Chapter 214: Stratagem
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 214: Stratagem
“What? How dare a Southern country bumpkin! Draw your sword! Now!”
The enraged Northern Champion, the last in their lineup, pointed his sword at me.
Was he not worried about it being a provocation? As if to mock his simplicity, I drew my sword slowly, and his face turned red enough to burst.
Still, he wasn't a complete fool, as he didn't swing his sword in defiance of the tournament rules in front of Duke Babel and the other high-ranking nobles.
“Official! Get this started already!”
Barely clinging to his reason, he shot a glare at the tournament official.
He shouldn't be doing that.
This was a grand tournament hosted by Duke Babel. Would they really have appointed some nobody to act as a referee?
Just as I expected, the official’s face crumpled, and he glared back at the Northern Champion with a warning.
“Don’t order me around. I’m not your subordinate.”
“What? Have you two lost your minds?!”
Faced with such a confident response, one might suspect there was something backing it up, but the Northern Champion didn't consider that possibility for a second.
Truly, he had absolutely no sense.
“Do you wish to be disqualified?”
“Wh-what?”
Only after receiving a direct warning did he seem to realize something was off. Watching the situation from a step back, I finally intervened.
“Sir Official, please forgive him. Being a country bumpkin from the North, he must not have known that you are an administrator serving Duke Babel.”
“…!”
The Northern Champion, now aware of the truth, was flustered and didn't know what to do. The official smirked and gave me a nod.
He was just trying to scare him.
The official had to be mindful of Duke Babel as well. It meant he couldn't just play the disqualification card whenever he pleased.
So, he had no choice but to look favorably upon me for mediating between them and saving his face. Such goodwill would, in one way or another, lead to judgments in my favor.
The Northern Champion scowled, realizing he had started off on the wrong foot. But the train had already left the station.
Pfft.
I let out another sneer, and he glared at me as if he wanted to kill me, grinding his teeth. He looked so unstable, as if he might explode at any moment.
The official seemed to judge this state as advantageous for me. He quickly went through the procedures and announced the start of the match.
“You bastard! Prepare to die!”
As if he’d been waiting for it, the Northern Champion charged forward recklessly. With his sword held firmly high above his head, he exuded an aura as imposing as a great mountain.
They say opportunists are everywhere.
His stance, the power behind his swing, and the unwavering tip of his blade told me he was stronger than the previous champions.
Did he decide it was better to be the grand finale than the fourth act? An excellent judgment.
If I hadn't stepped up as the South's final contestant, he surely would have gained more popularity than the fourth champion.
He must have wracked his simple brain for that one, but he’s completely out of luck.
It might be unfair, but what could he do? In a tournament-style competition, luck plays a huge role in one's results.
I moved in a circle just before his sword could reach me. His blade, aimed at where I had been standing, left a large gash on the floor.
It was a hair's breadth. In truth, I'd intentionally delayed my movements to make it look that way.
If I won too easily, I might attract the attention of the Witch of the Sky, so I needed to hide my skills as much as possible. That was why I had gone to the trouble of provoking him.
“You rat-like bastard! Die!”
Oblivious to my intentions, the Northern Champion charged even more recklessly. The near-miss had given him hope that he could land a hit if he just tried a little harder.
As he took another step forward, he swung his sword upward from below. An upward diagonal slash.
I took a step back diagonally to the right. Whoosh—the sword, approaching with a menacing sound, grazed past my face, exactly one step away.
“Let’s see how long you can keep dodging!”
The Northern Champion used the pommel's weight to immediately change the sword's direction and continue his assault.
It was a combination that proved he was one of the top five champions in the North.
But now, it was my turn.
Aiming for the fleeting gap between his movements, I stepped forward and extended the hand holding my sword.
As I lowered my upper body in sync with my feet, I unleashed a linear attack, like the thrust of a spear.
“…Hah!”
His breathing hitched, showing just how startled he was. But he wasn't a champion for nothing. He quickly twisted his body and pulled his sword back, solidifying his defensive posture.
My sword, which had been aimed at his armpit, scraped against his blade, creating a loud screech and a shower of sparks.
A drop of cold sweat trickled down his cheek as he blocked the attack right in front of his face. His eyes, half-hidden by the blade, trembled minutely.
It was only for a moment. He pushed my sword away with force and charged like a boar, trying to force the fight into close quarters.
But to my eyes that see the world slowly, such a ploy was obvious. I wasn't foolish enough to fall for it knowingly.
I immediately created distance, returned to my initial stance, and pointed my sword at him. As if nothing had happened.
“You seem confident in your wrestling.”
Well, any properly trained knight would be familiar with wrestling. His face, his ploy seen through, crumpled like a piece of paper.
“You sneaky bastard! If you’re a knight, stop dodging and face me with honor!”
“But I’m not a knight.”
“Grr…!”
Western swordsmanship, which focused on thrusts, was characterized by its hit-and-run tactics. That was why people from other regions often disparaged it as a sneaky style. The swordsmanship I displayed was a perfect example of it.
Honestly, even I thought the Western style, which used the advantage of range to probe safely from a distance, looked cheap.
The audience seemed to share my sentiment.
“Booo! Fight properly, you Southern hick!”
“Coward! What a coward!”
A chorus of boos rained down from behind me. It was the signal that the time was ripe.
“Where did the fighter go?”
“You bastard—!”
I flicked the tip of my sword tauntingly, and he immediately charged.
I took a step back and thrust my sword to check his advance, but he batted it away as if he’d been waiting for it and rushed toward me with even greater speed.
To the audience, wouldn't he look like a boar that had been perfectly provoked into charging blindly forward? It was exactly the scene I wanted.
“Die!”
He raised his sword. Having deflected my thrust, he seemed to have judged that there were no more obstacles to stop him, and his move was bold.
When I failed to hide a look of alarm, he even curled the corner of his lip into a confident smirk, unaware that it was all an act.
As if I wasn't even thinking of a counterattack, I leaped backward. He immediately followed, trying to land the finishing blow.
“Where do you think you’re going?!”
It was at that very moment that my sword, which had been knocked away by his, grazed his neck as I was pulling it back.
It was a move so exquisite that anyone watching would think it was a lucky hit I'd landed by chance while retrieving my sword.
“Kuh…!”
His boar-like ferocity vanished in an instant. His feet, which had seemed ready to advance endlessly, faltered, and he took a step back.
He tried to support himself by planting his sword in the ground, but one of his knees had already given way.
His hand, which had clutched his neck before returning to his face, was soaked in crimson blood.
“You son of a bitch…”
He frantically pressed on the wound, but the blood flowing from the gash in his neck showed no signs of stopping. I had sliced his carotid artery clean through.
It was a fatal wound. Unable to hold on any longer, his other knee buckled, and he looked back at me, his face a mask of utter disbelief and frustration.
“To die such a dog’s death…!”
He really must have thought he was going to win. I smirked.
“People will think you were unlucky. That you fell for a provocation and lost despite being the more skilled fighter. On the other hand, they’ll curse me for stealing a victory by relying on cheap tricks despite my lack of skill. Just perfect.”
And just as I predicted, the crowd's jeers had grown even louder, completely unaware that this was the very situation I had hoped for.
“Gurgle, what…?”
“You lack both skill and sense.”
He tried to say something more, but only bloody foam came from his mouth. His complexion quickly turned deathly pale, and he collapsed.
The showdown between the South and the North was over. The North had four champions advancing to the next round, while from the South, I alone had made it.
The subsequent matches between the West and the East were tense, and the crowd's disappointment quickly subsided.
Duke Babel and his key officials also seemed to have cheered up, smiling. Though none of them could match Count Ohohena.
“I knew I could trust you!”
Count Ohohena, who had been treating me like a sack of barley left in a corner, welcomed me with open arms as if that had never happened.
Other nobles also flocked around me. My two patrons, outmatched in power and influence, could only watch from a distance.
‘I kept my promise.’
‘Congratulations.’
We had to be content with a nod. However, I didn't think this situation would last long. The human heart is fickle; people tend to dwell more on what they've lost than on what they've gained.
Sure enough, a gloomy atmosphere hung over the banquet held at Count Ohohena's villa that evening.
“Was it all just to save face?”
They had resolved to show the South's strength, but instead, they had proven they were too old to even make a fist.
For nobles who valued their honor, it was the worst possible situation. Several had already fled back to the South, unable to bear the cold reality.
Those gathered here were also testing the waters. The only ones with any hope were my two patrons. Baron Allanton cautiously spoke up.
“It’s not over yet. If Balak advances to the upper rounds, we can wash away the humiliation we suffered today.”
Count Ohohena’s gaze fell on me. It was only for a moment.
“Did you not see it yourself? The overwhelming strength of the Northern champions. The East and West were no pushovers either. Your champion’s courage… was commendable, but advancing to the next round is realistically impossible.”
Still, seeing me as an ally, Count Ohohena at least framed the scene where I provoked the Northern champion and won by a fluke as an act of courage.
“Still, if luck is on his side, we don’t know what might happen. If he advances to the next round, only six will remain, and we might be able to place ourselves above the other regions.”
“You know that the powerhouses from the Central region join from the second day, don't you? One needs a certain level of skill to seize luck.”
On the first day of the tournament, there were twenty participants, five from each region. On the second day, when the number was halved to ten, two champions from the Central region would join, making it a contest of twelve.
In other words, one more win was all it would take to be included among the six who advanced to the next round.
So, with a bit of luck, another region could be eliminated first, placing them below the South.
Baron Allanton's efforts were not in vain. By the time the banquet was winding down, Count Ohohena seemed to be holding onto a small sliver of hope.
“Who will you choose as your next opponent?”
The South was the only region with just one champion left. Because of this, the South had to endure all sorts of insults from the other three regions. This was a result that went against the connection Duke Babel had emphasized for exchange and harmony.
That was likely why Duke Babel had given the South, with its single remaining champion, the right to choose its next opponent.
Wasn't this true luck? In all three regions, the faces I remembered from my past had advanced to the next round.
This meant that if I chose someone not in my memories, I had a high chance of continuing to hide my skills and advancing.
“Is there anyone you have in mind, my lord?”
I had already decided on an opponent, but I asked because I had an inkling of what Count Ohohena would suggest.
If I shut him down before he could even speak, it would be a blow to his pride, and our relationship would surely sour.
It wouldn't matter to me, since I'd be leaving, but it could bring trouble to my patrons, Baron Allanton and Pompiné.
“What about the third champion from the East? With that sinister face, he looks like he’s bound to have bad luck, doesn't he? His skills also seemed the weakest among the Eastern champions.”
The person Count Ohohena recommended as my opponent was none other than Baron Weshin's cruel hound, Ohalla the Butcher.
It wasn't that Count Ohohena lacked a discerning eye. Today, Ohalla the Butcher, a master of dual-wielding, had come out with only one sword.
Naturally, it made him look awkward, and to many, it appeared as a lack of skill.
Dual-wielding is too conspicuous.
Dual-wielding is a difficult art to master. Without talent, a lifetime of effort might still be inferior to using a single sword.
As such, those famous for dual-wielding were few and far between. Even if Ohalla the Butcher was a figure from the underworld, it was a trait that made him easy to identify.
That was why he must have been forced to come out with only one sword.
In any case, for me, who knew his true identity, it was an offer I could never accept. The problem was coming up with a suitable excuse without hurting his feelings…
Having organized my thoughts, I opened my mouth.
“On the contrary, I believe he is the opponent we should be most wary of.”
“Even I, who am less skilled than you, could see how awkward he looked…”
As expected, Count Ohohena immediately showed his displeasure. The fortunate thing was that, befitting the leader of the South, he was no fool.
“Then how could such a man become one of the five representatives of the East?”
“That is… a bit strange, isn't it?”
“Furthermore, we must remember that the Western Champion who faced him was defeated.”
There was no way the Western Champion, one of the top five in his region, hadn't noticed the awkwardness that Count Ohohena had. And yet, the Western Champion had his head lopped off by Ohalla the Butcher.
“Hmm, so what you’re saying is…”
“Yes. He was clearly setting a trap. He deliberately pretended to be weak to make his opponent let down his guard, then exploited the opening that created.”
The real reason was to hide his identity, but if I said that, I would surely be asked how I knew who he was.
Count Ohohena, who had been on the fence, no longer doubted my judgment after Ohalla the Butcher won again the next day, followed by my own lucky-looking victory. He grabbed my hand, raised it high, and shouted.
“The Lord protects our South!”
Now, only six contestants remained.