Chapter : 106

  A different clerk was on duty now, an older, balding man with sharp eyes. Lloyd placed the pouches of leaves and the Heartwood Stone on the counter, along with his contract copy. "Contract fulfilled. Verdant Sentinels. Seventeen neutralized."

  The clerk raised a skeptical eyebrow but efficiently checked the contents. He counted the leaves, examined their quality, hefted the pulsing Heartwood Stone. His eyes widened slightly at the quantity and condition. "Impressive yield, Lord Ferrum. And remarkably fast completion." He made notations in the ledger. "Apothecary Vanya will be pleased. The reward – one Gold Coin and fifty-five Silver, correct?" He counted out the gleaming coins from the Guild coffers, the sound loud in the momentary lull nearby.

  Lloyd gratefully accepted the payment, the weight of the gold coin feeling disproportionately significant. Ten more System Coins tomorrow, he thought, relief washing over him. He now had 33 SC and 1 Gold, 55 Silver. Progress. Slow, grinding progress, but progress nonetheless.

  He pocketed the coins, nodded curtly to the clerk, and turned to leave the noise and smell of the Guild Hall behind him, weariness pulling at him. He needed food, rest, and to start planning the next phase of the soap venture – sourcing those damned oils. He was halfway across the main hall, pushing through a knot of boisterous mercenaries arguing over dice, when a voice cut through the din from behind him.

  Clear. Resonant. Distinctly female. And carrying an undertone of authority that made several nearby conversations instantly cease.

  "Lloyd Ferrum! Wait just a moment, if you please!"

  Lloyd froze mid-stride, every muscle tensing instinctively. He didn't recognize the voice immediately, but the tone… it wasn't the pleading of a petitioner, the challenge of a rival, or the casual greeting of an acquaintance. It held command. He turned slowly, scanning the crowd, searching for the source. Who...?

  —-

  The raucous energy of the Central Guild Hall seemed to momentarily pause, a pocket of quiet forming around Lloyd Ferrum as he turned slowly. The noise didn't vanish completely – tankards still clanked, dice still rattled somewhere, a distant argument still simmered – but the immediate vicinity held its breath, drawn by the clear, commanding female voice that had cut through the usual din.

  His eyes scanned the crowd, past the rough-faced mercenaries whose initial surprise was morphing back into indifferent curiosity, past the hopeful young adventurers momentarily distracted from the noticeboard. Then he saw her. And promptly did a mental double-take.

  Standing near the edge of the cleared space, having apparently just entered or perhaps waiting deliberately, was a young woman who seemed utterly, spectacularly out of place in the rough-and-tumble atmosphere of the Guild Hall. She was tall, easily nearing his own height, with a posture that spoke of innate confidence and aristocratic bearing. Her figure was… well, the eighty-year-old engineer in Lloyd’s head immediately registered it as possessing statistically improbable curves combined with elegant lines, the kind of physique fashion designers on Earth would have fought over. High-spec model indeed, his internal monologue noted with detached appreciation. Walking genetic lottery winner.

  But it was her hair that truly commanded attention. Not blonde, not brunette, not even the striking silver or deep black common among nobility. It was a cascade of vibrant crimson-violet, a color so rich and unusual it looked like captured sunset and twilight woven together. It shimmered under the flickering torchlight of the Guild Hall, framing a face that was equally striking – high cheekbones, a strong jawline softened by a full mouth currently set in a determined line, and large eyes the color of amethyst surveying him intently. She was dressed impeccably, not in practical adventuring gear, but in riding leathers of the finest quality, tailored perfectly, suggesting wealth, status, and perhaps a certain disregard for blending in.

  Okay, Lloyd’s brain processed rapidly. Tall. Gorgeous. Ridiculously colored hair. Expensive clothes. Radiates 'I'm important, pay attention'. Definitely nobility. High nobility. He scanned his memory banks – both the hazy nineteen-year-old ones and the vast, cluttered archive of his eighty-year Earth life plus the fragmented recollections of his first Riverio life. Blank. Complete and utter blank. He had absolutely no recollection of this stunning, crimson-violet-haired apparition. Had he met her before? At some state banquet he’d slept through mentally? Was she newly arrived in the capital? Some cousin thrice-removed he'd managed to ignore?

  Error 404: Name Not Found, his internal system reported dryly. Either new character DLC just dropped, or my memory is even patchier than I thought.

  She strode towards him now, closing the distance with a confidence that parted the remaining onlookers like Moses parting the Red Sea. They stared, whispering frantically now, recognizing her even if Lloyd didn't. Her presence amplified the curiosity surrounding him tenfold.

  Chapter : 107

  She stopped directly in front of him, close enough that he could smell the faint, expensive scent of her perfume – something floral but complex, utterly unlike the crude scents common here. Her amethyst eyes scanned him from head to toe, taking in his practical (slightly mud-stained) tunic, the fatigue likely still evident around his eyes, the pouches at his belt. Her expression was… assessing. Curious. Perhaps slightly challenging.

  "Lloyd Ferrum," she stated again, her voice clear, firm, leaving no room for doubt she knew exactly who he was.

  Right. Definitely knows me. Time to deploy standard protocol for encountering unidentified, potentially important nobles: Polite confusion and hope they introduce themselves.

  Lloyd offered a slight, formal inclination of his head, dredging up the manners ingrained in him across lifetimes. "My lady," he began, keeping his tone respectful but neutral, injecting just a hint of polite uncertainty. "You have me at a disadvantage. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?"

  Silence. Absolute, stunned silence descended upon their immediate vicinity. Even the distant dice game seemed to pause. The crimson-violet-haired woman stared at him, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows slowly rising towards her hairline. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed again. A faint flush, visible even in the dim Guild Hall light, began to creep up her neck. It wasn't embarrassment, Lloyd assessed quickly; it was sheer, unadulterated disbelief mixed with burgeoning indignation.

  Oh dear, his internal monologue winced. Judging by the reaction, I definitely should know her. This is awkward. Possibly politically damaging awkward. The whispers around them erupted anew, louder now, buzzing with shock and amusement.

  "He… he doesn't know who she is!"

  "Lady Faria? He asked Lady Faria Kruts who she is?"

  "Gods, is he blind or just stupid?"

  "After their talk at the wedding? Hilarious!"

  The woman finally found her voice, though it was several degrees cooler now, laced with an unmistakable edge of offense. "You… you truly do not remember me, Lord Ferrum?" she asked, incredulity dripping from every syllable. "Truly?"

  Faria Kruts? The name finally snagged on a rusty hook deep in his memory banks. Kruts… Southern Marquessate… Father is Marquess Tiberius Kruts… Daughter, Faria… Known for… The fragmented data surfaced slowly. Right! The wedding! Our wedding! A couple week and a half ago! She was there! Talked to me during the reception? The memory was foggy, overlaid by the stress of the arranged marriage, the awkwardness with Rosa, the general haze of being twenty six and clueless in his first life, and now buried under eighty-six years of intervening existence. He remembered a tall girl with unusual hair, perhaps? Making polite conversation? About… something?

  "Faria!" Lloyd exclaimed, forcing warmth and recognition into his voice, hoping to salvage the situation. He executed a deeper, more formal bow this time, appropriate for the daughter of a Marquess. "Lady Faria Kruts! My sincerest apologies! Of course, I remember! Forgive my momentary lapse. The… uh… the lighting in here isn't ideal, and after a rather strenuous day…" He trailed off lamely, realizing how pathetic the excuse sounded even to his own ears.

  Faria Kruts did not look remotely appeased. Her arms were crossed now, her amethyst eyes narrowed, studying him with sharp suspicion. "Momentary lapse? Strenuous day?" she repeated skeptically. "Lord Ferrum, we spoke for nearly half an hour during your wedding reception, less than two weeks ago. We discussed," she emphasized the word, "the nuances of landscape painting versus portraiture. You displayed quite… passionate opinions on the use of light and shadow." Her gaze sharpened. "Are you suggesting such a stimulating conversation slipped your mind entirely?"

  Oh gods, ART? Lloyd groaned internally. First life Lloyd actually liked art? Had opinions? Passionate opinions? He vaguely remembered dabbling with sketching as a bored teenager, finding some solace in it, but the eighty-year-old engineer and soldier who currently occupied this brain had long since overwritten those files with schematics, battle plans, and cynical observations about the futility of existence. He couldn't recall a single specific point from that alleged conversation. He was completely, utterly blanking. Stimulating conversation? More like eighty-six years of memory decay. (he was nineteen 86 years ago in first life. Earth-80, Riverio-6)

  "Art!" Lloyd latched onto the word desperately, plastering on what he hoped looked like a fond smile of recollection. "Yes! Art! Of course! How could I forget? Such a… memorable discussion!" He tried to look knowledgeable. "The interplay of light… crucial! And shadow… equally vital!" He waved a hand vaguely, hoping his enthusiasm masked his utter lack of substance. "Wonderful points were made. By both of us, naturally."

  Chapter : 108

  Faria’s frown deepened. She wasn't buying it. Not even slightly. "Indeed," she said coolly, her voice dripping with sarcasm now. "You spoke with such conviction about the superiority of the Northern Impressionist school, particularly regarding their rendering of atmospheric haze. You even critiqued my own preference for the bolder lines of the Southern Realists." She tilted her head, her amethyst eyes drilling into him. "Refresh my memory, Lord Ferrum. What was your primary critique of Realism again? Something about its 'failure to capture the soul'?"

  Northern Impressionists? Southern Realists? Soul capturing? Lloyd’s mind was a vast, echoing void where art theory used to be. He felt sweat prickle his brow. He was caught. Utterly, humiliatingly caught. He couldn't bluff his way through this. Abort! Abort! Deploy Gen-Z defense mechanism!

  He dropped the fake smile, letting his shoulders slump slightly, adopting an expression of mild, bewildered exhaustion. "Lady Faria," he sighed, running a hand through his hair distractedly. "Forgive me. Honestly? My brain is just… not braining today. Too much… uh… slime mold," he improvised wildly, remembering some obscure swamp flora from his recent hunt, "from the fen mire, perhaps. Affects the cognitive functions, you know."

  Faria stared at him as if he'd just started speaking in tongues. "...Slime mold?" she repeated slowly, bewildered. "Your brain… is not 'braining'?" The phrase was nonsensical, alien. She looked genuinely confused now, the suspicion momentarily overshadowed by sheer bafflement. Is he unwell? Or deliberately speaking gibberish?

  "It's been a long couple of weeks," Lloyd pressed on, embracing the confusion strategy. "Lots of… new inputs. System overloads." He shrugged helplessly. "The art conversation… wonderful, I'm sure! Top tier! Five stars! But the specific data points seem to have been… archived. Corrupted files, perhaps. My apologies."

  Faria continued to stare, processing this bizarre explanation. He wasn't denying the conversation happened, merely claiming some sort of temporary, slime-mold-induced amnesia regarding its contents? It was ludicrous. Yet… his earlier confidence, clashed dramatically with this sudden, almost childlike inability to recall a simple conversation or articulate a coherent thought about art. Unless…

  Her eyes narrowed again, suspicion hardening her features once more. A different possibility occurred to her, one far more insulting. "Or perhaps," she said, her voice regaining its icy edge, devoid now of mere offense, replaced by cold contempt, "you were simply lying then, Lord Ferrum?" She took a step closer, invading his personal space slightly, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Perhaps your supposed 'passion' for art was merely a facade? A performance to impress or appease during a stressful social occasion? Perhaps you aren't an artist at all, merely someone who pretended to be?" The accusation hung between them, sharp and venomous. To feign artistic sensitivity, to lie about something so personal as creative passion… in her circles, that was a profound insult.

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  Lloyd stiffened. Being caught forgetting was embarrassing. Being accused of being a fraud about something his past self apparently cared about? That stung, igniting a flicker of the old Ferrum pride. "No," he stated firmly, his voice losing its earlier flippant tone, becoming serious, meeting her accusing gaze head-on. "I do not lie about such things, Lady Faria. My appreciation for art, my understanding of its principles, is genuine. My memory might be… temporarily fragmented," he conceded, sticking partially to his bizarre excuse, "but the foundation is real."

  "Is it?" Faria challenged, unconvinced, her amethyst eyes flashing. The insult, combined with his persistent, baffling behavior, seemed to solidify a decision within her. She drew herself up to her full, impressive height, a spark of competitive fire entering her expression. "Very well, Lord Ferrum. If your artistic foundation is so 'real', despite your convenient amnesia and slime-mold afflictions, then there is a simple way to prove it."

  Her voice rang out clearly, drawing the attention of everyone nearby who hadn't already been eavesdropping intently. "Words are cheap. Performances are easily forgotten, it seems." A challenging smirk touched her lips. "Let our actions speak."

  She issued the declaration like a gauntlet thrown down. "I propose a contest, Lord Ferrum. Here. Now. Or as soon as materials can be arranged." Her eyes gleamed with competitive fervor. "An art competition. You versus me. Subject to be determined mutually. Judged by impartial members of the Guild, perhaps?" She gestured vaguely towards the watching crowd. "Let us see whose 'foundation' is truly solid. Let us see who possesses genuine talent, and who merely offered empty words at a wedding."

  Lloyd stared at her, caught completely off guard. An art competition? Here? Now? Against this fiery, talented (he assumed, based on her confidence), and currently very annoyed daughter of a Marquess? He, whose artistic skills had presumably peaked at teenage sketching eighty-six years ago and were now buried under layers of engineering, warfare, and existential dread?

  Chapter : 109

  He felt a cold sweat break out on his back. He was trapped. Refuse, and he confirms her suspicion, looking like a liar and a coward in front of the entire Guild Hall. Accept, and he faces public humiliation when his skills inevitably fall short of whatever 'passionate opinions' his past self apparently spouted. He was caught between a rock and a very talented, very competitive hard place.

  Well, damn, his internal monologue sighed, surveying the impossible situation. This is… problematic.

  -----

  Trapped. The word echoed in the sudden, ringing silence that followed Faria Kruts’s audacious challenge. Lloyd Ferrum stood rooted to the spot in the middle of the bustling Guild Hall, feeling the weight of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of expectant eyes boring into him. An art competition. Here. Now. Against the fiery, crimson-violet-haired daughter of a Marquess who clearly remembered his alleged artistic opinions with painful clarity.

  His mind raced, frantically trying to access long-dormant memory files labeled 'Artistic Skill'. He vaguely recalled hours spent sketching as a teenager in his first life – landscapes, mythical creatures, maybe even attempts at portraits. Finding solace in lines and shading, a quiet rebellion against the rigid expectations of his martial family. But that felt like centuries ago, literally. Eighty-six years of starkly different experiences lay between that young, artistically inclined Lloyd and the pragmatic, eighty-year-old engineer-soldier currently piloting this body.

  What did I even draw back then? His internal monologue was a frantic scramble through corrupted data. Flowers? Dragons? Angsty self-portraits? Probably terrible. The only drawing he’d done consistently for decades on Earth wasn't 'art' in the conventional sense. It was technical illustration. Schematics. Blueprints. Detailed renderings of mechanical components, stress points, energy flows. He’d drawn his greatest creation, the Flying Mechanical Battle Suit, countless times – from every conceivable angle, cross-sections, exploded views – collaborating with his scientist colleague, refining the design, translating complex engineering concepts into visual form. It was precise, functional, utterly devoid of 'soul' or 'atmospheric haze'. It was engineering rendered in graphite.

  This is bad, he thought, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down his temple despite the relative coolness of the hall. Accept, and I produce a technical drawing that everyone here will dismiss as soulless mechanics, confirming Faria’s suspicion that I’m a fraud. Refuse, and I look like a coward who lied about his passions. He glanced at Faria. Her amethyst eyes gleamed with competitive fire, her challenging smirk daring him to back down. She wanted this. She wanted to expose him, to humiliate him for his perceived slight and earlier deception.

  He saw the expressions in the crowd. Eager anticipation. Malicious glee. They smelled blood in the water. The 'drab duckling' heir, caught in a lie, about to be publicly shamed by the talented, beautiful Lady Faria. It was high drama, and they had front-row seats.

  No winning move, he assessed grimly. Unless… An idea sparked, unconventional, risky, born of desperation and a refusal to simply roll over. Unless I redefine the terms. Don't try to replicate what first-life Lloyd did. Don't try to meet her challenge on her terms. Do what I know. Lean into the perceived weakness, the 'soulless mechanics'. Own it. Present something so utterly different, so technically proficient yet artistically alien to this world, that it short-circuits their expectations entirely. Maybe they wouldn't call it 'art', but perhaps they couldn't deny the skill involved. It was a gamble, a wild deviation from the expected script, but it felt more authentic, more him, than trying to dredge up forgotten Impressionist theories.

  He took a deep breath, meeting Faria’s challenging gaze with a newfound resolve. The faint, amused smile returned to his lips, this time genuine, tinged with the thrill of the unexpected gamble. "An art competition, Lady Faria?" he repeated, his voice calm now, carrying easily. "An intriguing proposal. Bold. I accept."

  A ripple of surprise went through the crowd. He accepted? Just like that? Faria’s smirk widened fractionally, confident she had him trapped. "Excellent," she replied crisply. "Subject?"

  "Hmm," Lloyd tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Something… universal, perhaps? Something embodying strength, protection, maybe even grace?" He deliberately kept it vague, allowing interpretation.

  "Strength and grace?" Faria considered, then nodded sharply. "Agreed. A fitting theme." She snapped her fingers, addressing one of the Guild attendants hovering nearby. "Materials! Two sturdy easels, drawing boards, ample sheets of the finest quality art paper the Guild possesses, and sets of drawing charcoal and graphite sticks. Immediately!" Her command held the easy authority of someone accustomed to instant obedience.

  The Guild Hall buzzed with renewed excitement as attendants scrambled to fulfill her request. Within minutes, two easels stood side-by-side in the cleared space, draped with large sheets of thick, creamy-white paper. Sets of charcoal and graphite sticks of varying hardness lay ready on small adjacent stools. The stage was set.

  Chapter : 110

  Faria strode to her easel, shedding her riding gloves with a flourish. She selected a piece of soft charcoal, her expression focused, intense, the competitive fire burning brightly in her amethyst eyes. Without hesitation, she began to sketch, her hand moving with fluid confidence, broad strokes rapidly defining a shape on the pristine paper.

  Lloyd walked to his own easel, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes dissecting his every move. He ignored them. He picked up a stick of hard graphite, feeling its familiar, precise weight in his hand. Not the soft, expressive charcoal Faria favored, but the tool of engineers, of draftsmen. He took another deep breath, clearing his mind, shutting out the noise, the expectations, the potential humiliation. He focused solely on the image held sharp and clear in his memory, an image he knew intimately, technically, from every angle.

  He began to draw.

  His style was utterly different from Faria’s fluid, expressive strokes. His lines were clean, sharp, precise. He started not with an overall shape, but with structural elements – the curve of a reinforced shoulder pauldron, the articulated joint of a mechanical elbow, the sleek, aerodynamic lines of a thruster pack. He worked methodically, building the form piece by piece, his graphite stick moving with the unwavering accuracy of a plotter pen. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. He wasn’t capturing emotion; he was rendering function, engineering made visible.

  The crowd murmured, confused. What was he drawing? Strange angles, metallic shapes… it looked like pieces of armor, perhaps? But disjointed, futuristic, unlike any armor worn in Riverio. Faria, absorbed in her own work, occasionally glanced over, her brow furrowing slightly at the bizarre, mechanical shapes emerging on Lloyd’s paper before returning her focus to her own more traditional subject.

  Time seemed to stretch, measured only by the soft rasp of charcoal and the harder whisper of graphite on paper. Faria worked with passion, pouring emotion into her lines, capturing the soft curve of a cheek, the tender fold of fabric, the protective curve of an arm. Lloyd worked with focused intensity, rendering the complex interplay of plates, servos, power conduits, the subtle weathering on hardened alloys, the reflected light on a polished visor.

  Finally, both seemed to finish simultaneously. Faria stepped back from her easel, adding a final softening smudge with her thumb, her expression confident, pleased with her creation. Lloyd placed his graphite stick down carefully, his own face revealing nothing but the quiet satisfaction of a complex task completed accurately.

  "Finished?" Faria asked, a challenging lilt in her voice.

  "Finished," Lloyd confirmed calmly.

  "Then let the judgment commence," Faria declared, gesturing towards her work.

  The crowd surged forward eagerly, forming a semi-circle, craning their necks to see the results. First, they looked at Faria’s drawing.

  A collective gasp of admiration went through the hall. Rendered in soft, expressive charcoal, Faria had created a stunningly beautiful portrait. A young woman, face filled with serene tenderness, cradled a swaddled infant protectively in her arms. The detail was exquisite – the soft folds of the blanket, the delicate curve of the baby’s cheek, the loving gaze in the mother’s eyes. It radiated warmth, emotion, classical beauty. It was undeniably high art by Riverian standards, showcasing skill, sensitivity, and a mastery of traditional technique. "Magnificent!" someone breathed. "The emotion!" "Truly captures the theme!" Applause began to ripple through the crowd. Faria inclined her head gracefully, accepting the praise, her confident smirk returning, directed pointedly at Lloyd. Beat that, her expression clearly stated.

  Then, the crowd shifted its gaze to Lloyd’s easel.

  And the applause died instantly. Replaced by stunned, bewildered silence.

  What…? What was it?

  On Lloyd’s paper, rendered with stark, razor-sharp precision in clean graphite lines, was something utterly alien, yet strangely compelling. A figure, undeniably female from the powerful yet elegant lines of the form beneath the armor, stood poised against a blank background. But she was encased, not in traditional plate mail, but in a sleek, complex, form-fitting suit of articulated metal plates, streamlined and aerodynamic. Integrated thrusters flared subtly from the back and calves. Intricate wiring and power conduits snaked across the surfaces. One armored hand rested on her hip, the other held aloft a complex rifle-like weapon that looked like it belonged in another century. Her face was obscured by a full helmet, its visor reflecting an unseen light source with photographic realism.

  There was no softness, no overt emotion. But there was undeniable strength, power, contained grace. The sheer detail was staggering – every bolt head, every seam line, every subtle reflection on the polished metal rendered with absolute fidelity. The perspective was perfect, the lines clean, unwavering. It wasn't a 'painting' in the traditional sense; it felt like a window into another reality, a meticulously documented artifact from a future they couldn't comprehend.