133 - Innate Talent
The clash of the two swordsmen's blades shattered the earth itself, stripping it of even its capacity to endure. Boulders crumbled to dust amid the whirlwind of pressure. Their swords conveyed the unyielding will to pierce each other's bodies, clashing once more to reaffirm that resolve.
Kwaaaaaang! The sound of metal on metal was deafening, far beyond what blades alone could produce. The condensed energy, robbed of its path, detonated in place, and the shockwave hurled both figures backward alongside their swords.
"Drawing your sword against me?"
NoName twirled her blade leisurely in the air with a scoff of disdain. Mephistopheles offered no retort, merely glaring with eyes full of murderous intent.
"..."
The demon's body, repeatedly severed and regenerated, bore grotesque distortions at the seams—like clumsily mashed lumps of clay, mismatched in color and hardened unnaturally.
No matter what sword strike Mephistopheles attempted, NoName countered it flawlessly. She never yielded an inch. Instead, she boldly closed the distance even against his reckless, space-rending assaults.
"For a swordsman, distance is..."
NoName charged, carving a straight line into the ground with her blade.
"...like a ticking time bomb."
The line's endpoint was the demon's torso.
Chwaaak! If they'd been in the imperial palace, the banquet hall would have split cleanly in two. Despite his armor of overwhelming hardness, the demon couldn't withstand the impact and skidded across the ground.
"The shorter the fuse, the more certain one of you dies."
That's why novice swordsmen are told to always widen the gap. NoName knew it stemmed from advice for survival. Greater distance allowed cooler heads and true skill to emerge. But up close, judgment time vanished. Instinct alone had to yield the optimal move—a feat nearly impossible without vast experience.
The gap in skill maximized at breath's-touch range.
The demon resisted still. He lacked the human fear response. Rising and recovering, he lunged again, sword drawn. His swordplay was refining: faster strikes, quicker counters, posture steadying. Yet amid dozens, hundreds of exchanges, victory always belonged to NoName.
Chwaak! A quick flick of her blade sprayed blood. The deafening clashes seemed a lie as cold silence descended.
Adella stared at NoName with trembling eyes.
'She's... insane...'
Who was the real demon? The youth suffering utter defeat without a proper counter? Or the girl gleefully tormenting her foe with a ghostly smile?
Even more terrifying: her swordsmanship hadn't even reached the eye-defying pinnacle. How far ahead was she reading, executing? Mixing blades with her was like sinking into quicksand—inevitable manipulation.
She baited attacks, her perfect foresight calculations trapping foes in pits.
Gazes of awe poured in. Even viewers hardened by countless mad movie clips on VTube couldn't hold back their gasps.
But NoName, never once averting her eyes from the demon, issued another icy command.
"Get up. You've got plenty of HP left."
With that much HP, no need to hold back. How much stress had she endured in her lives? Even this one wasn't smooth sailing—she'd just never shown it.
"You insignificant worm dare...!"
Mephistopheles unfurled massive bat wings spanning meters, but
"Fold those wings—you'll spread disease."
Kaizen-Style Sky Slash
The massively enlarged blade sliced the canopy with razor precision. She approached the demon as it plummeted limply to the ground, discarding her own sword with a clang.
"Bite down hard. Pretend it's for someone else, and it won't feel so unfair."
Kwang! Her fist brimmed with aura. She unleashed it, burying the demon's head deep enough to churn the soil like piledriver stakes.
"Graaaak! Stop...!"
"Even those worthless orphanage punks pulling their pathetic schemes."
Kwang! Amid the thunderous booms, she continued her mutterings. Thoughtless haters spewing toxic comments, the academy interview snubs, incompetent game devs, and above all, the groups that imprisoned her and her mother.
In a world where life's dignity was scant, NoName—with 25 years of such experience—had endured nonstop trials. Especially in this body that suppressed emotions. She poured all that rage into her fists, pummeling the demon relentlessly.
Kwang!
Kaizen Imperial Year 1107.
"Stop, stop!"
Marquis Bastion, honored to instruct the continent's noblest youths, inwardly cursed.
'Honor my ass...!'
He forcibly halted the emotion-fueled duel and rushed to the fallen princes.
"Your Highness, are you conscious? Your Highness! Call the royal physician now! Hurry!"
The attendants, mesmerized by the arena spectacle, belatedly stirred. The marquis's sharp gaze turned opposite—to the fidgeting Third Prince and the 'problem princess' slyly setting down her wooden sword. No guilt marred her expression.
He clutched his head unwittingly.
"What in the world is this?! When did I ever say to infuse a mere spar with emotions?!"
The retired statesman's voice boomed louder, cracking from disuse. Yet he dimly recognized his own fault.
He'd long known the princess's extraordinary talent. But who could predict a mere nine-year-old would demolish prodigies of seventeen and fifteen?
Not even Sir Verstaffen, the empire's swordmaster, would dare guess. Marquis Bastion strode to the princess, demanding answers.
"Princess Estasha."
No honorific laced the title. Kaizen's heretic. The Iron Emperor's stain. That was the Fourth Princess's standing.
But her serene gaze held steady.
"They struck first with killing intent."
"I know."
"Then go ahead, blame me again."
"It's your fault this time too, Fourth Princess."
"Why."
Her eyes flashed. The marquis swallowed dryly. She wasn't some hotheaded child swept by rage. A patient swordsman was terrifying. If only that talent hadn't gone to a princess.
"Recognize your position. That's my utmost advice—and today's final lesson. Ignore or defy it, and best not pick up a sword again."
The world wasn't won by strength alone. A potbellied noble's tongue could execute the mightiest hero. Having weathered politics' storms, Marquis Bastion advised her sincerely.
Returning home, he couldn't shake thoughts of the princess. Peerless innate talent. Backed by experience, what a swordsman she'd become—perhaps a legendary figure dominating the era, etched in history.
But all hypotheticals crumbled. Rifling his desk drawer, he unearthed a letter received days prior. Tension gripped his hands as he broke the wax seal. His face hardened reading the words.
If she rose to fame, it'd be through infamy.
The Emperor's Heretic Is Indeed the Demon King's Seed.
Thus, we ask that you, Marquis, represent us in putting that piece to precious use.
Since Emperor Iorgen permitted her magic and sword training, the young princess was likely entangled in filthy politics already.
"This imperial succession won't end with just one or two deaths..."
Shrewd nobles were already aligning with their chosen sides. Perhaps expand the targets. Third Prince and Third Princess might gain succession rights. Even the Fourth Princess, maybe.