Weapon seller in the world of magic

Kiara walked across the scarred training ground with measured steps, and when she stopped before Serestia, she did not raise her voice, nor did she point an accusing finger, yet the calm in her tone carried a weight heavier than a shouted rebuke.

"Princess Serestia," she said, folding her arms across her chest, "His Majesty was gracious enough to lend this place to me, but generosity is not the same as surrender. If a man hands you the key to his house, it does not mean you are free to tear down his walls and call it gratitude."

Serestia lowered her eyes.

The blood at the corner of her lips had begun to dry, and a thin crimson streak marked the curve of her chin, making her appear less like a royal princess and more like a stubborn young warrior who had pushed herself beyond her limits and now stood in the uncomfortable silence that always follows pride.

Kiara continued, her voice even and unhurried.

"This ground exists so that I may demonstrate weapons to my customers. It is wide enough for sparring, and I have never objected to people testing their strength here. But if two siblings wish to fight as though they are trying to decide who will inherit the sky and who will be buried beneath the earth, then they should choose another field."

Her gaze drifted to the fractured stone and shallow craters that marred the training ground.

"I held my tongue because your brother was present," she said, "but when a person mistakes patience for permission, it becomes necessary to speak."

Each word landed with quiet precision.

No shouting.

No insults.

And somehow that only made it harder to endure.

Serestia felt several emotions collide within her chest.

There was irritation, sharp and hot, at being lectured like a child.

For one fleeting moment, she wanted to shout.

She wanted to cry out that they were siblings, that family should not treat family like troublesome strangers, that she was tired of being the youngest bird in a nest full of eagles.

But the words rose only to her throat before she forced them back down.

When she finally spoke, her voice was subdued.

"I was reckless," she said, staring at the ground as if the answer to her frustration lay hidden between the cracks. "I am sorry."

The apology was genuine, and perhaps because Kiara noticed the blood on her clothes, or perhaps because she saw the small, defeated slump in the princess’s shoulders, her own expression softened.

"It is fine," Kiara said, her tone losing its edge. "Battles heat the blood and cloud the mind. Just remember to look around before you let your emotions carry you away."

Serestia nodded silently.

Kiara then turned toward Magnus Phoenix.

The second prince stood tall, his fiery wings already fading into motes of ember-like light, his breathing steady despite the forceful interruption.

Kiara inclined her head politely.

"Your Highness, forgive me for cutting short your sparring session, but what I witnessed had already stepped beyond the boundary of practice and wandered dangerously close to a real battle. Therefore, I am declaring the match a draw and asking both of you to leave my grounds this instant."

The words were direct.

A lesser noble might have trembled either in fear or in anger while saying them.

Kiara simply stated them as one might announce that the sun would set in the west.

Even so, she was not unaware of how her words could sound to a man of Magnus’s standing, a respected general and imperial prince whose name carried weight across the Empire.

Normally, she would not care if the listener wore a crown or a beggar’s cap.

But Magnus was too valuable a customer to offend over pride. And also, he is the only one Kiara likes among the royalty.

So before any misunderstanding could take root, she opened her inventory and produced the prototype Panzer, its metallic frame appearing beside her with a heavy thud.

Then she gave a slight, almost sheepish smile.

"It seems I let my temper speak before my manners," she said. "That was not my intention. As a gesture of goodwill, I will hand over the prototype Panzer now. You may use it to train your soldiers over the next two weeks while the remainder of your order is prepared."

To Kiara, this was the most practical way to smooth over any friction.

She was not giving away a gift.

She was merely delivering part of the order ahead of schedule.

No loss.

Only diplomacy.

Magnus glanced at the Panzer, then back at Kiara.

To Serestia’s surprise, he raised a hand and declined.

"That will not be necessary."

His voice was calm and firm, like a commander speaking after a battle had settled.

"The person who is wrong should apologize, whether they are a commoner or an emperor."

The words hung in the air for a moment.

Then his expression shifted, and a spark of anticipation lit his eyes.

"However," he continued, "if you agree to one request, I will consider this journey well worth the trouble."

Kiara narrowed her eyes slightly.

Years of experience had taught her that the words one request could hide anything from a polite favor to a dragon-sized headache.

"I cannot agree before hearing what it is," she replied.

Magnus’s smile widened. "Finish the spar that my sister began."

He folded his arms behind his back.

"A dual-attribute summoner who stands at the peak of the 7-star rank is not someone one encounters every day. Unlike Serestia, you are level-headed, and I trust that neither of us will lose control."

He gestured toward the damaged field.

"I will compensate for everything my sister destroyed. And if our spar causes any further damage, I will bear that cost as well."

Kiara blinked.

For a brief moment, she was genuinely surprised.

Then she remembered the Lightning Clone that had intercepted both attacks.

Perhaps Magnus had mistaken that display for a glimpse of her true strength.

And perhaps, she admitted inwardly, that was not entirely untrue anymore. Her new skill had changed the equation.

After a few seconds of thought, she nodded. "Very well. If that is your wish, I accept."

Magnus turned his head toward his younger sister.

"Sera. Step aside."

The seriousness in his tone left no room for protest.

Serestia, already bruised in body and pride, lowered her head and walked to the sidelines.

As she moved away, she could not help but feel that the day had conspired to humble her from every direction.

First, her half-brother.

Then her biological elder sister, Kiara.

And now she had been reduced to the role of spectator on her own training ground.

Life, she thought bitterly, was proving that even a princess could be scolded like a schoolchild if she stepped into the wrong storm.

In the center of the field, Magnus dismissed his semi-divine weapon.

The flaming sword dissolved into drifting sparks.

Kiara stood opposite him, her eyes calm and focused.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

Magnus gave a single nod.

That was all she needed.

"Lightning Clone, Activate."

With a burst of crackling light, the clone materialized beside her once more.

Blue arcs danced across its body like living serpents.

Its pupil-less eyes glowed with cold intensity.

The pressure radiating from it made the air feel heavier, as though the atmosphere itself had drawn a sharp breath.

Kiara immediately felt the familiar connection, that uncanny sensation of inhabiting two bodies at once.

At the same time, she sensed her ether energy draining at one percent per second.

The clone was powerful, but it was a costly candle.

It burned bright and burned fast.

Without wasting a heartbeat, she pointed toward Magnus.

The clone exploded into motion.

To ordinary observers, it would have appeared as a streak of blue lightning tearing across the field.

But Magnus Phoenix was no ordinary Spirit Warrior.

Gifted, battle-tested, and blessed with an awakened Phoenix bloodline since the age of seven, his eyes tracked the clone’s movements with startling clarity.

He stood his ground.

The clone closed the distance and drove a fist toward his face.

At the last instant, Magnus bent his body with effortless precision, allowing the electrified punch to whistle past his cheek close enough for him to feel the static prickle against his skin.

In the same motion, like a seasoned swordsman slipping beneath an opponent’s blade before delivering his own strike, he thrust his palm forward toward the clone’s chest.