Chapter 88
Chapter 88
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>Translator: Lord First
>Chapter: 88
>Chapter Title: The King's Silence (6)
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*
The day of the decisive battle had arrived. At least, for Elizaveta.
Not since ten years ago, when she had to stamp the royal seal on the order to execute the Seven Dragon Generals, had she ever been this tense.
Even in the days when she confined her own father and purged all of her brother's associates and in-laws, she hadn't been as nervous as she was today!
"Your Highness."
A low, resonant voice brought Elizaveta back to her senses. She quickly hid her trembling fingers behind her back.
"How is your condition?"
"The same as always."
"And your preparations?"
"The same as always."
The same as always. Which meant that every waking moment was a state of perfect readiness. That was how one had to interpret the words of this steadfast man.
He was like a well-honed longsword. No, like a well-maintained cannon, loaded with gunpowder. Like an armory on the eve of war, ready to fire at a moment's notice.
Elizaveta felt a sense of relief at his 'same as always' demeanor, but also a certain kind of tremor.
She could trust this man. Even in this cold world, even on this lonely island where she couldn't even trust her own blood.
Therefore, I do not want to lose him.
Therefore, please, don't let me go.
With that sentiment in her heart, she approached Ivan, who was kneeling on one knee with his head bowed.
"My orders are the same as before, Vanka. Do you remember?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Achieve an overwhelming victory, and offer it to me."
"Your Highness need not ask. Simply give the order."
"Be victorious. No matter what you face. You must."
"Yes, Your Highness."
*Clank.*
Ivan lowered the visor of his helmet and rose to his feet.
The armor felt awkward. But a tournament was, after all, an evolution of the knightly joust. This archaic armor was in itself a symbol of aristocratic authority.
The insignia on his shoulder felt foreign. It was the crest of a noble house he had never touched before.
With an axe and a sword fastened to his hips, Ivan began to walk.
*Clank, clank.* The heavy armor pressed down forcefully on the floor.
No matter his attire, he was an agent of the crown. A descendant of the Royal Guard, a survivor of the Annihilation Squad, and the head of the Counter-Intelligence Command.
Thus, though dressed as a knight, he could never be one. He had never sought an honorable defeat after doing his best, nor the glorious military achievements celebrated among warriors.
Today, too, he was an agent of the crown. The only thing that mattered to him was the seal on his orders.
The last order he received was the same as always.
You must be victorious.
And his reply to that order was also the same as always.
It shall be done.
*
Sergey Antonovich Turgenev was the eldest son of the Turgenev count family.
Clad in ornately decorated, mana-assisted plate armor, he strode confidently onto the tournament gallery.
—Waaaaah—!!
The moment he appeared, a chorus of praise erupted. It was like an earthquake. He couldn't tell if his body was trembling or if the cheers of the crowd were shaking the makeshift stage.
He opened his visor and waved to the crowd. The cheers grew even louder.
[Entering the arena, Sir Sergey Antonovich Turgenev of the House of Count Turgenev!!]
The announcer, seated to liven up the mood, shouted loudly.
As flowers and cheers rained down on him from the crowd, he inwardly smiled a cynical smile.
*Yes, my life begins now.*
*I'll marry the princess and seize control of the royal family, which is nothing but an empty shell.*
*My family will inherit the royal bloodline, sweep away that vermin-like system called 'constitutional monarchy,' and I will sit on the throne of this nation and rule.*
This handsome young nobleman strode confidently onto the dueling stage and shouted.
"Lord, bless my sword! The honor of this day I dedicate wholly to the Lord in heaven and to the heir of this nation! Come, fight honorably and concede like a nobleman!!"
His gaze turned to the opposite side. He saw the dark passage leading to the stage.
Even under the bright sunlight, it was a shabby entrance shrouded in a gloomy shadow. Just like his opponent.
*Viscount Yermolov? One of the northern lords, they said.*
*And these northern lords are just vermin who live by exploiting tenant farmers with a handful of soldiers. They're nothing but insignificant hunters and mountain keepers who put on airs, pretending to be nobles.*
*And a third son, at that.*
*Unable to inherit the title, they become sellswords who wander the land, selling their martial prowess for money. Hedge knights, in other words.*
*Should I pity this insignificant mercenary scum for daring to come to the capital with such a vain dream of social climbing, or should I despise him?*
Sergey smirked and raised his sword upright.
Soon, the announcer shouted.
[Entering the arena, Sir Ivan Petrovich Yermolov of the House of Viscount Yermolov!!]
—Waa...?
—Ah...?
Unlike Sergey, a powerful high noble and a notorious womanizer in high society, this provincial nobleman from the north had no reputation in the city.
And that name, Ivan—look how common it is. Ever since the previous king, the name Ivan was just something you carelessly gave to any 'sturdy boy'.
Amidst the crowd's muted cheers, a silhouette slowly emerged from the shadows of the passage.
—*Clank. Clank.*
He walked with heavy steps, as if unaccustomed to it.
*How ridiculous. Those footsteps, bearing the full weight of the armor, seemed to signify his inexperience.*
—*Clank, clank, clank.*
The unadorned, black-painted armor and the unfamiliar crest on his shoulder. The fact that the family crest was unrecognizable meant he came from an insignificant house.
—*Clank.*
The man who finally stepped onto the platform said nothing, simply staring down at him.
Only a glimpse of piercing blue eyes could be seen beneath the helmet's visor.
"I am Sergey Antonovich Turgenev, eldest son of the House of Count Turgenev. Among my close friends, I am known as the Lion Knight. And your name?"
"..."
His eyes remained fixed on him, but the provincial knight before him still gave no answer.
"...Well, no matter. You must be nervous. I understand. It seems to be your first match, and of all people, your opponent is me. What a pity for you."
"..."
The two men slowly raised their swords. They gave a slight nod with their upright blades and slowly bowed from the waist, showing respect.
A tournament has no starting buzzer or signal flare. It begins the moment the two duelists face each other.
So, the conversation was meaningless. Still, Sergey was disappointed that his first opponent was a man so lacking in refinement.
*But, very well.*
*Even against such a flimsy opponent, I can impress the princess by completely overwhelming him.*
*Now, behold the man who will be your future husband...*
—*CRACK!!*
"Kuh... heuk...?!"
*
The crowd forgot even to cheer.
It happened just after the two knights had exchanged courtesies according to procedure and readjusted their grip on their swords.
—*BOOM!!*
The sound clearly arrived after the event.
By the time the crowd heard the explosive noise, the knight in black-painted armor had already reached his opponent.
—*CRACK!!*
A hastily parried sword strike—a clean, textbook blow—came crashing down.
Following the grain of that sword strike, a longsword slid smoothly along it, catching its blade in the gap of the crossguard and twisting.
A fluid combination, like flowing water, but the result was anything but gentle. The blade was sent flying.
Simultaneously, the charging knight's shoulder slammed into his opponent's chest. *Crunch, crack.* The armor, clearly reinforced with mana, was completely crushed.
"Keoheuk...! K'heuk...!!"
A groan could be heard. He flailed, trying to resist with his bare hands.
The knight approached his fallen opponent and dropped his sword. *Thunk.* The blade embedded itself deep into the floor.
Now bare-handed, he strode forward.
*
"To whom is your loyalty sworn?"
"Keoheuk... keok... Wha-what... are you...!"
—*CRACK!!*
A fist slammed into the helmet. With a crunching sound, the expensive, mana-tempered plate helm tore apart like paper.
His head rang from the impact. Through the ringing, the low voice spoke again.
"To whom is your loyalty sworn?"
"You... you bastard...!"
—*CRACK!!*
Once again, he brought his fist down like a hammer.
Since both had lost their swords, the duel was not over. Not until the opponent was completely incapacitated—by surrender or by losing consciousness.
So, with just enough force to not knock him unconscious. Steadfastly. But meticulously enough to prevent him from declaring his own surrender.
—*Crack, crack.*
He slammed his fist down, precisely controlling his strength to a level just below breaking. He was 'injecting' loyalty to the state into this foolish nobleman.
He had received one order.
Win overwhelmingly.
The mission objective was also singular.
To 'warn' the nobles who harbored treacherous thoughts against the royal family.
To deliver a warning not to forget who the true master of this nation is.
To ensure they would not even think of challenging the royal authority, no matter how vulnerable it might seem.
To make an example for the high nobles residing in this city, the so-called great nobles.
If that is what she desires, then it shall be done. Ivan brought his fist down.
Until the young nobleman, his nose broken and front teeth knocked out, fell unconscious with his mouth agape.
"That was a tough fight. Is it my victory?"
Ivan rattled his blood-dripping gauntlet and looked up at the announcer's platform.
The frozen announcer stammered, glancing at the nobles' seats. Not a word came from the gawking aristocrats.
Ivan turned his head to look at the high dais where the princess sat. He slowly knelt on one knee and bowed his head.
The princess sighed and pressed a hand to her forehead.
"Th-the winner!! Sir Ivan Petrovich Yermolov of the House of Viscount Yermolov!!"
There were no cheers.
And none were ever needed.
Ivan gave a silent nod and left the arena.
*
"Whoa... uh... oh..."
"Oh."
"Uh..."
Unaware of the popcorn dribbling from their mouths, Isabelle, Esidis, and Pavel stared blankly down at the arena from the stands.
"That... that serious...?"
*He wants to get married that badly, is that it?*
She was about to get angry, but then she remembered.
She realized he had never shown this side of himself during training or sparring.
A sense of pride welled up inside her, knowing that she alone knew a warmer side of him that others didn't.
And then, once again.
"No, but does he really want to get married that badly!?"
she fumed.
*
"Ugh, humans. So vulgar."
An elf muttered, covering her nose with a handkerchief as she left.
Amidst it all, Elfihera was still staring blankly at the arena.
At the man in whom barbarity and nobility, two contradictory values, were beautifully intertwined. (By her standards.)
"So... cool..."
A true man ought to have such resolve, such spirit, such wildness. She glanced over at the male elves of her kind, sitting in small groups and sipping high-quality black tea.
*And they call those things men.*
[Ahahaha!!]
A clear laugh erupted from the full suit of armor sitting beside her. Elfihera finally snapped out of it and looked at the armor.
The armor spoke cheerfully, its voice booming.
[That temper of his hasn't died down one bit!! Ahahaha!!]
The armor cackled with laughter, tapped the table, and stood up.
[Well now, I suppose it's my turn to put on a show. Ahahaha!!]
The armor laughed joyfully as it exited the stands. As if unable to wait for her turn, she announced she was going down to the waiting room ahead of time and left.
*