It's been a few months since I started training the prince. There are good things and bad things.

  The good thing is that he's learning quickly. Since I don't have any real schedule of my own — being an outcast and all — I have all the free time in the world. And since he's persistent about it, I entertained the idea.

  [Tyr teaches you the way of the sword.]

  That too.

  "…?" He was caught off guard by my sudden change of style.

  I moved first — a swift, deliberate strike aimed at his stomach. Peter parried, his movements sharper and more precise than before.

  "Keep your stance steady," I instructed, circling him. "You're still too rigid."

  He adjusted his footing, eyes never leaving mine. I feigned a strike to his left, and as he moved to block, I pivoted and tapped his wrist with my sword.

  "You've let your guard down."

  "…" He bowed his head in acknowledgment.

  So far, I've kept things strictly professional between us.

  I've read too many romance novels to let my guard slip — if I go soft on him, he might start developing feelings. My own paranoia can only carry me so far, but it's an instinct I can't shake.

  After handing him a towel, I set up tea time in the middle of the training grounds. The bastard calmly sat down and drank tea too.

  Now for the bad thing: this guy is already showing signs of obsession.

  Peter's character is complex on the surface, but in reality, he's a fairly flat personality type when it comes to emotion. An obsessive, in short. He gets what he wants and then protects it fiercely — by being an asshole to everyone else. His trigger is simple. Three words: "You can do it."

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Yes. As absurd as it sounds, I accidentally said that out loud.

  Let's go back a few months.

  "You're too lax," I said, casually parrying his blows and counterattacking each time. "You rely too much on brute strength."

  When he tried to hit harder, I simply adjusted to match him. He was getting frustrated — I kept pushing anyway. "Your form is sloppy. Focus on your stance."

  "Your thinking is too narrow." I punctuated it with a quick combo: leg sweep, two strikes to the stomach, an uppercut, a final downward blow. He hit the ground.

  Good thing I had included the clause about not speaking, or he would have cursed his way through the entire session.

  His body was covered in bruises. I didn't let him rest.

  Because I want him to give up.

  It wasn't enjoyable — I'm from the 21st century, not some medieval drill sergeant. But I'd accepted the deal, which meant he had to be the one to walk away.

  "Stand up," I said.

  He stayed down, head low, breathing hard. His lips — swollen and bruised — parted slightly, but he said nothing. I pulled ointment from my bag and applied it to his cheek. He looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes, glaring.

  Something about his face made me think of my old comrades. My family, back in the military.

  "When things go wrong and the road ahead seems all uphill," I started, voice softer than I intended. He looked confused by the shift in tone. "When you're running low and the weight just keeps piling on — rest if you have to. But don't quit." I smiled faintly, old memories bleeding through uninvited. "It's when things are worst that you have to hold on the most."

  I stood up and offered my hand. "You can do it."

  He stared at my hand. His expression shifted — anger, then disbelief. Tears welled up. He let out a quiet sob and punched the ground once. I handed him a dry towel.

  "What are you crying for, huh?"

  He got up on his own, picked up the wooden sword, and settled into a stance — cleaner than before, more deliberate, like he'd decided something. I raised my sword and matched him.

  [Eros is touched by your gesture!] [100 Faith Points acquired!]

  I didn't realize the mistake I'd made until later. I'm not an idiot — the signs were obvious. He'd always challenge me, and instead of looking frustrated, he looked like he was enjoying it. He kept finding excuses to get close to me. When I stared at him with open disgust, he'd make a face like a scolded puppy.

  I need to wrap this up fast.

  Adele, come collect your dog already.

  Josephine von Konrow — that's my name. But right now—

  "Nephi, do you hate me?"

  A man had both my hands clutched in his, while Jane stood behind him, furiously trying to pry him away from me. "I'm the only one allowed to call the Lady Nephi!!!"

  "I want to get to know the Lady better," he said, and pressed his lips to my palm.

  "Ugh."

  "Lady! Just kick him out already!"

  ...How exactly did it come to this?