Chapter 12
Translator: True Detective
Chapter 12. Sword Princess of the North
Human language is inherently imperfect.
Trying to cram the abstract concept of 'heart' into the narrow vessel of 'language', it is bound to overflow, break, or transform into completely different contents.
Let's take an example.
I want to express respect for the fighting spirit of a veteran warrior.
Respect for the old soldier who has guarded the northern front lines for decades. Courtesy for the wisdom that has endured the storms of time. Because apart from strength, it is a value deserving of respect.
'Your martial feats will be remembered forever. Now lay down that heavy axe and rest comfortably by a warm fireplace. I will do my best in today's duel.'
But the moment this respect for the elderly passes through my damned filter──
"Old geezer. If you're old, shouldn't you retire soon?"
It becomes a cocktail of attacks on the elderly, mixed with immorality and insult in appropriate proportions, and is sprayed onto the opponent's face.
"Still breathing, I see. A tough old bird holding onto a lifeline."
Even mocking the back of Elder Brynjolf as he was carried away on a stretcher.
I want to be a polite young man. Why must I, born and raised in the 'Eastern Land of Courtesy', become an immoral child of the North?
At this point, it’s a curse.
No, it might really be a curse.
Since the existence of the Black Knight itself is set as a 'kin of the Evil God'. Could this damned habit of speech be because of the Evil God too?
Then if I defeat the final boss, will it be lifted?
……Is that too optimistic a thought?
"E-Excuse me… good work."
When I returned to the waiting room, Lucia hesitantly handed me a wet towel.
Her fingertips are trembling minutely. Her gaze wanders somewhere around the chest of my armor, unable to meet my eyes.
Let's interpret that body language.
Interpretation A: She is still scared of me. Interpretation B: She can't meet my eyes because she is shy.
...Naturally, it must be the latter, right?
Look. That polite attitude.
She, who only thought of running away when we first met, now checks my mood and even takes care of a wet towel for me.
'Hmm… my romance seems a bit patriarchal…'
Anyway, smiling inside the helmet, I accepted the wet towel.
"Hiek!"
That she flinched back as soon as my hand touched hers must surely be because of static electricity.
Since the North is dry.
The next day. Semifinals.
The atmosphere of the arena was different from yesterday.
When I entered, the Northerners filling the spectator seats all shut their mouths at once.
Overwhelming silence.
I understand.
Because they witnessed the scene where a giant tree called Brynjolf became firewood and flew away with just a single punch.
"Continuing! The Sword Princess of the North! Freya of Grombalt!"
Waaaaah-!
A red-haired girl appearing amidst cheers.
Freya Grombalt.
The Grand Duke's only daughter, and Lucia's cousin.
She walked out to the center of the arena with her red ponytail fluttering.
Her usual childish appearance is nowhere to be found. Her mischievous eyes have settled coldly, and the twin swords held in both hands shone as sharply as her resolve.
"My Lady! Show us!" "The pride of Grombalt!" "Please protect the pride of the North!"
Desperation was mixed in the shouts of the Northerners.
It probably means they don't want to see the pride of the North trampled by me, an outsider, any longer.
Attachment to hometown. Cheering for kin. Because those are emotions humans naturally harbor.
However, the slightly troublesome thing is that I have no intention of losing either.
I looked up at the spectator seats.
Lucia was gripping the railing tightly. Biting her lip, looking down at Freya with a complicated expression.
I can know without hearing.
'Sorry, Freya.'
If Freya loses, her cousin's dream is broken. If I lose, Lucia's ambition is broken.
She is currently conflicted between the world of competition and the affection of blood relations.
'Don't worry, Lucia. She is your cousin. I'll go as easy on her as possible.'
Freya walked to the center of the arena.
When I looked at Freya, she also lifted her head and glared at me.
"You, you really were strong. I'll admit it. Uncle Brynjolf was a mountain I couldn't cross since I was young. The strongest warrior after Father. Since you sent that person flying in one hit."
Freya spoke while readjusting her grip on her swords. No wavering in her voice.
"I admit it. You are strong. But I cannot back down. Until Father returns, I will protect the Grand Duke's seat. And above all…"
Her eyes blazed.
"Northerners don't imagine losing before fighting."
Excellent.
My heart swells.
Such fighting spirit at that age.
Such a prospect needs encouragement befitting them.
'Excellent resolve. I pay respect to your flame-like fighting spirit. I hope today's match becomes good nourishment for you.'
"Hm. Seems a bit unripe to break yet?"
My finger pointed at her.
Freya's eyebrows twitched.
"Unlucky bastard…!"
"Bring it on. Kid."
Pat!
Freya kicked off the ground.
A red flash crossed my vision.
'Fast.'
If Brynjolf was a dump truck, Freya is a sports car.
Just as described in the original work. Technique rather than power. Sharpness rather than heaviness.
Whish-!
Closing the distance in an instant, twin swords aimed for my neck and waist simultaneously.
I tilted my head slightly.
Swish.
The wind from the sword brushed past my cheek.
Without missing that gap, another sword dug into my flank.
Clang!
I flicked the flat of the blade with my finger.
Vibration transmitted to the fingertip.
Light. But fierce.
"Haap!"
Freya didn't stop. Using the recoil of being deflected, she spun her body and slashed in again.
Combo attack.
Sword dance like sparking fire.
Freya's swordsmanship is not complete.
There is superfluity in the trajectory, and the distribution of power is unstable.
However.
'It is shining.'
I recalled the original settings.
Freya Grombalt.
If considering only the word 'talent', she is the best in the North.
But in the original work, she died young. In the war with the Empire, she died in battle trying to save Lucia.
At that time, readers lamented.
'If she lived and grew, she would have become a Sword Master.''Looking only at talent, isn't she above her dad?''If she was in the final battle, it would have been different…'
A sword harboring such 'what if' possibilities was dancing before my eyes right now.
Raging combo attacks.
High, low, thrust, slash.
A whirlwind dance storming without room to breathe.
With my hands behind my back, or using only one hand, I let all those attacks slide by.
I didn't even lift my feet. Just moving my upper body here and there to dodge.
Swish, swish.
Sharp blades missed right in front of my nose. Evasion by a hair's breadth.
"Haap! Hat! Chaaat!"
Freya's shouts became rougher.
The spectator seats murmured.
"Dodging all of that?" "Without even moving?" "My Lady's sword doesn't reach…"
Sighs burst out from the spectator seats.
I leisurely appreciated her swordsmanship.
'Commendable.'
The growth plate is open. If watered well, she'll grow fast.
"Haa, haa, haa……!"
Freya's breath became rough.
Her arms started to tremble.
Even so, she didn't stop.
"Why, why won't it hit……!"
Gritting her teeth, veins popping in her eyes, she swung faster, stronger.
Swish! Swish! Swish!
"Get hit!"
But education has an order.
"Heup!"
Freya unleashed a decisive blow with a shout. A technique trying to cut my neck like scissors by crossing the swords in both hands.
I extended my left hand.
And her forehead.
Flick.
Hit it.
It’s a finger flick.
"Kyaak!"
Freya's head jerked back.
At the same time, the kinetic energy rushing forward lost its destination and exploded in a weird direction. She spun round and round like a top and landed on her butt.
Thump.
"Ughhh…"
She clutched her forehead, tears welling up.
The spectator seats became quiet.
A finger flick suddenly appearing in the middle of a bloody sword fight.
"Are you kidding…?"
Freya stood up trembling. The middle of her forehead swelled up red.
"This is a sacred duel! Don't insult me!"
Insult, she says.
If I use full power, you die.
I can't throw a punch like with Brynjolf.
It’s not treating her sweetly because she's a beautiful girl, but because if I did that, that slender body would explode.
There was certainly extraordinariness in her swordsmanship.
The problem is that extraordinariness still remains in the realm of possibility.
What does that child need?
Time? Experience?
'Advice from the strong.'
Right. It is proper to say a word as a senior.
For that talent to bloom properly, direction is needed. Because a good teacher makes a good disciple.
'Amazing talent. Truly dazzling. However, you have a habit of lifting your posture slightly when attacking. If you fix just that, it will be much more stable.'
"Is the cute act over now? As expected of a wench, your ass is light."
……
Why does my educational advice transform into character assassination?
Freya's face turned beet red.
"I'll kill you…!"
The color of her aura deepened. Amber eyes glisten like a beast.
'Hm. Is it okay if the result is good?'
Boom!
She pounced again.
'Let’s just push her away.'
As gently as possible. Not to hurt her.
I didn't dodge the incoming sword but dug in directly.
And with my palm, very lightly pushed her abdomen.
"Kuhuk!?"
Pop!
A sound of air bursting occurred.
Freya's body bent like a right angle, then flew backward just like that.
Kwaaaang!
Freya rolled, flew, and crashed.
Crash!
The bones decorating the wall poured down.
"……."
Huh?
No, I definitely just pushed lightly? Should I have hit weaker?
"Haa… haa… cough!"
She barely stood up spitting saliva mixed with blood.
Legs trembling, arms shaking.
Ponytail undone, red hair messed up like seaweed, pretty face stained with bruises and blood.
Leather armor became rags, and one knee guard was completely shattered.
Screams didn't even come out from the spectator seats anymore.
"My, My Lady…" "Stop! Please stop!" "That bastard intends to kill the Lady!"
No matter who looks, I am the villain.
One-sided violence. And a merciless beating against a young girl at that.
However.
"Still…"
"...Not finished yet."
Freya used her sword as a cane and finally raised her body again.
"Northerners… even if they die… die standing."
Ah.
Beautiful.
That desperation. That nobility.
The expression 'Sword Princess of the North' truly fit perfectly.
I was moved.
The thrill I felt while reading the original work revived again.
'……Good.'
Then I should also show courtesy.
Seureureung.
I reached behind my back.
With a heavy metallic sound, the black greatsword was drawn.
The Black Knight's exclusive weapon called the Abyssal Sword.
The demon sword that cut the throats of numerous characters in the original work.
The pitch-black blade swallowed the sunlight. The surrounding air cooled down chillily in an instant.
"Drew… the sword?"
Someone's murmur was heard loudly.
The monster who crumpled a shield with bare hands and beat Brynjolf with bare hands.
Held a weapon for the first time.
"Thanks."
Freya whispered.
"For coming at me… with full power at the end."
No, it’s not full power.
If I use full power, the spectator seats over there disappear too.
But I didn't bother to correct her.
Freya squeezed out all remaining aura. Twin swords merged into a single red flash.
Incomplete Secret Technique. Red Moon.
"Here I gooooo!!"
Freya rushed in.
Towards that moth to a flame, I swung my sword.
Just once.
Without technique or trickery.
Kwaaaang―!!!
Black wave engulfed red flame.
Shockwave swept the arena.
Ice floor cracked like a spiderweb, and flags in the spectator seats were torn away.
Someone screamed.
Someone offered a prayer.
And after a while.
Dust settled.
Clatter.
Freya's twin swords shattered into pieces and scattered on the floor.
She stood blankly.
The tip of my greatsword stopped right in front of her Adam's apple.
If it went a little deeper, no, just 1 millimeter further, her pretty neck would have bid farewell to her torso forever.
Half of her long hair was cut off by the sword wind.
"……."
Freya slowly lifted her head. Looked up at me with a face covered in tears.
And laughed powerlessly.
"I lost."
Clean admission of defeat.
She slumped to the floor.
"Damn… really, dirty strong."
Vexed, but looking relieved.
I withdrew the sword. I didn't offer a hand. Since Northerners hate pity.
Instead, I should give a word of blessing at least.
'Excellent talent. Your sword will definitely reach a higher place. 10 years later, when you reach your prime, I want to duel once again.'
I spoke with sincerity.
"Come back in 10 years. By then, you might be worth crushing."
Ah.
Failed again.
What if the kid gets discouraged like this?
But my worry was groundless.
Freya's eyes widened roundly, then soon a smirk burst out.
"Ha! 10 years? Don't make me laugh. 3 years is enough."
Her eyes blazed again.
"Wait, black bastard. In 3 years, I'll flatten your nose very flat!"
Oh.
Not succumbing to defeat but rather taking it as growth momentum. As expected, a genius is different.
"Sister!"
Freya shouted toward Lucia in the spectator seats.
"Sister's knight, is quite usable!"
Acknowledged.
Acknowledged by the sister-in-law.
"Axe Festival Semifinal! Winner, Her Highness the Princess's Champion, The Black Knight!!"
Waaaaah!!
"Black Knight! Black Knight!"
Cheers burst from the spectator seats. My name was chanted.
There are no boos this time.
Overwhelming martial power. And courtesy towards the opponent.
It seems that appealed to the Northerners' hearts.
"Kuaak! What on earth is that power!" "Lady Freya was cool too!" "Both are true warriors of the North!"
Not a bad feeling.
Shrugging my shoulders, I looked at Lucia.
Our eyes met.
'Saw that? Your cousin, I educated her well.'
Lucia hurriedly turned her head. Her ear tips seem slightly red.
If I win until the finals like this and present the trophy, surely a massive favorability increase event will occur, right?
But who was the final opponent?
Ah.
Ulfric Grombalt.
Suddenly my gaze turned to the opposite side of the stands.
A man wearing a wolf skin cloak was sitting there.
Ulfric Grombalt.
Our eyes met.
'…….'
He was smiling.
The corners of his mouth were definitely up.
But his eyes weren't smiling.
Yellow eyes glistened towards me. I could see even from here that the silver cup in his hand was crumpled.
What expression is that?
Expectation? Fighting spirit? Rivalry?
'Ah, I see.'
Understood.
He must be looking forward to the duel with me.
A bout to decide the strongest of the North.
Since it is instinct for a warrior to want to fight the strong.
Good.
Tomorrow's final.
I will win coolly and dedicate it to Lucia.
My sincerity!