The Duel (1)
Behind the banquet hall.
A drill ground laid out so that anyone inside the hall—or looking down from the second-floor balcony—could watch without obstruction.
The heat of the evening banquet still hung in the air as throngs of nobles gathered in twos and threes, waiting for the sword duel about to begin. Their eyes drifted naturally to the center of the yard: Ian, standing awkwardly with a sword in hand, and across from him, one of Lionel’s lowest-ranking soldiers, wearing an easy, confident smile.
"This banquet really has no shortage of entertainment."
"I never dreamed that Ian Darkest—the one with all those stories trailing after him—would actually show his face."
"And now he’s giving us a duel on top of it. Coming tonight was the right choice."
Yerna Darkest stood with her arms folded against the cold night air, watching the whole spectacle with open distaste.
"…This isn’t even funny. Seriously."
She swallowed her anger alone for a moment, then decided she couldn’t take it anymore. Her boots struck the ground hard as she strode forward. Coming up on Lionel, she snapped at him in that sharp voice of hers.
"Don’t you think this is a little too cheap, Lionel?"
There was no hiding the fury and contempt in her tone.
"Everyone in the family knows Ian has never properly learned swordsmanship."
"And?"
"And you goad someone like that into a duel?"
"He’s the one who answered the provocation. I even did him the courtesy of sending the weakest soldier I have. Is that a problem, Yerna?"
Lionel’s smile was snake-slick and oily. Yerna fought down a genuine wave of nausea.
"If he’s going to lose anyway, you should have sent a real knight!"
"Hmm."
"Putting him up against some bottom-rung grunt like that—it’s obvious you’re just trying to humiliate him. Even for you, isn’t that a little childish?"
Lionel didn’t so much as blink at her protest. If anything, he looked amused. A thin, unpleasant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he regarded her.
"Cheap, Yerna? I’m simply giving my little brother a chance to experience the family’s traditions. And that soldier may be low-ranking, but as a member of the Darkest knight order he still has the basic sword skills. If Ian truly carries Darkest blood, he ought to be able to put someone like that down without breaking a sweat, don’t you think?"
"That’s ridiculous! This is—this is just bullying!"
Yerna’s voice grew sharper still.
Lionel had been waiting for exactly that. He turned a cold sneer on her.
"What’s the matter, Yerna? You’ve always played the ice queen—so cold, so proud. Don’t tell me you’re starting to feel sorry for that bastard now?"
"…!"
Yerna’s face went rigid.
"Your heart is softer than it looks, Yerna. That’s why you always lose to me. A true strong person doesn’t let emotion push them around."
With that, Lionel cast another look of pure contempt toward Ian.
Yerna said nothing more. She simply clenched her fists and swallowed the anger cooling to ice inside her, her eyes colder and sharper than they had ever been.
I stood in the center of the drill ground and quietly endured the weight of countless stares pouring down on me.
The old me would already have been shaking in the knees under this much pressure and humiliation, barely able to breathe. Shedding the mental chains of the family had given me a little more freedom—but only a little.
Why was I never accepted by the family?
The question had tormented me since childhood. After long, bitter thought, the answer I’d settled on was simple.
Because I was a bastard.
And that was true enough. If I hadn’t been a bastard, Lionel never would have tormented me so viciously, and I never would have lived so thoroughly ignored inside my own house.
But. But still.
This level of contempt and scorn… it can’t be explained by bastardy alone.
My opponent wasn’t Lionel himself. It wasn’t even one of his official guard knights. Just some nameless bottom-rung soldier from the order—and even that, apparently, was more than I deserved. Every noble gathered at the banquet was laughing at me. Even the lowly soldier standing across from me couldn’t keep the mockery off his face.
Those smiles weren’t there simply because I was a bastard. They could smile like that because they genuinely believed I existed somewhere far beneath their feet.
So where did that hierarchy come from?
Power.
The Darkest family was a house of the sword. They raised the family’s honor through the blade and flaunted the family’s strength through the blade. In a house like that, there was never any honor waiting for a man who couldn’t handle a sword.
To them I was useless. A stain on the family name.
I slowly raised the longsword in my hand. It was old, but well cared for. It still felt unfamiliar in my grip, and yet somehow it didn’t feel unpleasant.
The nobles of this world lived for honor and justification, and died for honor and justification. That meant I needed to prove myself in the way they valued most.
Even if I eventually walked away from the Darkest family for good, I needed to burn one thing into their minds.
I was not the one being cast out by House Darkest. I was the one discarding this rotten house.
And so—
"Come at me."
I leveled my sword at the soldier still smirking at me and spoke low. I didn’t miss the flash of surprise that crossed his eyes.
Ian’s opponent, Marcel, was the lowest-ranking soldier in the knight order that guarded Lionel Darkest.
He came from a cadet branch of a fallen baronial house, and he had joined the Darkest order as a bottom-rung soldier with one ambition: to climb past his meager birth and make something of himself. For a man like him, a glittering social stage packed with high nobles was the stuff of dreams—the stage he had always longed for.
And now, on that dream stage, he had been handed the chance to face Ian Darkest—a bastard, yes, but still a man who carried the Darkest name. Marcel could barely contain his excitement.
If I smash Ian Darkest to pieces right here… my name might start circulating through high society. Hell, some beautiful young lady who sees my bravery might even fall for me!
Caught up in the fantasy, Marcel wore a greasy little smile as he looked Ian over. The build was decent enough, but the way he held the sword was a complete mess. A beginner among beginners, plain as day.
"Hey, Marcel! You really lucked out, you bastard. I’m jealous as hell!"
One of the soldiers waiting off to the side whispered with a mix of envy and spite. Marcel shrugged and answered his comrade with pure arrogance.
"Maybe you should’ve stacked some luck of your own. Watch carefully while big brother here becomes the star of the night. Hahaha!"
"Ugh, what a smug prick. Everyone knows Ian’s swordsmanship is garbage. You’re coasting today, no question."
Ian Darkest. A big name with nothing behind it. On this glittering stage he was nothing more than a third-rate villain meant to be laughed at.
I’ll put him on his knees nice and clean. And I’ll raise my own name doing it.
Facing Ian for the duel, Marcel sneered at him without the slightest attempt to hide it.
"Young master Ian, have you ever actually held a sword properly? It would be a disaster if you got hurt, so why not forfeit now? I’ll even go easy on you—special treatment."
"Shut up and come at me."
Marcel looked at that pathetic stance and laughed at him all over again inside. With form like that, the boy wouldn’t manage a single real attack—he wouldn’t even be able to defend himself.
At last the bell rang out, signaling the start of the duel.
Marcel meant to put Ian on his knees with a single light stroke. He swung for Ian’s shoulder as fast and sharp as he could, holding back just enough not to cause serious injury.
A clean victory. Then the cheers.
The picture of triumph was already painted in his head.
And then—
"……!"
Ian’s movement was nothing like what he’d expected. As if he had known the attack was coming, he deflected Marcel’s blade with the slightest shift of his body. In the same breath a sharp counter cut toward the opening Marcel had left. He twisted aside on pure instinct—and felt a cold touch along his side, followed by a sting of pain.
H-how…?
Marcel reeled. Ian’s stance was still a mess, but the timing of his movement and the precision of his strike were impossibly sharp—like a veteran swordsman who had lived through countless real fights.
But that was impossible. Ian Darkest was a weakling who had never properly held a sword in his life!
While Marcel stood there in confusion, Ian’s second attack came snaking in like a viper.