CH-102

102 You Are Too Presumptuous

The steam from the braised lamb with noodles still hung in the cabin air, the rich aroma of fat and spices tantalizing taste buds and appetites alike.

Yet at that moment, no one touched their forks. All eyes were fixed on the sword duel.

The youth Lesley stood ramrod straight, his demeanor earnest and proper, but his words carried no small amount of audacity, instantly drawing everyone's attention.

Among the mercenary company, those who knew of the father-son relationship between the captain and Lesley felt both excitement and tension.

A public sword match between father and son was a rare spectacle, full of intrigue.

On one hand, they naturally didn't believe Duke Claude would lose. On the other hand, Lesley's willingness to challenge him, his confidence, introduced other possibilities for the outcome.

Still, they also harbored concerns that something might go wrong.

After all, Duke Claude was their leader; if defeated, his authority would suffer. Yet if Lesley lost, from an outsider's perspective, it would look like the Duke's son couldn't defeat a mere mercenary, potentially souring the atmosphere for Lesley within his own group.

Lesley seemed to possess strong pride. If unwilling to show weakness, his relentless tenacity, even in defeat, might lead him to suffer.

Such speculations made the duel seem even more perilous than they had initially imagined.

On the other hand, Shu Yue didn't concern himself much with such complex social dynamics.

The Duke had called it a sailing ceremony, implying it was merely a matter of going through the motions, stopping at the first touch.

To him, it was essentially like a father checking his child's homework—nothing to be overly serious about. Furthermore, he had no desire to watch them locked in a prolonged struggle. Dinner was noodles, after all, the one dish that couldn't afford to wait.

Shu Yue couldn't help but gently shake his bowl and lean towards Bishop Holm beside him. "These noodles look like they're about to get mushy and inedible soon. How long will this take to determine a winner?"

Bishop Holm, unfamiliar with the concept of "noodles getting mushy," also wanted to prevent the father-son match from becoming overly rigid and causing further complications. He spoke up, "Since there's to be a sword match, a judge is always necessary. I shall act as judge. Dropping one's weapon, being struck in a vital area, or voluntarily conceding all constitute a loss."

He then picked up an hourglass from the table. "Let us set a time limit. If there is no conclusion within two minutes, it shall be declared a draw."

Claude frowned deeply. "Two minutes..." Too short.

Bishop Holm calmly reasoned, "Everyone is exhausted from the journey and famished. Even if they possess strength, they cannot bring it to bear now. The sailing ceremony is but a formality. If you truly wish to test each other's mettle, choosing another time might be more appropriate."

At this, Lesley did not demur. He walked alone to the center of the hall, used the toe of his shoe against the blade to flip the sword up from the floor with a deft motion, then caught the wooden sword smoothly in his hand.

The entire movement was fluid and seamless, executed in one breath.

A soft exclamation arose from the crowd: "What a clean move!"

This instantly heightened everyone's anticipation.

Seeing his opponent was no mere posturer, Claude's gaze deepened.

Bishop Holm, not wishing to prolong matters, announced, "The match begins." The hourglass was turned upside down and placed on the table.

The initial five seconds of mutual testing felt rather long. But as the two settled into their rhythm, the onlookers below held their breath, focusing intently.

The mercenary's movements were broad and sweeping, his power fierce and natural, clearly honed through countless life-and-death battles. In contrast, Lesley appeared exceptionally crisp and efficient, evidently having received systematic training. His movements emphasized speed and precision, without any wasted motion. Though his techniques seemed textbook, each strike targeted a critical point.

It could be said they were evenly matched.

Despite the differences in their status and age, back and forth they clashed, neither conceding an inch nor pulling any punches.

The wooden swords collided repeatedly, producing ringing clashes akin to metal striking metal. The sound of blades cutting through air was incessant. Their speed gradually increased over time; within the span of a single breath, two or three attacks and defenses would occur.

Each exchange was dizzyingly fast and flawless, as if deliberately showing an opening would only cost that crucial split-second advantage.

Thus, they parried, attacked, shifted stances, and counterattacked, every step stirring the air.

The scene was taut as a bowstring, making hearts race and blood surge.

Even Bishop Holm himself became engrossed, forgetting to interrupt them when the two minutes elapsed.

Shu Yue, eyeing the hourglass long devoid of sand, raised his voice: "Time is up. Lesley, stop."

Lesley's blade was just then sliding against Claude's edge, a spark momentarily flashing. Upon hearing the voice, he immediately pulled his strength back. Almost the very second the words fell, Claude's longsword surged forward, knocking Lesley's wooden sword from his grasp and sending it flying out of the cabin with a sharp "thwack."

After a brief half-second silence within the cabin, enthusiastic applause and cheers erupted. "Incredible! To fight like that is amazing!"

Claude was clearly dissatisfied with this outcome. He frowned and asked in a low voice, "Why did you ease up at the end?"

Lesley replied calmly, "Time was up."

Hearing this, Claude glanced sideways at Shu Yue, who had called time.

He had intended to probe the depths of Lesley's skill, only to be cut short by those casually uttered words. Even more surprising to him was the profound influence this Church bishop held over Lesley; his response to Alis's command had been so immediate, almost without hesitation.

Had it been a real blade, Lesley wouldn't have just lost his wooden sword; he would likely be bleeding.

A flicker of complexity passed through Claude's eyes. After a moment of silence, he said flatly, "Pick up your sword."

Lesley's lips moved slightly, as if wanting to say something, but ultimately he remained silent, merely walking out of the cabin to obediently retrieve the wooden sword.

After pausing for a few seconds, Claude, while retrieving his own sword, looked at Lesley with an ambiguous calmness. "A piece of advice: 'People of the Church should never be trusted completely.'"

Lesley remained impassive, showing no desire to argue. He simply turned to leave.

Claude studied Lesley's face intently. "Did you hear me?"

Lesley's gaze was sharp, his tone faint. "If you truly meant well for me, you would explain things clearly."

"Speaking in such vague terms either means you're trying to fob me off like a child, thinking a fright will leave me unsettled and susceptible to your influence; or it means you never genuinely intended to do me good. Otherwise, you wouldn't casually drop a cryptic remark at such an awkward moment without any explanation."

"If you were me, would you listen?"

Claude: "..."

Lesley continued, "Do not treat me as an appendage, nor as a child."

"Saying you went to war at fifteen doesn't prove your unparalleled bravery; it precisely underscores your misfortune. Forgive me if I do not envy your misfortune. And just because my life is better than yours, don't try to disrupt it."

He had intended to stop there.

After all, such resolute words were not what Shu Yue liked to hear. That man always preferred to leave room for everything, a trait Lesley did not share.

He was always straightforward and wanted as little involvement as possible with this nominal father.

"You have never treated me as your child. Likewise, I hope you won't expect me to treat you as a father. This isn't spoken in impulsive or reckless anger, but with sober rationality. I responded to you today only because I didn't want to embarrass the 'Duke' in public, not because you are my father and I must obey your commands."

Claude watched him silently, showing no trace of annoyance or even the slightest flicker of stirred emotion.

Those eyes, which had witnessed countless deaths on the battlefield, merely gazed quietly at the composed, rational youth whose words cut deep.

After a moment, his lips moved slightly. Ultimately, he neither lectured nor rebuked, simply saying flatly, "Understood. Suit yourself."

His tone was even, as if confirming something, or perhaps drawing a line.

With that, he walked away, his back straight, without looking back.

Lesley had never truly spent time with this father.

In Lesley's childhood imagination, his father had been a heroic figure. Lesley had admired him, depended on him. Even without receiving any feedback from him, this innate yearning for parental approval had driven Lesley to seek his recognition.

But after formally joining his new family, the precocious and perceptive Lesley, through a few brief interactions, had already understood there was no so-called emotional resonance between them.

Claude possessed neither the awareness nor the readiness to be a father, nor any desire for closeness with anyone. He was more like a cold sword perpetually hung in the barracks, or an aloft scepter, loyal only to his battlefield and his politics, not to blood ties.

And Lesley had realized he didn't need this father. Even if he couldn't bring himself to hate him, still less could he love him.

Yet despite holding such thoughts, Lesley couldn't escape a strange, indescribable sense of displacement.

It was like an uncorrectable mistake on a canvas—though acknowledged long ago, its presence had to be considered with every subsequent brushstroke. Whether ignored or painted over, it remained, persistently drawing one's attention.

Perhaps it was because his own canvas wasn't yet large enough, so his peripheral vision couldn't fully evade that presence.

But if one day, that painting could expand boundlessly, he would finally never have to see that person's existence again.

"..."

After a moment of silence, Lesley re-entered the cabin.

Inside, the lamplight was warm, and people were gathered around eating.

The clatter of cutlery rose and fell continuously.

To them, it probably seemed like he and Claude had merely stepped outside for a brief chat.

And directly across, Bishop Alis was still waiting for him to start the meal together.

A warmth filled Lesley's heart, and he couldn't help but hurry towards him.

He didn't know when this feeling had begun to change.

Perhaps it was from the very first meeting, when Bishop Alis hadn't found him terrifying or repulsive, sparking Lesley's curiosity.

Maybe it was because, despite their unfamiliarity, Bishop Alis had spoken up for him.

It could have been from witnessing Bishop Alis help so many people, repeatedly confirming in his heart that this person was a trustworthy, good man.

Or perhaps it was that night at the church, when Lesley had gathered the courage to draw near, and the unwavering response he received made him feel he had found a branch to cling to.

Even knowing he himself might be deceiving, Bishop Alis had never recoiled. It wasn't tolerance; it was genuine acceptance.

In that moment, all the cracks and fissures left in his heart after the confrontation with Claude were filled by every gentle memory.

Lesley slowly came to a halt before Alis's table.

He looked at the other's face, and suddenly felt struck by an inexplicable emotion.

It hit him as unexpectedly as being clubbed on the head while walking down the street.

Lesley finally realized: he seemed to like Alis far too much.

At that moment, noticing Lesley's daze and unsure what words had passed between father and son, Shu Yue asked with concern, "Did you two talk about something?"

"We didn't say anything," Lesley shook his head.

He was always introverted and taciturn. Shu Yue didn't press him to express his thoughts and simply handed him his utensils. "Then hurry up and eat."

Looking at everything prepared so neatly, the thoughts in Lesley's mind churned, though he couldn't quite grasp them clearly. He just said earnestly, "Bishop Alis, if you were my father, it would be wonderful."

That way—

He could admire and depend on Alis without any psychological burden, without reservation.

He could heed his every word, follow him through life and death, unchanging forever.

Shu Yue felt fortunate he hadn't been eating, or he surely would have choked on Lesley's sudden remark.

He paused for a second, then gently patted Lesley's back in a soothing gesture.

*

After dinner, Shu Yue went straight to Claude's cabin door and knocked.

The moment the door opened, without any pleasantries, Shu Yue said coldly, "What did you say to Lesley at dinner tonight?"

Claude frowned.

Shu Yue took half a step closer, his voice low but laced with anger. "He shouldn't be like that. He wasn't himself when he came back. He can usually handle pressure. What exactly did you say to him?"

"Do you have any awareness of being a father?"

Shu Yue was not usually so direct, nor did he like interfering in others' family matters, but he felt indignant on Lesley's behalf.

Lesley had done so well and never asked for much. Why couldn't he be treated just a little better?

What benefit did trampling on a child's self-esteem bring Claude?

Claude's attitude towards Lesley was, for Shu Yue, like a thorn that hadn't been fully removed.

"I know you're not a warm person, but you're not entirely devoid of feeling either. Why can't you just be... normal with him?"

"I hope you understand, he is your son, not a soldier in your army."

Claude looked at him silently, his eyes slowly gathering like a brewing blizzard.

The next second, he spoke, his tone flat to the point of indifference: "Father? Normal? You're lecturing me about this?"

He stepped forward, his voice still restrained yet carrying an undeniable oppressive force. "You appear before me suddenly, preaching, accusing, demanding I conform to your ideal image of a 'father.' What do you know? And what gives you the right?"

"Who do you think you are?"

His gaze cut through Shu Yue, filled with an unconcealed weariness and rejection.

The pressure from someone of high station descended like a relentless, violent snowstorm, freezing the air instantly, heavy and suffocating.

"Alis," he said, low and deliberate, "You are too presumptuous."