*Thud!*

The heavy tools falling toward Sel’s head struck Lavi’s arm and bounced off, clattering onto the floor.

Despite the loud crash, the sound seemed distant to Sel; her heartbeat was pounding in her chest so loudly that the clatter of metal echoed as though far away.

Her cheek brushed against Lavi’s bare chest, with only his mask in between. Lavi’s tunic was open to his chest, exposing his broad, muscular torso, which was as solid as a well-crafted statue.

Sel could feel his tense chest moving beneath her mask, each breath vividly perceptible. Her face flushed.

She tentatively pushed against Lavi’s body with her arms, but he didn’t budge.

Holding Sel as if guarding a treasure, Lavi remained in place, unmoving.

“Commander?”

Even when she called, he seemed to be deaf to her voice, offering no response.

“Commander, please let me go.”

She tried asking again, but Lavi still did not move. Sel looked up, catching sight of his sturdy neck and jaw. His throat bobbed as if he were struggling internally.

“Commander!”

No matter how many times she called him, he still didn’t answer.

Her body, tingling from within, was uncomfortable from the clash of anxiety on the outside. The sensation was strange and dangerous. Finally, she resorted to her last option.

*Thump!* She kneed him in the lower abdomen.

She felt a soft impact but pressed harder without hesitation.

“Urgh!”

Lavi released her with a groan, dropping to one knee and clutching his abdomen, eventually collapsing to the side.

‘Is he playing around? How does a sword master go down with one knee strike?’

Sel frowned, looking down at him. His pale face made it clear he wasn’t faking.

“What’s going on, Lavi?”

Right then, Eric burst in through the wide-open door.

Eric’s eyes widened as he took in the unbelievable scene of Lavi writhing on the floor.

He quickly approached, pulling out a notepad, apparently trying to deduce who had brought down Lavi, the Empire’s undefeated champion. It seemed the assailant had already slipped away.

After making sure Lavi wasn’t dead, Eric looked at Sel with a questioning gaze, as if interrogating her.

“What sort of assassin did this, Sel?”

“Assassin?”

“Hah. Only someone at the pinnacle of swordsmanship could take down Lavi.”

While Sel hesitated, Eric tried to lay Lavi flat, but Lavi stubbornly stayed curled up, leaning on his side.

Eric’s eyebrow twitched.

“Is this really the time to be stubborn? Where exactly did you get hit? There’s not a drop of blood.”

Growing impatient, Eric forcefully grabbed Lavi’s shoulder and rolled him over.

His eyes drifted to Lavi’s lower body.

“…Lavi? Seems like you’re doing just fine.”

Lavi immediately bent his knees again and lay back down on his side.

Blinking, Eric turned to Sel with a slow, deliberate gaze.

“Sel, could you explain what happened to Lavi?”

The urgency in Eric’s voice had been replaced by a calm, expectant tone, like a child awaiting a gift on their birthday.

“Uh, well… the commander took a knee to the stomach… and he went down…”

Usually eloquent, Sel stammered through her explanation.

Eric’s eyes, glinting with amusement, sparkled with intrigue.

“A knee? Where exactly?”

Sel pointed to her lower abdomen, rubbing it to indicate the impact area.

A smile spread across Eric’s previously serious face.

“Who did it?”

“…”

“Was it you?”

With no room for excuses, Sel nodded reluctantly, knowing there was no denying it—no one else was there.

She wondered if she would be fired for assaulting her employer.

Eric, however, laughed in amusement, giving her a thumbs up.

“A master healer, Sel.”

“A healer?”

“You cured an ailment no physician in the Empire could fix.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” Eric nodded approvingly, then grabbed a blanket from the corner of the armory and covered Lavi’s lower body with it. He then lifted Lavi in one smooth motion as if carrying a princess. The lean muscles in Eric’s arms bulged and flexed.

Sel looked him up and down, amazed that he could lift someone as big as Lavi with such ease.

“…Maybe just carry me on your back,” Lavi mumbled, covering his face bashfully with both hands.

But Eric refused, saying it would be too uncomfortable, and marched off carrying Lavi like a princess. Watching him leave, Sel felt a bit uneasy as Philip and Choro, who had been observing from a distance, rushed over.

“What just happened, Sel?”

“Sel, wow! Did you actually knee the Commander?”

Their faces lit up with excitement, like gamblers cheering at an illegal street fight.

Sel sat down at her desk without a word. Ignoring their flood of questions, she picked up a silver plier—the true culprit—and pounded it onto the magic device in front of her.

***

The rumor spread in no time.

After that day, Sel didn’t see Lavi again. She used to bump into him frequently near the cafeteria or the armory, but now, he was nowhere to be seen. The mercenaries whispered that the Commander had gone into hiding, traumatized.

Meanwhile, rumors about Lavi spread, though they were really about Sel.

As she headed to the dining hall, she glanced down at her knee—the right knee that had taken down a Sword Master.

Such a good knee. Sel gave her knee a light pat and hurried off to the dining hall. Today, she could get a special meal: Empire’s specialty sausage, served only to the first in line. The thick, juicy sausage was so rare it was said to be impossible to buy.

Sel made sure to get her portion first, then sat down, devouring her food quickly. No one was faster than Sel when it came to meal times.

“Hey, the one who bested the Sword Master,” Philip said, setting his tray down across from her and using her new title.

Indeed, Sel was now the first mercenary in the company to have defeated the Commander. No one called her “rookie” anymore—except Eric.

“I heard senior mercenaries have been pestering you for a sparring session.”

“Ugh, it’s exhausting.”

“Come on, spar with me too! I want to see the power of the one who took down the Commander.”

“…If you don’t want a hole in your stomach, keep quiet and eat.”

Sel casually bit into her sausage.

“Wow, Sel. That’s some serious tough-guy energy right there. Wow.” Philip’s eyes sparkled needlessly as he clutched his chest, breathing heavily. To him, Sel was already a warrior ruling over the Empire.

Philip placed his sausage onto Sel’s tray, like a tribute to a hero, gently offering it with his fork.

“Sel, eat this, and teach me your training secrets, okay?”

Sel, who had no real secrets, just stared at the sausage.

Taking a napkin, she wrapped the sausage and tucked it into her pocket. She planned to save it for a late-night snack with a cold beer.

Since she’d accepted the bribe, she figured she should share a training tip. Clearing her throat, she shared the “secret.”

“One hundred push-ups a day, one hundred sit-ups, one hundred squats, and ten kilometers of running.”

“…That’s it? Even Choro does that every day.”

So Choro did that, too? Sel’s gaze wavered slightly.

“Um…also, catch bugs.”

“Bugs?”

“You know, flying bugs. I knee-kick about a hundred of them.”

Sel’s mouth was just spouting nonsense by now.

“Wow. That’s a unique training method. Knee-kicking bugs, huh? Do you actually catch them that way?”

Philip tilted his head, demonstrating by knocking his knee against the underside of the table. The table rattled, and Sel nodded with a smug expression.

“I usually went for flies.”

She’d actually shot them—practicing her marksmanship by shooting flies buzzing around an old shack. That had honed her shooting skills, placing her among the best in the company.

The dining hall fell silent. The mercenaries pricked up their ears, listening intently to Sel’s “training secrets.”

After finishing her meal, Sel washed her tray at the sink and put it back in its place. She shook off the water from her hands and was about to head to the library when a large mercenary blocked her path.

The man, with fair skin and curly orange hair, looked down at her with a smirk. His white eyes glinted more sharply than his brown irises, reminding Sel, for some reason, of a carrot cookie. This was Braeden, a two-year mercenary known for his nasty temper.

Behind him, three other mercenaries stood laughing arrogantly, clearly part of his posse.

“Hey, rookie. Getting cocky lately, aren’t you?”

Maybe he missed out on the first-round sausages; he seemed unusually prickly.

“Please move aside,” Sel said, looking him straight in the eyes.

Braeden paused, taken aback by her clear gaze, but then burst out laughing. Scared, yet still laughing. Sel’s upper lip twitched. His overdone bravado struck her as ridiculous.

“So, I heard you’re full of yourself after taking down the Commander. A punk hiding behind that creepy mask thinks he’s better than the Commander? Probably slipped him some poison or something,” Braeden sneered.

The posse snickered and nodded in agreement, clearly itching to belittle Sel.

Best to avoid filth. Sel sighed and attempted to go through another exit, but Braeden blocked her again.

Their repeated taunting hushed the cafeteria.

“I said, move aside.”

“No. Not until you accept my duel request. I can’t trust it otherwise. The rumor’s that your knee strike caused sparks to fly and left the Commander with burns, but I need to check if that’s true.”

What an exaggerated rumor. Sel sighed.

“I don’t do duels.”

“What, are you scared? Afraid everyone will see how weak you are, huh? All pale skin and a scrawny neck beneath that mask.”

Braeden’s eyes traveled from her mask to her upper body and then to her lower half.

“And you’re… properly equipped, aren’t you?”

The group burst into laughter, clutching their stomachs.

Sel clenched her fists. She tried to think of a way out of this, but nothing came to mind.

‘This is risky. I might get exposed outright if this goes wrong.’

Staring icily between Braeden’s brows, Sel moved her fingers subtly toward the pistol at her waist. It would take her just two seconds to draw it and pull the trigger.

At that moment, Braeden reached out toward her. His reflexes, sharpened by his scouting role, were quick.

Suddenly, she felt pressure in her groin area. Braeden grabbed her waistband, pulling it up tightly to “check” her “equipment,” causing her pants to pull uncomfortably against her.