The Paper Sword and the Steel Sword
At noon the delegation entered the city. Six carriages, twenty drivers, two golden-hawk banners. The main avenue of Valk was packed shoulder to shoulder with spectators. A free city that did not answer to the Imperial family, the sight of the Imperial banners stretching beyond the city gates was itself a spectacle that occurred once every decade.
Kael stood on the roof of the harbor warehouse, watching the procession unfold below. In the lead carriage sat a court bureaucrat. Beside him rode one lone warrior on horseback. Even from this distance the weight was palpable.
He was no brute. Rather, a frame that looked like it had been hammered from a single piece of steel, stripped of every unnecessary inch. A waist that never swayed on the saddle. Eyes fixed straight ahead, yet somehow holding the entire avenue in their grasp—
Steel of the Imperial Seven Swords.
Kael wrote one thing into his mind on the rooftop.
That kind of blade could not tolerate lies. It was made of an entirely different grain than the paper swords that surrounded him. Whether it would become an opening or a bigger trap remained to be seen.
***
That night Seraphina snapped her fingers from the VIP table reserved for the tavern.
“Come here. Uncle’s gift box. I’ll tell you what’s inside.”
The princess rapped her knuckles against the table where six glasses of wine had been arranged exactly like the delegation’s carriages.
“The civil servants belong to Iden. Deputy Chief of the Imperial Intelligence Bureau. The sharpest pen in Uncle’s collection. The fact that the man himself is moving means the report is almost finished.”
“……And the sword.”
“Steel of the Imperial Seven Swords.”
Seraphina lifted one glass and set it in front of Kael.
“This one is a little curious. Geralt isn’t one of Uncle’s people. He’s part of the Imperial Seven Swords, not the Crown Prince’s direct branch. I hear rumors he held out for a week against an order to transfer.”
“Why would such a sword come?”
“Did you ask because you don’t know? It’s because of you. I wasn’t the only one who saw the drawing of the troll’s cross-section. Once a Seven Sworder gets a look, the itch to draw starts. The command was just an excuse—half of it walked here on its own two feet.”
Seraphina drained her glass and spoke for the first time not as a collector but as the Imperial Princess.
“Be careful, Kael. Iden’s paper can be blocked by lies. But Geralt’s sword—
it’s a blade that cuts through lies. You know why his name is Steel? Not because the sword is strong, but because he never bends once in his life.”
The summons came the next day.
“The southern beast disturbance inspection team requests the commander of the Fanghu Village suppression. An official letter from the Lord’s Office.”
Vargas slammed the document onto the table.
“Let’s go together. I get to attend as squad leader.”
“No. I’ll go alone.”
“Hey, 1st Squad Leader—”
“If the squad leader is right here, they’ll put both of us on the scale. If I go alone, only one will rise.”
Vargas swallowed three mouthfuls of curses, then finally stamped the letter.
The Lord’s Office reception room had become the temporary office for the inspection team. At the far end of the long table sat a court bureaucrat. Forty lines of gray robes, hands devoid of color. Deputy Chief of the Imperial Intelligence Bureau, Iden— the name the Lord’s Office secretary had whispered.
And at the window, standing without a chair, was Geralt.
“Kael, Squad Leader of the Gray Fang. Thank you for coming.”
Iden’s voice sounded like turning pages on paper.
“The Fanghu Village suppression report was read with great care. Impressive command. Allow me to ask a few supplementary questions. This is for official records, so answer comfortably.”
The word “comfortably” was the biggest lie in the room.
“It is recorded that the troll was cut down with a single sword. Multiple witnesses. However, the squad leader’s registered rank is Aura User. Can an Aura User sever a troll’s plate armor with one blow?”
“The angle was good.”
“The angle.”
“There are grain lines following the breathing holes on the troll’s neck. Cutting along the grain splits it like dry wood. A well-known trick among suppression hunters.”
Iden scribbled something on the document. It was not a lie. The grain was real. The missing fact was that to find and cut that grain on the troll’s neck required the eyes of a Master—and that fact was not written on paper.
Geralt at the window turned his head for the first time.
“Next question. Where did you learn to wield a sword?”
“From a wandering swordsman.”
“Name?”
“I never heard it. Just wandering.”
“Twelve years of training and still—”
“Ten years in the Grand Duchy. Training lasted two.”
“Ah, of course. Valenstein. That story needs to be told too.”
Iden’s pen stopped. The tip of the paper blade had half emerged from its sheath.
“Entry into the Grand Duchy was ten years ago. In the same year, by coincidence, something big happened on the Gray Border. Do you remember?”
“I was twelve. A new apprentice does not attend the Imperial ambassador’s funeral.”
“The orphanage, however—St. Michaela. Ten years of regular donations arrived. Half the apprentice’s monthly pay. Remarkable, isn’t it? Except for one oddity. The orphanage ledgers show no record of your arrival before the fire that destroyed them twelve years ago.”
“Old building. The stove was old.”
“The timing of the fire was rather convenient.”
“Poverty always burns at the perfect moment.”
Iden’s eyes finally left the document and met Kael directly. Scales in his gaze. Not a sword, but a blade that weighed the thickness of lies.
Just as the air in the room grew taut—
a low voice cut in from the window.
“Deputy Chief Iden.”
“……Lord Geralt.”
“The sound of paper being crumpled is loud. Stop it.”
Geralt detached himself from the window. Every step he took weighed on the floorboards.
He circled the table and stopped in front of Kael. Two paces. The distance of two swordsmen.
“Squad Leader. One question is enough.”
“……I will listen.”
“At Fanghu Village—was it truly power?”
The room fell silent. Iden’s pen froze in midair. A question heavier than a hundred paper swords.
And Kael understood. No angle, no grain could answer this one. When a swordsman asked another swordsman a question, only a sword could reply.
“……Do I have an obligation to answer?”
Geralt looked straight into Kael’s eyes. No hostility. That was more terrifying than any open threat. This blade knew it.
“I came this far because I dislike the Crown Prince’s paper errand. Yesterday, upon entering the city, I met a gaze from the harbor warehouse roof that looked down on me.”
“……”
“It was not a hidden gaze. It was a weighing of steel. A gaze that accepted the weight of a Master and did not bend—it is one I have seen only seven times in my life.”
Geralt stepped back one pace and laid his conclusion like a sword on the table.
“Steel of the Imperial Seven Swords requests a duel from Swordsman Kael. Three days from now, noon, at the Lord’s Office training ground. Public duel.”
“……If I refuse—”
“You may refuse. In exchange, Deputy Iden’s paper will gnaw at you and your entire squad for about a year. Accept the duel and playing with paper ends. I will not stake my name.”
“Lord Geralt! That is overstepping—”
“Deputy Iden. His Highness the Crown Prince’s order was ‘verify.’ Whether verification is done with paper or with sword, the method has been handed to the sword. Is that not so?”
Iden closed his mouth. Calculations raced across the lips that had gone still. And at the end of those calculations he set down his pen and smiled for the first time.
Public duel. No matter which side won, the report would grow thicker.
Geralt extended his hand. It was not a handshake. It was the hand a swordsman offered to receive an answer from another swordsman.
Kael began to calculate. Refuse and the squad would be gnawed. Accept and ten years of disguise would be weighed. Whether the measuring blade could cut before the Master’s steel—he did not know, for he had never looked at Geralt’s floor.
Meeting an opponent whose measure cannot be taken—that was good fortune.
The master’s voice leaked out from the drawer.
Kael took that hand.
“I accept.”
Strength locked for a moment. On Geralt’s lips appeared the smile of a warrior. With just a handshake, one could know many things.
“Noon, three days from now. Don’t be late.”
***
The rumor spread through Valk in half a day. Gray Fang Swordsman versus Steel of the Imperial Seven Swords. Commoner Mercenary versus Imperial Seven Swords. Public duel.
Bets were placed in every gambling hall. The odds overwhelmingly favored Geralt—fighting a Master and an Aura User was like sparring with an adult and a child.
Yet within that overwhelming odds, two money lines ran heavy in favor of the Gray Fang side.
One was every member of the Gray Fang. The other was an unknown blonde woman.
“Hey! Are you crazy?! Why would you fight a Master?!”
Hugo lunged toward Kael’s collar as if he might grab it.
“If I don’t fight, the squad will be gnawed.”
“Is the squad the problem?! If you die—well, it’s a duel, so maybe you won’t die. If you lose an arm? Your life as a swordsman ends!”
“It won’t be lost.”
“How do you know that?!”
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t reach the point of being lost.”
“That’s the same thing you said to that fifteen-year-old with a spear at his throat!”
Kael paused for a moment. Now that he listened, it made sense. The plan to use a Master as a training partner was oddly familiar even to his own ears.
“……Basics are basics everywhere.”
“Hah, really……”
Hugo collapsed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.
“……Don’t win. Don’t lose either. Fight well, hold your ground, and draw beautifully. That’s the safest. When a commoner beats a Seven Sworder, the next step is… I know because I’m from the slums too. Too much light and you get either pulled out or broken.”
Kael considered how far Hugo intended to push the point. This friend’s talent lay in seeing only as far as necessary to reach the correct answer.
“……No effort.”
“Not effort—promise.”
“A swordsman who promises results in a duel is a fraud.”
“Ah, you really are a frustrating bastard!”
***
In the evening Finn arrived at the training ground. It was not a lesson day.
“Uncle. You really are going to fight?”
“Yes.”
“……The man is said to be one of the Seven Swords. The market elders say that if you clash with a Master, ordinary people can’t even see the sword.”
“Ordinary people can’t.”
“Aren’t you scared?”
“I am scared.”
Fin’s eyes grew larger.
Kael pulled out two wooden practice swords and tossed one to him. Even on a non-lesson day, an empty hand was better than nothing.
“Be scared. Swing it hard anyway. And watching duels is also part of the lesson.”
Fin accepted the wooden sword, but instead of swinging it, he blurted out,
“……Don’t lose. I bet two bags of chestnuts on it.”
“Adults make bets.”
“Lord Finn bet on your behalf!”
That lord wrapped even the bet in curses until the end.
Deep in the night, when the inn had fallen silent, Kael walked alone to the harbor warehouse.
Under the floorboards of the old chest lay a long, cloth-wrapped bundle sleeping there. The hiding place he had used on the first week after arriving in Valk.
Grau. He did not unwrap the cloth. If he did, the steel-gray blade would sing even in the darkness.
Kael stroked the falcon emblem on the hilt once with his thumb. There would be no need to draw it. No matter how strong Geralt was, a duel was a duel. He would receive it with steel. Grau was drawn only for sealing. That was the order, and the sword the master hated most was one that broke the order.
He simply wanted to confirm.
No matter what was weighed three days from now, this blade would rest on the floor. He left the warehouse with the paper in his pocket brushing his collar.
The rumor had spread fast. Three days for the capital, five for the north. It would reach even that man’s ears. So what did it matter—thoughts always stopped there.
Kael had come to know that the stopping place was always the same. The sky of noon, three days from now, was slowly approaching from beyond the harbor.