My breathing was ragged.
I swung the saber in my hand, but there was no sensation.
The Third Generation, whom I should have cut, wore a fearless grin.
*"Too bad. You missed."*
Right after he said that, I spun around and brought my saber up in a defensive stance.
The Third Generation thrust forward a sword that could normally be swung with one hand, and he was laughing at my reaction.
*"You're fast, but that won't be enough."*
The instant the blade was about to reach my saber, I shifted my gaze to the left.
Ever since earlier, I'd been using detection-assisting Skills—[All], [Map], [Search]—but I still couldn't fully track the Third Generation's movements.
Inside the Jewel—
In the Fourth Generation's memory room, I was cut down by the sword the Third Generation swung.
In that landscape of a single road stretching endlessly beneath a wide blue sky, my red blood scattered through the air.
As I fell, I drove my saber into the ground and managed to hold on, but my breathing grew even more ragged.
There was pain, too.
I looked at where I'd been cut, but no blood was flowing and my clothes weren't sliced.
I pulled the saber from the ground and took my stance.
The Third Generation before me watched me while tapping the flat of the blade against his right shoulder a few times.
*"You need to learn to use Skills through your own five senses. Otherwise, you won't be able to defend against Ceres's attacks, let alone react to them."*
The Third Generation let out a sigh, pressing his hand to his face with a weary, exasperated air.
But the corners of his mouth were smiling.
Was he still hung up on what I'd said about "I just need to beat everyone"? All the Successive Heads had thrown themselves into training me with way too much enthusiasm.
No — way, way too much enthusiasm.
"My responses keep appearing and disappearing… and if the blade tip rushes at me head-on, I'll block it too, you know."
The techniques I'd been honing had reached the point where I could instantly shift into a defensive stance based on visual information.
But the Third Generation, who possessed Skills that could interfere with a person's mind and conjure hallucinations, was exploiting that very strength.
The saber in my grip began to vanish.
The sword the Third Generation held faded away just the same.
I watched the familiar saber dissolve from within my own hand.
The saber recreated inside the Jewel was the one my parents had given me as a gift when I was a child.
As it disappeared, I clenched the hand that had been gripping it hard.
The Fourth Generation, who had been watching my fight with the Third Generation, offered his assessment.
*"You're aiming to move beyond unconscious reflexes, aren't you? The path Rail chose leads even further beyond that… I'd say it lies on the other side of a wall that even masters can't break through."*
Through fighting them, I'd come to understand two things: what it truly meant to face Ceres, and just how outmatched I was.
I knew that, as I stood now, I couldn't beat Ceres.
But I'd never imagined that I'd be this completely unable to even defeat the Successive Heads.
The Third Generation toyed with me at will, and the Fourth Generation was someone I couldn't even begin to pin down.
Against the Successive Heads, who had each mastered their own Skills to perfection, I was utterly helpless.
The Third Generation smiled.
*"Honestly, Marks, that look on your face doesn't suit you at all. You used to be such an honest, sweet kid."*
The Fourth Generation cleared his throat and objected.
*"Do you have any idea how much I've struggled since the Third Generation died? Besides, I've been alive longer than he was."*
The Fourth Generation insisted that his life experience was nothing to be ashamed of compared to the Third Generation's, but looking at the two of them, a thought crossed my mind.
"...Come to think of it, both the Third Generation and the Fourth Generation had wives—or, well, I suppose you'd call them spouses? You're both the same ancestors to me, but what were your wives like?"
I asked because I was curious, and sure enough, the Fourth Generation grew visibly flustered, pushing his glasses back into place with his index finger.
The Third Generation spoke, lost in recollection—.
*"My wife? She was a wonderful woman. Kind, beautiful, and composed—she was someone you could really rely on."*
"Aha-ha-ha!" The Third Generation laughed and went on sharing memories from those days.
But the Fourth Generation's face had gone slightly stiff.
*"Y-Yes. My wife was also a fine woman... indeed."*
Something about his tone struck me as suspicious, so I kept my eyes on the Fourth Generation.
The Third Generation, perhaps sensing something, looked around.
*"Lyle, look... the scenery around us is changing."*
Just as the grinning Third Generation had said, the landscape around us had begun to shift.
"Oh, I can see a mansion. Could this place be—"
The Fourth Generation hung his head.
*"That's right, it's my mansion. I had it relocated from the original site and rebuilt."*
We were standing in the courtyard of the mansion.
The iron-barred gates swung open, and a single carriage rolled through.
From inside the mansion, the Fourth Generation emerged, looking tense.
However, in terms of age, she looked exactly the same as always when viewed through the Jewel.
She was probably in her early thirties.
The Third Generation.
"Could this be an important guest? Carriages keep entering the courtyard one after another."
As the cargo-laden carriage and wagon rolled into the mansion's courtyard, a young girl climbed down from the carriage and offered a greeting before the Fourth Generation.
She looked to be in her early teens at most — a petite girl with a strong-willed air about her.
The Fourth Generation pressed both hands to his face, then offered an explanation.
"...She's my wife."
Both the Third Generation and I leaned in close, comparing the faces of the Fourth Generation and his wife side by side, over and over again.
The Fourth Generation glanced behind the girl who had stepped down, and once he realized that this girl before him was indeed his partner, he greeted her with a strained smile.
"Nice to meet you. We've already exchanged letters, but I'm Marks Walt. I'm glad we can finally meet."
Watching the Fourth Generation rattle off his pleasantries, his wife —
"...Twenty points."
"Huh?"
She scored him, then placed both hands on her hips. Without looking up at the older Fourth Generation, she puffed out her chest and launched into a dignified lecture.
"I may be small, but I am a daughter who bears the name of a viscount's house! Don't dismiss me as a child! And what was that just now?! Did you think I was some escort for your marriage partner or something?!"
The young girl — scolding the Fourth Generation for having checked behind her — left him flustered and at a loss.
"I apologize. But you were just so adorable that I couldn't help but doubt it."
To the Fourth Generation's gentle smile, his wife once again —
"Ten points. From the moment I married you, I stopped being a girl and became your wife. I would appreciate it if you'd refrain from treating me like a child."
She certainly seemed like a strict person.
But no matter how you looked at it, he could only come across as a father being scolded by his own daughter.
The Third Generation was on all fours, slapping the ground and laughing.
"Marks, you're really something!"
"Fourth Generation, I'm sorry. I just can't help but laugh."
The Third Generation and I watched the Fourth Generation and his wife and laughed.
Then, the Fourth Generation's glasses glinted ominously as he spoke to us.
"...You'd do well to remember this, Lyle."
"Remember what?"
I reflected that I'd laughed too much, but the scene in my memory continued, and seeing the Fourth Generation still being graded by the girl made the Third Generation roll on the floor laughing.
"The Walt family precepts... the precepts for taking a bride — you remember them, right?"
I nodded with a somewhat strained expression.
After all, the Walt family precepts were something the First Generation had blurted out at a drinking party, and the people around him had taken it so seriously they'd mistaken it for actual family precepts, causing it to continue for over two hundred years.
In short—
First, the woman you take as your wife must be of outstanding appearance.
Second, she must be in good health.
Third, she must have a strong body.
Fourth, she must be intelligent.
Fifth, she must have beautiful skin.
Sixth, she must excel in magic.
I mustn't say that the second and third rules overlap. They were just drunken ramblings—truly nothing more than words blurted out without a single thought behind them. That's why they ended up being interpreted this way later. The last one was added by the Fifth Generation as a family precept, so the First Generation had absolutely nothing to do with it.
Be of fine appearance.
Never fall ill.
Possess a sturdy body.
Be of sharp mind.
Have beautiful skin.
Be a true noble capable of wielding magic.
Those were House Walt's precepts for taking a bride.
Since male heirs had been born reliably generation after generation, there was no female version—no precepts for taking a husband.
The Fourth Generation gave an awkward laugh, and then...
"To welcome an excellent bride. Indeed, that truly is an important matter. You could say it wasn't us who built the House Walt of today, but rather the successive wives of each generation."
Looking at the Third Generation rolling around in laughter, I nodded—thinking that perhaps it really was so.
In my memories, the Fourth Generation was being scolded for not being able to come up with wittier words about his wife.
With a shadowed smile, the Fourth Generation spoke.
"My wife was excellent too. She had a different kind of excellence from Mother. She was utterly dependable, and it was thanks to her that House Walt—which had only just been elevated to a barony—could truly establish itself as a proper noble house. Her tongue was sharp and she could be strict, but she really did have her adorable side too. I'm serious, you know? I'll say it clearly—she had plenty of cute moments! That adorable side of hers was just one of them—"
Why does the Fourth Generation look so pitiable?
"Th-Then does that mean the other Successive Heads all had scenes like this playing out as well?"
To steer the conversation elsewhere, I brought up the other heads.
"Sure, there were some differences, but didn't they all end up being deftly handled in the palm of her hand? That's what the men of House Walt are! Ah, but... the Fifth Generation might be a different story."
At the Fourth Generation's words, I...
"...Well, being told with a smug look that 'The men of House Walt are masters at deftly rolling in the palm of their wife's hand!' is pretty awkward, you know."
The scenery around me turned gray and the view shifted entirely—I was now in a room inside the mansion. The Third Generation, who had been rolling around, was clutching his head after slamming into a wall.
"Hey... could you not change the scene so suddenly?"
"You brought this on yourself."
The Fourth Generation answered with a smile to the Third Generation, who was rubbing his head.
In that room, the Fifth Generation—who appeared to be in his early twenties—was being introduced to a young woman by the Fourth Generation, whose hair had gone white with age, and his wife, who had grown older.
The nervous Fifth Generation was quiet, saying very little.
"What's wrong, Fredericks? Oh, I get it. Your partner is such a pretty girl that you're nervous, aren't you?"
The Fourth Generation's wife, who came across as strong-willed no matter what, had a soft and doting expression toward the Fifth Generation.
Beside them, the Fourth Generation—with his white-streaked hair as he appeared in that memory—grumbled.
"Couldn't you at least say something a bit more thoughtful?"
His wife was pinching the Fourth Generation's arm with a smile on her face.
"Dear, do you have some kind of complaint about Fredericks?"
"None! None at all, so stop it!"
In front of the woman who was giggling, the young Fifth Generation offered a brief greeting.
"I'm Fredericks. I'm not great with jokes."
"Is that so? I'm—"
After the woman finished her greeting, the Fifth Generation kept his head lowered the entire time, looking apologetic. Only the Fourth Generation and his wife were trying their hardest to bring the two together.
The Third Generation and I couldn't help but laugh watching that scene.
After all, what the Fourth Generation did next was the outrageous move of taking four concubines and fathering nearly thirty children.
This was not a minor issue — it was a behavioral problem that could ignite into a major crisis for House Walt.
As the surrounding scenery faded to grey, the Fourth Generation let out a sigh.
"Fredricks… the Fifth Generation's match was also a fine girl, in keeping with the family precepts."
And yet, the Fifth Generation who had taken a concubine was apparently quite beloved by the Fourth Generation's wife.
The Fourth Generation removed his glasses and began to wipe them.
"The Fifth Generation… Fredricks was an honest child who smiled readily from a young age. Looking back now, I wonder when he stopped smiling."
The Fifth Generation had a way of prioritizing efficiency, and among the Successive Heads, he came across as the coldest of them all.
But at the same time, he was the one who endured the most.
In later generations, he was remembered as a lecher who had kept a beautiful concubine while still young.
A killer who showed no mercy toward bandits and mercenary bands.
People said whatever they wanted about him.
He was also the harbinger of the darkest era in House Walt's history. And that trend continued through the Sixth Generation before being cut off at the Seventh Generation. That was the history of House Walt as my father had told it to me.
The Third Generation had both hands clasped behind his head, watching the young Fifth Generation within the greyed-out scenery.
"Well, he probably saw through it all. That's why he went through with it. He must have believed it was necessary — but why did he let things be arranged that way?"
The gazes of both myself and the Third Generation pierced into the Fourth Generation.
The Fourth Generation, having put his glasses back on, looked at his wife — frozen in time, greyed out, her smile locked in place — and spoke.
"…It was an accident. An injury left her unable to bear children. I never told Fredricks."
The Third Generation murmured.
"I see."