her, and you expect me to be her?!”

"You will mind your tongue, Lechter," the Count hissed, his face contorting into an expression of pure, unadulterated fury. "Your mom gave everything to pull this family out of obscurity. Her blood bought the very title and privilege we bear. Her bow secured our future. And you dare treat her memory with such disrespect?"

"I’m not disrespecting her! I’m talking about me!" Lechter screamed back, taking a violent step closer until there was barely any distance between them besides the desk. "All you see in me is a way to raise the family name again! If you hate the sight of my hands on a sword so much, then stop looking!"

Count Hailreid’s face went dead silent, his jaw tightening.

"I am never picking up that bow again," Lechter said with conviction. “Pick someone else to carry the title, because I won’t.”

"Lechter! Stand down!" the Count’s voice boomed as he slammed his fist onto the desk again.

Lechter didn't listen. He spun on his heel and marched toward the heavy office doors.

"If you walk out that door, do not bother calling yourself a Hailreid!" the Count roared behind him.

"Fine by me!" Lechter yelled back. He wrenched the brass handles open, rattling the hinges, and stormed out into the hallway, leaving the Count’s shouting to echo uselessly against the walls.

He threw himself down the long, carpeted corridor, his breath ragged and his vision tunneled by pure adrenaline. He was heading for the grand staircase, desperate to put as much distance between himself and that office as physically possible.

But as he rounded the corner to the landing, his boots skidded to a sudden halt.

Standing by the banister, bathed in the warm light of the grand chandelier, was a woman.

Her eyes were low and sunken, her skin nearly pale white. It was the mark of a girl who spent her days locked away. The skin across her fingers and palms was covered in calluses.

She was the one who held real memories of their mother. The one the Count had ruthlessly forgotten. The one Lechter called his older sister. Lena.

His chest heaved, his jaw still tight from screaming. He looked at her, and the rage inside him slowly turned into a heavy sense of guilt. He expected her to look away. He expected her to pass him by in silence today once more.

Instead, her sunken eyes drifted up to his face, to his cheeks, to his white knuckles.

“Lechter?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Are you… okay?”

Lechter’s throat locked up.

He wanted to tell her everything. About how he had just made the Count angry. How he was throwing away his title. And most importantly, how everything… was for her.

But he couldn’t look her in the eye. As the one who caused her to be like this, Lechter felt he had no right to find comfort in her. And so, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached, he forcefully averted his gaze.

He stormed right past her, heading down the marble staircase. He didn’t look back to see the expression on her face; he couldn’t bring himself to.

Outside, the cold morning air hit his skin, but it did nothing to cool the heat in his chest. He marched down the brickstone path, past the rigid, unmoving marble pillars and the lifeless, manicured gardens, never once looking back at the estate.

As he reached the main road, looking to flag for a transit, Lechter looked down at his trembling, empty hands. They were uncalloused. They were smooth. They were the hands of someone who had never had to work for a single ounce of his strength.

He was going back to the academy. He was going to pick up a sword, and he was going to swing it until his palms bled, until his knuckles tore, and until his hands finally looked like they belonged to someone who had earned their power.

And until then, he would never look back.

<img style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; display: block" src="https://i.imgur.com/ftefrrv.png" alt="image">