Adam had made too much of a commotion; every eye in the place snapped to him at once. The squires and servants saw only the fallen leaves dancing around Adam — Knight Wright felt the astonishing energy.
"Spiritual power like that! It's stronger than Miss Ophelia's, I'm certain of it. Unbelievable!" Knight Wright was shaken to the core, yet his feet never slowed. Red ripples bloomed again, the ground cracked with a bang where he had stood, leaving a shallow crater, and the knight himself was already under the tree more than a hundred meters away.
"Unbelievable! Unbelievable!" Knight Wright scooped Adam up and felt the transcendent energy still clinging to his body, unable to stop the exclamations spilling from his mouth.
Adam was in a bad way. The energy had been forced into him too brutally: his skin was covered in dense wounds like knife cuts and whip welts, his pores gaped wide, his capillaries had burst, and fine threads of blood kept seeping out. Wright hurried Adam off the training ground and sprinted for the manor doctor's room. To a knight loyal to the Count, everything in the manor was the Count's wealth, and he could not stand by and let Adam die here — that would be his own failure of duty.
Some people, however, thought otherwise. Take the bearded man Joe. He had come to the manor at ten, and he could tell at a glance that Adam's injuries came from a body unable to bear the energy. Joe had been tested and found to have no aptitude for the breathing method, no hope of becoming a knight, and he envied everyone who did — let alone that this one was an idiot who had always been beneath him.
"Just die, just die!" Joe cursed viciously.
This world's backward science had never devised an effective treatment for such injuries. The doctor merely washed Adam's body with salt water. As for whether he would come down with tetanus, or whether something had gone wrong inside him, his medical skill could not even judge — of course he was helpless. There was nothing to do but leave it to fate.
"As things stand, he's out of danger. His breathing is weak but steady, and the wounds show no sign of infection for now. Take him back to rest." The doctor pronounced the result flatly. He had done what he could; whether Adam lived now came down to luck.
Knight Wright understood what the doctor meant. He nodded and was about to carry Adam away when the door opened and two young men came in, one behind the other. Both had golden hair and deep blue eyes, both wore clothes woven of sumptuous fabric, and the belts at their waists set off their upright figures. Behind each followed a burly man whose dress marked him as Wright's equal in standing.
At the sight of them, Knight Wright hammered his right fist hard against his left breast, while the doctor bent forward slightly and said, "Young Master Marshall, Young Master Dennis."
These two were the Count's eldest son and second son. Marshall stepped forward first, nodded to the two of them, and asked, "So this is the one whose energy ran wild practicing the breathing method... um, what's his name?"
The second son, Dennis, had meant to step forward too, but seeing Marshall get there first, he did not contest it. He simply stood behind him, his eyes flickering.
Marshall's question produced an awkward silence. Adam's name was probably known only to a few servants about as old as the old groom, who were on good terms with him; everyone else had always called him the Idiot.
"He's Miss Ophelia's groom," Knight Wright replied. "His name... everyone calls him the Idiot."
The name Ophelia seemed to carry some magic. Marshall's movements stiffened for a moment; once he had recovered, he sat down in a chair, fixed his eyes on Adam, and asked, "Oh? Our sister's groom? So the breathing method was taught to him by our sister?"
The corners of Dennis's mouth held a smile, his eyes narrowed, and he still said nothing.
Again it was Knight Wright, and this time he hesitated before answering, his voice uncertain: "I don't think so. His mind is defective and he never speaks. He's always been frail, he's never shown any talent, and he never joins the training. This is only the second time in six years that he's set foot on the training ground."
Knight Wright sighed inwardly. He could not understand it: the Count was still in his prime, so why were his children in such a hurry?
In his agitation a flash of red ripples pulsed around Marshall and vanished; the chair beneath him shattered. He stared at Adam with burning eyes, as though he had found a rare treasure, and murmured, "The second time. So he has never cultivated at all?"
Dennis's smile faded. He glanced without expression at the knight who had come with him; the knight understood and slipped silently out of the room.
Marshall knew perfectly well what his brother was about. A vicious light flickered in his eyes, but this was no time to squabble. A genius like this had to end up in his own hands — if what Wright said was true, then this idiot would be a vital bargaining chip in his claim to the title.
"Heh. Our sister is too careless. How can a genius like this be left to work as a groom? If he could become a knight, Father would be delighted too, I'm sure. Still, I can't blame our sister — she's busy cultivating every day and has no time for anything else, so..." Marshall beckoned, and the knight behind him stepped forward to pick Adam up.
"So I'll be the one to train him."
Dennis's smile was back in place. He stepped forward and planted himself in front of the knight, then said to Marshall, "Brother, he is our sister's servant, after all. Isn't it a bit unseemly to simply carry him off? I'm afraid our sister will be angry when she hears of it."
Behind Dennis's smiling face lay deeply buried resentment. Why did good things never fall to him? Father backed eldest brother, little sister had terrifying talent, and only he had nothing. But why? Eldest brother was mediocre; little sister knew nothing but cultivation; he alone had the talent to inherit the title. So why was a genius like this not his servant?
Marshall's lips split in a hideous grin as he looked at Dennis, yet his voice came out mild: "My dear brother Dennis, what do you think you're doing? Are you trying to stop me?"
Dennis answered without haste, not giving up half a step: "No, no, brother, how could I stop you? Only, whatever the decision, it has to wait until our sister is present. Otherwise, if brother and sister fall out over a servant, Father won't be happy either, will he?"
Marshall was frantic with urgency. If he took the idiot now, then made a small request before Father, Father would certainly smooth things over with Ophelia. But by the same logic, if Ophelia turned up afterward and took the idiot away, he would never get another chance.
"Dennis, get out of the way!" Marshall's voice turned cold, his eyes fixed hatefully on his brother.
Dennis was unmoved. "Why is brother in such a hurry? Wouldn't it be better to wait a little and decide once our sister arrives? You know how Father is..."
Red ripples rose around Marshall again. He growled, "I'll say it one more time, Dennis — get out of the way, or else..."
Dennis's expression shifted, and a mocking smile curled the corner of his mouth. "Or else what? My dear brother, are you going to strike me?" At the same moment, red ripples even more intense than Marshall's rose around him, standing openly in opposition.
Dennis was not afraid. His guardian knight had left the room, true, but Wright was still here, and Wright was utterly loyal to the Count — he would never stand by and watch Marshall harm him. If he could stall just a little longer, until Ophelia arrived, he could step out of the quarrel and watch Marshall and Ophelia tear at each other. As for having torn off all pretense with his brother — hah.
Marshall lunged for Adam, shouting, "Quinn, do it!" He knew he was no match for Dennis.
Quinn loyally carried out the order. Red light blazed; he spread both arms and moved to seize Dennis. Even in striking, he dared not truly injure Dennis — the Count would never let him off otherwise. Fortunately this was no fight to the death; he only had to hold Dennis back a few seconds.
The doctor was only an ordinary man. He could not hold his ground in a fight between these knight-grade monsters; he scrambled and rolled his way out of the room.
Knight Wright sighed once more, and his breath echoed back and forth in the closed room. He stepped between Dennis and Quinn to block Quinn, while Dennis threw a punch at Marshall. "Brother, you'll injure him like this. If you crush him to death in one grab, do you think our sister will come for you? Just as you're doing to me?"
"Dennis, you have a death wish! I am the heir to the title. Everything in the Count's domain will be mine. Whatever master he has now, he ought to be loyal to me!" He traded a punch with Dennis as he spoke, and once the two had each staggered back a step, he said furiously.
Before Dennis could answer with a taunt, a woman's voice came from beyond the door, along with the sound of footsteps: "Marshall, I don't know who gave you the courage to say such a thing. Who do you think you are? Do you think we're your slaves?"
"Ophelia," Dennis greeted her.
"Ophelia. Damn it!" Marshall threw back his head and raged silently.
From the outside, Ophelia was a perfect woman: skin as fair as cream, a figure as devilishly striking as could be, long golden hair falling in waves to her waist, and eyes as blue as the sky. Under that sweeping gaze, no one dared meet her eyes.
Ophelia walked up to Marshall and said coldly, "Move aside."
Marshall: "Ophelia, you..."
"I said move aside. Or do you want to fight me? You and your guardian knight together?" Ophelia's tone was flat, and her gaze did not even rest on Marshall — it was on Adam, lying quietly on the bed. She did not know how this idiot, who had tended her horse for seven years, had suddenly become a genius.
"We're leaving!"
To a conceited fool, being ignored stings worse than being mocked to his face, but unfortunately for Marshall, against this woman who looked like a war goddess he had no recourse at all.
So he and Quinn could only slink out of the room like beaten dogs, furious and flustered.
Ophelia paid it no mind. She turned her eyes to Knight Wright and asked, "Tell me what happened."