The Queen's Request
“So, Gafel crossed the border through the teleportation array?”
In the dim room, the man receiving the report across a small table asked the question in an even tone. Though his voice carried no particular emotion, the messenger was rigid with tension and dared not lift his head. It was hardly surprising. From the moment the report began, the atmosphere in the room had felt like a raging current, thick enough to choke the breath from anyone present.
Perhaps seeing the man’s face or even his eyes would have offered some reassurance, but the only visible part of him was his hands; the rest was completely shrouded in a black robe from head to toe.
“Y-yes. Gafel accepted the invitation extended by the Ayman royal family. Word of the envoy’s return has already reached the imperial palace.”
“……”
The heavy silence that followed made the messenger want to flee the room at once. Though the chamber was dark and enclosed, he knew that if he could just reach the return array, he could escape.
“…Gafel must have known other guild members were present. Does this mean he had no intention of making contact?”
The messenger fought to keep his voice steady, even holding his breath to hide its tremor.
“Yes. However, when members are not informed of one another’s missions, it is standard to focus solely on one’s own task……”
“Right. That is the guild’s policy.”
Another oppressive silence descended. The messenger carefully exhaled the breath he had been holding, breaking it into several shallow releases lest even the sound of breathing draw attention. After several such careful breaths, the man finally waved a hand in dismissal.
“…Understood. You may go.”
The moment the words left his mouth, the messenger fled the room as though escaping. Left alone, the man tapped his fingers on the table several times, betraying his irritation, then drew a communication crystal from his robes and placed it on the table. The crystal had been connected since the report first began.
—Do you think Gafel noticed our intentions from this side?
The voice that emerged from the crystal belonged to a woman. The man leaned back in his chair as he answered.
“It’s possible. Or perhaps he simply rushed ahead, driven by anticipation of the promised reward. He’s always been ambitious and eager for advancement. It could also be that the hero’s party gave him a hint.”
Though his reply was calm, the woman on the other end could sense his displeasure.
—What should we do with the operatives waiting at the border? Proceed as planned?
“No. Recall them. The carefully fabricated evidence will go to waste, but they’re only low-ranking assassins who know nothing. Telling them the commission has been canceled should prevent any leaks. Dealing with them now risks drawing the attention of those old foxes.”
—Understood. Then what about the plans we prepared afterward……?
“Suspend everything for now. Regrettably, we will withdraw the guild’s hand from Ayman Kingdom for the time being and focus on Sugriva instead. It is a little early, but that foolish prince will be delighted the moment his succession rank improves.”
The matches proceeded far more smoothly than expected. Thanks to the queen’s efforts to lighten the mood at the outset, the participants showed little obsession with victory or defeat and, naturally, did not grow overly tense.
Moreover, unlike previous swordsmanship bouts that often ended in dull stalemates resolved only by a sudden strike to a vital point, the knights had taken the queen’s advice to heart. They displayed experimental movements and sword paths rarely seen in ordinary practice, and their opponents responded in kind.
Though such flashy exchanges would have been inefficient in real combat, they delighted the spectators. The young women who knew little of swordsmanship let out frequent gasps of admiration.
Since no one wore armor, kicks leveraging the weight of plate were absent, which only enhanced the elegance of the display. Among ordinary soldiers or common knights, it was common to see someone toppled by an unexpected kick and defeated on the spot—an outcome that, from the sidelines, looked neither refined nor graceful.
“This reminds me of our academy days.”
“It does. When Sir Zaid suddenly used kicks during live-combat training, everyone was shocked.”
In basic swordsmanship training at the academy, students first learned to subdue opponents using only their blades—how to parry, where to aim, and how to counter. The current matches resembled those early drills, though far less awkward and sluggish than the students’ attempts had been. Even so, whenever blades met, every participant had felt rather impressive.
Yet that confidence shattered during the first live-combat exercise. A single unexpected kick scattered it like dust, leaving them sprawled on the floor staring up at Sir Zaid’s blade at their throats.
“Only you, Jebil, and Rakid managed to avoid that kick out of twenty.”
Back then, the matches had been held one at a time in the gymnasium so no one could observe the person ahead. It was necessary; foreknowledge would have dulled the shock and defeated the purpose of the exercise.
“You didn’t fall either, Anak. You even received partial extra points.”
“I didn’t avoid it. I just kept my distance the entire time.”
During that match I had done everything possible to stay beyond Sir Zaid’s reach, maintaining just enough space for our sword tips to barely touch. My goal had been evasion rather than parrying or countering.
I had known from the start that I could never defeat an experienced knight and sword instructor like Sir Zaid. Since it was labeled live-combat training rather than a simple drill, I assumed the point was not sword skill or victory, but how long one could survive against a stronger opponent. That was why I had focused on maintaining distance and buying time. In the end, Sir Zaid never managed to close in or land a kick before my allotted time ran out.
Of course, had he truly gone all out, he could have closed the gap no matter how carefully I kept my distance. A strong blow to my blade followed by a swift advance while I staggered would have sufficed.
Given our respective builds and the speed required, however, the result would likely have been more severe than simply falling backward.
“Still, Sir Zaid praised you. He said it was a wise decision.”
More precisely, he had called it “an appropriate judgment suited to one’s ability”—the correct choice for preserving one’s life against an unbeatable foe. At the time, it had not felt much like praise.
“…This match looks like it will be quite something.”
I had only meant to change the subject, but the two knights facing each other already radiated formidable presence. Though both were young, their stances and the way their hands rested on their swords spoke of experience and skill.
“Sir Mornt and Sir Ranit. Both are exceptional knights.”
Levrant, who had approached, offered the information. Both had distinguished themselves in several swordsmanship tournaments over the past few years and were said to wield a faint trace of Sword Qi.
“Remarkable talent.”
Even so, they could hardly be compared to Rowell at that age.
“It seems they are about to begin.”
The two knights exchanged formal bows but did not draw their swords immediately. Their exchanged glances suggested they were politely deferring the first move, yet despite the courteous display, both stood ready to strike the instant an opening appeared.
After several more silent signals, Mornt apparently won the right to move first. His blade targeted his opponent’s upper body at a speed far beyond anything seen in the previous matches.
Clang!
A dull metallic ring sent the sword off its intended path, followed a beat later by collective sighs of relief from the spectators.
“They must have crossed blades often.”
Aegina’s remark drew nods from both Rowell and me. That opening attack had been far too dangerous for a mere exhibition. A single misstep would have driven the blade straight through the heart. Only absolute confidence in both one’s own skill and the opponent’s could justify such a bold strike.
The exchanges that followed were no different. Their sword paths and speeds were nearly indistinguishable from real combat, forcing the audience to respond with a mixture of cheers and startled cries whenever blades clashed or passed within inches of flesh.
Their abilities were nearly equal. Ranit held a slight edge in speed, while Mornt excelled in precision and sharpness, yet the differences were too small to decide the match.
“How did their previous tournaments end?”
There might have been a difference in their mastery of Sword Qi, but neither would have used it in a tournament setting.
“Sir Mornt grew impatient. When none of his techniques landed, his movements grew exaggerated, and Sir Ranit seized the opening. It was only half a step, but that was enough.”
“This time will be different, though.”
Rowell was right. People repeating the same mistake was hardly rare, yet Mornt’s eyes and blade showed no trace of haste. Though he attacked aggressively and appeared to probe boldly for openings, he remained cool and collected, carefully reading his opponent’s reactions.
“It will simply take longer than necessary.”
Despite the dazzling display, both men were clearly conserving stamina. It was a prudent choice; when skill was evenly matched, victory would come down to who faltered first—a contest of endurance where pacing was everything.
Even the most gripping exchanges, however, grew monotonous when repeated. After several impressive clashes and narrow evasions, I had already lost interest.
Then the queen suddenly raised her hand.
“That will do. Both of you displayed magnificent skill, but if you two settle everything between yourselves, what will the remaining participants do?”
At the queen’s lighthearted remark, both knights smiled ruefully, realizing they had grown overly serious.
“Still, ending a match so abruptly and moving straight to the next would be unreasonable. It would burden those waiting, and we must determine a winner. Wouldn’t you agree, Sir Anak?”
Startled by the sudden mention of my name, I reflexively looked at Rowell instead of the queen. Meeting my questioning gaze, Rowell gave a small nod.
Under the weight of countless eyes, I rose from my seat. I had no idea why the queen had called me, but her expression made it clear she intended to ask something of me.
“Yes. I agree completely.”
I answered half a beat late, then racked my brain for a witty follow-up, only to be reminded once again of my poor sense of humor.
“Then how may I assist you, Your Majesty?”
All I could manage was a polite reply delivered in as pleasant a tone as possible—though even that came out as little more than a slightly elevated formal question. Still, the queen seemed satisfied and raised her voice with practiced ease.
“If it were up to me, I would ask Sir Anak to demonstrate his swordsmanship after so long an absence.”
I knew it was a jest, yet the memory of the queen’s usual eccentricities made my expression stiffen involuntarily.
“That would defeat the purpose of stopping the previous match, so I shall ask something else instead. If my memory serves, Sir Anak also commands a unit of Death Knights. Is that correct?”