Qualifying Round
Eight auxiliary training grounds lay beyond the Grand Arena. Five days remained before the one thousand two hundred participants were narrowed down to sixty-four. The method was simple yet merciless: each group of ten would face off in a round-robin format, with only the last person standing in their group advancing to the main bracket.
On the opening day, the auxiliary grounds buzzed with an electric tension. The mingled scents of skewers, hawking touts, and the sharp aura of examiners hung thick in the air, punctuated by the glow of just three stalls selling roasted chestnuts. The capital’s chestnuts came in generous bags, and according to Finn’s assessment, they tasted like the southern seven-halliras.
One seat in the VIP grandstand bore a purple awning. From the first day onward, without missing a single session, a blonde woman sat beneath it, gently fanning herself. She had claimed the best seat from the beginning—seemingly even before the qualifiers began.
“Number 712! Group three of the seventh training ground!”
Kyle’s group consisted of three land knights, four mercenaries, two fencing instructors, and a wandering swordsman. The composition felt oddly balanced despite the random draw—every member was genuinely skilled. Do not underestimate the draw, he thought, as the princess’s note had already proven correct on day one.
“That’s him, right? The grey-eyed knight.”
“He really broke the seven swords? That calm face?”
“Why the swordsmanship like that? No decorations at all.”
Crowds pressed three layers thick against the training-ground barriers. The bookies weaved between them like eels. Bets on number 712’s win, on a one-bout finish. The gong rang out.
According to the rules, the first to step forward in a match lost the advantage. So nine men eyed one another for a heartbeat—then Kyle walked into the center. Reading the room was a waste of time; every second counted toward the main bracket.
“…Arrogant,” one knight sneered. Kyle sidestepped with the precision of a refined stance and clamped his sword hilt to the man’s wrist. The blade clattered to the sand.
“Yield! I—I yield!”
The second was a mercenary; the third, a master. The fourth and fifth came simultaneously—conveniently, or so it seemed. Kyle slipped between the two blades and disarmed them both in a single fluid motion.
Six, seven, eight. Only the wandering swordsman remained, eyes alive and measuring every inch of space. Different from the throat-grab type found in taverns. He bowed politely. “May I ask for instruction?”
“I don’t give instruction. A single bout, however.”
One exchange. The swordsman watched his own blade vanish into the sand, then laughed—a genuine laugh, not the forced one of defeat. He surrendered. Kyle wiped his blade clean and stepped back. Five days of a clean record on the first day.
“You’re making this look easy! You’re making it look easy!”
Hugo sprinted up from outside the barrier. “Trimming ten people in a blink is easy? That’s not easy at all!”
“I didn’t even draw blood. That’s what’s easy.”
“Your standards are wrong, your standards!”
From their prime viewing spot along the barrier, Dorte and Finn had descended. Finn’s voice was hoarse. “Big brother! Nine… nine people, just—”
“You were the one yelling the whole time. Why is your throat the one that’s tired?”
Dorte waved a printed note. “Choosing a one-bout finish was smart. Ten people can’t be finished in one bout, after all. We bet on a bloodless win. Seven times the stake.”
“…Master, what do you think I am?”
“An investment that won’t return your principal.”
For five days that investment had never once failed to pay. Even on the second and third days’ replay chaos, not a single drop of blood had touched Kyle’s blade.
* * *
The news of Elysee’s qualifier reached Kyle on the third day—not as words, but as a roar that shook all eight auxiliary grounds. From the third training ground came the cry: the northern sword, the real deal, the Grand Duchess! That face could not be hidden behind a mercenary guild name.
Kyle had tried not to go. His feet had carried him anyway. The barrier around the third ground rose five layers high. He watched from the roof of the neighboring building, hidden in the shade. Only afterward did he realize the posture of concealment had become second nature.
Silver hair stood in the center of the arena. Armor, not traveling clothes nor formal dress. She held her blade loose, waiting for her next opponent. And that blade—had changed.
The sword he had received a half-step above her for ten years. A path he could sketch with his eyes closed. The habit of opening the shoulder first, the quirk of raising the tip a single inch when her aura surged, the way her will led her feet. All those habits had been erased.
Her opponent was the collateral branch of a western swordsman’s house. Stronger in body and power. Yet she neither retreated nor blocked. She flowed, she shifted, inch by inch she survived until the moment his breathing faltered. The spectators in the stands saw it as defense and sighed in pity. Only the man on the roof understood: that was not defense—it was preemptive vision. The same hand that had guided him for ten years, probing the ground one inch at a time.
On the thirtieth bout her sword struck for the first time. Once. It ended. A chill ran down Kyle’s spine. That was his sword—the very hand he had taken from her for ten years. Not stolen, but painstakingly remembered, one bout at a time, broken and reforged. He knew what it cost for a sword to change so completely. Not time alone; there had to be reason.
The final opponent sank to the sand. “Number 999! Win! Main bracket!”
Amid the cheers she sheathed her blade, lifted her head, and looked straight across the five-layer crowd to the roof’s shadow. No surprise in her eyes. She had known he was there from the first breath. A light touch of her sword hilt sealed the greeting. “I look forward to the main stage.”
Kyle stood rooted, unable to bow or sidestep. His mind was blank. Only the chill from his back climbed to his nape. He still could not name it.
At the bottom of the stairs leading down from the roof waited the owner of the purple awning. “Nice seat. The roof. I might claim it next time.”
“…Your Highness.”
“Sarah. And my prophecy—do you remember? One more person will come to claim their life.”
The princess pointed with her fan toward the third ground, then folded it shut. “As a collector’s eye, I’ll say this: if you don’t know whose sword that is, pry your own eyes out and polish them. Ten thousand spectators already know.”
“It is a sword.”
“Yes. I’ll add that answer to my collection. It will probably be expensive later.”
The official main-bracket list was posted at the Grand Arena entrance that evening. Sixty-four lines. At the top sat the three seven-sword members—Geralt, Rohan, Yulian—midway down stood number 712, and beyond that, number 999. As Hugo read the final line he shouted. “Hey! 999! Elysee! No way—”“A mercenary guild name isn’t exactly common.”“It is common, but a mercenary guild isn’t! Hey, then in the main bracket it’ll be you and—wait. Wait a second. Depending on how the pairings are drawn…”
Hugo fell silent. Both of them knew exactly where that silence would land.
* * *
The summons arrived that same evening after the list was posted. A golden eagle seal, yet not a decree but an invitation. Alone at the Grand Arena VIP pavilion. “Don’t go. You must not go.”
“If you refuse an invitation, it becomes a formal order. Formal orders are not lightly ignored.”
Two attendants guided him through corridors where the carpet muffled every footstep. Kyle counted the exits and the five windows as he walked—ten years of habit, now instinct. The room was vast and quiet. The windows looked directly down onto the main stage. On the table steamed two cups of tea. It was not meant to be drunk; it was simply there. Workers outside swept the arena sand, the very spot where blades would clash. The Crown Prince had chosen a room with a perfect view. It was no accident.
Back turned to that window stood the Empire’s Crown Prince. “You came.”
Leonard offered no tea. Offering tea would have been the first move; Kyle ignored it in return. Both men understood the exchange yet pretended not to. Leonard’s smile was as smooth as it had been at the banquet, etiquette measured by the inch. “Three months, is it? Since the Valenstein banquet.”
“Your Highness.”
“Yes. Today is not about ceremony but about trade.”
The Crown Prince gestured at the table. Three official papers lay fanned open. Kyle remained standing and read them. The first was Trent Route Report, appendix from Eden. The second, Night Disturbance Investigation in Valk—sketches of sword marks at the dockyard and snapped iron swords washed ashore. The third, renewal contract for the Grey Fang Mercenary Group’s lordship. The administrator’s signature space was blank. Six sheets of paper spoke of his past, his nights, the leashes of his people. “Straight to the point. I like you.”
Leonard strolled over from the window. “A sword that broke the seven, the nerve to reject the princess, a mind that withstood Eden’s files—and clean bloodline. A clean bloodline becomes the property of the one who fills it.”
He gathered the papers on the table’s edge with a fingertip—precisely the motion of sheathing or drawing a sword. “Would you like a title? Not the quick gamble of victory. Worried about the orphanage? Imperial patronage lasts a hundred years. Contract renewal? One signature and it’s done. That grey-haired knight you chase every night—if it’s the Empire’s net, he cannot be caught.”
Each word struck exactly at the vital points, honed over a lifetime of carving people apart with paper. Kyle listened to every syllable without interruption or reply. Something inside his chest settled heavily once. When he stayed silent, the Crown Prince placed the last card with the lightest gesture. “Ah, one more thing. My former fiancée also made the main bracket. Without family or escort. A northern star rolling among nameless swords—dangerous depending on how you look. The main stage allows aura on the blade.”
“…”
“No misunderstanding. This is not blackmail. I do not wish her harm. Yet the stage is the stage. Who meets whom and in which bout—that is luck, and luck is—”
The Crown Prince looked out at the main stage and finished with a smile. “Manageable.”
Do not underestimate the draw. The princess’s note and the Crown Prince’s smile had woven together. The six sheets were bait. The true net was the ninth sheet, and on that ninth sheet, instead of words, stood silver hair. “So, knight.”
Leonard smiled one layer deeper and offered his hand. “Will you not become my sword?”