Chapter 210: Noble's Entertainment
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 210: Noble's Entertainment
A cool wind blew in. Just then, a cluster of clouds drifted over the sun, taking the edge off the heat.
Allen flicked the blood from his sword and surveyed his surroundings. The circular stage, which Baron Allanton had built with his own hands, was shrouded in silence.
Despite the thousands of spectators packed into the stands, not a single breath could be heard. The atmosphere was so tense it felt as if making a sound would get you branded a traitor.
“Waaah!”
Fortunately, the one to break the silence was a child, too young to be held accountable. As if on cue, a collective sigh of relief rippled through the crowd.
As if to make up for the long silence, the crowd began to stir with murmurs.
“I can't believe it! That infamous Butcher, dead in a single blow?”
“He got what he deserved! Wasn't he the bastard who found any excuse to brutally murder the weak and helpless?”
“Shh! Are you mad? Look over there.”
The spectator, who held a grudge against Pamel, followed his companion's gaze and quickly shut his mouth.
Count Valliere had already rushed to the front row of the stands and was glaring daggers at Allen.
“What sorcery did you use!”
Count Valliere did not accept the outcome of the match. No, it was more accurate to say he could not accept it.
After all, everyone gathered here knew this was a duel he had forced upon his opponent. In other words, even if he had won, he wouldn't have been praised for it.
And yet, he had lost. It was the ultimate humiliation. Indeed, the other nobles in his section were all covering their mouths.
A low chuckle drifted on the wind to Allen's ears. It was unmistakably a sound of ridicule.
Count Valliere's face contorted, crumpling like a sheet of paper.
The problem didn't end there. From a corner of the nobles' section, a voice drifted out—low, yet clear enough for everyone in the stands to hear.
“I suppose the Butcher's fame was unearned. Then again, it's hardly surprising. Even the most tempting fruit is often rotten to the core.”
“Who is that! Who dares to speak so ill of my knight!”
Count Valliere whirled around, searching for the speaker, but it was difficult with so many distinguished nobles in attendance.
On the contrary, as if toying with the Count, the speaker quickly continued.
“Perhaps he was so brutal because he feared his true abilities would be exposed. In the wild, isn't it always the weakest animals that put on the most exaggerated displays?”
The corners of the nobles' lips twitched, their eyes crinkling with amusement. They realized the speaker's target wasn't just the dead Pamel.
Their gazes fell upon Count Valliere, who was enraged over the death of a mere knight. Hadn't he, just like that knight, oppressed other nobles with his strength?
What if, just as the voice suggested, it had all been a ploy to conceal his own weakness? This might be an opportunity to pick apart one of the South's most formidable men.
What made it even more suspicious was the fact that Count Valliere never bullied those of a similar rank.
They had always thought the Count knew his limits, but what if he simply lacked the power to overstep them?
The question flashed through their minds. As the nobles watched Count Valliere, a strange light flickered in their eyes. It was the look of a predator spotting wounded prey.
Having once been a predator himself, Count Valliere could not mistake such a look. He raised his voice.
“Who is it! Stop hiding like a coward and step forward to say it to my face!”
But the Count never found the speaker, blinded by his own prejudice. Who would ever suspect the lavishly dressed Flower of the South of such machinations?
Even the noble sitting right beside Pompiné merely gave her a passing glance before shaking his head, dismissing the possibility.
While Count Valliere fumed, Pompiné navigated through the crowd to the front row. Leaning against the railing, she gave Allen a wink.
‘Now, it's your turn.’
Thanks to Pompiné's maneuver, Count Valliere was backed into a corner where showing weakness was no longer an option.
The problem was, the duel was already over. But if a man was willing to be unreasonable once, what was stopping him from doing it again?
He would be desperate to redeem himself, so if I gave him the slightest opening, he would surely press his unreasonable demands again.
I gave a subtle nod that only Pompiné could see, then looked up at Count Valliere's back and shouted.
“Sorcery? Are you refusing to accept the outcome?”
Count Valliere reacted just as I expected. He whirled around to glare at me, his face simmering with rage as he yelled.
“If you hadn't used some vile sorcery, there is no way Sir Pamel, one of the most skilled fighters in the South, would have lost to some wandering swordsman who came from gods-know-where!”
The murmurs from the crowd grew louder. A fair number of them began to side with the Count, wondering if he might be right.
The duel had ended in a single clash, after all. Anyone who had glanced away or even blinked would have missed the entire thing, making it impossible for them to know my true skill.
A few with discerning eyes argued that if I hadn't put my life on the line, or if Pamel hadn't let his guard down, I would have been the one defeated. But their voices were too few to sway the majority.
Nevertheless, I could smile because this, too, was part of the plan.
The number of times my name was being mentioned was growing by the second. I had succeeded in making a powerful first impression.
The next step was to show them the skill they wanted to see.
“If you didn't trust my skills, then why did you offer to hire me?”
“…!”
Count Valliere shut his mouth. Making an argument that could be so easily dismantled showed just how flustered he was.
Humiliated one time after another, Count Valliere's face flushed so red it looked like it might burst.
“Very well. I admit it was my fault for not considering your standards. If you truly cannot accept the outcome, you may send out another champion.”
“You arrogant whelp! You think I won't do it?!”
When I subtly insulted his poor judgment, Count Valliere erupted. And just as I'd hoped, a knight stepped forward.
“Grant me the opportunity to punish that arrogant fiend!”
“Sir Odensa! I'm counting on you!”
The knight who had been serving as Count Valliere's guard vaulted stylishly over the railing and onto the stage.
It was an unprecedented scene: the outcome had been decided, yet the loser refused to accept it and sent out a second champion.
He was being as unreasonable as ever, but the difference this time was that other high-ranking nobles, equals to the Count himself, were watching.
“Truly lacking in dignity.”
“I knew what kind of man he was, but this is just too much.”
“At this rate, you can't even tell who the noble is and who the commoner is. Tsk, tsk.”
The nobles' gazes on Count Valliere turned a shade colder, but the Count, his head filled with rage, failed to notice.
“Begin! Now!”
Instead, he only grew angrier, pressuring the tournament official who was acting as judge.
After a hesitant glance in my direction, he announced the start of the duel only when I gave a slight nod.
Sssshing.
“You'll be in for a nasty surprise if you think I'm anything like Pamel.”
Sir Odensa shouted, leveling his sword at me. In response, the crowd roared with excitement.
He seemed to be a knight of considerable renown, though perhaps not on par with Pamel.
That made sense. It must be why the Count permitted him to fight, even after seeing Pamel fall in one strike. He was the perfect opponent for me to display my true abilities.
“You're just as shameless, it seems.”
I took my stance as well. I angled my body, feet planted waist-width apart. With my right foot forward, I stretched my arm out straight, pointing the tip of my sword at him. My arms were on the long side, creating a reach akin to a spear's.
Odensa flinched. Then, as if deeming that reaction a disgrace, his face flushed red in an instant.
“How dare you! A mere commoner like you…!”
“Are knights somehow immune to blades?”
But despite my repeated provocations, Odensa showed no sign of rushing forward. Was he being cautious? Or was he afraid? A little test would tell.
I pushed off my right foot to lengthen my stride, ducking my torso and extending my arm in one smooth motion.
The perfectly economical movement produced a lightning-fast thrust. To him, the point of my sword must have gone from a distant dot to filling his entire field of vision in the blink of an eye.
“You cowardly-”
A startled Odensa brought his sword down in a slash. He didn't retreat, choosing to risk it, which meant he was aiming for a counterattack.
This meant he wasn't just overreaching out of a thirst for glory.
As if expecting it, I retracted my sword. Odensa's face twisted in frustration as his blade sliced through empty air.
He must have realized it was a feint from the speed of my retraction. And he must have known the real attack was coming next.
I circled to his left and thrust again.
Many duelists move to their opponent's left, as the non-sword arm side is more difficult to defend.
Still, Odensa was skilled enough. He stepped out diagonally with his right foot, twisted his body, and managed to bring his sword up for a block.
“Nice try-!”
Clang.
This time, the blades met, sending a shower of sparks into the air.
But Odensa's face darkened. The resistance from my blade was likely less than he'd anticipated.
Yes. This, too, was a feint. To be precise, it was a trap.
The moment our blades connected, I twisted my sword and pressed forward, catching his blade with my complex guard.
A thrust can easily be deflected by a side cut, but it's a different story when you catch the blow with the forte of your blade, where it's structurally strongest.
I deflected the force of his blow while slightly altering its trajectory. As a result, his sword was pushed wide, leaving his torso exposed.
I seized the opening and lunged, and just as I did, Odensa threw a kick as if on cue. It was a counter ingrained in him by repetitive training.
The problem for him was that it was the exact counter I was waiting for. I dodged the kick with a half-spin, pulling my sword back. In the process, the blade sliced across his outstretched thigh.
“Ugh…!”
I spun another half-turn to avoid his follow-up swing and, when I faced him again, he was down on one knee.
The gash on his thigh spewed blood relentlessly, even as he pressed down on it. I had aimed for the major artery.
“You'll die if you don't get that treated immediately.”
I returned to my opening stance and leveled my sword at him. He was a well-trained knight; he would know I wasn't bluffing.
His eyes, which had been glaring daggers at me, began to tremble. He turned his head toward the stands, where Count Valliere was staring down in utter disbelief.
After seeing that, Odensa bit his lip, heaved a deep sigh, and drove his sword into the dirt.
“I... have lost.”
“Yeah-!”
“Who said you could-!”
The crowd's cheers and Count Valliere's protests overlapped. I shook the blood from my blade and faced the Count once more.
“If you wish to continue, my lord Count, I am ready.”
“You-!”
CRACK!
Count Valliere's fist slammed into the railing, making it shudder as if it would break. Even now, he showed no signs of giving up.
His knights, however, had other ideas. Despite the Count's urging, not one of them stepped forward.
One loss might be a fluke, but two was a pattern. Besides, weren't the two defeated knights the very best under the Count's command, constantly competing for the top position?
No one wanted to step up only to be humiliated in a battle they were certain to lose in front of such a large crowd.
“Th-this…!”
Trembling, Count Valliere shot me one last murderous glare before whirling around and storming out of the stands. To everyone watching, it was a clear retreat.
“Yeah-!”
Cheers erupted from the stands once more. The roar of the crowd showed no signs of dying down, even after I had returned to the waiting room.
It seemed there was no one left who doubted my skills. Just as planned.
“Phew.”
Just as I let out a sigh of relief.
“Are you badly hurt?”
Pompiné, who must have come down at some point, reached a hand toward my shoulder—the very spot I had deliberately allowed Pamel to wound.
The crudely tied bandage was soaked in blood. However, thanks to my high Stamina stat, the wound beneath had long since healed, leaving the skin as smooth as a baby's.
I quickly caught her hand. It was small, but calloused like a swordswoman's.
Pompiné flinched and instinctively tried to pull her hand back, but I tightened my grip without thinking. Her eyes flickered with surprise.
A strange tension filled the air as silence descended. Outside, the crowd was still roaring, but in our waiting room, it was as quiet as another world.
“…You're stronger than I expected.”
Pompiné was the one to break the breathless silence, she said, averting her eyes. This time, however, she made no move to pull her hand away.
“I was lucky.”
When I gently released her hand, she brought it to rest with her other hand over her stomach, her fingers fidgeting. She seemed unconscious of the gesture, but she looked a little disappointed.
Truthfully, I was the more disappointed of the two. Perhaps it was the aftermath of the duel, but the libido I had been suppressing began to surge.
The need to keep women at a distance in order to get closer to Vivian had never felt so unfortunate.
“If that luck holds through the tournament, you might actually win the whole thing. And if Duke Babel were to grant you a title…”
“And if he did...?”
“Ahem. It's nothing.”
Whatever she was imagining, Pompiné shook her head, her face flushing a delicate pink.
Meanwhile, back on the dueling stage where the excitement had yet to fade, Baron Allanton was playing his part.
He stopped the high-ranking nobles who were about to leave, and with his back to the still-roaring stage, he shouted.
“Do you have any idea how much it cost to build this stage? It cost enough to empty my family's entire treasury! And why would I spend so foolishly on a dueling stage? Because this is an investment opportunity the likes of which the world has never seen!”
The high-ranking nobles, who had been on their way out, stopped and turned back at the mention of him spending his entire fortune. After all, who in the world doesn't love money?
“An investment? Not the duel, but building the stage?”
“Of course! You know what they say: where there's a crowd, there's money! I charged a small entrance fee to the thousands of spectators and sold permits to the merchants who gathered to sell their wares. But that's not all! The real money is in the betting!”
The only one who makes money from gambling is the house. And for this duel, Baron Allanton was the house.
Seeing his confident demeanor, one of the high nobles asked, his interest piqued.
“Just how much did you make…?”
Baron Allanton grinned broadly.
“Hahaha. The final tally isn't in yet, but... I've at least doubled my investment.”
“Double!”
And he had earned the right to that laugh.
The high nobles, who had initially dismissed it, now crowded around Baron Allanton.
Not long after, Allen's fame skyrocketed as he claimed one victory after another in the regional dueling tournaments hosted by Baron Allanton.
He became so famous he earned the nickname 'the Star of the South,' a title representing the entire region. As a result…
“It's here!!!”
Holding a letter stamped with the crest of Duke Babel's family, Baron Allanton threw his hands in the air and cheered.