Chapter 116
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 116
Chapter Title: Pato (2)
Ditun Modifica and Icona Daytona.
They drew their swords in the center of the banquet hall.
Though these were blunted training swords without sharpened edges, they were still hefty chunks of iron, carrying considerable weight.
"A solid hit could crack your skull. If you feel like you're about to die, forfeit on your own."
"Same bad mouth as ever. Are you really a noble?"
Ditun and Icona faced each other.
Ditun bit his lip.
Why was this?
All the problems he'd faced so far suddenly seemed incredibly simple and clear.
It felt like knocking down the enemy in front of him would make the whole world his.
He could deal with that hated rival he'd always loathed, win the heart of the woman he'd loved for so long...
'I've never been this focused in my life.'
There are times when a man can't back down—times when he absolutely mustn't.
Ditun believed this was that moment.
Soon, Icona raised his sword.
Ditun followed suit, raising his own.
All eyes in the banquet hall fixed on them with keen interest.
Under the glow of the chandeliers, the red carpet sparkled.
Ditun and Icona stood tall, like symmetrically carved statues.
Ditun, tall and gaunt; Icona, shorter but with a broad, barrel-like frame.
It was like a giant praying mantis facing off against a massive stag beetle.
"I'll serve as the referee."
Federback stepped between Ditun and Icona and spoke.
As the second son of the Meursault House, hosts of the banquet, and the man shaking the North, no one doubted Federback's qualifications for the role he'd volunteered for.
"I declare the duel begun."
The moment Federback took a step back—
Boom—bang!
Ditun charged first.
What was more like an iron rod than a sword whipped through the air at blinding speed.
Icona blocked it solidly, then crouched low for a swift counterattack.
Clang!
The clash of the metal bars shook every candle flame in the hall.
The collision of two men fighting over one woman thrilled the assembled nobles.
"Brings back old memories. That's how I won my current wife."
"Oh? So the baron triumphed in a duel, then?"
"Nah, I lost. That's why I married her."
"...?"
In any case, the duel between Ditun and Icona was heating up even more.
'Ugh!'
Cold sweat trickled from Ditun's temple.
Ditun was giving it everything he had—or so he thought.
He swung his blade fluid as water, swift as wind, trying to overwhelm Icona.
"Not a chance."
But Icona stood like an immense boulder, blocking every assault.
Neither water nor wind can move a rock.
Of course, given enough time, maybe... but Ditun's stamina would run out first.
'At this rate, I'll lose!'
That familiar sensation made Ditun grit his teeth.
Back in his academy days, he'd felt this countless times.
He always started strong with the first strike, but he'd never once pushed Icona to the end.
Memories flashed of kneeling repeatedly before Icona's monstrous stamina and ironclad defense, forced to swallow defeat after defeat.
Scraaaape!
The swords grated fiercely against each other.
The deadlock allowed no quarter.
As time dragged on, Ditun's movements grew larger, more frantic.
"Isn't it a bit one-sided?"
A few young ladies unfamiliar with duels whispered that Ditun seemed to be winning.
"Not one-sided at all."
"The Modifica young master looks exhausted."
But the responses they got were the opposite.
From the start of the duel to now, Icona hadn't wavered once.
Minimal movement, perfect defense, stamina untouched.
Ditun, meanwhile, grew more frantic by the second, his unnecessary motions multiplying with every murmur he overheard.
Icona was biding his time, waiting for Ditun's stamina to break.
"Hngh!"
At last, Ditun's breathing grew ragged.
Icona seized the moment and lunged.
...Thud!
The training sword, swung like a club, sent Ditun's entire body flying backward.
"Urk!"
As Ditun desperately regained his balance, Icona pressed forward.
"You're always like this. You thrash around, unable to control your temper, and self-destruct. You're easy prey."
Icona closed in, taunting him.
"Just like when we were kids, right up to now. Keep lying there under me like a stepping stone forever. For my self-esteem."
"Raaargh!"
In that instant, Ditun let out a primal roar.
He hurled his sword with all his might.
"...What the—!?"
Icona recoiled in shock, batting the sword away.
Losing his weapon mid-duel meant Ditun's defeat, obviously.
But Ditun didn't stop.
He drew a dagger adorned with gold and jewels from his breast pocket and lunged at Icona.
Using any weapon besides the agreed-upon one was taboo—a foul.
But Ditun seemed beyond caring.
"Die, you bastard!"
"Gah!?"
Ditun grabbed Icona's throat with one hand and slammed the dagger down with the other.
Had Icona not whipped his head aside, the blade would have buried in his neck.
Stab—
Blood sprayed from the dagger's new home in his right shoulder.
A few noblewomen screamed, but Ditun ignored them.
"If not for you! If you didn't exist!"
From his oppressed childhood and adolescence to this very moment, crushed by inferiority.
Savoring a strange sense of liberation, Ditun roared louder and swung the dagger at Icona's throat again.
Clack—
Federback's intervening hand stopped it cold.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Federback's icy voice snapped Ditun back to reality.
Icona writhed on the floor, clutching his right shoulder.
No threat to his life, but a wound that would cripple him for life.
"Th-this is..."
Before Ditun could stammer an excuse, Federback's fist flew.
Crack!
Teeth scattered through the air.
Ditun tumbled a good ten meters backward.
In the end, both Ditun and Icona ended up rolling on the floor.
Federback spoke in his signature chill tone.
"For using a weapon outside the agreed rules, I declare Ditun Modifica's foul defeat. The loser shall bear all resulting dishonor."
Ditun rose, blood streaming from his nose.
He could stand, but he'd lost the duel.
And in the most dishonorable way: by foul.
Icona had won, but he clutched his blood-soaked right arm, screaming and rolling on the floor.
Win or lose, no one left who could dance with Cardina.
"Ugh..."
Ditun dropped his head in despair.
Then—
"Hmph. Foul defeat, huh."
A soft murmur came from behind.
Beatrice Portofino.
She spoke from behind an ornate fan trimmed with tassels.
"Northern men always carry a dagger or two... It's more accessory than weapon... Maybe he just instinctively drew it in the heat of the duel, forgetting the rules... Holding that against him... and calling foul instead of a rematch... seems a bit harsh...?"
A few naive young ladies nodded along with Beatrice's mumbling as she looked away.
"I'm new to men's duels, so I don't know much, but even if Young Master Ditun was wrong, does it warrant a foul defeat?"
"Come to think of it, I'm a little unsure too? Isn't a duel just about who wins? Do they really call fouls like this?"
"Couldn't they have a rematch after Young Master Icona recovers? I don't really know..."
Ditun's head snapped up at the whispering ladies.
"Right, exactly! What foul?!"
He bellowed.
"No man in the North walks around without a dagger for self-defense or show! I pulled it out in the heat of the moment—so what? Foul? This is biased judging!"
Absurd by any measure, but Ditun, eyes wild, didn't care.
Late to the scene, Viscount Mugello Modifica stepped forward.
"Son, enough now..."
But he got no chance to finish.
"Federback! I challenge your biased judgment! Duel me!"
Ditun snatched his fallen gauntlet from the floor and hurled it at Federback.
And—
...Smack!
Federback silently took the gauntlet to the face.
As it fell to the floor—
"Fine. I accept."
Federback smiled.
Viscount Mugello Modifica, flustered by his son's antics, waved his hands.
"W-wait a moment. Federback, please calm down. My son’s drunk and made a mistake..."
"A gauntlet to the face means I can't refuse the duel. However."
Federback extended a hand, blocking the viscount's approach.
Then continued in his usual emotionless tone.
"I'll change the duel format. Your son already fought once and is exhausted—it's unfair. So, per Northern custom, I permit a champion."
Champion.
A substitute fighter, literally.
When someone resolved to duel for honor but couldn't due to unforeseen calamity or accident, the substitute stepped in.
Whether the champion fought for gold or conviction mattered little.
What counted was the challenger's ability to procure one.
Even if scrawny and weak, dragging a hulking brute into the fray proved the challenger's prowess, restoring honor.
Of course, the challenger couldn't appoint just anyone—the respondent's consent was required.
Federback had granted it upfront.
"I'll fight personally. As for your champion, I don't care who."
"..."
The entire banquet hall buzzed.
Federback's words sounded utterly reckless.
Unlimited champion allowance.
And he'd fight without one himself.
Viscount Mugello let out a hollow chuckle, incredulous.
"Federback, must you go this far?"
"Your son issued the challenge."
"And he didn't apologize?"
"Levarb and Furosange said the same."
"..."
Mention of the two houses nearly wiped out silenced the viscount.
Federback pressed once more.
"Northern apologies aren't mere words. If not a duel, what will you offer?"
"..."
Viscount Mugello pressed a hand to his forehead.
Then—
"Father! Give me a chance to prove my manhood! I can't accept the previous duel’s result!"
Ditun shouted.
Mugello eyed his son with a bitter taste in his mouth.
He understood his son's position.
He'd snapped in rage against a longtime rival and pulled a disallowed weapon.
Foul defeat meant no place for him in high society henceforth.
So, might as well go all-in now.
The problem: the North's strongest, Meursault House, and their new allies, Daytona House, were entangled.
In the end, Viscount Mugello decided.
'Put up a strong champion to pressure that Federback punk. Then back off at the key moment, make it a draw—save face for both sides.'
Maybe this Federback was bluffing to boost his own honor.
Modifica provides a suitably strong champion, they disengage at the right time for a draw.
'Cunning little snake. But naive, thinking only of his honor.'
Viscount Mugello tsked, misreading Federback's intent.
'Fine. I'll play along for now. Securing alliance with Daytona and Portofino is priority—resolve this mess...'
First, he needed a champion to crush that insolent brat Federback.
And Viscount Mugello knew just the man.
"Fetch that mercenary we just knighted formally."
He whispered to a servant behind him.
The Modifica House played its final card to turn the tide.