Sword Festival (6): The Falling Star
The mountain winds clashed with the raging gale whipped up by Red Aura, twisting into a furious vortex. A spectacle that might have required a dozen mages from the Magic Tower to conjure erupted around a single greatsword.
“This is Helmont—!”
“Madness.”
“Hah.”
Gasps erupted from the spectators and nobles alike—pure awe at Roengreen's prowess. But for Isaac, standing right in the thick of it, there were no such words.
“What do you think, miss?” Anna asked Silberna.
Silberna had beaten Roengreen in a duel a few years back, so she might have some insight. But her honest assessment was blunt.
“……He's completely different.”
In truth, Silberna felt like she was watching an entirely new person. Roengreen's swordsmanship had grown several times stronger than when she'd crushed him. He had truly become a crimson greatsword worthy of the Helmont name.
It stemmed from his desperate craving for recognition. The desire to change the way his father always looked at him with faint disappointment. The gnawing fear that his little sister might steal his place. That relentless anxiety had whipped Roengreen without mercy.
How about it, Father?
Roengreen's eyes flicked toward Arandel. Even against a somewhat lacking opponent, a true Helmont couldn't settle for mere victory. It had to be violent domination. The kind that inspired awe just by being witnessed. That was the essence of a great Helmont.
The cheers from the crowd reached his ears, drawing a smile to his lips. But Arandel Helmont merely rested his chin on his hand, gazing at his son with utter indifference.
No—his interest had grown even duller, sinking Roengreen's heart like a stone.
Grind!
He clenched his teeth. His grip tightened instinctively on the greatsword's hilt. He'd agonized and toiled for years to solve the puzzle before him, yet the answer still eluded him.
“GRRAAAAAH!”
As always, Roengreen vented his frustration by swinging at Isaac. His Crimson Flame Wave dwarfed Sharen's in size, density—even hue, a deep crimson mirroring the family head's own. But...
“……”
Isaac's twin swords flashed in his hands. Especially the one in his left—Bricala—crackled with overflowing mana, sparks leaping like lightning.
Crackle-crack!
The moment Isaac swung, lightning burst outward in all directions, as if it had been held back until now. It collided head-on with the Crimson Flame Wave.
A deafening roar like a beast's howl exploded between them, and dust billowed in waves, blinding the arena.
The crowd cried out as visibility vanished. But the victor was clear enough.
Roengreen's wave had slammed down on Isaac's position with crushing mass. Did he just die? The thought flickered through the spectators' minds.
Clang!
But the metallic crash came from Roengreen's side.
As the dust cleared, Isaac was mid-swing, his sword arcing toward Roengreen. The sight made Roengreen grit his teeth.
“My Red Aura—!”
Isaac didn't answer. Like a writer lost in composition, he focused solely on the fight, reading his opponent's next move.
Just dodged one.
Its output outclassed Sharen's by miles, but the technique's core was the same. With mana-soaked swords in hand, dismantling it was child's play for Isaac.
But people didn't hail Helmont as the strongest for lobbing Red Aura from afar.
“Close quarters with Helmont?”
“Hell no, I'd never.”
Sighs rippled through the stands. Trading blows with a Helmont greatsword meant steeling yourself to crack an egg on a boulder.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The ringing clashes echoed fiercely, but everyone expected them to end soon.
“……Huh?”
“Mm.”
“Heh.”
Yet they kept coming. The two men's blades met without pause. Still, few thought Isaac held the edge.
It was like watching someone endlessly tap a turtle's shell. No matter how Isaac swung, Roengreen's greatsword and Red Aura showed no sign of cracking. Some even smirked, as if he were just toying with his prey.
The reality was the opposite.
“You damn—!”
Urgency laced Roengreen's movements. Most spectators missed it, but sword experts gasped in admiration the moment they grasped the scene.
A frontal clash with a Helmont greatsword. A tightrope walk where one slip meant death. Isaac's relentless swings meant one thing:
Roengreen's blade couldn't touch him.
Whoosh!
Again, the greatsword cleaved empty air. Roengreen was sure he'd landed it this time—yet Isaac had leaped upward, sword flashing down.
Clang! Clang!
Red Aura was a razor-sharp spear, but it doubled as impenetrable armor. Isaac's blade glanced harmlessly off—only for him to pivot on landing and strike again.
Roengreen recovered a beat early, lunging once more, but it carved only dust.
“Haha! Look at that!”
“Dodging like a scared puppy.”
“Slower than a greatsword? That says it all. No place for him here.”
“Sigh, Roengreen's going easy for the family name.”
Anyone could see Isaac was slower than Roengreen's greatsword. Helmont physiques outpaced him even while wielding that monster blade—unfairly so, to some eyes.
And yet.
Roengreen's sword never reached him.
“Heirad.”
In the VIP seats, dead center, Clarice fidgeted with her lips as she called to the knight beside her—the one who'd face Helmont's second son in round two.
“Heirad.”
“……”
“Heirad?”
“Ah, yes! Your Highness!”
It took three calls. “Sorry, I got caught up watching.”
Normally, she'd chew him out. Instead, she noted his clenched fist and nodded, eyes returning to the duelists.
“The air feels off.”
“……”
“Very subtle. But the powerhouses—and especially the Helmont knights—are all on edge.”
Skin-prickling tension flowed beyond the arena. Sensing it, Clarice issued swift orders.
“Galeniya might be plotting something. If the Helmont knights side with her, it could derail our plans. Prepare now.”
Heirad gave a wry smile. The princess was exceptionally gifted—her sensitivity to shifting atmospheres proved it. But youth or inexperience made her deductions falter.
“Your Highness, that's not it.”
“Hm?”
“Thanks to you taking me in young, I've seen and learned more than most.”
“What's this out of nowhere?”
“I've studied, trained in, experienced many sword styles. But Helmont? Never.”
Her eyes widened. To her, skipping the kingdom's strongest sword made no sense.
In truth, many knights said there was nothing to learn from Helmont blades. The direct lineage ones, specifically. Because they were useless to imitate.
“You can't copy their style. You can't learn it and make it yours.”
Even Helmont's own knights differed vastly from the direct bloodline. Innate, overwhelming might. That's why Helmonts were called great.
Roengreen now echoed even fragments of Arandel. Coldly put, few in the kingdom could withstand his current sword.
The great Helmonts: born to swing swords, strength their trade. Idols to the realm's knights—uncrossable peaks.
“They're overreacting. Even direct Helmonts lose sometimes.”
“True. But……”
Those who'd never swung or studied it couldn't know. Toppling one direct lineage didn't mean you'd broken Helmont swordsmanship.
Heirad fell silent. Others here would likely do the same—unable to explain.
“If I had to put it……”
Bound by duty, he racked his brain. “It's like a star falling.”
Clarice didn't get it, but other knights would have nodded. What were they witnessing?
This spine-chilling scene, sweat beading on every inch of skin—what was it?
This duel was a textbook. One that didn't exist in the world: How to Shatter Helmont. Teaching everyone present as if it were orthodox truth.
The Sword Festival, meant to exalt Helmont greatness. At its heart...
Our idol is crumbling.
Roengreen's once-unshakable greatsword wavered under the barrage. Gasps and sighs poured from the crowd. Questions arose.
Who was pulling down this deified blade?
He stood at the coalition's core. Deeper still: Helmont's son-in-law. Before that, a worthless vagrant.
But in secret annals none knew...
The Silent Sword. Teacher to countless powerhouses.
Today, before all eyes, the Silent Sword penned another volume.
Deified. Immortal. Great, eternal Helmont.
In truth, Helmont was neither god nor undying.
They can be surpassed.