The morning after his audience with the Elders, Erry Tobock found himself standing alone in the center of the guest courtyard—a vast, enclosed garden of white stone, glass trees, feline statues, and long banners fluttering in the wind. The air was cold-warm, the kind that kissed the skin rather than pierced it. And yet, despite the beauty surrounding him, Erry's focus narrowed only on the hilt of the sword now returned to him.
He turned the blade in his hand.
A familiar weight.
A familiar balance.
A familiar promise of freedom.
For a moment, something at the back of his chest softened, almost like relief.
At least they didn't change the blade.
At least they didn't try to replace it.
At least some things still remain mine.
He exhaled a long breath, bringing the sword to his shoulder. With a movement that was both rough and elegant, Erry swung downward. A clean arc cut through the air, the wind rippling.
Then another.
Then another two.
Then a dozen.
Minutes passed, but Erry's motions were unbroken, shaped by discipline born from thousands of repetitions since childhood. Every strike was heavy, barbaric, but with a quiet precision that contradicted the wildness in his eyes. He didn't practice to impress anyone. He never had. This was simply how he breathed.
And yet—
Someone was watching.
Several "someones," actually.
A group of beastman servants, soldiers, and even two elderly maids stood by the courtyard archway, whispering among themselves, ears twitching, tails swishing nervously. One of them mumbled,
"Is he… always like that?"
Another responded, "He's been swinging that sword since sunrise…"
A third added quietly, "The Elders calling him 'guest of honor' makes no sense at all."
But they kept their distance. Not out of respect—no, not yet—but out of pure instinct. Humans rarely frightened beastmen. But this one, with his empty eyes and calm, quiet strength? He made some of them nervous without doing anything at all.
Erry noticed, of course.
He noticed everything.
But he ignored it all.
After several swings, he sheathed the blade, brushed off the sweat running down his temple, and exhaled slowly. This alone—being allowed to train—was one of the tiny mercies that made captivity tolerable.
That, and the food.
Breakfast was… a battlefield.
Erry sat at the long table of the guest residence, where freshly grilled meats, fragrant broths, buttered roots, fruit drenched in honey, warm bread, and a curated selection of spiced teas had been arranged for him. A beastman servant—thin, tall, and admittedly terrified—stood behind him with a towel.
Erry picked up the entire roasted thigh of some large creature and bit into it. Hard.
The servant flinched.
Erry ate again. And again. And again.
In less than twenty minutes, he finished one plate.
Then another.
Then a third.
He was halfway through the fourth when the servant finally broke.
"S-Sir Erry," she whispered, trembling. "U-Um… does… human digestion normally allow… that?"
Erry blinked, swallowed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He didn't bother with etiquette unless he had to.
"I trained a lot," he replied simply.
"…And I'm hungry."
"…I see," the servant said, voice cracking.
She stepped aside, confused, horrified, and somewhat impressed.
Erry leaned back, satisfied in a primal, uncomplicated way. He didn't like luxury—but he wasn't stupid enough to refuse free food. Especially good food. He lived off dry rations for half his adventuring life.
And this… this was better.
"Living here forever wouldn't be so bad," he muttered to himself, only half joking.
After breakfast, he explored the guest wing he'd been "assigned." He quickly discovered it was:
Too large.
Too polished.
Too clean.
Too quiet.
There were multiple adjoining rooms: a relaxation chamber, an empty training hall, a bathing area so luxurious he recoiled upon seeing it. And accompanying him at all times was the same servant—a young Feleris woman with silver hair, triple-braided, with an air of stiff professionalism.
"I will accompany you," she said politely every time Erry took a step.
"No."
"…I will accompany you," she repeated.
Erry sighed heavily.
She followed.
Even when he entered the bathing chamber, she followed right up to the edge of the entrance before Erry snapped,
"Stop."
"But, as a guest—"
"I bathe alone."
"But it's part of my—"
"No."
She froze.
"…Very well."
Erry shut the door.
And for a moment—just a moment—he allowed himself to relax. The hot water felt like silk, the steam clearing the fog in his muscles. He hadn't had a proper bath in weeks. Maybe months.
It was dangerous how good this felt.
He didn't like comfort. Comfort made you slow. Soft. Weak.
But he didn't step out of the water for a long time.
Meanwhile, across the palace, whispers traveled like wildfire.
"The human is eating four portions."
"He swings his sword like he's possessed."
"He refuses to be escorted."
"He doesn't act afraid at all."
"What kind of barbaric human is he?!"
"Strong. Probably insane."
Every corridor echoed with gossip about the human guest—some exaggerated, some not. Yet despite their suspicion, many beastmen couldn't help being intrigued.
Humans rarely walked freely inside Felinte Dominion.
Humans rarely survived this long to begin with.
And none looked quite like him.
Days passed.
Erry settled.
He didn't like captivity, but he was practical. If escape gained him nothing, he had no reason to waste effort. Running away now meant losing access to free food, warm baths, and a soft bed—a sin he refused to commit.
And so, Erry Tobock, the barbaric wanderer who hated politics, resigned himself to living in a glorified cage. Not happily. But quietly.
Lyra, meanwhile, remained unseen.
He didn't ask about her. He didn't visit her. He didn't even think about her, except in the sense that she was the reason he was trapped here.
He felt sympathy for her condition.
But that was where his thoughts ended.
He did not seek her.
He did not wait for her.
He did not wonder when she'd recover.
Erry simply… continued.
Eat. Train. Bathe. Sleep.
Repeat.
If this was imprisonment, he could tolerate it for a while.
---
Then one afternoon, a loud knock echoed through the courtyard.
Erry paused mid-swing.
The courtyard gates opened.
General Killu Thornclaw stepped inside.
Built like a monster, towering, muscles like carved pillars, and with tiger-pattern fur streaked by battle scars, Killu radiated authority. Every beastman soldier trailed behind him, forming a line of disciplined bodies.
Erry lowered his sword.
Killu stepped forward until they were only a few feet apart.
"Human."
His voice boomed.
Erry didn't respond. Talking with swords was easier.
"I have been instructed by the Elders," Killu continued, "to verify your combat abilities myself."
Erry blinked slowly.
"…Verify?"
Killu grinned, showing sharp fangs.
"Yes. A duel. That is the simplest way."
Erry didn't glare. He didn't smile. He didn't show any reaction that would satisfy or anger Killu.
He simply tilted his head.
"You want to fight me."
"It is not 'want.' It is 'must.' You are to marry into our royal family, are you not?"
Erry inhaled sharply, irritation flickering in his eyes.
Killu saw it—and laughed.
"Calm yourself, human. It is merely a test."
Erry sheathed his sword in one smooth movement.
"…Fine."
Killu's ears twitched.
"…You accept?"
Erry nodded.
"Yes. I'll fight you."
At that exact moment—
Dozens of beastmen, who had been eavesdropping from the training grounds, burst into whispers, tails flicking wildly.
"Is that the human? He accepted?!"
"Killu vs a human? This I must see!"
"He's going to die."
"No, the general will hold back… right?"
"Wait—are humans allowed to die on palace grounds?"
"Should we prepare a healer?"
"Should we prepare a coffin?"
"Should we prepare both?!"
The courtyard began to fill.
Soldiers. Servants. Off-duty guards. Even two young noble beastmen climbed the fence for a better view.
Erry felt dozens of eyes turn toward him.
He hated attention.
He hated noise.
But a duel was a duel.
He straightened his back, exhaled, and spoke quietly:
"When?"
Killu answered with a feral grin.
"Tomorrow morning, human. At dawn."
Erry nodded.
The crowd erupted into chaotic excitement.
And just like that—
The barbaric human who wished for a quiet, comfortable captivity found himself at the center of the Dominion's most anticipated event of the week.
The sun dipped low, bathing the courtyard in warm gold. And Erry, exhausted yet oddly calm, lifted his sword again.
One last practice swing.
One last breath.
Tomorrow would be troublesome.
But for now?
He trained.