Chapter 92
Chapter 92
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>Translator: Lord First
>Chapter: 92
>Chapter Title: The King's Silence (10)
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*
Sparks flew the moment sword met sword, but the sound echoed from a distance. The neural response of sight is faster than that of hearing.
This meant their battle was now taking place in the fleeting gap between nerve transmissions.
One could not react upon seeing. One had to move in anticipation of the next move before it was even seen.
The delay that would occur the moment perception and judgment aligned would become the turning point of the match.
-KSHHHHHKK!
The sound of the first clash of swords now reached his ears. Ivan gritted his teeth and moved.
A clash of swordsmanship is like a battle of wits. It is a long fight to deduce the correct path among the countless branches that arise from the recoil of each strike, the opponent's movements, and the possibilities they create.
Only then did Ivan realize.
So, this is what they call swordsmanship.
Every clash he had engaged in until now had been nothing more than an imitation, obsessed with the mere act of swinging a weapon.
It had been nothing more than mechanically learning and perfectly mimicking the intricate subtleties established by someone else. Now, as he made his own judgments and choices to press his sword forward, he was, for the first time, truly learning a martial art.
-KLANG!
The phrase ‘good eyes’—the one thing he had considered his only asset until now—might have been a curse.
It had allowed him to simply imitate the correct answers of his predecessors, without any need to realize and develop them on his own.
It was like a growth limit. Just as there is a limit to how much grass and trees can grow, no matter how much nutrient they are given.
His outstanding learning ability had itself restricted his limits. The moment he encountered someone else's correct answer, he might have considered it the one and only solution.
Ivan could now finally understand what Æthelflæd had praised about the sword.
To build upon the years and reach for the heavens.
Even if it is unreachable. Perhaps. Even if it is but a vague notion one might never grasp in a lifetime. To simply desire it.
To not perceive one's limits. Or, even if perceived, to not accept them. And so, for a lifetime.
To devote one's entire life, to throw that whole life into the face of a challenge.
Freedom.
That was Æthelflæd’s conviction. Her life. Even as countless lives were lost in the ravages of war, her sword had danced, singing of freedom.
So that day, in the dark forests of the northern front, the trajectory of the sword she wielded alone…
Was a comfort to the survivors, a requiem for the dead, a meditation for herself, and a yearning for freedom.
Just as the Hero's sword symbolized hope, her sword symbolized freedom. That was what it meant to establish a conviction.
Could he reach it?
Could this dullard, who was only now realizing the true meaning of martial arts, reach this ascetic path of forging a conviction and mastering the essence of swordsmanship?
Could he stand shoulder to shoulder with the giants of the previous era who had walked this path before him?
Ivan silently swung his sword, gradually sinking deeper into thought.
*
He was keeping up.
Æthelflæd beamed and extended her sword. It was met. As she increased her speed, as she mixed feints with killing blows, he met her squarely, keeping pace.
This boy was growing.
That sensation made Æthelflæd restless.
Like watching a dragon hatch from its egg, or like watching the first sprout emerge from a seed leaf.
Just as the few disciples she had taken over her long years had.
How brilliant is the first step of those who grow, who flourish.
How beautiful is that courage, that will, which reaches for a new horizon she had never known, had never dared to imagine.
Ivan’s swordsmanship resembled Æthelflæd’s. That was only natural. He had good eyes, after all. He was a boy who could instantly learn her sword style through mimicry and utilize it perfectly.
Therefore, in this moment.
-KAAAAANG!!!
Whenever a sword technique she ‘did not know’ sporadically appeared, a deeper smile graced Æthelflæd’s lips.
The boy who considered himself a soldier, not a knight, a mere weapon.
The boy who had simply repeated inputs and outputs like a precise magi-tech device.
The sight of him now taking his first step, forging his own path, sent a shiver down Æthelflæd’s spine.
"Do you see? Yohn, do you see this sight as well?"
She knew he wouldn't hear her. Their battle had already transcended the realm where conversation was possible in the moment of perception.
In this instant, their only conversation was the clash of their swords and the delayed sound of impact.
But now, as their swords clashed, now.
In the dialogue between steel, Æthelflæd believed he was feeling the same thing she was.
"That is the path to the pinnacle of martial arts!"
*
The countless sensory organs he had abandoned in the process of honing his combat senses created a strange synesthesia.
The falling flower petals looked like snow, the muffled cheers sounded like the whistling of a blade-sharp wind.
The sunlit arena vanished, and before they knew it, they were at the edge of the northern front, exchanging blows.
"You foolish boy."
Æthelflæd swung her sword down and laughed. Her voice held a small reprimand, yet it was filled with immense satisfaction.
"You're quite late, aren't you? Yohn, if you understood it the moment you saw it, this is a point you should have reached the moment you realized."
"My apologies."
A faint smile also appeared on Ivan's lips.
He locked his chipped sword with hers and closed the distance.
"What can I do about my lack of talent?"
"Even now?"
"From now on, I'll have to see."
"That is enough."
*Klang.* The steel sword, having long since surpassed its durability limit, shattered and flew away. Ivan let go of the hilt without a second thought.
This was a battlefield. The ground, packed with corpses, was littered with abandoned weapons.
Ivan easily picked up an axe from among them.
"What do you hold?"
"An axe. 73cm, blade width 12cm. Weighs a little under 2kg."
"A swift and powerful weapon. Come."
No reply was needed. Ivan’s assault changed. Unlike a sword, an axe was not a weapon that drew lines.
Every strike converged into an arc. It was a fierce power focused solely on cleaving and splitting.
And all of his attacks transformed into long rotations under Æthelflæd's blade. Like a storm reaching the shore.
"Einar's style, I see."
"Yes."
"What's next?"
"Spear and shield."
Ivan threw the axe to divert her attention, then swept his hand across the ground to pick up his next weapons. An infantryman's short spear and a round shield with a long groove.
Once again, the style of his assault changed. A thrusting point, a sweep with the shield, then another point. A solid yet sharp series of blows.
"This is Gilles Vert's. You've learned well. It's tricky to deal with."
Is there more?
Yes. Instead of answering, Ivan gripped a dagger. He mimicked Enrique's attack style—fast, stealthy, and lethal.
The limit he thought he could not surpass, *click*. He felt it snap like a breaking chain. So, a person can move faster than this. A new realization.
He opened that horizon and moved to the next weapon. And the next.
With a mace, a poleaxe, a longsword and a dagger, sometimes mixing in gunfire, occasionally throwing a hidden blade.
When he had exhausted the last weapon in his mind, Ivan stood still, right in front of Æthelflæd.
"So this is your hometown, Yohn."
“…”
"This is the only hometown you can recall. You've filled too much of a short human life with the battlefield. The things you hold onto, unable to let go of the lost, you call this your hometown."
“…”
"I will not call your conviction a hometown. Yohn, at least, not I. Your will is by no means a hometown."
Æthelflæd brushed a flower petal from Ivan’s hair and smiled.
"I will call them memories. Not things you couldn't let go of, but things that have accumulated with you. Leave your hometown for later. The place you will one day reach and settle, where you can lay down all your burdens and rest—only then will I tell you that you have reached your hometown. So…"
Time flowed.
Flower petals fluttered, and the arena floor was etched with countless sword marks, arranged like an abstract painting.
Æthelflæd gazed quietly at the stock-still Ivan, then looked up at the sky.
It was a clear day. The summer sun shone down on them.
Æthelflæd squeezed her one remaining eye shut and whispered softly.
"Sir Veolgrin. I must refuse your request."
Then, she threw the sword still in her hand away without a second thought. She spun around and bowed deeply to the astonished spectators.
"I, Æthelflæd Koenwulf of the Kallion Privy Council, admit my defeat. By the grace of the Lord, I give my respects to the victor."
She walked away with light steps, leaving the arena. As the spectators, recovering from their shock, rose to their feet and roared, the arena behind her trembled like an earthquake.
[The, the winner is!! Viscount Yeremov, Sir Ivan Petrovich Yeremov!!]
The announcement was filled with astonishment.
*Thud.* A lower, smaller sound was heard. The sound of something heavy collapsing.
*Yes, rest well. You have earned it.*
Æthelflæd smiled and continued her paused steps, exiting the tournament passage.
*
"Are you awake?! Vanka, do you recognize me?!"
"Yes, Your Highness."
The moment he opened his eyes, Ivan calmly looked up at Elizaveta, who had grabbed him by the collar.
He quickly scanned his surroundings. A hospital room. Late at night.
The presence of others… likely the royal guards.
Only then did Ivan relax and lie back down.
"What happened with the match?"
"Do you... not remember?"
"Yes, my apologies."
He only remembered swinging his sword in a state of near-unconsciousness. He felt like he had heard something incredibly embarrassing, but it was difficult to recall the exact details.
His muscles were screaming. Every joint, every tendon stretched to its limit and stiffened.
The neural network, accelerated by mana, felt overloaded to the point of breaking. The aftereffects were as severe as when he had fought the Seven Dragon Generals. Ivan let out a dry laugh.
She was that strong of an opponent.
So much so that even if he had lost like this, he would have had no regrets.
"You won. Vanka, you won."
It took a moment for him to understand Elizaveta's words. Ivan, uncharacteristically, had to ask again.
"I... against Æthelflæd?"
"Haha, yes. Vanka. I'm telling you, you won."
"Was the result... sufficiently overwhelming?"
Only then did Elizaveta realize how absurd her order to Ivan had been. My goodness, had she really ordered someone fighting the strongest of the elves to 'win overwhelmingly'?
How was that any different from sending the Annihilation Squad to their deaths in the past?
Elizaveta fought back the tears welling in her eyes and spoke in a choked voice.
"Yes. Vanka. Your might was... sufficiently overwhelming. To all of us. To everyone. I declare with certainty, you are the pride of this royal house."
"That is all that matters."
Ivan nodded and sat up, ignoring the screams of his bones and muscles begging him not to move. He slowly straightened his clothes.
"Vanka...?"
"My apologies, but my work is not yet finished, Your Highness. Was there anything Dmitry or Pavel failed to report to you?"
"Hm? What do you mean..."
"I will take responsibility and question them on that part. It is now time to complete the plan Your Highness has prepared."
"Hm? My plan? The plan I prepared...?"
*But that was my plan to marry you?*
Elizaveta stared blankly at Ivan as she mumbled to herself. Ivan, expressionless, finished putting on his coat and stood up.
His posture was so impeccable it was hard to believe he had just been lying in bed.
"Wa-wait. Where are you going? What more can you do in that state?"
"I will follow the words Your Highness spoke at the Annihilation Squad's inspection."
"What...?!"
The speech she gave at every Annihilation Squad inspection...?
Elizaveta was a sharp woman. She recalled the events of ten years ago as if they were yesterday.
The words she often said after inspecting the Annihilation Squad...
-You are the pride of Krasilov!
No, not that one.
-Our nation believes in you!!
Not that one either.
There was something a bit more... adolescent.
-Only death shall stop your holy war!
Ah.
Damn it.
Elizaveta covered her forehead and lowered her head. *Right. I said that, too. It sounded so cool back then.*
So, if he took those words literally and thought about them in reverse...
Unless he was dead, the operation would not stop. That was what Ivan was saying right now.
"Wh-what about the finals?! You have to save your strength to bring me another overwhelming victory in the finals, don't you?!"
"There is no need to go to the finals, Your Highness."
Ivan stood up, calmly reassuring Elizaveta like an adult.
Watching Ivan's departing back, Elizaveta clutched her chest and groaned.
"You fool... You have to win the tournament to get the prize..."
*
Walking down the corridor after leaving the hospital room, Ivan stopped when he saw a furtive shadow at the end of the hall.
"Dmitry."
"Yes, Senior!"
The shadow waved its hand cheerfully.
Ivan walked past him. Dmitry fell into step behind him.
"Any contact?"
"Just as you predicted, Senior. Yes. Two invitations, one tampered high-grade healing potion, and one fellow disguised as a priest from Tilles. That's what we found."
"And Pavel?"
"That old man is lying in wait at the strike point."
"It's not too late, is it?"
Ivan gestured with his hand. Dmitry quickly placed a letter sealed in high-quality paper into his palm. It was an invitation bearing the seal of Duke Sheretif.
"Would you ever be late, Senior? The timing is just right."
"Let's begin."
"Our way?"
Ivan nodded. Dmitry bared his teeth in a slight grin and disappeared below the hospital wall.
"Our way."
The Annihilation Squad's way.
*