The Prince's Fiancée
Even after the prince granted him another chance, nothing changed.
Hamanama raised clouds of dust with a display of Four-Image Martial Arts dazzling enough to startle the crowd — only to be casually neutralized by a single punch from the prince.
The matches that followed unfolded in much the same way. Others managed to trade blows back and forth, offering the audience a thrilling spectacle, but the prince alone overwhelmed every opponent with ruthless consistency, ending each contest in a single breath.
It should have been dull, so one-sided was the domination. Yet the spectators roared with delight every time the handsome young man claimed victory through sheer, overwhelming martial prowess.
"Is that the Elephant Prince?"
"He's fighting better than I expected. You don't think it's fixed, do you?"
"Doesn't look like it — the other guys' faces sure don't say they threw anything."
"Haven't you heard the stories? The Elephant Prince hunted a naga when he was still a child!"
"You believe that? Nagas vanished ages ago."
A few of them, watching him win so effortlessly, suspected foul play. The prince himself paid no mind. He was simply disappointed — the level of his opponents had turned out lower than he had hoped.
I entered this tournament thinking I might finally cross fists with real strength…
He had long since lost interest in anything that did not involve a fight. Before long, without any particular difficulty, the prince advanced to the finals.
"The next match — Wanderer Irsha versus Prince Siddhartha!"
The referee bellowed the introductions of the two finalists, clearly determined to make the last contest as dramatic as possible.
"Irsha… meaning Jealousy? An unusual name. May we have a good match."
"…"
The prince offered the customary greeting. His opponent ignored it.
At a glance the man looked roughly the prince's own age, though a long scar cut across his face and the ferocity in his eyes suggested a life far from gentle. More than that, the aura he radiated far surpassed any opponent the prince had faced so far.
This time… maybe I'll actually get to enjoy myself.
Holding a small spark of anticipation, the prince waited for the referee's signal. The moment the match was declared open, Irsha charged like a tiger.
It was no mere metaphor — he was using a form of Four-Image Martial Arts of that very nature.
"Whoa—!"
Instead of retreating, the prince stepped forward. Irsha curled his fingers into beast-like claws and raked them toward the prince's face. From the very first exchange, malice dripped from every movement — and the prince found himself delighted.
He raised an arm lightly to block. Irsha's fingers dug into his forearm. Under ordinary circumstances they would have torn flesh free; the prince's skin and muscle were simply too tough. With his free hand the prince brought a knife-hand strike down in a casual arc. It was not particularly fast, so Irsha raised an arm to block the same way.
— Crack.
"Ghk—!"
It had looked like nothing more than a hand-blade, yet it landed like an axe. Irsha felt certain his arm might break.
They traded fists after that, and from start to finish Irsha was driven back. The difference in weight class was simply too great — the mass behind each punch, the durability of flesh and bone. Technique, too, favored the prince. Even when the exchanges began evenly, Irsha took more hits; the prince slipped more cleanly aside.
Judging the situation against him, Irsha tried to create distance — only for the prince to time a thrusting kick perfectly and send him sprawling. Irsha rolled, scrambled up, braced for a follow-up. The prince did not rush in. Instead he crooked a finger and beckoned, the gesture pure provocation.
Childish as it was, it worked. Irsha had carried open hostility toward the prince from the first moment.
Black smoke began to rise from Irsha's body. He uncoiled a whip bound around his arm; the smoke wrapped the weapon and took the shape of a thorned vine, razor-sharp.
"Oh-ho!"
The prince was impressed. He had never seen Four-Image Martial Arts given such concrete form. His admiration was pure; Irsha took it as further mockery.
Irsha cracked the black whip. The thorned vine struck the ground and dust billowed. A chilling furrow scored the earth.
"Magnificent."
Irsha lashed out in a continuous flurry. Dust and wind rose, blotting the spectators' view of the match.
"Wait — I can't even see to referee like this…!"
The official's anxious protest never reached either fighter. Irsha whirled the whips as if dancing. The prince slipped the lashes coming from every direction by the barest margins, trying to close the gap — but Irsha, knowing close combat favored his opponent, kept a fixed distance and pressed him relentlessly.
Victory would hinge on whether the prince could close that distance. Irsha and the referee both believed it.
"This is getting dull. Allow me to show you something interesting of my own."
The prince swept a hand toward the thorned vines. A sound like ringing steel cracked the air, and the vines rebounded.
He deflected them barehanded?
Irsha reeled — then looked closer. His vines had never touched the prince's hand at all.
"When a leaf falls upon still water, ripples spread outward."
The prince spoke, answering the question Irsha had not voiced.
"To reproduce that same motion of waves in empty air — that is one of the Four-Image Martial Arts I have awakened to."
Irsha understood. The prince's art was the wave itself. Which meant—
"Even at a distance, the full force of a strike can be delivered intact."
He had to defend. Irsha whipped frantically, weaving a kind of membrane. Exactly as promised, the prince drove a fist through empty air — and rock-heavy waves of force crashed down upon him.
In ages yet to come, martial artists would speak of the Hundred-Pace Divine Fist and the Empty-Space Palm. This was their distant ancestor.
— Rumble…
The arena shuddered. Irsha lashed with everything he had, but the power was simply too heavy — as if boulders were raining down in a landslide.
"Grrraaagh—!!"
He had to hold. He had to endure. Better to die than surrender to the son of his enemy—!
Irsha clenched his teeth until they nearly cracked. Reality, unfortunately, was merciless. Even as he forced himself to withstand it, his palms split open and bones broke; at last he had no choice but to drop to his knees.
"That was rather fun."
The referee, judging the match could go no further, declared the prince the victor. The prince approached and offered a hand to help the kneeling Irsha to his feet. Irsha struck it away.
"…"
He glared at the prince as if he meant to kill him, then limped away on broken steps. The prince watched him go, faintly puzzled.
Then the crowd's cheers for the champion filled the arena to its rafters.
The king was in excellent spirits. To put it with only mild exaggeration, his shoulders might have floated all the way to the heavens.
Personal martial might was not a perfect measure of a king's worth — yet it remained, for the present age, a considerable one. And his own prince had just displayed power no one could hope to approach. Pride was inevitable. He already knew the boy possessed outstanding scholarly insight as well. In the king's mind, the image of a great sovereign who would shake the whole of Shindu took on a vividly realistic shape.
"Your Majesty."
The prince's maternal uncle drew near and spoke in a low voice.
"What is it?"
"That young man who just fought the prince — do you recall him?"
"Of course. Fine skill for one so young. If he has nowhere to go, we might take him on as a general of our own—"
"If my guess is correct, that was Devadatta."
"Devadatta?"
"His features have changed somewhat, but I am certain. He cannot escape my eye."
"…He was still alive?"
The smile that had lingered on the king's face only moments before drained away, leaving shadow in its place. The hour of radiant heroism had ended. The ugly hour of politics had returned.
"Congratulations on your victory, Elephant Prince. Or should I call you son-in-law now?"
Having won the martial tournament, the prince was summoned privately by the king of the foreign land. The man praised his performance and offered a cup of wine; the prince declined as courteously as he could.
"Ah yes — your father forbade liquor and women, did he not? Nothing that happens here will leave these walls, so set your mind at ease. That is why I dismissed every minister and servant."
"I have no desire to do in secret what I would not do in the open. I would rather fight someone face to face than deceive them. And you have guards hidden nearby, so we are hardly alone."
"Indulge me. Precautions, nothing more. A man must keep at least a minimum of defense, must he not?"
"I am not reproaching you for that. Nor do I intend to."