Chapter 91
Chapter 91
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>Translator: Lord First
>Chapter: 91
>Chapter Title: The King's Silence (9)
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*
When was it? On a day of mundane survival, when the snow fell as it always did.
The coniferous forest, entangled in the front lines, was still stained with blood. As it always was. Before the warm blood of warriors could cool beneath the winter storm, new blood was painted over it.
The dim forest was composed of only three colors.
The sky was pitch-black, without a single point of light.
The earth was blanketed in white snow.
And all around, as far as the eye could see, were corpses and blood, dyed a stark red.
Amidst it all, there was one thing that emanated a color entirely its own: that woman.
Her proud, upturned eyes were a golden hue, filled with hope and joy.
The blade wrapped in her hand shone a brilliant blue, weaving ideals into its trajectory as it cut through the darkness.
Once, I had found myself staring at that sight, completely mesmerized.
“Was it… like this? Like this?”
With hands not yet fully grown, I tried my best to trace her movements, swinging my own sword.
The swordsmanship Ivan had learned back then was nothing more than standard military issue, mostly rough and formless techniques picked up while fighting for survival.
It felt as though my eyes were being opened to the discipline of ‘swordsmanship’ for the first time.
Alone in the barracks, Ivan was trying his best to imitate the swordplay he had seen that night.
But it wasn’t enough. Seeing it once was not enough. Beyond the difference in skill, there was a fundamental gap in class that he could not bridge.
His frame was not yet fully developed, and his swordsmanship was so rudimentary that it aimed for nothing more than a simple swing.
Thus, Ivan could only feel frustration with every swing of his sword.
He couldn’t replicate even a fraction of the brilliant arcs he had witnessed.
Logically, swordsmanship was just swinging a stick around. How could he not even copy that one simple thing?
Ivan grumbled under his breath. Damned pre-modern fantasy world.
If it was going to be like this, they should have just dropped me in a wuxia novel.
“Hmm.”
“Gah?!”
A low hum suddenly sounded from behind him, and Ivan jumped in surprise.
Not far away, Æthelflæd was watching him with a faint smile.
“Not bad at all.”
“Y-You saw?”
Did this world also have a tradition like in wuxia novels, where you get killed for spying on someone’s training?
Ivan broke into a cold sweat. It was true that he had been spying on Æthelflæd’s training.
But that crazy, sword-addicted, senile elf simply smiled and walked closer.
“Can you imagine it?”
“S-Sir?”
“Can something with only bones move?”
“Uh… um. No?”
“Think of swordsmanship as a single entity. If it had only bones, without muscles, ligaments, tendons, or blood vessels, could it move?”
Æthelflæd gently took the sword from Ivan’s hand. In a flash, the blade was in her grasp.
If she had harbored any ill intent just now, he would already be dead. The thought sent a chill down Ivan’s spine.
“The trajectory of the sword is the skeleton of swordsmanship. It must stand straight, but merely standing achieves nothing.”
*Swish.*
The blade cut through the empty air.
“The imagery it contains, the true meaning of the sword art—that is its muscle. You cut down your opponent. But how? For instance, the true meaning of this stance is this.”
*Slice!*
From top to bottom, but diagonally in a slanted line. In the middle, she snapped her wrist, taking a step back to draw a clean arc.
“It’s for striking the throat of an opponent defending in a high stance, sliding in by shattering the defense itself. That is the meaning behind this stance. Did you see?”
“What?”
“Focus. This is an expensive lesson. Now, there is an opponent before my eyes. A knight. He’s 1.8 meters tall. A big man, must weigh at least 100 kilograms with his armor. He’s holding a longsword, similar to mine.”
Listening to Æthelflæd, I looked toward the center of the night camp.
I could see the opponent.
A knight in crude armor, breathing out puffs of air, tense.
Æthelflæd walked with light steps, gave a short salute with her sword before the knight, and settled into her stance.
“If the sword’s trajectory is the skeleton, and its true meaning is the muscle, what are the tendons?”
Æthelflæd didn't wait for an answer and thrust her sword forward. The same stance as before, a strike meant to pierce a high-stance defense.
But at the last moment, she bent her wrist back and took a step away.
“Now, the opponent has barely blocked the attack flowing from my high stance. My sword was deflected, so now it’s his turn. An attack is coming. A straightforward thrust, carrying all his weight. Very powerful.”
*Swish.*
Æthelflæd gracefully stepped back, pulling her shoulder away. *Schwing*, the blade slid back, sweeping the ground once before rising.
As the knight’s sword thrust toward her, she circled to his side and smoothly grazed him twice, once below the shoulder and once at the waist.
“There is a flow to combat. Reading that flow and executing precise attacks and defenses with accurate judgment—you could call that the tendons of the sword.”
*Slice!*
Æthelflæd continued speaking as she raised her sword. She drew a line. She cut. She swung, retreated, swung upward again, and then sliced.
The gently falling snow swirled around her as if in a storm.
Just by standing there and swinging her sword, the world around her transformed.
She established her will. At the very edge of her senses.
Demonstrating this firsthand, Æthelflæd concluded with her usual breath.
“When learning swordsmanship, if you can respond to every situation, if you have endlessly disciplined yourself to reach that state, then the ceaseless flow of offense and defense itself can be called the blood vessels of the sword.”
Æthelflæd stopped and offered him the sword. The hilt she had been holding was warm with her body heat.
“If swordsmanship is a single entity, this is how it’s constructed. Don’t just look at the skeleton; train by observing the body and the movement itself. Understand?”
“If swordsmanship is an entity and not a means, Sir Koenwulf, what should we use it for?”
“…What?”
If it wasn’t just a means developed to block an opponent’s attack and kill more efficiently…
If swordsmanship itself should be viewed as an entity, what was the purpose of that ‘entity’?
Ivan found himself asking the question before he knew it.
Æthelflæd laughed, *ahaha*, looked up at the sky, then smoothly drew the sword from her hip and raised it high.
“To reach the heavens.”
“Sir?”
“What lies at the end of the sword… no one can answer that, but… I believe so. The reason a sword has this shape is…”
The sword, held in both hands, stretched straight, its tip narrowing sharply. Like a person reaching a hand toward the high heavens.
A single snowflake landed on the sharp tip of the blade, split in two, and fluttered down.
“You gaze at the sky, hone your art, and build upon the years to draw closer. That is likely what lies at the sword's end. Not a mighty blow that splits the world, nor the miracle-like curses of those called gods. Not some divine feat that vanquishes a demonic horde filling the mountains and rivers in a single stroke.”
Freedom.
Movement unbound by anything.
A sword’s edge that flows as intended, like a cloud drifting on the wind.
A blade that cleaves the sky and cuts the wind, dancing with ease.
Therefore, the will that must be contained within it all is the heavens themselves.
“You have the eyes of one destined for greatness. What is your name?”
“It is Ivan Petrovich.”
He had told her so many times, yet she still didn't know his name. Ivan found it so absurd he had to laugh.
Æthelflæd stared at Ivan’s face for a moment, then reached out and brushed the snow from his hair.
“John. A good name.”
“I am honored, Sir Koenwulf.”
“No. Since I have called you my friend, you should do the same. Æthelflæd. Call me that. All those whose names I remember have earned that right.”
That was my last meeting with Æthelflæd.
After that, she departed for the northwestern front, where she lost an eye and was defeated.
Despite her injury, she relentlessly returned to the front lines, earning her the name ‘Æthelflæd of the One Eye.’
Even so, Ivan still remembered her perfectly—the cheerful elf who had gazed at the heavens with both her eyes.
*
*Waaaaaaaaah!!!!*
The chilly snowflakes became a shower of flowers.
The sound of the wind whipping past his ears became the roar of the crowd.
The woman whose two eyes had burned so brightly now had but one lonely eye.
The hazy memory faded. Ivan squeezed his blurry eyes shut and took a deep breath.
“Æthelflæd.”
He opened his eyes. The brilliant blue was quite different from back then.
The yearning for hope, the belief that things would get better, the desperate struggle for survival—all of it had been left behind on the battlefield.
The two remnants of an era of war, still living as if on a battlefield even after the war had ended, stood facing each other with changed eyes, swords in hand.
“Your eyes have become fine indeed. They are now the eyes of a true swordsman.”
“Is that so.”
“Yes. Have you aimed for the heavens?”
“No.”
He had never harbored such a noble ideal. Ivan shook his head. To him, swordsmanship had never been more than a means of survival.
Therefore, what he desired, the will he held in his heart, the purpose and true meaning of his swordsmanship, was ultimately one thing.
Home.
Just as Æthelflæd had sought freedom as she swung her sword, dreaming of the heavens…
Ivan swung his sword, longing for home.
“Home.”
“Good. You have established your own unique will. You are no longer beneath me. Therefore…”
Æthelflæd spun her sword and settled into a ready stance. Her posture changed.
*Whoosh*, a surge of brilliant blue mana pulsed from within her body.
“Come. Leave your will with me, John. Impress your purpose upon me. Force your will upon mine, prove its superiority, and seize victory.”
Ivan slowly inhaled and took the same stance, mirroring Æthelflæd’s ready position like a decalcomania.
But even if two artists were to depict the same landscape, would their paintings be the same?
No, they would not.
A single subject is perceived differently through each individual’s eyes. Even if they shared the entire skeleton, blood vessels, and tendons of the entity that was swordsmanship…
The direction and goal toward which that entity strove were not the same.
Thus, a clash of swordsmanship imbued with true intent was nothing more than the process of imposing one’s will upon the other.
*Crack.*
He slowly severed his senses. With each throb of his heart, mana flowed out, precisely shutting down his nerve pathways, sharpening only his combat senses.
His overloaded nerves broke down seconds, entering the time between them.
The cheering faded. To be precise, time was stretching.
In that moment, in the realm of superhumans where time was segmented, where the flower petals fell in slow motion and even the heat from the excited crowd slowly cooled…
The nobles in the stands, their mouths agape, the commoners throwing flowers in their excitement, the shower of petals drifting on the breeze of a clear summer day—all of it blurred and distorted.
And in that space, only the gazes of the two combatants shone with clarity.
*Slaaash!!*
Only the arcs of their swords flowed with dignity in their own time.
They parried, met, and locked blades, beginning their dance.
*
“It’s beautiful, Vanka.”
Elizaveta watched the arena, her fists clenched tightly.
The anxiety over victory or defeat, the heart that cheered for him—none of it mattered anymore.
Victory, defeat—neither held any meaning for those two knights in this moment. Their struggle itself was the result, the purpose, and the reward.
Everything a warrior with a sword could show, everything those who wield the sword dream of, was right there before her. She could declare that with confidence.
Even if it was a skill created for war and survival, when mastered to its absolute limit, it became a form of art.
Those who knew swordsmanship and those who did not, all were screaming in excitement, shedding tears, and shouting, captivated by the moment.
And amidst it all, the two knights extended their blades only toward each other.
Beautiful. It was a fight that could not be described by any refined words. It was a dance, like the harmony of a well-rehearsed orchestra.
The clash of their lifelong mastery, built upon years of dedication, created a friction that evoked an emotional resonance akin to music, transcending mere sound.
“I am so proud of you.”
Elizaveta smiled softly and nodded.
*
“I cannot let him live.”
Duke Sheretif clenched his fist, feeling a sense of dread.
A warrior must be a tool. A tool that is useful according to its purpose, and nothing more.
A hammer, a chisel, a gouge—none should have a will of their own. A tool should not be respected by the people.
Peace has no need for heroes.
The era where a single hero could reign over the absolute majority with a single sword had to pass. That age of blind fanaticism had to end. It was the savagery of wartime.
People should not follow any single individual.
That had been the Crown Prince’s teaching. Though he was now gone, his ideology was firmly rooted among the great nobles of Prikenskaya.
Therefore, the man the princess had brought was dangerous. He was the stuff of heroes. In times of war, he might have stood shoulder to shoulder with the Hero.
How could such a man have remained unknown? It was puzzling, but that was not what was important right now.
Whatever the outcome of this duel, that man had already left far too strong an impression on the people of Prikenskaya.
He must be killed. A tool that cannot be controlled is no longer a tool.
“Make the preparations.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
The great noble houses of Prikenskaya, ancient families that had grown alongside the nation, held many dormant legacies.
The valor of one man could never overcome the strength of many. Hadn't even the Demon King fallen before the Hero's Party?
Then he himself would be the hero of the nobles, stopping this new demon king.
Duke Sheretif gave a bitter smile and shook his head.
War was different from a duel. It was different from this empty ceremony where two men honorably clashed their martial skills.
How many times had he seen a skilled duelist fall so meaninglessly on the battlefield?
This man would be the same. He had to be.
Duke Sheretif quietly rose from his seat.
*