"rapid-fire pyong-pyong attack?"
Duke Tristan's voice sounded beyond disbelief. It wasn't just doubt—it sounded like his soul had just left his body and forgotten the way back. I could see it clearly: The vacant stare. The stiff shoulders. The aura of a legendary War Duke suddenly tossed into a rom-com world without a safety manual.
"You mean…" he continued slowly, as if treading on ground that could explode at any moment, "I have to do this very quickly and… repeatedly?"
I immediately entered Teacher Liliane Mode. I tilted my head to the left, shaking it slowly with the expression of someone correcting a student who just answered 'one plus one' incorrectly.
"Not like that," I said wisely. My version of wise, of course.
But Duke Tristan wasn't finished with his mental breakdown. "You mean I have to do…"
His voice trailed off. His hands—powerful hands that usually held swords, led armies, and signed bloody war documents—slowly rose. He stared at his own fingers. I stared too.
