The End of the Long Winter
The long winter had finally passed.
"...What? Seraphina? How did you find this place?"
"Se... Sera... phina..."
"Rofel!"
The moment Seraphina Serion stepped into the sub-space, she froze, unable to believe the horrific sight before her eyes.
Rofel lay collapsed right in front of Marc. Through his shredded, tattered clothes, a massive laceration on his chest wept a torrent of fresh blood.
His arms and legs twitched uselessly, as if completely broken, and blood spilled from his lips.
No matter how one looked at it, Rofel was in no condition to continue the duel.
"...Marc. What did you do to Rofel?"
Seraphina spoke, her voice and expression freezing cold.
"Seraphina, why ask something so obvious? Rofel didn't forfeit and came at me, so I simply did my best to match him."
"You know that is not what I am asking!"
Of course, she hadn't expected Rofel to defeat Marc. The gap in their talent and skill was far too vast.
But to her eyes, the current situation was deeply unnatural.
In a standard duel exam, the recall magic inscribed on the participant's body should have triggered long before they reached such a critical state.
Yet Rofel was still here, hovering on the very brink of death. This meant Marc had undoubtedly tampered with the system.
"...You're surprisingly sharp about these things," Marc sighed before continuing.
"I just figured this Rofel guy needed a proper lesson. I removed a few unnecessary distractions so I could teach him thoroughly. Well, I'd be lying if I said there was no malice involved."
"Marc Visus, you are a disgrace to knighthood. I am ashamed of myself for ever looking up to you."
"Showing someone who isn't a genius—someone without talent who doesn't know their place—the clear difference in our standing. You know it too, don't you? Isn't that the Serion way?"
Serion.
The moment Marc uttered that name, Seraphina could no longer contain her fury. She drew her sword and pointed it at him.
"...Right, of course you'd react like that. A third party interfering in a duel means instant disqualification, but the match is already decided anyway, so who cares? It's a bit early, but since you'll be one of my concubines in the future, I'll give you a personal lesson as your future husband."
Marc raised his sword in response. They slowly closed the distance, and with a sudden, explosive dash, another duel began.
Ah.
My mind is drifting, and my body feels endlessly heavy.
I can barely breathe; my nose must be broken.
The gash on my chest hasn't been treated, and blood is still pouring out of it.
My arms and legs won't budge, as if the bones are completely shattered, sending waves of agonizing pain through me.
...You'd think this level of pain would snap me awake, but instead, my consciousness is fading, dragging me toward blacking out.
First it was that weird black mage during the terror incident. Then it was the dungeon outbreak during the midterm exams. It feels like I haven't had a single day of peace since entering this academy.
Through my dimming vision, which is rapidly succumbing to darkness, a blurry figure flickers.
Snow-white hair contrasting against her tanned skin, and eyes of a passionate, burning red. It is Seraphina Serion.
Standing before her is the man who just brutally beat me to a pulp: Marc Visus.
I can't see clearly, but they seem to be clashing swords.
I don't know how she found me, but I can guess why she's here and why she's fighting Marc.
Yes, it's just like her to do this. She urged me to forfeit for my own safety, but she's always been incredibly strict with herself.
...Still...
The words Marc said during our duel keep echoing in my mind.
I have held a belief—a conviction—since the day I was born, or perhaps even before that.
Regardless of birth, one should be rewarded in proportion to their effort and what they build. That is the natural order, the right path.
On the other hand, a world where the privileged always live better lives while the underprivileged crawl at the bottom forever is unfair and absurd. That was why I hated that absurdity.
Absurdity kills the right path.
But Marc said otherwise.
He said a world where a genius could be pushed aside by someone lesser than an ordinary man was the true injustice. He said it was shameless for someone born with nothing to try and defeat someone born with everything.
Geniuses should live the lives of geniuses, and the incompetent should live the lives of the incompetent. He spoke of the cruel reality of this world.
...Yes, perhaps he is right.
...No, he is right.
No matter how hard one works, that is the way of the world, the natural order. Marc Visus represents the true order.
Conversely, for someone like me, born with nothing special, to try and surpass someone born with everything... that is the definition of absurdity.
I am the absurdity.
...And absurdity kills the right path.
A series of clashes, so sharp and fierce that no one could dare intervene, unfolded between them.
However, both Seraphina and Marc were using the Serion swordsmanship. A style of the genius, by the genius, and for the genius. No matter how much experience and effort one accumulated, it could not bridge the gap in sheer talent.
"Ugh...!"
"Look at you! You're no different from yesterday!"
Seraphina's greatsword was deflected outward, throwing her off balance and leaving her completely defenseless. Marc lunged forward to deliver the final blow to end this tedious duel.
It was at that exact moment.
Boom!
With a thunderous sound, something rushed forward at a speed invisible to the naked eye.
Even Marc, with his immense talent and skill, was forced to raise his guard instinctively.
Crash!
The one who struck Marc's raised guard was none other than Rofel Teufel.
"...? W-What...!"
Both Seraphina and Marc were stunned—no, utterly horrified.
Rofel's current state was practically that of a corpse. Blood still gushed from his chest, and the sickening crunch of broken, misaligned bones could be heard from his limbs.
A living corpse had not only closed the distance in the blink of an eye but had also unleashed a devastating strike.
Furthermore, even though Marc had blocked by supporting the flat of his greatsword's blade with his hand, the sheer force of the blow left his hands trembling violently. He was speechless.
The weapon used for the strike was equally unbelievable. It was a bent, dented, and battered iron rod—something that could barely even be called a mace anymore.
To produce such power with a weapon like that... The impact was so great that the ground beneath Marc's feet cracked and cratered.
Marc quickly backpedaled to put distance between himself and Rofel. He gestured in the air, conjuring a barrier of dark light around Rofel. Just like in their previous duel, he intended to block Rofel's vision and launch a one-sided assault.
But it didn't work.
"Gah!"
As if he knew exactly when and where the attacks were coming from, Rofel reacted to and countered every single one of Marc's strikes.
Moreover, his movements were incredibly sharp and precise. Marc hadn't realized it when he blocked the first strike, but this wasn't a matter of raw physical strength. It was the pinnacle of exquisitely honed technique. There was no other way to explain it.
What on earth had happened to this man? Marc was filled with doubt, but he didn't even have the luxury to ponder it.
Deciding the barrier of dark light was useless, Marc dispelled the magic. He gripped his greatsword—the treasure sword of the Serion family—with both hands, drawing out its potential to the absolute limit.
Judging by Rofel's current level of technique, Marc knew he couldn't hold out for long. He resolved to end everything with a single, all-out strike—a technique containing the tradition and essence of the Serion family.
Marc assumed the starting stance of the Serion swordsmanship, tensing his entire body and focusing his mind.
As if sensing this, Rofel also gripped his weapon and gathered his strength.
Though his hands held a battered piece of iron that could hardly be called a weapon, it looked as if he were wielding a massive greatsword.
And perhaps it was just an illusion, but the stance he took was strikingly similar to the starting form of the Serion swordsmanship.
Marc and Rofel swung their weapons at each other simultaneously.
In that instant, Seraphina saw it clearly with her own eyes.
A strike forgotten in the distant, fading memories of her childhood.
It was faint and slender, yet at the same time, perfectly clean and refreshingly precise.
A technique devoid of raw talent, but carrying something far greater.
Seeing this, she could not help but be certain. It was a truth she had vaguely suspected but had never been able to confirm.
He could achieve it. He could perform it. The realm that was the lifelong dream of her father and the entire Serion family. The very height she herself had dreamed of. The technique that reached the realm of Lord Sargas—the realm of the Sword Saint.
Crash!
It was merely a clash of two weapons, but the aftermath was cataclysmic.
A thunderous roar akin to an explosion erupted, shattering the floor of the sub-space into a cloud of dust. A blinding flash, bright as a polar day, filled the entire dimension.
As the dust settled like the aftermath of a storm, a suffocating silence fell over the space.
Only a single man stood there.
It was Rofel Teufel. A man who was by no means a genius, lesser than even an ordinary person—just a single man.