Chapter : 107
She stopped directly in front of him, close enough that he could sll the faint, expensive scent of her perfu – sothing floral but complex, utterly unlike the crude scents common here. Her athyst 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 . Ti 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 lifetis. "My lady," he began, keeping his tone respectful but neutral, injecting just a hint of polite uncertainty. "You have at a disadvantage. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?"
Silence. Absolute, stunned silence descended upon their imdiate vicinity. Even the distant dice ga seed 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 embarrassnt, 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 amusent.
"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 rember , Lord Ferrum?" she asked, incredulity dripping from every syllable. "Truly?"
Faria Kruts? The na finally snagged on a rusty hook deep in his mory banks. Kruts… Southern Marquessate… Father is Marquess Tiberius Kruts… Daughter, Faria… Known for… The fragnted data surfaced slowly. Right! The wedding! Our wedding! A couple week and a half ago! She was there! Talked to during the reception? The mory 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 rembered a tall girl with unusual hair, perhaps? Making polite conversation? About… sothing?
"Faria!" Lloyd exclaid, forcing warmth and recognition into his voice, hoping to salvage the situation. He executed a deeper, more formal bow this ti, appropriate for the daughter of a Marquess. "Lady Faria Kruts! My sincerest apologies! Of course, I rember! Forgive my montary lapse. The… uh… the lighting in here isn't ideal, and after a rather strenuous day…" He trailed off laly, realizing how pathetic the excuse sounded even to his own ears.
Faria Kruts did not look remotely appeased. Her arms were crossed now, her athyst eyes narrowed, studying him with sharp suspicion. "Montary 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 rembered dabbling with sketching as a bored teenager, finding so 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 mory 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… morable 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 athyst eyes drilling into him. "Refresh my mory, Lord Ferrum. What was your primary critique of Realism again? Sothing 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 chanism!
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 . Honestly? My brain is just… not braining today. Too much… uh… sli mold," he improvised wildly, rembering so 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. "...Sli mold?" she repeated slowly, bewildered. "Your brain… is not 'braining'?" The phrase was nonsensical, alien. She looked genuinely confused now, the suspicion montarily overshadowed by sheer bafflent. 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, rely claiming so sort of temporary, sli-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 re 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 et her gaze. "Perhaps your supposed 'passion' for art was rely a facade? A performance to impress or appease during a stressful social occasion? Perhaps you aren't an artist at all, rely soone who pretended to be?" The accusation hung between them, sharp and venomous. To feign artistic sensitivity, to lie about sothing so personal as creative passion… in her circles, that was a profound insult.
Lloyd stiffened. Being caught forgetting was embarrassing. Being accused of being a fraud about sothing 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, eting 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 mory might be… temporarily fragnted," he conceded, sticking partially to his bizarre excuse, "but the foundation is real."
"Is it?" Faria challenged, unconvinced, her athyst eyes flashing. The insult, combined with his persistent, baffling behavior, seed 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 sli-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 glead with competitive fervor. "An art competition. You versus . Subject to be determined mutually. Judged by impartial mbers 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 rely offered empty words at a wedding."
Lloyd stared at her, caught completely off guard. An art competition? Here? Now? Against this fiery, talented (he assud, 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?
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