A Single Blade Against a Genius

A single blade is leveled at a genius.

Duke Charlotte. Head of House Charlotte — one of the Four Great Families, and a house sworn directly to the imperial throne. To the world at large, which knew nothing of what he truly was, he was a man of sterling character. In fairness, he was famous for it: he made the rounds of orphanages and impoverished churches, and his donations were famously generous.

But those who knew what lay beneath said much the same thing: that it was nothing more than a devil's amusement. Common sense alone settled the matter — what man with a notorious name in the underworld, over some passing whim, would go and care for children in an orphanage, then sit in a church tithing and at prayer? If he wanted orphanages and churches, he could have raised as many as he pleased.

Perhaps that was why the rumors about him ran to opposite extremes. At one end, he was a man of impossibly flawless bearing and temperament — the very model of what a noble should be. At the other, his charity was mere hypocrisy — a self-justifying ritual to shake off the bloodstains soaked into his own hands.

Of course, the people who spread that latter kind of rumor no longer showed their faces on the streets. But those in high places knew all of it — knew exactly why he lived as he did. And the culprits themselves, perhaps, would never manage to imagine the truth of it. Truly, absolutely never.

"Hmm.."

The old man was, at this moment, showing considerable interest in the man who had dared to appear so brazenly before him.

"Answer me. Are you the bastard who laid hands on my daughter?"

"Hmmm..."

That man surely knew it already — just how much stronger the old man was. Few in this Empire could stand against him on pure strength alone, and for some time now he had been letting his aura seep outward, subtle and unrelenting. And yet the man before him showed no fear at all. However steadily the old man bore his pressure down, those eyes never so much as wavered — as though he carried the absolute conviction of victory. Against him, of all beings.

"So? What's your name?"

"...."

"I didn't catch your name."

Let it be said plainly: the old man's asking after that name was no idle curiosity. He wished to remember, precisely and unmistakably, that a creature of lesser stock had dared to level a blade at him.

"..Charlotte."

"Is that so? Good."

"Now, die."

The words had barely faded when spikes hewn from rock rose up around the old man and hurled themselves at the Duke. KWA-GA-GA-GWAM— They hammered home one after another upon a single point, and amid a tremendous sound of rupture, the old man turned to look behind him.

"Your daughter — you'll likely be able to meet her once you reach the afterlife."

In truth, he had no idea whether the man's daughter was alive or dead. But then, nearly every human who became entangled with him ended up dead sooner or later. The words left his mouth without much thought behind them.

"Hmm.. then sparing your life is out of the question."

FWOOSH— Out of the roiling dust burst that doll of a man, once again making for the old man's arm — a blade hardly more sophisticated than a harvesting sickle clutched in his grip.

"Because when I die for real, someday, I'd never be able to face my daughter otherwise."

"..Tch. What a tiresome creature you are."

The sickle came screaming in, dead on target for the old man's shoulder. Keen as its edge plainly was, the old man did not move a single step from where he stood — as though the very notion of defending himself had never occurred to him at all.

KAAANG—

"Hmm..?"

"Is that all?"

"..Ha. What in the world..!"

Only after that sound had rolled out — a sound no one would ever believe came from bare skin meeting a blade's edge — did the wrongness that had clung to the old man from the very beginning swell sharper still.

With a single syllable, the explosion simply was. No detonator, no preamble, not so much as a warning tremor — an inexplicable blast, as though the air itself had been made its medium. And even so, the Duke did not budge. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The sickle he had hooked across the old man's shoulder before the blast saw to that. Though there were other reasons, too.

"Hmm.. just what have you got hidden inside that body of yours?"

"If ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I told you, my wife would rake me over the coals. My apologies."

Kang, kang, KAGANG. Steel rang against steel, and tiny grains of spark danced between them — all within the balanced harness of defense and attack.

"..The longer this goes on, the more I find myself wanting to hear your name."

"My real name runs a fair bit expensive, though."

"Does it, now?"

"I could throw it in as a retirement gift."

Kagang, ka-ga-ga-gang, kagang. Once more, an exchange at speeds the eye could not follow. The old man's gaunt arm began swatting aside every one of the Duke's blades — and in the same breath, a rolled sheet of paper leapt free of the Duke's breast. A single page, packed edge to edge with magic circles and sigils.

"..Variety in how you kill — a fine quality, that."

The old man's right shoulder was already beyond his control, ruined by the Duke's sickle. And his left arm — the Duke had sheared through its wrist only moments before. In other words, he had absolutely no means of stopping the magic that was coming for him. But the Duke was a man who always planned for the what-if — for whenever one sets out to kill a person and behead a monster, variables always find their way in.

"Hoo.."

The moment the scroll took effect, the Duke's shadow began to take on form — hundreds upon hundreds of black roses. Shrarak— and then every rose shed its petals at once, each black leaf whirling out sharpened into a stinger with a killing edge.

"I can't say I'm fond of games with flowers."

"Is that so? A pity. It's only a difference in taste."

Even with the conversation flowing, he verified, and verified yet again. Was there any attempt to smother the magic? Was there a gap in the way his own attacks were being turned aside? And if these attacks should be stopped — what came next? He thought and checked without pause, and yet the old man remained immovable as bedrock. Even now the old man did nothing but turn his attacks aside, never once pressing an attack of his own — and if anything, it was the Duke who now had to fear for his own skin. However well-prepared his next move might be, to be caught in that magic at this range would cost him dearly.

Grusialip.

But all that caution came to nothing — nothing happened at all. The rose petals that had whipped up their little storm scattered into nothing, and the scroll simply died, as though it had never activated in the first place. Undone by a single word from the old man, who had at some point pressed his palms together in prayer. That figure — for all the world a man at prayer — wrung nothing from the Duke's mouth but a hollow laugh. Praying, in the middle of a battle.. no. A monster, praying.

"..Would it kill you to look even a little winded?"

"Kuk kuk.. you are a rather entertaining human."

"...."

"To call such trifles an attack, and pray that they might actually land..."

What followed was a one-sided exchange, over and over. An ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠absolutely impenetrable shield against a spear that might snap at the slightest misstep — a struggle of life and death so absurd it might as well have been a steel shield against a wooden spear. That contest raged for a full thirty-four minutes — far more than enough time for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the boy who had fainted to come back to his senses.

FWOOOOOOSH—

A volume of flame came pouring from my mouth that I could scarcely believe was mine. And every last tongue of that fire was bent on one man alone.

"Hmm. Is this all the fire you— hm?!"

I had expected it — that he would try to smother this magic. I couldn't even guess what his ability was, but I had been certain he possessed the power to manage exactly that.

"..What is this?!"

But this was no ordinary magic. This was the Fire Demon itself — dragged into being only by pouring in every last emotion I possessed. Had it been mere magic, perhaps things would have gone differently. But I had intoned it as the Dragon Speech, and so it became reality outright. It lasted only an instant — but in that instant, the Fire Demon itself fell upon that old man.

"Grrrrgh..!"

And in that instant, the Duke and I could not afford to miss it — not if either of us had ever lived so much as a single day as an assassin.

With what little mana remained to me, I shaped a small dagger, and then — resolved to draw up even my own life force to pay for it — I intoned the Dragon Speech once more.

The dagger's stub of a blade began to stretch and curve, long and slow — like a jackknife folding open. The gray gleam of forged steel was gone; in its place, a soft blade had turned bone-white before I knew it.

The Fire Demon went on burning without pause, and I slipped past it at an easy, unhurried pace. If my joints felt ready to shatter, I would rebuild my legs from nothing if I had to; even if I had bled until my head swam and felt fit to split. I ran beside that searing inferno, all the way to the end.

"..Ha. It's almost as if I've been cast as the villain here."

But the old man adapted to the Fire Demon almost at once — he no longer blocked it at all, simply taking the whole of it into his body.

"To think the lot of you were nothing more than supporting cast..!"

The monocle that had always ridden over the old man's right eye was gone. His right eye — a different color from its left twin — swung toward me, and in the same breath, a black rope came coiling around his throat.

"Gh..khh— what is this?!"

"That's right. Supporting cast and villains alike should hurry off the stage."

"Ha, a thing like this will give out soon enough..?!"

"It won't be nearly that accommodating."

"..Haha. So that's it.. you went and drove that thing into your own body, didn't you?!"

And so, for the briefest of moments, the old man's movements stopped — and for me, that was time more than enough.

"Nooo, that won't do.. if Pride dies.. my workload only grows. So I really ought to save him, I suppose..? Yaaawn.. what a drag.."