Fakes Don’t Want To Be Real Chapter 20

Chapter 20

 

Instead of answering, Psychke swung her sword with calm indifference.

A silver flash reflected off the blade, followed by the enemies’ shrieks and spurts of blood.

Verndia deflected the incoming attacks, moving swiftly, yet he could not tear his gaze away from his fiancée.

Her movements were clean and economical; fluid as water, yet powerful. Even at a speed the eye struggled to follow, her strikes never missed a vital point.

This was not something one could achieve with a day or two of practice.

Even the truly gifted would need years of relentless training to barely grasp such skill and even then, few could display it with such effortless naturalness. Psychke, sword in hand, was like a butterfly.

Delicate and elegant, her swordplay seemed easy to evade, yet was utterly inescapable—fragile in appearance, yet capable of stirring a great storm, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings.

 

‘Impossible.’

 

Verndia finally understood why Silkisia had never welcomed the sight of the young lady holding a sword.

Psychke was a genius; one who could not even be compared to Yzhar.

A child raised without affection had surpassed her blood kin by an overwhelming margin; of course they would want to hide her.

Even if her existence could restore the long-faded reputation of ‘Silkisia, famed for its swordsmanship.’

A considerable amount of time passed. After cutting down the final monster, Psychke spoke.

 

“Did you find the necklace?”

 

Verndia had altered his appearance with magic to conceal his identity, yet through the engagement ring that revealed each other’s position, she knew who he was.

Seeing that he appeared unharmed, she did not ask after his condition, but about the necklace instead.

Unwilling to let her notice that he had been spellbound by her during the fight, Verndia answered curtly.

 

“It was a trap. The moment I touched it, this happened. And it wasn’t even the real thing.”

 

He rolled up the sleeve of the arm not holding his sword.

Vein-like tendrils writhed as if alive, spreading across his palm, the back of his hand, and up his forearm like a web.

 

The sight was so grotesque that Psychke faltered, “A-are you… all right?”

“If I weren’t, what would that change?”

 

Verndia replied evenly. He saw no reason to voice the agony he was enduring.

 

“It’s a curse embedded in the counterfeit. The more shock or movement, the stronger it grows. That was likely the intention behind leaking the information in the first place.”

 

He explained that the real necklace of Keitan had never been here at all; the rumor of its appearance was merely bait for those investigating the incident.

 

“If the auction had proceeded without incident, they would’ve canceled it somehow. You can’t sell what doesn’t exist.”

“Then the reason you told us not to bid, but to steal it instead—”

“Was to see whether it was a trap.”

 

Though he acknowledged that he had been used like a disposable pawn, Verndia did not seem particularly offended.

Watching this, Psychke tilted her head slightly, wondering if this too was part of the strange dynamic between them.

 

“Then the outcome of the request—”

“We’ll report the truth and hand over the counterfeit.”

 

Saying there was no time to linger, Verndia gestured toward the door.

The sounds of barking dogs, monster howls, and shouting that had been distant were now drawing dangerously close.

 

“I didn’t expect them to mobilize monsters as well.”

 

He ground his teeth at the thought that forbidden magic had been used.

Part of him wanted to unleash his flames and burn down the auction house along with everything else but with the curse active, reckless movement was dangerous, and revealing his violet fire would expose him as the Duke of Lestir.

Suppressing his temper, he led his fiancée toward the hidden passage they had used to infiltrate.

 

“This way.”

 

As she followed, Psychke dispelled the bracelet’s appearance-altering spell.

The mana stored within had its limits, so she needed to conserve it whenever concealment was unnecessary.

Two hurried sets of footsteps echoed together through the empty corridor.

Walking ahead, Verndia glanced sideways. Each time she moved, her silver hair, tied neatly back, swayed softly. To be honest, even without Psychke’s arrival, he could have escaped the situation on his own.

The problem was that the curse would have spread and caused internal damage, and as he was weighing his options, help had arrived. His gratitude was genuine.

Verndia was meticulous about debts, he always repaid them twofold.

Resolving to send her a dress for the crown prince’s coming-of-age banquet as thanks, he spoke abruptly.

 

“We should spar sometime.”

 

The request was sudden, but Psychke understood the meaning behind it.

Surprised, embarrassed, yet deeply pleased to be acknowledged as a swordswoman, a warm, buoyant feeling bloomed in her chest.

It was Verndia’s way of offering praise.

As the Empire’s only Swordmaster and its strongest swordsman, he was constantly asked for ‘sparring matches’ that were little more than veiled requests for instruction.

He had never accepted, citing busyness, or the risk of injury from his inability to hold back.

In truth, as Isolet would politely put it, those were refusals; in Verndia’s own blunt terms, it amounted to:

 

[‘With that level of skill, you want to cross blades with me? Are you insane?’]

 

“Yes… thank you.”

 

So happy was she to be recognized that a faint blush colored her usually expressionless face.

Watching her from the corner of his eye, Verndia nearly stopped short.

Lowered blue eyes, long lashes trembling faintly, lips curved in a soft line, cheeks flushed red, and a small fist resting lightly against her chest.  For the first time, she showed an unguarded expression, and through the engagement ring he felt her pure, unfiltered joy.

 

‘Cute—… damn it.’

 

What on earth was he thinking?

He couldn’t believe he had thought something like that while looking at the young lady.

Verndia shook his head violently, as if trying to fling the thought away. Then, frowning, he suddenly shoved her back.

 

“Care— ugh!”

 

A mercenary burst out from a side room and crashed into him head-on. Verndia was hurled into the opposite room.

Bang!

The wooden door behind him flew open with a thunderous crash.

 

“—!”

 

Psychke swallowed the instinctive cry of ‘My lord’ and hurriedly twisted the jewel on her bracelet to conceal her true appearance. Then she stepped forward, sword raised, blocking the mercenary who was about to strike Verndia.

Spotting her at last, the mercenary sneered.

 

“I heard there was only one rat.”

 

Her delicate looks and smaller frame clearly made him underestimate her.

But as he parried her sharp strike, his face twisted.

 

“What the hell—”

 

As she retreated a step, the mercenary shook his stinging wrist and counterattacked.

Psychke blocked him without much difficulty.

Judging by the heavy vibration through the blade and his footwork, he was far stronger than the guards earlier but in pure skill, she still had the edge.

The problem was her lack of real combat experience.

 

“Pretty little thing. Looks like all you did was train, huh?”

 

Against a mercenary seasoned by life-and-death battles, predictable swordsmanship was a weakness.

After exchanging several blows and grasping her patterns, the man relied on ingrained survival instincts to block every strike, even those he couldn’t fully see.

Chuckling, he suddenly mixed in a feint, pretending to retreat, then stepping on her foot and lunging forward.

 

“…!”

 

She managed to deflect it instinctively, but couldn’t prevent a thin line of blood from being drawn across her cheek.

Psychke didn’t even think to wipe away the hot liquid, focusing instead on fending off the relentless assault.

Minutes passed, yet Verndia showed no sign of returning.

She glanced back.

 

‘Is he unconscious?’

 

Her growing wounds began to sting.

The robe she wore was torn in several places, close to revealing the clothes beneath.

Calmly blocking each irregular attack, she was undeniably growing stronger in real time.

But this was no practice match. It was a real fight, and escaping took priority over growth, especially before the guards she had shaken off returned.

There was no choice.

She drew up her mana and poured it into her sword, careful not to let a blue glow give her away.

As she focused, she felt the cursed power she had been suppressing begin to stir.

 

‘I have to end this quickly.’

 

She clenched her teeth as the air around her grew colder.

Such a change would usually go unnoticed, but given time, the surroundings would begin to freeze, she had to finish it fast.

Psychke began to overwhelm the mercenary with sheer skill, crushing his experience.

Startled by the ferocity of her attacks, the mercenary fought desperately for his life.

A fierce clash with no room for mercy.

And because of that, neither of them noticed that at some point, Verndia had reappeared, clutching one arm to keep the curse from spreading, standing unnaturally still as he watched.