Chapter 170: It Won't Be Peaceful at All (4)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 170: It Won't Be Peaceful at All (4)
A chilly light glinted in Arsen’s blue eyes.
His eyes were the same shade of blue as Lemain’s or Randel’s, yet subtly different. While the two royals’ eyes resembled the deep, dark ocean, Arsen’s possessed a cool hue, reminiscent of the twilight on a clear winter dawn.
Those very eyes were now fixed on the fool before him.
“Why are you looking at me like that, Margrave?”
Calian’s sword, Kyrie. Ren Adrian, Commander of the Royal Guard Kaera. Suleiman Hon Siegfried, the sole Duke of Kairis. Count Aizen Aprin, the representative of the knightly families loyal to Calian.
If these men had one thing in common, it was that they all wielded swords. And by Arsen’s standards, they possessed minds that were average or slightly above. In short, they were intelligent.
“What do you mean, ‘like that’? I asked what your true intentions are in seeking me out.”
“I believe I just told you.”
Gray Brissen, who sat across from him, was a mindless brute who only knew how to swing a sword. Arsen wondered if Gray might be a marginal improvement over Evan, but even if he was, the difference was as thin as a hair.
The rest of the Brissens were so uniformly stupid it was a wonder if Calian’s second brother even shared their blood—though his hair and eyes were undeniably those of Marquis Evan Brissen.
‘Knights are all naturally stupid. The people around you are the abnormal ones, kid.’
He recalled what Euria had said when they briefly parted ways in front of the Margrave’s mansion.
It made sense. Most knights were like that. It was Calian’s inner circle—men who were both skilled with a sword and reasonably intelligent—that was the anomaly. Ordinary knights weren’t very bright. After all, if they could make a living with a sword, why bother learning to read or use their brains?
The Brissen family was also so large and powerful they had never needed to use their brains. They had likely passed all their collective intelligence down to the second prince of Kairis, leaving themselves free to be as foolish as they pleased without consequence. So, he understood.
Therefore, Arsen patiently repeated what he had said moments before.
“I said that my home is cramped and uncomfortable, so I came to see if there might be a slightly larger place for me.”
It wasn’t a difficult statement to grasp. It was an open declaration that he was gauging whether to leave Calian’s side and join forces with Brissen.
“So, what you mean is…”
And yet, the man didn’t understand. Or rather, he had a vague idea but couldn’t be sure. Arsen was having trouble hiding his frustration.
Gray wasn’t usually a man completely devoid of intellect.
The reason the conversation was stalling was likely the heavy stench of alcohol wafting over from him. In short, he was still drunk from the previous night. It seemed Euria wasn’t the only one who had craved a drink on that rainy night. Or perhaps he simply drank like this every day.
“I am asking if you have any desire to attach a grander title than ‘Margrave’ to your name.”
And so, Arsen threw out a line perfect for cutting through a hangover—not in a roundabout way or with the elegant language of nobles, but in plain, direct terms. He was asking if Gray had any intention of becoming ‘Marquis’ Gray Brissen.
‘Act as if you’re about to change sides. Find out if the Margrave has any intention of coming to the capital. It would be even better if you could check if he is still in contact with Brother Randel.’
As per Calian’s instructions, Arsen was now putting on the performance of his life. Fortunately, Gray, unable to see through his hidden motives, narrowed his eyes and replied.
“Something grander…”
Of the titles I could possibly hold, the only one grander than Margrave is Marquis.
Gray, who had been muttering to himself, suddenly froze. He had finally realized the sheer weight of what the Vice-Commander of Valkan was suggesting.
Gathering his wits, Gray glared at Arsen.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have never desired anything more than my current position.”
Gray feigned ignorance. He wasn’t so thoughtless as to jump at Arsen’s offer with delight.
Arsen spoke.
“Didn’t you break your back on your way to Kairisis, lured by Silike’s promise of a marquisate, only to be carried back here?”
Now that he had abandoned all subtlety, painfully blunt truths poured from his mouth.
“And then, while recuperating, you fell for the First Prince’s promise to hand over the marquisate if you did as he asked. You secretly snuck into the capital, got caught, and were sent right back. So I ask again. Do you truly have no greed for a higher position?”
Gray’s face flushed red.
It was deeply embarrassing, but it was the absolute truth. Both times he had headed for Kairisis, it had been out of covetousness for the title of Marquis.
Since Gray had not yet admitted it, Arsen spoke once more.
“Or are you still so intoxicated by the scent of roses that you aren’t even looking at the wolf pup?”
Are you still working with Randel? Is that why you have no intention of siding with Franz?
Hearing Arsen’s words, Gray frowned slightly.
When Franz had been under the protection of Silike and the Brissens, people called him a lion cub—one that would become a proper griffin once he obtained the wings of the Crown Prince. Since the griffin was the coat of arms of the Brissen family, the moniker carried both the expectation and the mockery that Franz would become their perfect puppet, granting them infinite power.
But with Silike’s downfall and the Brissens’ decline, the isolated prince was no longer called that. Although he was still allied with Evan Brissen, it was a relationship of mutual benefit. The nobles assessed that without Silike as an intermediary, the Brissens could never control Franz completely.
In fact, rumors even circulated that Evan Brissen was the one being swayed by Franz. Thus, a new nickname had emerged for the young beast of prey who was finding his own path to survival.
“A wolf pup…”
A wolf.
He knew the Warriors of the Great Desert were sometimes called wolves. He also knew that his own nickname was the ‘Wolf Hunter.’
And he knew all too well that the wolf Arsen spoke of was not a warrior from the desert, but Franz.
“You are the Third Prince’s closest confidant. Why bring up the wolf pup…?”
“Just how old is the story you’re clinging to?” Arsen cut him off.
The Third Prince, Calian—a name that made Gray’s stomach churn and his back ache just hearing it. Wasn’t Arsen the very man Calian ordered around like his own limbs? Yet he wasn’t speaking of Calian.
“In our current situation, aren’t you and I in the same boat, with nowhere left to climb?”
Arsen knew Gray’s ambition was to live extravagantly in the capital as a Marquis. Everyone knew it. Otherwise, how could Randel have exploited him?
However, Marquis Evan Brissen was a Sword Master.
This meant he would likely live a long, healthy life. As long as Evan was alive, Gray would never become the Marquis. If he was lucky, his son might inherit the title, but his own turn would never come.
“If His Highness goes to Camillon, my path forward ends here.”
If Calian became Crown Prince, the Commander of Valkan would remain Alan for the rest of his life. Alan was already powerful and aged slower than others; it would be even harder for Arsen to rise above Vice-Commander than for Gray to become Marquis.
Arsen’s words meant they shared the same plight. He refused to remain a perpetual second-in-command just because of a long-lived superior.
“Besides, if we join hands, I’d be the one helping you. We’re in the same boat, so I’m just suggesting we share a drink. Why are you so guarded?”
Saying this, Arsen wore a sneer that was a perfect replica of Franz’s—just as Calian had done once before.
“Ah… are you scared because your back was broken? Or is it because of what was ruptured? Which is it?”
Arsen knew just as well as Calian that nothing grated on a person’s nerves quite like Franz’s sneer.
Gray’s brow twitched.
It meant Arsen knew he was no longer a Sword Master. The faint hope he had harbored—that his secret was safe because Arsen had been away from the capital—crumbled in an instant.
Arsen continued, relentless.
“If mages get involved, making a single Sword Master disappear is child’s play. I don’t know what you’re so afraid of, but stop playing it safe and let’s have a proper conversation.”
It was both a threat and a demonstration of power.
It meant he had the strength to back Prince Franz and place him on the throne. That taking Evan’s head would be easy. That he could be the most reliable ally Gray could ever hope for.
“If you’re so powerful, I don’t see why you’d bother joining hands with me.”
“It’s not you who is useful, Margrave, but the Brissen name.”
Sipping his tea with a relaxed air, Arsen set the cup down and flashed another Franz-style sneer.
“Don’t you think I’d also like to bask in the comfort of a great house? All you need to do is ascend to the marquisate and act as my backer. It shouldn’t be that difficult.”
Hearing this, Gray’s eyes narrowed.
This was no different from being told they would kill Evan and hand him the title, and in return, he was to stay quiet after putting Franz on the throne.
“I’ve been listening quietly, but you are being incredibly insolent.”
If he backed down here, he would end up exactly as Arsen suggested—pushed into a back room with no real power. To secure a larger share of the spoils, he couldn’t let himself be intimidated.
“Who do you think you are dealing with?”
Watching him, Arsen’s blue eyes flashed coldly.
“Since you seem to have forgotten while living quietly on the border, let me remind you.”
The moment he finished speaking, a sudden chill swept through the room.
A pure white frost began to settle on the table between them. It spread outward in all directions like threads of ice.
—Crack, crack.
An ominous sound filled the reception room as the expensive table froze solid. The icy threads didn’t stop there, encasing the table legs and the teacup and teapot resting on top.
A voice laced with the same freezing chill pierced Gray’s ears.
“I am the Vice-Commander of Valkan, Arsen Hertz, Margrave.”
Arsen extended a single finger toward the table. With the tip of that finger, he lightly tapped the edge of the frozen teacup.
—CRASH!
The table shattered.
The solid marble and the frozen porcelain exploded into pieces no larger than a finger joint, scattering across the floor.
Staring quietly at the debris, Arsen looked back up at Gray. His voice, now as calm as the Senyu River, continued.
“If you say something like that again, I won’t tolerate it. I came here to join hands, not to be your lackey.”
Of course, the content of his words was anything but calm.
*
Once again, killing intent flared.
True to his reputation as Calian’s sword, Kyrie unleashed it without fail.
This time, however, Franz didn’t wait for a command to stop. He tightened his grip on his sword. Staring into the mismatched eyes that looked ready to devour him, he released an identical aura.
Killing intent.
Though he had never stained his hands with another’s blood, one did not need to kill to forge such an aura.
It lacked the absolute terror of Calian’s or the blatant malice of Kyrie’s, but it was a chilly presence nonetheless—like a sharp blade aimed straight for the heart.
Leaning against the training ground wall some distance away, Calian let a smile curve his lips, his eyes still closed.
‘Not bad today, either.’
He certainly hated to lose.
And he was certainly a fast learner.
—Clang!
Franz blinked, then thrust his sword forward to block Kyrie’s lunging blade.
With a heavy swell, Kyrie’s killing intent thickened. Franz stared at the tip of Kyrie’s sword, his eyes narrowed to slits.
Soon, Kyrie moved again. Franz remained rooted to the spot, tracking the movement for a brief moment before springing forward.
Kyrie’s sword was lighter than Franz’s, making it faster at changing directions.
He blocked the sword thrusting toward his right shoulder with an upward slash, then swung down at Franz, who was just recovering his deflected blade. But Franz had already taken a step back, anticipating the strike. He had already grasped Kyrie’s patterns and knew he would target the opening.
—Whoosh!
In that instant, Franz recovered his sword and leaped forward, tracing a long arc toward Kyrie.
The heavy blade sliced through the air with a deep hum.
—Clang!
Franz’s sword, carrying the full momentum of his leap, was blocked by Kyrie. The force was much heavier than before, pushing Kyrie’s blade back slightly. Rather than resist, Kyrie lowered his sword to deflect the attack. Though it was a move that could easily throw him off balance, Franz spun with the sliding trajectory of his own sword and launched another attack.
—Clang! Clank!
Ignoring Calian, who watched with the expression of someone who had found an entertaining spectacle, the two continued to clash.
Kyrie blocked Franz’s sword in various ways, striking back as if teaching him how to deflect heavy attacks and counter swift ones. He was the most suitable sparring partner for learning how to utilize a sword that was moderately heavy and fast.
The only problem was that Kyrie was excessively bloodthirsty, making sparring possible only when Calian was present. But that wasn’t much of an issue. In a real battle, everyone drew their sword with their life on the line.
—Clang! Clank!
After thrusting toward Franz’s waist, Kyrie twisted his blade and slashed upward. Franz hastily altered his sword’s path to block it. Having barely parried the attack with his sword tip pointed downward, Franz’s eyes flashed fiercely.
He really intends to kill me.
No longer bothering to hide it, a powerful wave of killing intent surged as Kyrie’s eyes gleamed. He kicked off the ground again. Franz thrust his sword forward to meet him.
—Sssss…!
At that very moment, another change came over Kyrie.
A deep silence enveloped his surroundings. The world he had seen just a moment ago transformed. The senses he had awakened during his spar with Calian expanded once more.
Where his opponent—who was using his head as much as his sword—would step next. Whether he would swing, thrust, or strike downward. How he would move afterward. It was as if a single trajectory was being drawn, the sequence unfolding before his eyes.
‘Where to cut.’
Where and how deeply to cut to kill.
It was as if someone were telling him.
In that space, which had turned entirely black and white, a single crimson line was drawn before his eyes. It showed him the answer.
And so, Kyrie moved his sword along that very crimson line.
In an instant, his blade lost its form and vanished.
—Swoosh!
The sound of the formless sword tearing through the air rang out. Simultaneously—
—Claaaaang!
A sound sharper than any before shook the training ground. Only after hearing it did Kyrie look ahead, realizing where the tip of his sword had ended up.
Franz stood before him.
Blade was pressed against blade.
“Congratulations, Kyrie.”
Between Kyrie’s sword and Franz’s heart, a blade brimming with dark red energy stood in the way.
Calian, who had been watching from afar, had appeared in front of Franz before anyone realized it, blocking Kyrie’s sword.
“But my brother’s heart is off-limits.”
He grinned, congratulating Kyrie on his growth once more.