Chapter 119
Chapter 119
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 119
Chapter Title: 37. True to Reputation, Wastrel-Style (3)
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Shiorin had lately sensed a sharp increase in the eyes watching the delegation.
No matter where they went, there were always gazes trailing them, ears eavesdropping. Even when they left the city and traversed the wasteland, he could feel people following behind.
All these changes had occurred after the First Prince decided on this bizarre duel procession.
The First Prince had the kingdom's knights face off against the empire's knights everywhere they went.
Sometimes it was one-on-one to test the caliber of their swordsmanship, other times groups clashed to determine superiority in strength.
In that way, the number of duels fought alone or in groups had already surpassed two hundred.
And astonishingly, the kingdom's knights hadn't recorded a single defeat. It was an unbelievable record.
It was all thanks to the First Prince's remarkable foresight.
Who faced whom, who stepped up when, and when to withdraw—he decided it all. Following his arrangements ensured they would never lose.
Shiorin found it utterly fascinating. At times, he even entertained the absurd thought that the young prince might possess the ability to gauge knights' skill levels.
The First Prince's insight and foresight were that sharp.
And remarkably, that foresight extended to the Ipsaint Marquis household's paladins as well.
The Ipsaint Marquis, who had dismissed the Montpellier family's so-called prodigies, suddenly put forward his paladins and proposed a duel.
It was a transparent ploy to deflate the delegation's rising momentum.
Shiorin thought the prince would refuse.
But he didn't.
The prince accepted the Ipsaint Marquis's proposal all too readily.
He merely delayed the duel until deep into the night.
Compared to the kingdom's northern clime, the empire's central region was sweltering, so he suggested crossing swords only after sunset when the earth had cooled. The Ipsaint Marquis didn't object.
And when night fell, the prince fielded three knights.
Among the prince's knights, they were two enigmatic women who always wore cloaks and never spoke, along with one classified as the most taciturn in the delegation.
Their skill levels and origins were unknown. All Shiorin knew about them were the names on the list the prince had submitted: Gewain, Trindal, and Kampf.
The prince had these three silent knights face the paladins.
The format was a group battle: three against two.
The kingdom had one more knight, but the paladins didn't mind.
On the contrary, one paladin even stepped back, saying it wasn't fair for two paladins to face three regular knights—one would suffice.
The prince sneered that they shouldn't complain later. The paladins, of course, ignored him.
The duel began. And a horrific torrent of chatter ensued.
"You're a paladin? Let's see if you deserve the name. Is this what they call a hangover? My stomach's churning. Feels like I'm drunk without touching a drop—how unpleasant. Facing an imperial knight after so long brings back old memories. Feels good."
They swung their swords without pause for breath, even vomiting blood from the aura in the paladins' blades yet never stopping their endless prattle.
Shiorin thought that if the imperial paladins lost, it would be from enduring the chatter, not the swords.
But apart from their loquaciousness, the three knights' swordplay was no joke.
Even Shiorin, whose swordsmanship was merely a noble's accomplishment, could tell they had professionally honed combined tactics.
The knights were nimble, their movements organic.
But that was all.
The duel was clearly dominated by the imperial paladins.
The destructive authority granted solely to Silver Lions, solely to paladins, was an overwhelming wall the three couldn't surmount.
The knights' collars were soaked with vomited blood, their faces pale as corpses.
Yet even in that state, the three knights mocked the imperial paladins.
"The empire's knights have regressed."
"You have form and style, but no righteousness within."
"You're no paladin—just a swordswinger."
They spoke as if pitying or disdainful, then suddenly retreated and whispered something.
"The King processes forth."
It sounded like a round chant or meaningless murmur.
"None dare fail to prostrate and worship."
One whispered, another echoed, the last repeated.
"That worship offered to the King is the source of my life."
Then a blinding flash erupted.
Shiorin couldn't even tell how the duel ended.
By the time he regained his senses, it was over. A bloodied paladin knelt on the ground.
The three knights weren't unscathed either. They looked ready to collapse, staggering in place.
Then the First Prince quickly stepped forward, declared the duel ended, and proclaimed the kingdom knights' victory.
The belatedly realizing paladin sprang up and gripped his sword again, but it was too late.
In the end, the paladin glared furiously at the three knights sprawled on the ground before returning to his place.
The tense Iron Lion knights finally erupted in cheers. Shiorin forgot his duty and cheered with them.
His chest felt like it would burst.
Shiorin, who had avoided the royal court because he hated seeing powerless kingdom nobles fawn over the empire or the weak king despair, now teared up at the sight of kingdom knights defeating imperial paladins and roaring in victory before them.
But the joy of victory, the small recompense for historical humiliation, the euphoria didn't last.
When the First Prince fielded Arwen against the remaining paladin, Shiorin felt his heart drop.
The last paladin was seething to redeem his defeat, hiding nothing of his intent to crush the kingdom knights' momentum—even at the cost of a life if needed.
Sending precious Arwen against such a paladin? No matter her proven skill in prior duels, it was unacceptable.
But the First Prince was immovable.
Not for victory, he said, but for her to take that final unstepped stride.
Arwen agreed with the prince.
Her face showed no fear, only resolve. Shiorin couldn't bring himself to stop his daughter.
And the duel began.
Arwen put up an astonishing fight against the imperial paladin. But to her, unable to breach the wall, the paladin beyond was an impregnable fortress.
All her attacks shattered effortlessly before the aura blade. Her vigor and spirit scattered futilely against the paladin's overflowing mana.
The duel dragged on.
As she rolled on the ground repeatedly, Arwen's neat attire became muddied, her tightly bound hair disheveled and matted with blood and sweat.
Everyone knew. The paladin was deliberately prolonging it.
On a small scale, to erase the prior duel from minds; on a large, to reimprint the empire-kingdom gap on the delegation.
Shiorin requested halting the duel, but the prince refused.
Just wait, he said.
Shiorin didn't know what to wait for, nor did he want to.
He couldn't bear watching his battered daughter charge and fall repeatedly.
As he moved to invoke the leader's authority to stop it, the prince restrained him.
Held by the prince's hand, he watched his daughter.
His wretched daughter on the ground raised her sword. Then she grabbed her matted hair and sliced it off.
Her fine locks were severed below the neck in an instant.
Then Arwen's hidden face emerged.
She was smiling.
A deeply relieved smile, the satisfaction of finally grasping what she desired.
Woooong.
Arwen's sword resonated.
And in that moment, a brilliant flash bloomed from her blade tip.
A light fundamentally different from sword aura—clearer, more destructive.
An aura blade.
The moment another Silver Lion was born in the kingdom.
She thrust her sword. Unlike before, the paladin met the strike gravely, not daring to underestimate it.
Invisible sword clashes exchanged dozens of times.
Suddenly, the paladin declared defeat.
That was when the First Prince's composed face twisted—even as Arwen rolled battered on the ground.
"Damn bastard, trash with no respect for those who walk the sword's path."
The prince spat curses.
Shiorin didn't understand. He only saw utter loss and regret on stunned Arwen's face.
Only later did he learn she was rapidly internalizing her awakening insight, and the paladin's concession forcibly halted it.
The prince called it petty—not to crush momentum, but to deny nourishment to a foreign knight.
The prince cursed the paladin for days.
Spouting thug-like profanities worthy of market ruffians, as if he'd learned them somewhere.
"Can't stand seeing others succeed even on their deathbed. Narrow-minded prick who clutches his belly when his cousin buys land."
Watching the prince, Arwen smiled instead.
The loss and regret from that day were gone. She had taken the step; now she just needed to walk steadily, however slowly.
Seeing that, Shiorin felt a swell of emotion.
His daughter, who left the family to become a knight, now stood as a Silver Lion with such dignity. Pride and joy surged, mingled with inexplicable resentment and loss.
Especially watching her gaze at the prince with fervent eyes—it irked him.
"Don't you miss your hair?"
The brazen First Prince, shamelessly stroking his daughter's raven locks,
"I merely left it as is; no particular attachment. Thinking back, short hair suits a knight better."
And his daughter accepting the prince's touch so casually—it grated on him.
He suppressed the petty emotion.
Now he was the delegation leader, not just a father.
But it was hard.
Lately, the First Prince acted overly familiar with Arwen. Especially when Shiorin was suppressing his boiling frustration, he did it more.
Transparent intent. Doing it to provoke. Enjoying Shiorin's rage.
He knew it all. Yet it was hard to endure.
If not for the sudden arrival of the imperial messenger, he might have truly exploded.
"Halt!"
Imperial knights in gleaming golden armor, mounted on warhorses, stopped the delegation.
"Disarm and prepare to receive a noble guest."
They ordered swords stored in the carriages.
"A noble guest...?"
"His Imperial Highness the Prince has arrived."
Shiorin turned to the First Prince.
The prince, bantering trivially about Arwen's hair, looked back just then.
"Ask which one."
Shiorin nodded and asked the imperial knight.
"Might we know which Imperial Prince has graced us?"
The knight scowled at the question.
As if a petty noble from a weak kingdom dared ask which prince it was—a prince was a prince.
Ever since arriving in the empire, I'd wondered who would seek me out first.
The brutish third, or the fifth with qualities of a sage ruler?
And now, imperial guard knights in golden armor appeared in the distance.
"His Imperial Highness the Third Prince of the Great Burgundy Empire processes forth! The Leonberg delegation, show due respect to the imperial blood!"
The first to come was neither sage, but the violent, ill-tempered wastrel.
I peered beyond the wall of guards.
Neck rigidly stiff as if it might snap, shoulders arrogantly squared,
A face he thought stern but others saw as merely haughty and rude.
Uncannily similar to that first wastrel from the treasury,
The empire's prince stood there.
The difference? The fat wastrel was merely foul-tempered and incompetent,
While this prince was a wastrel born with every horrific trait—a walking calamity.
Welcome. I've been waiting.
I smiled contentedly as the empire's disaster approached.