Your talent and skill with a sword were exceptional. Even someone as clever as me had to keep studying every move and technique in the sword when I was little. Sometimes, after getting beaten and hurt, I had no choice but to hide under the covers at night and secretly study them by lamplight, then fight you again the next day with dark circles under my eyes.
I was afraid of you, because my clearest memories of pain were tied to you. Even now, I still remember that agony vividly.
Even after I grew up and rarely lost consciousness or the ability to think calmly because of pain, those suffocating moments—the moments that robbed me of judgment—continued to warn me, leaving themselves carved deep into my memory.
Of course, not being able to give you a proper beating was also part of the reason.
But correspondingly, the older I got, the more I felt that it was nowhere near enough.
Being exceptional was meaningless.
Even if I could become a ranger and resolve all the unpleasant matters around Kazimierz; even if I could watch the people you had once helped come to our home, bringing homemade malt candy and letters of gratitude; even if I could drive back powerful enemies time and again—
The seeds of disaster were still growing peacefully in their cradle.
You once secretly took me out of Cavalieriel to play in the countryside and fields. Back then, my father was still worrying about things like Oripathy and troublesome commoners.
There, I saw wheat fields taller than your waist. They swallowed my entire body, and I could not see where the way out was. I could only rely on Originium Arts to find a path.
You called that being sly, but Margaret could not even manage it.