Chapter 89
Chapter 89
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>Translator: Lord First
>Chapter: 89
>Chapter Title: The King's Silence (7)
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*
Unlike the shocking opening stage, the duels that followed were rather conventional.
After all, the great nobles of the capital, though divided by factions, were all related if you traced their lineage back three generations. The web of kinship, more formidable than any school or regional tie, had been woven layer by layer over a long history.
Moreover, most of the nobles participating in this tournament were either part of the Crown Prince's faction or were turncoats considering switching to his side.
In the first place, any loyal subject with a shred of decency should have opposed the tournament's very existence. If the princess herself offered her hand to maintain the throne's authority, they should have been wailing and prostrating themselves at her feet.
Thus, all participants engaged in suitably aristocratic duels. Even in defeat, they needed to display their prowess to the citizens, so the bouts were conventional yet reasonably entertaining.
And then, an outsider appeared.
*
[The Privy Council of Calion, Sir Æthelflæd Koenwulf, now enters!]
The surroundings fell silent.
This was different from Ivan's case. The quiet then was because the crowd didn't know the participant; this was something else entirely.
It was because there wasn't a single citizen who didn't know the name Æthelflæd Koenwulf.
Generally, citizens were more enthusiastic about knights than mages. Magic was distant from daily life, its structure and principles difficult to grasp, but a knight's valor was intuitive.
Therefore, the citizens did not remember the heroes of Calion. Most elves were mages, after all.
But Æthelflæd was different. Æthel of the One Eye. A hero who, during the war, confronted one of the Seven Dragon Generals, lost an eye, and saved an entire legion.
That one feat alone was enough to make the hearts of the citizenry pound. In addition, among the aloof elves, her figure, walking with a single sword in hand, was more than enough to inspire awe.
Thus, the citizens fell silent.
Why would an elf... and a female elf at that... be participating in this tournament?
Moreover, the strongest of the elves... so suddenly?
[It seems no one is here to welcome me. I'm used to it.]
Standing on the platform, Æthelflæd surveyed her surroundings and spoke in a voice tinged with amusement.
She did not raise her visor to show her face.
It was an incredibly rude gesture. Of course, this wasn't because there was any need to verify the identity of the person inside the helmet. With Veolgrin's guarantee and Krasilov's acceptance, it would be a diplomatic incident if it weren't her.
However, showing one's face was a sign of respect for the royal family's authority. It was a matter of courtesy.
[Are you going to keep me standing here?]
Koenwulf's words sent a stir through the crowd. How rude! How dare that elf, in a place like this! Murmurs of that nature followed.
Soon, a knight walked out from the opposite side.
“A pleasure, Sir Koenwulf. I have heard much of your renowned—.”
[Enough.]
“What...?”
[I said, enough talking. Human. Do not state your name, nor express your opinions. Your silver tongue is not enough to leave an impression on me.]
Koenwulf ignored her opponent's attempt at an introduction and raised her sword.
There was no starting signal in the tournament. Once two combatants stood on the dueling grounds, they were considered ready to begin.
So Koenwulf angled her sword and pointed it at her opponent. A casual gesture, neither overtly rude nor particularly respectful.
[Come. Leave your name with me through your skill.]
“You insolent...!!”
All the participants standing here were great nobles. A great noble of Krasilov should not be treated this way anywhere in the United Kingdom.
That was common sense. The common sense of the social system built by humans.
But it was not the common sense of elves. Especially not for Æthelflæd.
Because in war, the nobility flowing through one's veins does not guarantee one's life.
Even a great noble with vast manors and immense wealth would die just the same if a sword pierced their chest due to a lack of skill.
What makes a person's name memorable is not the age of their bloodline, but their individual ability—that alone.
Besides, no matter how deep the history of a human noble house, how could it compare to that of the great families in the Elven Privy Council?
-*Shing...*
The sword smoothly cut down through the air.
The tip of the blade was held perfectly still, as if it had no need to move.
Koenwulf did not stir.
“This... insolence... I will hold your entire elven race accountable for this!!”
Her opponent charged, stomping loudly, with the force of an enraged boar. In fact, the charge of a trained knight, even without a mount, is more powerful than a boar's.
The weight of full plate armor, destructive mana flowing through the veins, and a lifetime of training culminating in a perfectly balanced strike.
-*Kiiiiing—!!*
Meeting the downward slash, Koenwulf's stationary sword swept gently against it before falling away.
-*Claaaang—!!*
That alone was enough. Enough to perfectly control the force behind her opponent's sword and send it flying.
The sword, which had not moved two inches, was once again aimed forward without a tremor.
Now, its point rested against the neck of the disarmed knight. It was a strike that had perfectly predicted the opponent's path and the exact moment he would stop.
“I... I... have lost.”
[It was too disappointing a fight to be remembered. Pick up your sword if you wish. I'll give you a second chance.]
“Do not insult me further...!!”
[An insult is a taunt directed at someone of a similar level. Human. Wouldn't you call what I'm doing an education?]
“You... elves...!!”
The opponent shouted and turned to leave the stage.
The crowd remained silent. The stands were too far, and the spectators' eyes not keen enough, to understand what had just happened.
It simply looked as though they had exchanged a single blow, then a sword went flying, and one of them abruptly declared defeat and left the stage.
In the silence, Æthelflæd descended from the stage, walking as briskly as she had when she arrived.
*
And then, she came face to face with Ivan, who was sitting deep in the passageway.
Both were in full armor, their visors still down, yet they were clearly staring at each other.
[John.]
“Adel.”
The two stopped just outside of sword's reach and quietly greeted each other.
[You haven't changed.]
“You've grown dull.”
At Ivan's words, Adel's armor rattled.
[Dull? Me?]
“Your swordsmanship was more brilliant than that. As I remember it.”
[And you don't think it was because my opponent wasn't worthy?]
“Didn't you say that swordsmanship is an art you display for yourself, not for your opponent? To temper your blade according to your opponent... that's not like you.”
[How do you know my thoughts on that haven't changed in the last ten years?]
“...Enough with the wordplay. I don't know how to speak in circles. Adel. Answer me. What is your purpose?”
Ivan asked quietly.
“What does Veolgrin want from this country? Why you, of all people?”
[Well, I was about to ask you the same thing. What's your purpose?]
“Victory.”
[Mine is... if I had to put it in a word, 'interference'.]
Adel said in a playful tone.
[Lord Veolgrin's purpose is none of my business. I don't know for what reason or with what thoughts he dispatched me. But the one 'request' I received was to interfere with the others' victories. What about you?]
“The 'order' I received was also singular. Win until the very end. The purpose or reason behind the order is none of my concern.”
[How amusing. Don't you forget what you just said.]
I hope that resolve doesn't waver when you face me up there.
Adel chuckled and walked away down the corridor.
Ivan watched Adel's retreating back for a long time. Her gait, her stride, her body's responsiveness, and even her 'senses'.
The senses of a superhuman could deduce the state of the body beneath the armor. But from a superhuman like her, unparalleled in the 'utilization of physical abilities', the information one could glean was limited.
Concealing her condition would be all too easy for her. And that could be taken to mean she had grown weak enough to need to hide it.
Until ten years ago, she never concealed her presence, not for a single moment. That was the kind of woman she was. Always laughing boisterously, yet sometimes sinking into serious contemplation. Unpredictable.
A master.
A master of the sword. A woman considered to have mastered the entirety of swordsmanship, utilizing all four limbs in her art.
A madwoman who had lived for hundreds of years wielding only a sword. Elven swordsmanship is divided into the era before her and the era after her.
For such a person to have to hide her physical senses from others....
'Has she grown dull?'
Is her dementia progressing more severely than I thought?
It seems that no matter how advanced elven medicine is, it couldn't overcome Alzheimer's. With this, it seemed safe to significantly downgrade the threat level of older elves.
Few young elves showed great promise, and the elders of the Privy Council, who held Calion's national power, were mostly old.
In any case, this was not a bad thing. If the condition of the tournament's most likely champion was like this, then perhaps... it might be possible to aim for a head-on victory.
*
The tournament, which continued for the next few days, walked a tightrope somewhere between the crowd's shock and their fury.
[The winner is Sir Ivan Petrovich Yermov of the Viscountcy of Yermov!!]
-Woah... ahhh....
>-Wow... uh....
A madman who always crushed his opponents within two exchanges, and if they dropped their weapon, he would drop his own and start throwing punches.
'Ivan the Face-Breaker.' He was said to be the third son from some unheard-of rural fiefdom.
Simple and crude. That was the nobles' assessment. They said the man's swordsmanship had no finesse, no honor, and not even a shred of respect.
That was the common evaluation, mostly from the nobles who had been crushed by his hands.
And one more.
[The winner is Sir Æthelflæd Koenwulf of the Calion Privy Council!!]
-Boooooooooo!!!
>-Go back to your nest, elf!!!
[Ahaha!! If you need a lesson, come on up here anytime, everyone!]
Æthelflæd, despite the crowd's jeers, smiled brightly, waved her hand, and walked off with a detached air.
The knights who faced her were divided into two types: those who pointed out the elf's rudeness, and young knights who wanted to be acknowledged by crossing swords with a legendary hero.
These rash young knights, sometimes unable to control their youthful vigor, would visit Sir Koenwulf's quarters to try and befriend her, only to be soundly beaten and thrown out.
As things reached this point, the nobles also began to catch on.
-This is a scheme.
If they couldn't figure that much out, they might as well have renounced their titles. A noble from the frontiers suddenly appearing and dominating a tournament to which provincial nobles hadn't even been invited.
This wasn't some wandering knight who 'happened' to visit Frichenkaya and joined on a youthful whim.
It was Elizaveta, who had bought a skilled knight to keep the nobles in check.
And the elf had probably detected Elizaveta's plot in an 'elf-like' way and was now trying to interfere.
“Then shouldn't we just make those two fight each other first?”
Duke Sheremetev said casually, stroking his beard.
“If the princess wants to keep us in check and the elf wants to interfere with the princess, isn't this like a love letter from those pointy-ears to us?”
“A bit too heavy-handed for a love letter, wouldn't you say?”
“They're elves. It can't be helped.”
Everyone present agreed with that sentiment. Right. They were elves, after all.
“As long as the elves don't extend a hand to us first, there's no need for us to bow our heads. So, if we make those two fight, one of them is bound to be eliminated, right?”
There are no draws in this tournament. The grand prize is the princess, after all.
“And from the looks of it, that 'Ivan' fellow should be able to land at least one good blow on that pointy-eared bitch, eh? Hmm? We didn't lose because we lacked skill, so he must be a decent swordsman. Have you looked into this Viscountcy of Yermov?”
“Yes, Your Excellency. They are one of the northern noble houses that sprung up after the war. There are rumors that the third son enjoys hunting and is quite skilled with a sword.”
“If he was knighted after the war, he must have been some mercenary scum who got lucky. Provide him with some arms and a suitable word of praise. That way, even if he loses to the elf bitch and the princess abandons the lowborn, he'll come crawling to us.”
It was a rational plan. There was no way some nameless soldier could defeat the strongest of the elves.
So, at the very least, they would provide him with arms so he could inflict even minor damage on Æthelflæd. And at the same time, they would win the lowborn's favor.
A defeated mercenary is bound to be discarded. And the princess was not a woman who valued defeated soldiers. The lowborn would surely be cast aside, and then he would remember the nobles' goodwill.
Having been under the princess's command, he might know something. Even if he didn't, recruiting a knight of his caliber would be a net gain.
“But Your Excellency, what if that lowborn actually manages to defeat Sir Koenwulf?”
Then the elves, who went so far as to send a champion to implicitly propose an alliance with the nobles, would look quite foolish,
and if the third son of Viscount Yermov were to win, the grand prize would be lost to them.
The elves wouldn't be crazy enough to send a female champion to marry the princess, so an elven victory could present a new opportunity for the nobles.
But if that knight Ivan were to win, the nobles would be reduced to mere bystanders in this tournament.
In response to that question, Duke Sheremetev burst out laughing.
“Can a mouse defeat a lion just because you give it a sword? Hahahaha, the man will surely lose. What's important is minimizing our losses, is it not?”
On the fifth day of the tournament.
All the knights who were supposed to face Ivan and Æthelflæd forfeited their matches,
and with only four participants remaining, at last.
Ivan came to face Æthelflæd.
*
Isabelle sat in the stands, chewing nervously on her thumb.
It was hardly a good habit, but her tension was understandable.
Yuri was patting her shoulder with a warm hand.
“Mister Pavel.”
“Hm?”
“Is our mister going to lose?”
“No.”
Pavel was also a former Royal Guard. He had even served as the Captain of the Guard. Of course he knew Æthelflæd.
Therefore, he too suspected that Æthelflæd's condition was not what it used to be.
On the other hand, Ivan was still at the peak of his abilities. After all, it had only been four years since he cut down one of the Seven Dragon Generals.
Ivan's skills, which he had steadily honed since then, were greater than they had been back then, not lesser.
So...
“He'll win.”
“Pfft?!”
“???”
Yuri, who had been listening, suddenly spat the drink she was sipping onto the floor and started coughing.
Pavel began to pat Yuri's back.
“But if he wins, he'll really have to marry Her Highness the Princess!”
“Are you trying to cheer for him or curse him?”
“I don't know! I don't want to see him lose, but I'll be so pissed if he wins.”
“Aren't you a little old for puberty?”
“No, I'm not! You're always calling me a moody kid!”
“You... just get out of here.”
Pavel cursed himself for having to be the close protection for these kids.
This wasn't why he'd quit the rebel army, he thought.
[The Privy Council of Calion, Sir Æthelflæd Koenwulf, now enters!!]
-Booooooooooo!!!
So instead, he decided to add his own voice to the jeers directed at Æthelflæd.
“Booooooo!!”
That old hag won't be able to hear my voice from here, right? No way she'd recognize me, right? he thought.
He was one of the most excited people at this tournament.
If the Captain wins, well, he'll be the princess's husband, so he won't be Captain anymore, which means a promotion is in my future.
If the Captain loses, I can say something like, 'Well, Koenwulf was always going to be a tough opponent, right? Hah, I should have been in his place. You know the Dragonslayer Spear. One shot from this, and both Einar and Æthelflæd would go down in one hit.'
Huh? So no matter who wins, I'm the one who comes out on top?
He thought.
*