Chapter 44
Chapter 44
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 44
Chapter Title: Preliminaries (3)
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A little while later, the first match began.
The signal for the duel echoed across the stone floor of the arena.
The first bout pitted Bern Hild against Zack Morten.
Names I'd never heard before.
Bern Hild.
He belonged to the 3rd Knight Order, guardians of the eastern frontier.
His nickname, Iron Fist, came from butchering Great Beasts.
He wielded a massive iron mace instead of a sword.
Though clad in heavy armor, his stance remained flawless.
Just gripping the weighty center of that mace with one hand showed he possessed extraordinary strength.
Zack Morten.
A dual-wielder whose nimble footwork stood out.
His specialty was skillfully closing encirclement nets with feints and positioning.
'Doesn't he know dual-wielding is a symbol of defeat...!'
The moment the match started, Morten darted left to gain an angle.
But Hild swung his mace in a massive arc from a standstill.
The mace and twin swords clashed, testing each other's mettle.
The loser was Zack Morten.
Trying to face a mace with two one-handed swords was a foolish choice.
"Dual swords really do look cool. I've always wanted to learn, but sadly never did."
"They're all flash. Better not to learn them at all."
Of course, one could use them.
But using them well was an entirely different realm.
The next match.
Luca Andello versus Lyle Hasen.
Luca Andello was a knight from the east who wielded an imported sword.
His quick-draw technique rivaled that of a samurai.
Lyle Hasen, on the other hand, relied on rock-solid fundamentals.
He swung a hefty longsword with impeccable offense and defense, showing no openings.
Rumors said he'd once served as a technique instructor in the Empress's direct guard.
The winner was Lyle Hasen.
But Freya's commentary left more of an impression than the match itself.
"That sword feels brittle. Like it'd snap against a Great Beast."
"He's protecting the blade with Aura Energy. Probably chose it for durability."
"I get it now. That's why it's not used much."
"..."
After several more bouts.
Now came the duel of Asel Hartmann, the top favorite to win it all.
As expected, Hartmann dominated his opponent from start to finish and ended it swiftly.
Even after felling his foe, he didn't draw a single ragged breath.
Off in the distance, Ellen watched Hartmann with an expressionless face.
Hartmann racked up victory after victory.
The stronger the opponent, the more he overwhelmed them; the weaker, the quicker and crueler his blade struck.
His combat was the pinnacle of efficiency.
Without a single superfluous motion, he ruthlessly tore into his foe's weaknesses.
At some point, it even looked like Hartmann was just toying with his opponents.
Freya, who'd been watching from the stands, nodded as if her faith was confirmed.
"He's incredible, as expected."
"Experience doesn't just vanish."
Hartmann held the vice-captain position in the 1st Knight Order.
His skill, status, even his image all suited the next captain perfectly.
I had no urge to deny that fact.
We'd crossed the battlefield together.
I felt a sense of kinship, whether I wanted to or not.
It was around then.
One participant caught my eye.
To be precise, he snagged my attention.
Rio Einworth.
A commoner. The youngest regular knight.
Until recently with the 3rd Knight Order, he'd been dispatched to the 1st to meet entry requirements.
In his first match, his inexperience was obvious.
His sword path wavered slightly, and his reactions lagged.
But in the next bout.
The waver vanished, and he replicated one of his opponent's techniques.
And the one after.
He grasped the rhythm of his foe's sword strikes and parried them perfectly.
He changed with every fight.
It grew clearer over time, until even Freya noticed.
"He seems different from the start. His stance, his movements..."
Rio finished his fourth match and caught his breath.
His shoulders heaved, but his eyes shone clearer than before.
'And yet no sponsoring house wants him?'
Was it because he was a commoner, or some other reason?
I pondered silently and kept watching the matches.
The tournament neared its end.
The finalists were Rio Einworth and Asel Hartmann.
"Ian, who do you bet on? Sir Einworth? Sir Hartmann?"
"Sir Hartmann."
"Mmm, same as me."
"Mind if I ask why?"
Freya tilted her head and replied.
"He crushed everyone overwhelmingly. And I've watched him for a while. You?"
Any other reason?
Rio had talent, sure. But that was it.
This world valued more than just talent.
"Same reason."
Rather than explain my tangled thoughts, I agreed with Freya.
In the end, our thinking aligned.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ The arena held two men facing each other.
One was the 1st Knight Order vice-captain, Asel Hartmann.
The other, a commoner and the youngest regular knight, Rio Einworth.
Hartmann stepped forward with his left foot, lowering his sword tip slightly.
Rio assumed a low-centered stance with weight distributed, drawing his sword.
Neither showed an opening.
Rio moved first.
He stepped forward with his left foot, planting his weight into the ground.
Twisting his ankle for propulsion.
He twisted his torso and thrust straight.
Aiming for the chest.
A thrust that could shift to target the waist by turning his gaze mid-motion.
He added variation with an irregular burst of Aura Energy.
Hartmann raised his sword tip slightly, deflecting the thrust past his shoulder.
Rio followed with a left slice—but
Hartmann's sword traced a light arc toward Rio's wrist.
A horizontal slash accelerated by rotation.
Rio retreated, swiftly changing his grip.
Narrowing the two-handed hold to wield it like a dagger.
Tucking his elbow, tightening the thrust center.
The grip change sacrificed reach but boosted attack speed.
Acknowledging he couldn't win a contest of power against Hartmann.
He planned to overwhelm with speed instead.
Rio chained a low thrust into an overhead slash.
As Hartmann countered, Rio deliberately lost balance.
Dropping low to absorb the recoil.
He rolled his body, dodging with the back of his blade and circling behind Hartmann.
A modified quick-draw evasion from Luca Andello.
But Hartmann reacted.
Without turning, his back-thrust sword crossed Rio's.
The duel shifted from technique to raw power.
They endlessly drew Aura Energy, clashing madly.
Swords rent the air at invisible speeds, colliding.
They even calculated being pushed back, chaining ferocious exchanges.
The advantage lay with Hartmann.
No matter how much Rio grew mid-battle, nothing changed.
The density of their experience differed.
Asel Hartmann was a veteran who'd fought Great Beasts to the death on the northern front for over a decade.
An upstart's talent couldn't breach that towering wall.
After another pushback, Rio shifted stance.
A twisted sword path cleaved the air like lightning, plunging down.
Hartmann parried head-on.
Rio used the rebound to charge.
Switching sword from left to right hand, completely altering his rhythm.
Left-hand rhythm for straightforward strikes, right for disruption.
A technique adapting Zack Morten's feints and dual-sword rhythm to a single blade like a dagger.
Yet Hartmann pierced the rhythm's gap precisely.
One step forward, his thrust grazed Rio's shoulder mid-leap.
Hartmann's blade halted just before Rio's skin, above the collarbone.
"...Victory."
The referee's call rang out.
The arena erupted in thunderous cheers.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ When the finals ended, the arena's cheers were like a storm.
The expected outcome.
Asel Hartmann's complete victory.
The Empress rose from her seat and raised a hand quietly.
"A fine sword. The right to defend the Empire resides not in the blade itself, but in the hand that wields it."
She lifted her right hand, pointing to the opposite side of the arena.
"But a sword must be proven by another sword. Face the Empire's greatest blade here and now."
At that moment, the iron gate on the arena's north side opened.
A man emerged.
A red-haired beauty with tattoos covering half his face.
Franz Eldin.
The Empire's strongest swordsman.
The sole Sword Saint on the continent.
White coat. Black gloves. Silver sword.
A clean stance devoid of flair, yet crushing the air around him.
'What the hell is this pressure.'
Suddenly, Franz Eldin scanned the stands.
As he slowly turned his head, searching for someone, our eyes met.
His gaze locked precisely on me.
Too slow a motion for coincidence.
The distance was great, but we both knew our eyes had met.
And that he was looking for me.
What emotion hid in those impassive eyes?
Not sharp hostility, nor shrill fervor, but a strange ripple.
If I had to name it—
'Rivalry?'
Franz held my gaze, then silently drew his silver sword.