Why Do I Feel Like I've Become the Villain?
Leon hurled the wide-area taunt across the hall.
"…Pfft."
Celia couldn't hold it in. Laughter spilled from her lips.
That was it. That was exactly why she had fallen so completely for Leon. How could anyone not fall for a man like this?
That bottomless confidence. That audacity. That sheer presence — and the exceptional ability to back every word of it.
He was neither arrogant nor vain. He simply possessed the skill to match. Having witnessed his spar against Cheren the day before, Celia was certain of it.
She swept her gaze across the assembly. The section reserved for the imperial family and the Four Great Dukes sat in quiet composure, while the lower seats seethed with restless murmuring.
"Tsk."
She clicked her tongue softly.
Look at those faces, drowning in petty jealousy. Creatures who used their heads and mouths for nothing but tearing others down.
That was precisely why the Emperor's proposal had pleased her so much.
There was no shortage of people casting sour looks at Leon's commendation. Plenty who questioned whether he truly deserved a military medal of valor.
His youth was probably part of the problem. Even a genius needed time for talent to bloom — or so the conventional wisdom went.
But Leon was not a man who fit inside ordinary categories. He possessed something that the word "talent" alone could never explain.
Celia was almost giddy with anticipation. She couldn't wait for him to put those insolent eyes in their place.
How deliciously would their faces contort in a moment? How deep would the shock cut?
And then—
"…"
Celia's faintly smiling face went rigid as she turned her gaze.
Up on the dais. At the far end of the imperial family's table.
A girl with neatly bound silver hair and jewel-red eyes, her features carved into a portrait of lofty beauty.
— …
Esabel's eyes were alight with a heat Celia knew all too well.
"…"
A man strode toward Leon in nothing but a shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
A tall fellow in his twenties. Excellent proportions, striking looks. His solid build spoke of long years spent training in the martial arts.
This bastard… is handsome.
A flicker of irritation mixed into Leon's smile.
This world really did have a higher average for looks — which meant the bar for "handsome" sat higher, too. Leon's own face fell short of that standard.
Thud. Thud—
Leon's behavior must have thoroughly offended him. Rage clung thick to every step. His brows were drawn into a sharp inverted V.
Snorting through his nose, the man arrived and opened his mouth.
"…Second son of House Pantelion. Aion."
House Pantelion, huh…
A sword family he'd heard of before. There might even have been one of their people at Elprime.
Not that the family name particularly mattered.
But why is this bastard talking so curtly?
Setting status aside, the man wasn't that much older. Honorifics were the baseline here.
Leon spoke.
"Sir. Let's finish our sentences, shall we? Is this a challenge?"
Aion's face twisted.
"I am requesting a spar."
He seized on the wording.
"Ah. Is that so?"
Leon snorted. The man was clearly furious.
Well — he had been the first to leap out in response to the taunt.
Leon looked him over with deliberate, open appraisal.
"Though… you seem a touch reckless. Are you certain you should be the one stepping forward, sir? Your elder brother over there might be another matter."
It wasn't wrong. From what Leon could gauge, Aion's level was thoroughly mediocre.
"You—!"
Aion bristled with rage. Veins stood out on his neck as he clenched his fists white.
From his position, Leon's words were nothing short of a provocation that crossed every line. The watching crowd felt the same. The Pantelion contingent in particular looked ready to rush Leon on the spot.
Aion flared his nostrils and drew a deep breath. Barely suppressing his temper, he ground out the words.
"Are you going to keep flapping your mouth like that? If you are truly a swordsman, speak with your blade…!"
"Fine. Have it your way. Step back."
Leon waved him off with casual indifference.
"…"
Aion ground his teeth and put distance between them.
Shiiing—!
He drew his sword. The sleek blade caught the harsh light of the banquet hall and threw it back.
The hall filled with stifled whispers. A humid mix of excitement and tension soaked the air.
Every eye in the crowd fixed on the center. Most of them, by the look of it, were hoping to see Leon take a satisfying beating from Aion.
Why do I feel like I've become the villain here?
Leon tilted his head and walked off to one side.
Aion, already settled into a middle stance and waiting, barked out,
"What are you doing? Draw your sword already!"
"Hmm…"
Leon ignored him, approaching a nearby table and reaching out.
"This will do."
What he picked up was a knife. A short, rounded blade. Yes — an ordinary table knife, the kind used as cutlery.
A tool for cutting vegetables and meat off a plate. A scrap of metal barely fit to slice a person properly.
Leon held it up with almost playful care and addressed Aion.
"Whenever you're ready, come at me."
Once again, the hall erupted in an uproar.
— That— that's outrageous!
— This is going too far, even for him!
Tables were slammed. Fingers pointed. People began openly condemning Leon now. The fact that he was a young master of House Crucif no longer registered.
"What do you think you're— what are you doing?"
Aion's entire body trembled. His face had gone as red as a ripe apple.
Leon feigned ignorance.
"What about?"
Aion roared.
"Pick up a proper sword this instant! Are you making a mockery of this?! Take this seriously!"
"I am taking it seriously. Because…"
Leon waggled the knife and grinned.
"…someone like you is more than enough for this. You should be grateful I bothered to put anything in my hand at all."
"Uwaaaaaaah!"
Aion lost all reason and charged.
"…"
Leon simply watched.
A scream cracking at the edges. Pupils contracted to pinpricks. Every muscle in the body locked tight. Dress shoes slamming against the smooth floor.
And…
Mana flowing in an unstable current. Clumsy footwork. Disordered breathing and heartbeat. A loose posture and an unrefined presence.
"Ha."
A sigh escaped on its own.
Truly…
Pathetic. Insignificant. Inferior.
And with skill like that, he dared to question Leon's qualifications?
Tap—
The tip of Leon's foot gave the ground a light push.
In the next instant—
Thud—
Aion's advancing left leg was kicked out from under him. His body spun a full hundred and eighty degrees and crashed to the floor.
Whump!
He hit hard on his back and the back of his skull — and at the same moment, the cold edge of metal pressed against his carotid artery.
"…Hhk!"
As his blacked-out vision cleared, he found Leon smiling down at him, the knife pinned to his throat. Those viscous, blood-red eyes sent a chill racing down his spine.
"Ugh!"
Reflexively he tried to put strength into the arm holding his sword, but it only twitched. Leon's knee already had it pinned solid.
Leon looked down at him and spoke in a low, measured voice.
"Sir. You've lost."
— …
The spectators who had just witnessed Leon and Aion's one-second spar sat stunned.
From their perspective…
An enraged Aion had begun charging at Leon.
Then suddenly — thud! — and Leon was already sitting on top of him.
That was it. It was absurd. Even a well-rehearsed play wouldn't look like this.
And it wasn't just the untrained civilians. Even warriors and mages who handled mana at a high level were the same.
Even some renowned heads of martial houses had lost track of Leon's movement.
In this entire hall, only a bare handful had correctly read what just happened in the spar: masters and above, and a few high-tier combat mages of equivalent caliber.
Which was why the crowd couldn't easily believe it. It felt like a lie. They couldn't accept a spectacle their minds refused to process. That old habit of trusting only what their own two eyes could follow asserted itself once more.
Aion himself was no different. His overheated brain refused to acknowledge the blade at his throat.
"G-get off… ugh…!"
He strained to shove Leon off his body, detonating mana and muscle alike.
Of course Leon didn't budge. Aion couldn't move him an inch.
"Starting to believe it now?"
Leon tapped Aion's cheek lightly with the knife.
"I don't even need a sword for you. Calling you an 'opponent' is generous. Your level is far too low."
"Y-you—!"
Aion spat as he shrieked.
"What is the meaning of this?!"
"What?"
"Using an artifact in a sacred duel between warriors! His Majesty the Emperor is watching!"
Leon laughed.
"What a load of absolute bullshit. You're just saying whatever comes into your head, aren't you?"
"Such insulting language! Resume a proper duel at once!"
"…"
Leon stopped listening. He placed his palm squarely in the center of Aion's chest.
And poured mana into him.
Gwoooooom—
A beast-like force surged in like a flood.
"What are you— ugh?!"
Aion naturally tried to move his own energy, but he couldn't mount even a scrap of resistance. Leon's vast, resonant power seized control of Aion's body with unstoppable force.
Then—
"…!!!"
Aion's mouth fell open in a silent scream. The world went black. Sparks exploded behind his eyes.
He thrashed under a pain so immense it felt as though his very mind were being torn apart.
Crrrrrack…
Every circuit and sinew in his body was being wrenched inside out. As if a giant had seized him in one hand and was crushing and twisting. Leon's violent energy tore through Aion's interior and left it in ruins.
Oh… this is pretty effective.
In short, it was a kind of tendon-splitting, bone-dislocating technique. No such art existed in this world — Leon had reverse-engineered it from the wuxia novels of his previous life.
Well, dig deep enough into torture methods and something conceptually similar probably existed here too.
But only someone who could manipulate mana with Leon's current level of precision could actually use it, so it was virtually unknown. With magic available, there were plenty of easier, more efficient alternatives.
"Guaaaaagh…!!!"
A thin, dying-old-man groan leaked from Aion. His whole body convulsed as if struck by lightning. Tears streamed freely; his pupils had gone slack. Muscles roiled beneath the skin, making the surface of his body ripple and bulge.
And yet not a single drop of blood was shed. No visible external wounds. Almost no screaming. Clean work, all things considered.
At last—
Thud—
Aion's head lolled. He had fainted, unable to endure the pain. To him it must have felt like an eternity — but in truth, it had been barely ten seconds.
It had been that brief, so the vast majority of the spectators had no idea what Leon had just done.
Leon grabbed Aion by the scruff of the neck, hoisted him up, and flung him toward the Pantelion family table.
Thud, thump—!
A large man flew through the air as lightly as a toy.
Leon gestured to a court mage. Voice-amplification magic seeped swiftly into his throat.
He spoke with cheerful ease.
"Ah, ah. Ladies and gentlemen. I won't be counting that as a spar. Aren't you all underestimating me a little too much? I'd like a proper opponent, if you please. Haha — look at this, will you? It's a knife. A knife for cutting meat."
—Pwahahahaha!
Mid-sentence, Leon lost control and burst into wild, maniacal laughter. He twisted this way and that, even clapping his hands as he roared with mirth.
— …
In a silence so heavy it pressed down like a weight, only Leon's mad laughter echoed through the vast banquet hall.