As they fastened their bracelets to the wooden dolls, the figures stirred, slowly raising their heads.
The sight of the sackcloth and straw dummies moving in unison as if granted life was an eerie one, but the knights were accustomed to it.
Without a flicker of emotion, they simply raised their wooden swords.
Sylvia took her position behind them and let out an imperceptible sigh.
She had a feeling this would be a long fight.
The prideful Michelle would not be satisfied until she had utterly humiliated these men.
It felt wrong to be on the opposing side.
‘Just think of it as training.’
Her purpose was to help them prepare for their dispatch, so Sylvia resolved to focus on that.
She expertly channeled her mana into the men, allowing them to perceive the dolls’ weaknesses, to leap higher, to swing their arms with greater force.
But there was something she had overlooked.
Among the lower ranks, a single Supporter often managed several knights, and these men had only ever received the most rudimentary support.
They immediately felt an instinctive rejection of her mana as it guided their bodies.
When they suddenly leaped a full meter higher than they were able, they flailed in surprise.
Unable to control the power surging through their arms, one even spun in a full, clumsy circle.
“Ugh’!”
The dolls descended upon them as they crashed to the ground, leaving a trail of blue ink marks across their bodies.
“Twelve points already?” Michelle’s laughter echoed from across the hall.
The men’s faces flushed with shame, and their misplaced fury found its target in Sylvia.
“Are you making a mockery of us?” the hot-tempered Gefael demanded, scratching at his short hair as he advanced on her menacingly.
Walden intercepted him, pushing him back to his position, but his own expression was sour after his spectacular mid-air tumble.
“My apologies, Sylvia,” he said, his voice dripping with false sweetness that could not conceal his irritation.
“Could you please just stick to the basics?”
Sylvia was taken aback.
She had assisted other knights before and had never encountered such a reaction.
What she was providing ‘was’ basic; if they could not handle this level of support, she seriously doubted their ability to survive the dispatch.
“Of course,” she replied, nodding in acquiescence.
But she had no intention of fading into the background as they had requested.
‘A Supporter is not a mere errand runner, here to provide whatever service a knight desires,’ she vowed, clenching her fists.
Instead, Sylvia monitored their conditions with greater delicacy, calibrating her mana to their precise needs.
She yearned for them to acknowledge that a Supporter was a partner in the fight, someone who battled alongside them.
As time wore on, their movements grew nimbler and more adept, as if they were finally finding their rhythm.
The gap between their scores, which had only widened, began to stabilize, and she could feel a new focus taking hold of them.
“Gefael,” she advised, “it would be easier to support you if you relaxed your left shoulder.”
He offered no reply.
“Monsters are generally unaware of what is directly beneath them, so it is best to lower your stance.”
Believing they were at last taking the training seriously, Sylvia offered these small corrections.
For a time, they seemed to heed her, their attention fixed on the task before them.
But as the training’s difficulty mounted, their brows furrowed and sweat beaded on their foreheads.
Soon, their irritation at her words became palpable.
They even stopped deflecting the training dummies that swung toward her, forcing Sylvia to abandon her post and dodge the attacks herself.
“Can you not do your part?” Michelle shouted, unable to watch any longer.
“Is it right that Sylvia must evade them on her own?”
Gefael merely bellowed for her to mind her own affairs.
“Contemptible louts,” Michelle muttered.
Her words must have struck a nerve, for their eyebrows shot up, and they seemed to resolve to be even more defiant.
“Damn it all, are we the Supporters’ minions?” one of them grumbled, making no effort to hide his discontent.
“It is vexing enough to move at another’s command.”
Now, whenever a spare moment arose, they would feign ignorance and send the dummies hurtling back toward her.
In a true battle, an injured Supporter was a devastating loss, but this was only training.
To them, it seemed, it mattered little.
‘Even a dummy hurts when it strikes!
Do they imagine I am a knight, with a body hardened by daily training?’
Sylvia crouched to avoid the swinging arm of the first dummy, but she failed to evade the second in time.
It struck her squarely on the crown of her head.
As she clutched her throbbing skull, Buckley, who had just parried a dummy with his wooden sword, yelled, “Why have you not cast a healing spell?”
His tone was infuriating, as if he were accusing her of idleness.
Sylvia fought back the urge to strike him and cast the spell for him.
‘Hah…’
It was the most grueling training session of her life.
Had she not been someone for whom support magic was as natural as breathing, they could never have dared to make such a wager with Michelle.
Just then, she sensed the door to the training hall opening behind her.
Sylvia prayed that whoever it was would put a stop to this ordeal.
But the newcomer seemed to wish to continue observing the rare spectacle of a Supporter hopping and dodging the arms of training dummies, for he simply opened the door and remained a silent observer.
Sylvia glared at the long shadow he cast upon the floor.
‘Ugh.’
While sidestepping a dummy jabbing at her ribs, her foot caught on an obstacle.
Sylvia fell, slamming her chin hard against the floor.
The impact sent a jarring shock through her skull.
But no one seemed to notice.
The knights before her were still squealing like pigs, demanding her support.
“Those bastards…”
“…You lead a fascinating life.”
As she clenched her fist, the man who had been watching approached and offered her his hand.
Sylvia furrowed her brow and gazed up at him.
It was, as she had expected, Owen Summers.
What business he had here, she could not fathom.
“Does this appear fascinating to you?” she challenged.
“Were you not doing this to alleviate the boredom of your existence?”
“Do you truly believe I am doing this by choice?”
“Then what?” he asked, his expression so guileless it was as if he could not conceive of any other possibility.
Sylvia sighed and pushed herself up from the floor.
Her chin ached terribly.
She raised a hand toward it but hesitated to touch the tender skin.
At her reluctance, he clumsily took hold of her head.
“Let me see.”
“Do not touch me,” Sylvia snapped.
A moment later, feeling she had unfairly vented her frustration on him, she added awkwardly, “What if the Mana Sharing worsens?”
“If it worsens, I am the only one who will suffer for it.”
His shamelessness left her speechless.
Had he already forgotten the hell she had endured?
But he only regarded her with a steady gaze, as if urging her to reconsider.
Sylvia opened her mouth to argue, but a memory from hours earlier flashed through her mind—the way her stomach had twisted upon seeing the scratch on Heston’s neck.
Was it possible he had felt that precise emotion?
“You mean… you…”
But it did not seem as though he had initiated his lewd behavior in retaliation.
Could he truly have let it pass?
This man?
The same one who had left her gasping for breath time and again?
The thought was so astonishing that her mouth fell open.
Just then, Michelle, seeing Sylvia on the ground, halted her training and rushed over.
“Heavens, Sylvia, are you all right?”
“Ah.”
“Your chin is red.
Let me see it.”
Michelle gently took Sylvia from Owen.
When her fingers brushed against the wound, Sylvia winced, and a cold fury crept into Michelle’s eyes.
She despised nothing more than men who behaved so despicably.
“You!” she roared, her voice echoing like a lion’s.
Deprived of Sylvia’s support, the other knights had also taken blows from the dummies.
They stood awkwardly, their bodies dotted with blue welts, their movements halted.
Seething, Michelle stormed toward them and threw her sword to the ground.
“Have you lost your minds?
You invite a Supporter for aid, only to stand by while she is injured?”
“It was not intentional.
What is your damn problem?” Gefael retorted, shaking his head roughly.
Buckley, meanwhile, leaned on one leg and casually cleaned his ear, an act of supreme arrogance.
As if that were not enough, they directed their veiled scorn at Sylvia.
“I simply assumed she had ample time, casting all manner of support spells as she was.”
“You absolute bastards!”
“It is fine,” Sylvia said, pushing herself to her feet.
She was furious, but they were to be dispatched together next week; she could not allow them to come to blows over this.
Teamwork was paramount on a dispatch mission.
If things continued this way, she feared they would feign ignorance even if one of their own was in peril.
“It is nothing.
Let us not raise our voices.
We should end today’s training here.”
At her words, she felt Owen’s stare upon her.
Though she could not see him clearly, it felt as if he were asking, ‘Are you truly content to let this go?’
Michelle seemed to grasp Sylvia’s meaning—that no good would come of this fight—but she still glared at the knights, clearly reluctant to let the matter drop.
With a sigh, she turned her gaze to Owen, as if to change the subject.