Chapter 90
Chapter 90
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>Translator: Lord First
>Chapter: 90
>Chapter Title: The King's Silence (8)
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*
“He refused all the support items?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“Did he at least check to see what they were?”
“No, Your Excellency. He is said to have refused them without even opening the packages.”
“Hmm…”
Duke Sheretif, seated in the audience, wore a subtle smile.
To think that commoner had rejected, without a second thought, priceless magical artifacts he could never afford even if he toiled for a lifetime.
Since the gifts were sent under his name, any person with common sense would have expected them to be high-end luxury items, even without checking the contents.
Even if they weren't priceless family heirlooms, weapons of a quality rarely found on the market and only occasionally seen at auction were undoubtedly masterpieces.
And he had rejected them without even a glance?
“He’s either completely mad, or exceptionally clever.”
The moment he accepted Duke Sheretif's support, a certain line would be drawn. It was not enough to be considered on the same side, but the act of receiving something would create a certain perception.
So, if he were to be defeated and eliminated from the tournament, the princess would have no reason to cling to that commoner.
If anything, he would only draw suspicion. Accusations that he had promised to lose in exchange for money from the nobles, or something of that sort.
Therefore, refusing the gift now could be interpreted as securing both his safety and his value.
Of course, there were those who were completely mad, their eyes blinded by some misguided patriotism.
Well, most of those types had become dearly departed during the war.
Loyal subjects are a necessity in turbulent times.
Humans are political creatures. And in times of peace, when survival and struggle are not immediate concerns, humans inevitably become political creatures.
Duke Sheretif nodded.
His martial prowess isn't bad, nor is his intellect. His background as the third son of a noble family descended from mercenaries... he’s a rather suitable piece to use and discard without any loss.
Elizaveta truly knows how to handle an intelligence organization, he thought. She’d found a truly remarkable fellow from somewhere.
“If that man is defeated, hold a grand banquet for him. In reverence for the Krasilov man who fought so valiantly.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
As the chamberlain bowed and withdrew, Duke Sheretif added one more thing, as if in passing.
“But if he wins… kill him, by any means necessary. This era no longer desires heroes.”
A third-rate romance where an unknown soldier wins the princess’s love through sheer military valor and ushers in an age of peace is no longer needed.
The world does not wish to see one man's blade dance above the heads of the absolute majority.
Heroic tales easily captivate the masses. The more dramatic and spectacular, the more effective they are.
Elizaveta already possessed sufficient wealth and influence. If military power and popular support were added to that… it would only lead to the second coming of a monarchy more consolidated than any absolute monarchy of the past.
Therefore, that man, Elizaveta’s final gambit, even if he were to be hailed as the great warrior who defeated the ‘strongest of the elves’… no, precisely because of that…
The bud must be plucked now. Before it can fully blossom.
*
[Sir Ivan Petrovich of House Yeremov enters!!]
The clatter of low-quality armor, not even properly coated, echoed as he ascended.
It was accompanied by the heavy sound of his footsteps. Clank, clunk.
[You’ve come.]
Adel watched Ivan approach, her fingertips twitching. She felt an urge to draw her sword and dance a wild bout right then and there.
At last, Ivan’s foot stomped firmly on the platform’s ground. The two knights’ eyes met.
-Boooooooooo!!
Jeers erupted from the crowd. It was because neither knight was paying respects to the nobles or the royal family.
The two simply stared at each other, neither raising their visors to show their faces nor bowing their heads to the royal box.
An elf in ornate, magic-enhanced armor, and the third son of a provincial noble house whose name was all but unknown.
The two bizarre duelists, as if by silent agreement, slowly drew their swords and raised them.
-Shing.
The blades rose toward the sky. Simultaneously, they tilted fifteen degrees toward each other and stopped.
Having shown no courtesy to the monarch, the state, or the people, the two now offered a military salute only to each other.
[Come, Cú-Geamhradh—Winter Hound. Show me your limits.]
“Adel.”
Ivan gave a short nod.
Within his superhuman senses, at a distance where he could even hear his opponent's heartbeat.
Was it tension? Or was it joy? The heartbeat, thumping with a cheerful rhythm, seemed to hang somewhere in between.
Ivan studied Adel’s stance.
It was the same as always. A perfect center line, with no discernible habits.
Her spine was straight, her shoulders slightly hunched and turned to minimize her frontal profile.
The sword in her right hand was held out without the slightest tremor. That signified a perfect level of muscle control.
Even if dementia had set in, even if her physical abilities had waned with age, that woman’s years of experience remained.
What were his chances of victory?
No.
As long as he held a sword and stood before a blade, he should not even consider the odds of winning. That was how he had been taught. That was how he must act.
It wasn't a question of whether he could or could not.
Did it need to be done? Then he would do it. That was all.
Ivan tightened his grip on the hilt. He would defeat the strongest of the elves, the master of swordsmanship, the woman at the pinnacle of sword ki, right here and now.
With that resolve, he took a step.
-Clang!
The swords met as if in jest, a light tap that pushed each other’s blades away.
A slow clash of flats, a blow that neither bit into the steel nor pressed with ferocity. A light exchange, like clapping hands.
-Boooooo!!!
The crowd’s jeers grew louder.
Are you playing around! It’s a fixed match! Do you think this duel is a joke!!
Letting the noise of the angry mob flow past him, Ivan took another step forward.
-Clang!!
A slightly faster strike, aimed high.
Met by another strike, timed with perfect precision.
It was a light friction, neither probing for weaknesses nor following up with a combination.
But to their superhuman senses, it was an exchange of far more information.
The weight of the sword, the opponent's muscle reaction, the direction of force, the countless sword paths that could branch from the angle of the wrist at the moment of impact, and the follow-up moves to block those paths.
Another exchange, based on the information gathered from the first.
-Clang.
And another, assessing the opponent's state from the rebound of the strike.
-Clang—!!
-Klang—!! Shk-k-k-k!!
One exchange, then another. They linked together to form a sword path. The paths connected to form a sword technique. Gauging the superiority of techniques, they adjusted their blade tips, shoring up weaknesses and pressing advantages to drive toward the opponent’s heart.
Swordsmanship.
-Klang, klang, shk-k-k-k-k! Kchak! Chaaang—!!
The swordplay grew faster with each clash, until at some point, it became a blur beyond the audience’s sight.
The arena fell silent. Only silence, the sound of swallowing dryly, and involuntary gasps of awe or groans could be heard.
A quiet shock, rippling through the thousands of spectators at once.
-Claaaaang! Kchak! Klang!
It was getting faster and faster. To the point where the sword paths transcended the limits of vision.
In the quiet, only the metallic friction of blades striking each other, sending sparks flying, filled the air.
The two knights stood ramrod straight, moving only their hands, weaving a tapestry of sword paths in every direction around them.
A wind stirred. A cool breeze, unfitting for a clear summer day.
-Claaaaaaang—!!
Warriors fighting in the superhuman realm generally tend to prefer simpler exchanges.
Swordsmanship, after all, is the sum of processes for embedding one's weapon into an opponent's body.
Once nerve acceleration reached its limit, only efficiency remained, and contests were usually decided by a sort of firepower exchange, delivering strikes with greater impact.
Indeed, swordsmanship is often at its most flamboyant before one reaches the superhuman realm.
But the two superhumans here today were shattering that premise, proving that swordsmanship was still very much valid in their battles.
As if to say that polished skill, a level achieved through blood and sweat, would never betray them.
In this moment, as they measured the heights of their craft, honed over long years, proving their superiority with a single sword.
-Claaaaaaang—!!
The two warriors' strikes shot toward each other’s faces.
*
As the blade flew toward him, Ivan quickly recalled the state of his armor.
There was no deviation from the last time he had maintained it. He instantly calculated the force and angle of Adel's strike, considered the slope of his helmet, and drove his head forward.
Bracing for a minimal impact, he let the blade slide over his helmet’s visor as he extended his hand.
Grrrind!! With the sensation of his steel helmet being torn apart and its plates ripped away, a chilling pain etched a line across his cheek.
And at the same time, his sword thrust straight toward Adel's helmet.
*
Well, now. Look at this one.
That had been Adel's only thought since the very first exchange.
Every time she delivered a blow to twist his wrist and follow up with the next strike, he would precisely break the flow and retreat.
The result of this repetition was the current moment. A near-perfect, flawless decalcomania.
As if he were perfectly mirroring her swordsmanship, even when she broke the flow and mixed in techniques from other schools, he would instantly imitate them.
From beneath his helmet, a sharp, blue glint flashed in his eyes. He was reading the paths of swords already swung, discerning the techniques yet to come, and blocking them with perfectly opposing strikes.
Imitation.
Can you do this, then?
Excited, Adel swung her sword. And again, he followed. Her sword ki transcended the realm of technique and reached for the heavens, and he followed as if he could do so indefinitely.
No, it was more than that. It was as if he were demanding she show him the next technique.
Beneath her helmet, the corners of Adel’s lips curled into a wide grin.
I'll show you more. I will show you more. So…
You, too, show me what comes next. How high can you climb? How far will you follow?
With the body of a human, can you burn your short life to eclipse the light of a star?
-Shk-k-k-k-k-k!!
At the acrobatics of him taking her sword with his helmet, Adel couldn't help but be impressed. Ah, that’s right. You are no knight.
Not a knight, but closer to a mercenary… a soldier.
Weapons and armor are nothing but military supplies, so you have no attachment to them.
You see your own body as just another part of the war machine, willing to give it up at any time.
As long as you can achieve your one, single objective.
Very well, then. Let’s see how much longer that resolve of yours will last.
Adel moved her head toward the incoming blade.
The sword glanced off the curved surface of her helmet. In that instant, Ivan’s eyes, visible through the gap in his own helmet, wavered with surprise.
Delighted by this, Adel couldn't help but laugh.
What do you think? I have a knack for ‘watching’ and copying, too.
Perfectly recreating Ivan’s defense, Adel stopped, her sword extended.
*
The two knights, having struck each other's heads, froze like statues.
The spectators, who had forgotten even to swallow, also stood frozen in the silence.
In the middle of the stilled tournament, the two knights looked at each other from between their shattered helmets, smiling like figures in a painting.
“So it wasn't dementia.”
“…Dementia?”
Adel was silent for a moment.
“What… what do you mean?”
“Your skill was clearly not at its peak. At least, not until now.”
“Ah, that… well, let’s just say there were circumstances. And so?”
“Dementia from old age is something not even elves can escape. I came here banking on that for my victory.”
“Hmm. I see. And now?”
Adel took off her helmet and shook her head. Her black hair cascaded down, and she quickly tied it back.
A flamboyant eyepatch sat askew over one eye, and her other, a brilliant gold, glared sharply at Ivan like a bird of prey.
“Do you see a chance of victory now?”
“We’ll have to see.”
Ivan also tore off his half-shattered helmet and threw it to the ground.
Blood from the wound dripped down, soaking his beard.
“Take off your armor, John. I need to see your full strength.”
“Hmph.”
Clank, clatter. The heavy armor was unfastened from the knights’ bodies and rolled onto the ground.
With a crackle of her joints, Adel stretched her body. Dressed lightly in just a shirt and leather pants, she smiled and took her stance.
“No more hindrances. It’s just you and me here. Pick up your sword and look at me. Look not at victory, not at your objective, not at the plan, not at the mission. Look at your opponent.”
Adel angled her sword toward Ivan.
It was the same sword salute they had shown when they first faced each other, a brief meeting of eyes to show respect.
“Plant your feet on the earth, bear the sky, grip your sword, and see only your opponent. That is the first virtue of a swordsman, of the martial way.”
Ivan responded without a word, assuming the same stance.
The two unarmored knights offered each other the same salute as they had at the start.
-WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!
The crowd rose like a tidal wave, their cheers thundering through the air.
*