20. A Weird Journal.

The next day, Zephyr wasted no time in taking action. He promptly dispatched a messenger to the Viscount, anticipating a reply within one or two days at most. Assigned for this task was Jon, the eldest son of Chieftess Maria.

Not long after Jon departed from the Lord's mansion, Mordret felt an overflow of energy. Thanks to his intimate connection with Eliza, his servant, Mordret's physical and emotional wounds were healing at an astonishing pace. Having experienced the recent beast raid, Mordret was assured of having some time, yet his perspective as a professional archaeologist taught him a crucial lesson: "Time... That entity is undependable." Time morphed in the blink of an eye. While he and Eliza enjoyed their romantic moments, akin to newlyweds, who could guarantee that an intruder wouldn't infiltrate the mansion and attempt to strike him?

"Eliza, there's something I need you to do," Mordret summoned Eliza, who was in the midst of serving him freshly brewed tea. Sometimes, he'd playfully tease her, reveling in her flustered reactions. Much had transformed in a short span.

And that was precisely why time posed a threat.

"Firstly, I want you to keep a vigilant watch on someone..." Mordret delineated her task.

"With utmost pleasure, my Lord." Eliza functioned as Mordret's sheath, his lethal blade. And a sheath abides by the sword's desires.

"Excellent, now for the second matter." Mordret produced a book, an artifact from his library. "Guide me through the exercises outlined here." He unveiled a distinct journal, akin to a martial arts manual. During his confinement, he had attempted to mimic the illustrated poses, yet often strained his muscles in vain.

What good was attempting the unknown, especially when time was running thin? Consequently, he sought the guidance of an adept. He had observed the precision with which Eliza hurled her dagger at Karen. Such accuracy was a hallmark of someone profoundly adept. Also, through their more intimate moments and physical closeness, Mordret had perceived the firmness of Eliza's abdominal muscles—a testament to her rigorous training.

"At your disposal, my Lord, any time." Eliza embodied the sort of advantage players yearned for in games. She never declined a directive.

"As for the final matter," Mordret abruptly pulled Eliza into his embrace. Swift as the wind, she found herself perched upon Mordret's lap. With his hand delicately cradling her chin and his gaze fixed directly into her eyes, Eliza felt her heart skip a beat.

"In the night, your efforts will be rewarded... appropriately." Mordret's breath caressed her ear, resulting in a deep blush.

His fingers traced her countenance, their desires dancing in his eyes. Unsure of how to respond, Eliza hurriedly excused herself from the predator's grasp, her heart racing. As she fled, she heard her Lord's laughter ripple behind her. "For pleasure or with pleasure, Ellie? Where might you be off to? Hahaha!"

On the whole, Zephyr, initially an ordinary man, an archaeologist immersed in [Lord of Mirrors], now inhabited the role of feudal Lord, Mordret Valornorn. Amidst preparations for the impending threat, he navigated a captivating existence alongside his servant, Eliza.

…

Outside Baron Mordret's mansion, the sound of desperate gasps reverberated through the air.

"I-I can't! Not anymore!"

"Mhm~ Just like that. A little more–mhm~"

"Ugh! No! This is… ah!"

"Deeper! Deeper! Go deeper!–No! You are doing it wrong! Push yourself! Harder!"

Pah! Pah! Phat!

"No! That hurts! W-why are you beating–ugh!"

"I told you it must remain rigid! Your hand! Where do you think you are putting it?!"

"Ellie! N-n-nooo! I can't do it anymore! I'll break! I am too sensitive! Argh!"

Crack!

"M-my Lord!" Regrettably, the training had gone awry.

The stretching regimen Mordret practiced proved bafflingly absurd for Zephyr's understanding. While Mordret's own body displayed resilience and flexibility, the peculiar exercises left Zephyr bewildered. His missteps resulted in back pain, and soon enough, Eliza's persistence led to Mordret's spine twisting and dislocating.

The stretches Mordret embarked upon were meant to challenge his body, but they exacted an unforeseen toll. Although Eliza intended to push Mordret beyond his limits, she lacked the art of teaching. Her guidance remained unclear, and when Mordret failed to execute properly, she resorted to wielding a wooden cane—a method mirroring her own training.

A method she was familiar with.

'Fuck! I should've just swung the sword like any run-of-the-mill protagonist and become a sword master, skipping the basics!' Zephyr's mind cursed, yet no one heard his silent lament.

"I apologize profusely, My Lord. I'll fetch the healer immediately!" Eliza rectified Mordret's posture, ushered him indoors, and hastened to summon the healer.

It was then that Mordret noticed something within the training manual.

**Note: Do not attempt these stretches without warming up the body through a thousand sword swings. Otherwise, the pain will ensue.

'Fucking piece of shit! Why didn't I follow the clichéd trope!' Mordret slapped his palm against his forehead, but it was too late.

He had leaped into the exercises without a preamble, and now, he was left with naught but to await Eliza's return.

A blunder indeed, yet no alternative remained but to bide his time.

'Time is crucial. I've wasted another day.' Zephyr's melancholy deepened, and he couldn't help but sigh intermittently.

The more days he squandered, the graver his circumstances grew.

"I might as well read something in the interim." Mordret's mobility might have been compromised, but he managed to retrieve a book from his bedside.

Another journal, distinct from the training manual, adorned with a mere few pages.

"What's this?" Mordret lacked interest in perusing some Barony records.

"I feel dyslexic trying to decipher these numbers." Yet Zephyr wasn't one to judge a book by its cover.

Unfolding the book with its black leather cover, he read the title inscribed there.

"W-what language is this?" Mordret exclaimed, the words feeling alien.

As an archaeologist, Zephyr was acquainted with at least twenty languages, yet this script bore no resemblance to any of them.

"Bad move." Mordret read aloud the title.

I was wrong. I should've accepted the offer. The west village fell yesterday, and that woman has accused me…

My servant isn't speaking to me either. It's becoming hard to breathe.

'How?' A shiver coursed down Mordret's spine.

He could comprehend the language, yet Zephyr struggled to grasp the how of it.

Until now, whether Eliza, Maria, or anyone else he encountered, they all communicated in English. Even the written records harked back to old European times, featuring numbers aligned in rows of five, reminiscent of abacus arrangements.

But this was unprecedented.

The words were foreign, yet eerily familiar.

"There's nothing else written." In haste, Mordret skimmed several pages, to no avail.

The pages lay barren.

A serene clarity enveloped his mind, courtesy of his passive skill. Swiftly, the absurdity of his musings dawned upon him.

"This journal…" Yet the words inked in the journal refused to fade from his consciousness.

"I should've accepted 'his' offer… Who is this 'he'?" Mordret sensed he held the answer.

"That woman is accusing me… I think I recognize that woman too." Mordret's unease deepened.

"My servant…" Within the Barony, only two possessed the means to employ a servant.

First was Maria, the chieftess, and second was…

"The Lord… me." Mordret fell into contemplative silence. His gaze settled on the black leather book as he summoned the system.

Yet, the system yielded no information concerning the book. It bore no resemblance to an artifact, nor did it evoke any notifications akin to the Obelisk of Mirage.

A peculiar journal…

"My Lord!" Mordret instinctively tossed the journal onto a heap of books, concealing it from his loyal servant's sight as she approached.

"Enter." His command hung unfinished in the air as Eliza stormed into the room, accompanied by another figure.

A blonde woman, possessing an hourglass figure. Her golden tresses cascaded to her buttocks, side tendrils meticulously braided in an unconventional fashion. Clad in a revealing white tunic, her ample bosom swayed with each step she took into the Lord's chamber.

"I apologize, my Lord, but no other option presented itself save for her." Eliza shot daggers at the woman as she delivered her report.

It was none other than Karen.

***

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