The Duel (2)
It was a request out of nowhere — a sudden call for a duel, at the Imperial Palace of all places. An absurd thing to ask. And yet refusal was never truly an option, because the man doing the asking was no ordinary man.
How many people in this world had the gall to look him in the eye and say they had no wish to cross blades? This was the Emperor of the Empire doing the asking.
"Tell me, Luindel — how does it look to you? Doesn't it seem like it might be fun?"
"...."
"M-Master?"
Luindel offered no reply of any kind, silently gazing down at his disciple. He had never been one to put himself forward, but something about him was different now. Somehow his eyes seemed to gleam like the golden armor he wore, and his hand kept stroking his chin in the manner of a man thoroughly intrigued.
"Roden. And what say you?"
"...."
"I will not stop you."
I will not stop you. In other words — tacit permission to fight. At his master's unspoken approval, Roden's eyes wavered, the eyes of someone wrestling with whether he was truly allowed this.
"Hahaha, you're a sly one, Luindel. All you had to say was that you wanted to watch — that it interested you."
The Emperor's booming laughter cut across the moment, and in the same breath Roden's head turned toward me — and the resolve settling into those eyes sent a chill of unease crawling up my spine.
...No way—
"...I will do it."
"Haha! That's the spirit!"
"...."
And that feeling — that unease — had never once been wrong.
A genius without equal. A prodigy born once in an age. The disciple of the Golden Knight. Every one of those phrases pointed to a single boy.
Roden — Sir Luindel's sole disciple, already serving as an apprentice knight despite his youth. His crimson hair whipped wildly from the first light of morning, because each of his days began with training.
His method was a simple one. Unceasing training. That was all.
By the time the other knights so much as opened their eyes in the barracks, he was out on the training grounds, running lap after lap. While they ate breakfast and saw to their arms and armor, he swung his wooden sword. And when they finally crept out, sheepish, to grind through the day's assigned regimen, he endured the very same workload right beside them.
It was a volume of training that would turn most stomachs at a single glance — a regimen that even capable knights could not see through to the end. And he pushed through it, stubborn and unbending. A boy who had not even reached adulthood yet.
"Hey, Roden... doesn't any of this wear on you?"
"Seriously... I get tired just watching. Why push yourself that far?"
"You don't have to do all this, you know. You could learn at your own pace under Sir Luindel regardless. Just rest a little... huh?"
These were the things the knights who trained alongside him had each said to Roden at one time or another. And perhaps they were right. He was still young, after all — and even as he stood, he would unquestionably rank among the strongest of the trainee knights.
But Roden thought differently.
"Haha... even so. If I stop here, I have a feeling I'll be standing in this exact same spot tomorrow, too..."
The world likes to speak of effort as something passionate, even beautiful. In truth, effort is closer to the very opposite — painful, and utterly silent.
"...Good grief, the kid won't even eat."
"Tough... the little whelp's tough as iron..."
"And I've seen him turning in late lately, too... he's done growing, so it... doesn't matter, right?"
Training squeezed into the odd scraps of leftover time — that is not what men call effort. That is merely leisure, and it falls far outside the word's bounds.
Effort — to strain body and mind in pursuit of a goal.
To achieve his goal, he cut his sleep, honing body and mind to a finer edge. To achieve his goal, he cut his meals, hardening body and mind all the more. To achieve his goal, he severed his friendships — and with them, severed the very limits of body and mind.
Such was the weight of the effort carried on shoulders so young.
...Can I actually do this?
Roden tightened his grip on the wooden sword an attendant had handed him and forced his gaze straight ahead. Before him stood a boy holding a wooden sword identical to his own.
However well the boy fought, he looked to be nothing more than Roden's own age — a black-haired youth. His frame was far too slight to be called conditioned, his hands far too delicate to be wrapped around a sword. Nothing about him matched the rumors that echoed through the world.
Caught a monster... of all things...
Having grown up shoulder to shoulder with knights, Roden knew their strength well. A strength on an entirely different plane from that of ordinary people. The discipline of men who managed every meal and never slacked on a single day of training. The coordination of those who drilled together until they moved as one. He knew all of it, intimately.
And above them all — the title of Knight Commander, said to be bestowed only upon the most exceptional among them.
Just once, Roden had crossed swords with such a man. With a Knight Commander.
...My master... forgive me for thinking this, but he is simply too strong to serve as any measure at all.
A single exchange — one exchange, no more — and he had felt it: the harvest of relentless effort packed inside that blade. And he had understood, then, what a Knight Commander truly was.
"...."
The monster of the Great Forest — the beast that even such a Knight Commander had done no more than barely hold his ground against. And the boy his own age who was said to have taken that monster down alone.
It would be a lie to say no hunger to win stirred in me...
The boy stood without any ready stance, the edge of his wooden sword angled toward the ground — and Roden leveled his own point at him. To gauge, at last, how far his strength had come. To confirm that none of his effort had been wasted.
"...Before we begin, allow me to explain the rules of the duel."
The voice of the master he had always revered rang across the field — but it never reached his ears. Every last nerve was already fixed on the point of his blade and on the opponent standing before him.
"A duel is a contest of arms between two people. To kill one another is absolutely forbidden."
"...."
"Flooding one's weapon with excessive mana is, naturally, prohibited — as is any magic capable of taking a life."
"...."
"And should one of the two be rendered wholly helpless or unable to fight, the duel ends that very instant—"
"That's quite enough, now. These two know the rules well enough already. Surely neither of them means to actually kill the other?"
"As you command, Your Majesty... Then... begin."
The instant the word fell, Roden exploded off the ground. His blade's point still fixed dead ahead — to prove himself.
From high to low, the strike came whistling down — and grazed the bridge of the black-haired boy's nose.
"...Tch."
"...."
Again. His attack had slipped wide again. Even with the blow he'd been certain would land sliding past, Roden did not stop. Riding the momentum of his descending cut, he spun into a horizontal slash — only for Jenison to raise his wooden sword and turn it aside, handing the initiative straight back to his opponent.
Wham— A foot hammered into his exposed stomach.
"Gah... hck..."
"...."
The impact was not overwhelming, but it was anything but light; only by planting his wooden sword and bracing against it did he keep his feet. Roden came on again, refusing to yield — and nothing changed.
He fed his wooden sword just enough mana to harden it without shattering. He poured that same mana into his own body, reinforcing his flesh directly. He even gouged up the ground and hurled the debris. None of it mattered.
"Hahh... hoo..."
"...."
"Huh... didn't expect you to have this much in you...?"
"...You are, without question, the better swordsman."
The situation simply refused to change. No method, no angle, no attack of any kind got through. Powerful blows flowed past him like water; even chained combinations couldn't match his speed; erratic, unpredictable strikes fared no better. When Roden closed the distance on purpose to force a grapple, Jenison kept slipping free, always striking for his feet, and every path he charged down was barred by that wooden sword.
Thud— Krrrk— Wham—
Driven back yet another step, Roden began to grind his teeth. His blade shuddered. His wrist throbbed — thanks to the strike from moments before, aimed with unnerving precision at that very wrist.
"Hahh... hahh..."
"...Might I suggest you stop now?"
His head snapped up at once — at the low voice that had reached his ears. Jenison was watching him. With eyes of flawless, limpid black.
"...Haha. I absolutely... will not stop."
"...."
"Truly... you are remarkable. I don't quite understand how you became so strong, but... I know I cannot win. Not as I am."
"...In that case—"
"Even so."
He seized the wavering blade in a white-knuckled grip and forced his body upright once more. The aching wrist meant nothing. He had not repeated that brutal training only to crumble at pain like this. He had not given everything to effort only to give up here.
"...."
"...."
No further words were needed. A single sword was more than enough to converse with.
He charged again. Exactly as before, with exactly the same strength. As though he had already seen it coming, Jenison's blade met his own—
"...!"
"Ghh... ughhh!!"
—and this time, a different result was being written. His own blade was beginning to split the other's.
The density of mana. The quality of that mana. The raw power of flesh. A single strike that had drawn every one of them to their utmost. A wooden sword, yes — but in that moment it was a stroke that seemed fit to cleave steel itself, and it hurtled into him. And at last, from him burst a bead of blood.
Faint beyond measure — but unmistakable proof that his attack had, at long last, landed.
"...Impressive."
"Ha...haha... the praise... thank... you—"
And then his eyes closed on their own, just as his body pitched forward.
"...Impressive indeed, the both of you."
"...."
"Ah — you may take the boy and have him treated."
"But, Your Majesty..."
"Ah, think nothing of it. There are others besides you who can yet guard My person."
"...."
Thud, thud—
The colossal frame passed by my side, the boy who had fought me mere moments ago cradled with surprising tenderness against his chest. He looked more than a little displeased — but what could anyone do? His disciple had just collapsed in front of the entire court.
"I have seen your skill plainly now."
"...Thank you."
"Well then — I suppose it is time we spoke of the reward you are owed?"