Be Ambitious, Young Man (3)
The afternoon of the same day Ethan had planted yet another bizarre flag that morning, declaring out of nowhere that he was going to win today.
Once again, I found myself out at the training grounds to observe the sparring match between Edan and Harold.
I'd heard the pronouncement that morning, but honestly speaking, I held no particular expectations for it.
After all, there was already precedent—two weeks ago he'd said the exact same thing and lost.
It wasn't even as if he'd come close to winning on even footing. His defeat had essentially been one that relied on feints, exposed and punished in the end.
Had it been a case of comparable swordsmanship wasted by a narrow, regrettable loss, I might have felt some anticipation—but there was no reason to be on edge over Edan, who hadn't yet reached anything close to that level.
And so today, once again free of any real hope that Edan would finally deliver, I settled in to watch at my leisure.
Beside me, as always, stood Dietmeier, the head butler presiding over the household, along with the healing priest from the Blackwood estate.
—CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
"Put more force behind the blade! Attacking at irregular angles isn't everything! No matter which direction you twist your sword, maintain your speed and power!"
"Ugh, aaaaagh…!!"
Unlike the attempt at feints two weeks ago, Edan's recent bouts had returned to a bare-knuckled, honest sort of flailing.
If he'd at least taken my advice and wielded dual blades, I might have allowed myself a sliver of hope, but over the past two weeks he hadn't shown so much as an attempt at it.
Convinced as I was that the paired blades were the only means by which he could ever land a single blow on Harold, I was able to watch the two of them spar with my mind completely at ease.
'At this rate, nothing of note will happen before he enters the Academy.'
Harold, for his part, was gradually piecing together the particular traits of Edan's swordsmanship as he traded blows with his son—which meant Edan, chasing from behind, would naturally have an even harder time closing that gap.
I was idly mulling this over, watching the Blackwood father-and-son's swordplay grow steadily more tedious.
Then, today of all days, something about Edan's odd grip on his sword caught my eye.
'Hm…?'
Instead of the usual two-handed grip with his hands pressed tight together, his right and left hands were spread considerably apart on the blade's hilt.
It was such an awkward hold—fingers nearly braced at either end of the grip—that a peculiar question naturally surfaced in my mind.
Gripping a sword that way meant his left and right hands rotated on different axes; every swing would bleed off force and fatigue his muscles that much faster.
Besides, holding it that way didn't make the blade any more stable, either.
It wasn't the stance of a man wielding a single sword at all—it looked, if anything, like the posture of someone a heartbeat from drawing a blade free of its sheath. And with that, a different thought began to take shape in my head.
'…Don't tell me.'
Just as I was fixing my gaze on the sword in Edan's hands, half-doubting the question that had occurred to me, the hilt he gripped suddenly began to split, stretching apart lengthwise as if elongating.
In an instant I understood—it was the motion of drawing a second blade hidden within the first.
Which meant that up until now, Edan had, in effect, been swinging an empty scabbard.
The moment the single blade Edan had wielded transformed, in the blink of an eye, into a pair.
-Swish!
"……!!"
The one thrown into confusion by the sword abruptly splitting inside and out was not me but Harold.
And there was no way Edan—who had kept his expression composed to the very last moment as he prepared his final strike—would let that tiny opening slip past.
-THWACK!
"Kgh…!"
The blade in his left hand, the one that had served as the scabbard, caught and deflected Harold's sword, and in the same instant the sword in his right hammered into Harold's flank.
Harold, caught completely off guard by the unexpected blow, yielded at the waist and let out a short groan through clenched teeth—and the eyes of the onlookers, myself included, went wide all at once.
"Haa, haa, haa…."
Whether he had truly spent every last ounce of strength on that single strike or not, Edan simply drove his sword down into the ground and stood there, looking toward me and Dietmeier.
Dietmeier, still entirely unable to process what he'd just witnessed, hastily smothered his fluster and rushed to declare Edan the victor.
"E-Edan, young master's victory!"
"Congratulations, young master."
The instant the words left his mouth, my body erupted, entirely of its own accord, into enthusiastic applause in celebration of Edan's first-ever victory.
Only upon seeing that did Edan steal a small smile and collapse face-down onto the ground.
Harold, meanwhile, kept his gaze lowered toward Edan in silence before speaking up, his tone curiously probing.
"Separating your sword in the middle of a bout, of all things. Lately your flair for trickery has been growing by the day, Edan."
"Was that not allowed, Father?"
"Not allowed? Why would you think that, Edan?"
"…It is a technique not used in conventional swordsmanship. I won through cowardly means, without a proper technique of my own."
With the atmosphere threatening to turn strangely grave, I caught myself wondering—surely Harold wasn't petty enough to refuse to acknowledge the loss? But listening to what came out of his mouth next, mercifully, no such thing occurred.
"In a fight where lives are on the line, there is only one thing that is 'not allowed,' Edan."
"Yes?"
"The most important thing in surviving is to never know 'defeat.' Whatever trickery you employ, whatever mindset you bring to the contest, the one thing that matters above all is to 'not be defeated,' Edan."
"…."
"You may take pride in this. Today, if only for a single moment, you were a swordsman who claimed victory over a Sword Master."
"…Thank you."
Since he wasn't saying a word about the match being invalid due to underhanded means, Harold was evidently quite pleased by his son's growth.
It had already been three years and a half since Edan first began learning the sword from Harold, so today's blow likely brought him more joy than pain or humiliation.
After all, it was a strike that proved, beyond any doubt, that his own son had genuinely grown.
"From our next lesson onward, I will teach you to wield two blades. It seems you have a talent for the paired swords as well, Edan—beyond the single blade alone."
"…Yes, sir!"
"That will be all for today's bout. Once you've caught your breath, tidy up and come inside."
"Thank you, Father!"
Harold took his leave, one hand resting lightly against his hip, the estate's healing priest swift to read the moment and hurry after him.
And I remained at the training grounds, meeting Edan's eyes as he caught his breath, and offered him a word of encouragement for a job well done.
"Well fought, Edan, young master."
"Maid…."
"That strike of yours today was truly magnificent. …Though with your master as your opponent, I suspect it won't work a second time."
"…Yeah. He won't take it twice. Honestly, if I'd failed today, I was planning to give up on this method entirely."
"Could it be that the fatigue you've been showing lately… was from practicing this technique?"
"…If you're talking about practicing how to draw the blade out naturally, then—somewhat."
…Good grief, the sheer stubbornness of this boy truly is something else.
To think he'd go so far as to prepare a special sword and drill the method of wielding it, all just to land a single blow on Harold.
And even to consider that all this effort existed solely for the sake of getting his hands on his personal maid's chest….
'…Ah.'
…Right. I'd forgotten.
The fact that in this contest, the one I should have been rooting for was not Edan at all.
⁎ ⁎ ⁎
And so, that night.
After dinner, during the preparations for bed.
Having finished my evening grooming with somewhat more care than usual, I quietly stepped into Edan's room, a faint tension coiled in my chest.
To honor the terms of that absurd contract I had proposed to him before.
'Haah, I really am an idiot. Why on earth did I have to make some weird proposal that day, of all days…?'
If only I had never, in the grip of some strange misunderstanding, let Edan touch my chest in the first place, none of this would ever have come to pass.
As if that weren't enough, in my scramble to smooth things over without being caught—hiding what had been touched back then—I'd gone and attached the extra condition that if he landed a clean hit on Harold, he'd get to touch me again.
And then my own needless meddling, offering advice on dual-sword technique on top of everything, had circled right back around into this.
'Well, whatever. It's only one minute.'
Even if the boy worked hard for a whole minute, what could he possibly accomplish with zero experience to his name?
Last time, it was only a vague panic about potentially losing my position as his personal maid that had put me on edge and made it feel like such a big deal—with the proper mental preparation, giving up one minute of chest access was genuinely nothing.
And if I were being honest with myself, I also thought Edan had earned the right to that much of a reward.
Any deeper reflection threatened to spiral off into some absurd self-justification, so before any more strange thoughts could surface, I knocked three times on Edan's door and spoke.
-Knock, knock, knock.
"Edan, young master. May I come in?"
"…Come in."
The reply that drifted back through the door was careful, tinged with its own trace of nerves.
Opening the door, I slipped quietly inside.
-Creeeak.
"…."
"…."
The lamplight in Edan's bedroom felt somehow softer, more hushed than usual tonight.
He had already been waiting, seated warily in a chair by the table, quietly avoiding my gaze.
Before things proceeded any further, I carefully asked what arrangement would be most comfortable for him.
"Would you prefer to do this while seated in the chair?"
"Wh-what?!"
"You're sitting at the table rather than on the bed, so I thought I would ask. If you believe the bed would be a little more comfortable, we may move there instead."
"N-no, that's not it, Maid. S-sitting in the chair is fine…. I-I have something I need to say to you first, that's all…."
"Something you need to say first?"
"…Right. Would you sit across from me for a moment?"
"…Of course."
I had no idea what Edan intended to say, but as his personal maid, I simply obeyed without protest and took the seat across from him.
Facing him across the table, eyes meeting his, I asked about this thing he needed to say first.
"What is it you wished to discuss, Edan, young master?"
"It's, um… about what we agreed on today."
"You mean, as your reward for landing a clean strike on Lord Harold, you are to touch my chest for one minute."
"…Yeah. That."
…Could it be he wants to negotiate—a bit more time since one minute isn't enough, or perhaps a softening of the conditions?
Well, Edan was a young man in the full flush of his years, so I could hardly fail to understand the sentiment—but naturally, I had neither the intention nor the willingness to grant such a request.
Because if I let him nudge and stretch the terms like that, one day I'd look up to find Edan groping my chest with no conditions attached whatsoever.
Steel in my heart, resolve settled to refuse him no matter what he proposed, I met his eyes and demanded his answer.
"Go ahead, young master."
"I-is it really okay… for me to touch you, Maid?"
"Yes. That was the promise, after all."
"Th-then you…? How do you feel about it…?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Do you actually think I've gotten strong enough to deserve it, and that's why you're letting me touch your chest…? Or are you only here because you made a promise, and you're forcing yourself to keep it?"
What kind of nonsense is this boy spouting all of a sudden?
He won the bout against Harold—case closed. Why on earth is he suddenly probing how I feel about it?
I had no desire to bicker over something so pointless, so I simply handed back a formal reply.
"That doesn't matter, young master. You won your bout against my lord father—so as your reward, you may touch my chest."
"…But if you don't actually want this, Maid, and you're only telling me to because of the promise."
"I beg your pardon?"
"…If that's the reason, then you really don't have to force yourself, Maid."
"…."
"…I won't hold it against you for breaking the promise, either. So you needn't worry about that."
…What on earth is this boy going on about right now?
Here I was, resolve firmly in place, having gone to his room of my own accord in the dead of night to let him touch me—and he tells me not to force myself? Now?
Is he pitying me?
Is he seriously worried I might feel burdened by giving up something as small as my chest?
"…Don't talk nonsense, Edan, young master."
"M-Maid?!"
"You watched every ounce of effort I put into helping you defeat Lord Harold, and still you say that to me?"
"…."
"I do not say one thing with my mouth and another with my heart, young master. If you intend to fuss over me with flimsy, misplaced sympathy, then understand this—it is meeting this boldly, without flinching, that spares us both the shame."
It wasn't as if I were offering him my first experience, or a first kiss, or anything of the kind.
The idea of being pitied over something as trivial as having my chest touched had never once crossed my mind.
Brushing aside Edan's words as the empty things they were, I rose from my seat and stepped toward him.
Because I refused to be the kind of coward who would run from paying so small a reward—to this boy who had striven for it so long and so hard.