Knight Tournament (1)
Near the west exit of the royal palace stood dozens of beautiful brick houses lined up in a row.
Unlike the bustling southern commercial district, the atmosphere here was remarkably quiet and serene.
That was because most of the owners were foreign nobles serving as diplomats.
Antonio Marquis slipped through the back door of the most ornate building among them.
He was infamous for never doing anything that might tarnish his image, but today he had no choice—a clandestine meeting was on the schedule.
Moreover, his counterpart was an even bigger fish.
Until moments ago, he hadn't even dreamed of taking offense.
The marquis glared at the man seated across from him and spat, “What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Exactly what I said. I see it as a declaration of war.”
Cezare Archduke pressed him with rude intensity, utterly unfazed that his opponent was one of Lock Kingdom's top power brokers.
This confidence stemmed not just from interstate power dynamics but from his own overwhelming might.
“Did the captured dark knight spill who hired him?”
“Hmph! He’s bound by powerful mental magic restraints, but this archduke has transcended the heavens themselves. Unless the Dark Archduke laid it personally, I could shatter it anytime—aftereffects be damned.”
“Forcibly breaking it would turn him into a vegetable. No court would accept that as valid evidence.”
“Hahaha! Come now, Marquis. All those petty power games in the kingdom must have addled your brain. This is diplomacy. With righteous cause and raw power... who gives a damn about evidence? You know that full well.”
Antonio ground his molars.
Lavaro Archduchy was a pittance compared to Lock Kingdom's might.
But with the Holy Empire as its patron? That changed everything.
Damn it! They’ve got us dead to rights. How the hell did the viscount screw up so badly—poking this guy? Did he charge in without even checking who the target was with?
The marquis's face flushed purple with rage.
Cezare chuckled inwardly at the sight.
Heh, that’s enough whipping for now.
He softened his tone, coaxing gently. “Now, now, no need to fret. I’m not here for outrageous demands.”
“I’ll need to verify the evidence first.”
The archduke flashed a sly smile. “It’s not a pretty picture... You sure you can stomach it? If your nerves are delicate, fetch a proxy.”
This son of a bitch! Show this humiliation to whom? Burn through a disposable lackey I trust?
“No need. I didn’t exactly grow up in a rose garden.”
He might look the unassuming sort, but he’d clawed his way to head of house through noble intrigue.
True, as firstborn with a mighty maternal clan behind him, his path had been relatively smooth—but he hadn’t risen to marquis without dodging knives in the dark.
Regret hit him fast.
The two men in the crystal orb were a horror beyond words.
Breaking the restraint demanded pushing the mind to utter ruin—not mere torture, but humiliating degradations that pulverized their very egos.
“Urk!”
“What was that, hmm? I did warn you it wasn’t pretty. Tsk tsk...”
The marquis reeled, tempted to claw out his own eyes.
And this archduke before him.
Beneath that stunning facade lurked a cruelty straight out of nightmares.
Pale after mere seconds, he stammered, “L-Let’s... hear your terms first.”
“Oh, nothing grand. Just a trifling request: bump up the export quota on those strategic monster byproducts.”
“How much...?”
“Not too much, not too little—twentyfold will do. Don’t sweat the numbers. The current cap’s insultingly low.”
Antonio swallowed a torrent of curses.
Lavaro sat at a continental shipping chokepoint—a minnow of a nation.
Twenty times the quota? That wasn’t just for their own use; it screamed relay trade volumes.
Worse than Lock selling direct to others.
Slimmer margins were one thing, but no controlling where it leaked—to enemies, no less.
“You can’t seriously think that’s feasible.”
“Then I’ll raise this formally in the imperial court.”
“Threats won’t work. It’s beyond my authority.”
“I beg to differ. You’re father-in-law to the next throne-warmer, aren’t you? I promise no fallout lands on you. We’d rather avoid headaches too.”
The marquis smacked his lips inwardly.
Tch! Snooping the whole damn town—knows our kingdom’s guts like his own palm.
“Fine... I was never here today. But to bolster royal coffers, I’ll loosen those export curbs. Once it’s public, submit via Lavaro Merchant Guild.”
“Much obliged. Y’know, getting ‘raided’ like this has its perks—nice side hustle. Haha!”
“One condition! From now on, fly the archduke’s banner prominently everywhere in Lock Kingdom.”
“Hmph... Not my style, but fine.”
As the archduke rose to leave, he paused and turned. “Oh! One more thing.”
The marquis’s face twisted in fury.
“Reneging already?”
“No, no—truly trivial. Feel free to refuse.”
“Then I refuse.”
“Just hear me out. Knight Tournament’s soon, yes? Lock’s grandest bash? Help me attend and lend it some shine.”
Antonio choked down his revulsion. Sleazy prick, sure—but a Class 7 transcendent all the same.
Formal invite accepted? Word spreads—young knight hopefuls would swarm his personal order.
“Nngh... Who’d bar the archduke? I’ll extend the official invite.”
“Heh heh, splendid.”
Cezare knew exactly the marquis’s angle but couldn’t care less. Petty gains like that barely registered as amusement.
What tickled him was anticipating what that boy—who’d come to the capital with him—might unleash.
Back in his office after the archduke, Antonio summoned Servio Viscount on the spot.
And right before the viscount’s eyes, he swept everything off his desk.
Crash!
Papers scattered; an inkwell flew, smacking the viscount’s forehead.
Black ink trickled down like blood.
“What the hell is this mess?! How did you botch it?!”
A barrage of invective followed. The viscount endured in stoic silence.
Logic never pierced the marquis in this state.
Only after an age did the tirade ebb; Antonio huffed, spent.
Fully briefed, Servio smacked his lips. “Lucky bastard. With the Dominator prepped, anyone short of a transcendent was meat. But of all things... tsk!”
He slipped in “transcendent” deliberately.
Class 7 and above: “transcendents”—walking calamities.
You didn’t dodge them just ’cause you wanted to.
Now convinced the viscount’s slip wasn’t egregious, the marquis coughed awkwardly. “Ahem! Still, more caution was warranted. Argh! Why’s that punk splashing around the Elin River like an idiot...”
“Spilt milk. For the export hike... offer His Majesty the profits from there. Smooth sailing, no sweat.”
“Brilliant! That’ll do it. Haha! No one matches your genius.”
Servio dipped his head humbly, as if it were child’s play.
“And...”
“Hm? More?”
“That insolent whelp, Calix.”
“Right!”
“His tournament goal’s obvious.”
“Fame to ward off touches. Just like his dead sire.”
“Precisely. But in the capital now? Direct moves get messy.”
“Hmm. So?”
“Sabotage just enough he flops. Young Class 4’s noteworthy, sure... but abysmal scores?”
“Hmm. Confident? Your recent track record’s spotty—bear that in mind.”
“My regrets, Your Excellency. I’ll redouble efforts.”
Prrrr—
Trumpets blared from the massive makeshift stadium on the capital’s outskirts, heralding the Knight Tournament’s kickoff.
Calix watched the pomp from a dim spectator corner, evoking school morning assemblies.
After the king’s droning homily—like a principal’s pep talk—the next speaker ascended, and murmurs rippled.
“Whoa—over there!”
Stifling his third yawn, Calix spotted Krout frozen, jaw slack.
Following his pointed finger to the stage: Cezare Lavaro Archduke.
“Greetings, Lock Kingdom’s aspiring knights. I am the rightful sovereign of Lavaro Archduchy, master of the forked paths—Cezare Lavaro.”
Master: a title reserved for Class 7 alone.
Dawn broke—before them stood every knight’s idol: a transcendent.
His words barely ended before roars erupted.
“Waaaaah!”
The cheers seemed eternal, but his raised hand quelled them as if rehearsed.
“First, my deepest thanks to Antonio Marquis for inviting me to this momentous affair. As one who treads half the path of inaction, I’ve long yearned to witness Lock Kingdom’s Knight Tournament.”
His voice pierced the din crystal-clear, whispering directly in every ear.
Mana-transmitted, person to person.
No parlor trick—that.
He’d just proven his Class 7 magic-swordsman credentials.
Blatant contrast to Clibuo’s voice-amplifying spell moments prior.
The king, seated behind, scowled naturally.
Undeterred—and his name invoked—Antonio beamed at the windfall.
No need for the overt nod; he’d never anticipated it.
Now, that smug mug even looked handsome.
As the speech hurtled to close, Cezare lobbed another bombshell.
“...Thus, this archduke offers a talented candidate the honor of my discipleship. If desired, I’ll impart the mana breathing method of my youth. Fight well, all.”
“Waaaaah!”
Cheers thundered like the stadium might crumble, dragging endlessly.
Excitement stalled proceedings; the MC broke a sweat.
Back at VIP seats, Clibuo grumbled curtly. “Hmph! Here to poach our prodigies?”
He seethed, robbed of his starring role.
Cezare barely registered him. “Haha—up to them, isn’t it?”
“And if my taught disciple returns to the kingdom?”
“His choice, naturally. Though barring family held hostage... unlikely. Hahaha!”
Provocation boomeranged empty; Clibuo gnawed his lip and whipped his head away.