Chapter 82
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 82
Those who have never fought a duel to the death could never truly understand it—the mindset, the resolve, and the sheer weight of emotion.
To resolve to kill another with a cold blade, while simultaneously accepting one's own demise, was a feat perhaps only possible for the slightly mad.
Whether driven by noble justice or base greed, whatever the reason, all became equal in the face of victory and defeat, life and death.
Rickert had fought countless such duels, yet he had never trembled like this before.
Was it because, until now, he'd never truly had a reason to fight? In the past, his only thoughts had been of winning, surviving, and killing the man standing across from him.
His heightened concentration muffled the thunderous cheers of the crowd. Time and place faded away. The only sounds that rang clearly in his ears were his own heartbeat and the steady draw of his breath.
Only the man dressed in blue remained in his field of vision. He could feel the tension and resolve radiating from the man's eyes. His opponent was absolutely determined to kill him.
Yes, that's it. Then neither you nor I need to feel any guilt. No matter the reason.
Rickert raised his sword. Feeling the coiled power flowing through his muscles, he strode forward with confidence. In response, his opponent backed away, carefully maintaining his distance.
Then, in a sudden burst of motion, Rickert took a massive stride forward, closing the gap as if to deliver a decisive blow.
An ordinary fighter would have panicked and swung wildly, but this man kept his composure, refusing to fall for the provocation.
The man quickly circled to Rickert's right to re-establish the gap, but Rickert pursued with swift steps. In an instant, a blade swung out to cut off his path.
Rickert's sword flashed like lightning, rising in a diagonal slash from left to right.
Clang! Screeech!
The blades clashed at an angle, scraping harshly against each other. In that brief contact, both men felt the full measure of the other's skill.
What now? Counterattack? Retreat? Another exchange?
In a fraction of a second, instinct made the decision for them. Yet, in that split second, Rickert sensed something strange. The man was prepared to die, yes, but there was something else beneath it.
Swish! Crack!
Once more, their swords crossed. Rickert's heavy meteoric iron sword cleaved straight through his opponent's skull, biting from the cheekbone deep into the brain.
But as the man fell, the string binding his sleeve unraveled, scattering a cloud of white powder into the air.
Though the match was already decided, Rickert hastily held his breath, covered his mouth, and retreated.
It was too late. He had already inhaled a lungful.
The muffled, thunderous cheers suddenly slammed back into his ears. A wave of severe dizziness washed over him, and he collapsed hard onto his backside.
Waaaaaaah!
Thud.
"Cough! Cough!"
His opponent lay dead, his skull split halfway open as a pool of blood expanded around him. While Rickert coughed uncontrollably, the crowd roared, utterly indifferent to his plight.
"The winner! Rickeeeeeert!"
"I knew it! Ricky won!"
The Crown Prince jumped up and down in excitement, while Bellator's eyes gleamed after witnessing such a brief but profound clash between masters. Indeed, long weapons are no easy feat.
Rickert tried to stand, but his arms and legs refused to cooperate.
Perhaps because the fight was over, his concentration shattered, letting a wave of panic wash over him. He couldn't even properly assess his own condition.
Sensing that something was wrong, Marie leaped up from her seat, leaned far over the railing, and shouted.
"Ricky! Are you okay?!"
"Cough! Cough! Gah!"
With his head bowed, Rickert covered his mouth and nose with one hand. He stared at the ground while raising his other hand toward Marie to signal that he was fine. But his steps were already faltering.
A metallic tang surged up his throat. He spat onto the dirt—it was blood. Then, crimson began to stream from his nose. He had been poisoned. Damn it...
Who was it? Why? What kind of grudge did they hold? Or did they just want to win that badly?
There was no way to know now. Rickert forced himself to walk toward the waiting area. A staff member approached him, asking,
"Are you alright?"
Rickert nodded, keeping his nose and mouth tightly covered. If he was disqualified, he wouldn't be allowed to fight anymore, and the championship would slip right through his fingers.
His vision spun. If he lost focus for even a second, he knew he would collapse.
He barely managed to stumble back into the waiting area before slumping heavily into a chair.
"Towel. A towel!"
Rickert barked irritably. A staff member quickly rushed over and handed him one. With trembling hands, he pressed the cloth against his nose and mouth.
The onlookers suspected something was amiss, but they didn't think it was severe enough to keep him from the next match.
Meanwhile, Rickert realized that inhaling deeply only made the poison spread faster. Yet, he couldn't stop breathing entirely, leaving him trapped in a desperate dilemma.
It was a miracle he had reacted so quickly; had he inhaled even a fraction more, he might already be dead. It was an incredibly lethal poison.
Yet, surprisingly, Rickert felt no resentment toward his opponent.
He didn't curse the world or fate, wondering why this had to happen now. Giving up on the tournament was the furthest thing from his mind.
What was done was done. His mind was consumed by a single, burning thought: hold onto his consciousness and fight in the finals.
Since the winner of the previous block had also been severely injured, Rickert only had to win one more match to claim the championship. How could he collapse or give up now?
"Hah! Hah! Hah! Hah!"
Staring at the floor, Rickert focused all his energy on taking short, shallow breaths. Fortunately, the nosebleed stopped, but the real problem was that his vision was still spinning wildly.
The tournament went on, the crowd's continuous cheers roaring like thunder. The surrounding noise felt like a giant hand grabbing Rickert by the collar, violently shaking his consciousness.
As he struggled with all his might to keep his mind from fading, someone called his name. Hearing that voice made his head throb.
"Ricky."
It was none other than Marie. As she strode into the waiting area, the onlookers stared at her with wide eyes.
"Go... go back. I'm fine."
"You've been poisoned, haven't you?"
"I can still fight. Just go."
Marie squatted in front of Rickert, looking up at him as he stared at the floor. Smears of blood were clearly visible around his nose and mouth. In his hazy vision, Marie's eyes shone like blue stars.
"Should we just leave?" she asked.
"No. I can fight."
"You might be able to fight, but what if you die?"
"I won't die."
"You're being as stubborn as a child. Then I have no choice either."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll kill everyone, and then I'll die too."
Even in this dire situation, Rickert couldn't help but let out a dry laugh at her sheer absurdity.
"Don't do that."
"Telling me not to do that sounds incredibly cruel to me, you know?"
"I told you, I'm not going to die."
Marie stared at Rickert silently, a flash of anger in her expression, before turning to her anxious maid.
"Bring me my sword."
"Pardon?"
"Hurry!"
Marie glared and barked, startling the maid, who quickly ran off to fetch the weapon. Marie turned back to Rickert.
"Since you refuse to run, fine. I get it. But don't you dare die. If you die, I die, and everyone dies. Got it?"
He couldn't tell if it was a plea, a warning, or a threat. A female Ricky, indeed. Boribori, your insight was spot on.
Seeing her absolute determination, Rickert couldn't argue any further. He nodded.
"Alright."
Only after hearing his answer did Marie stand up. Though her heart was undoubtedly breaking, Marie was not like other women. She was a warrior. And just as Boribori had assessed, she was braver than Rickert.
Marie snatched the sword from her maid and left the waiting area without looking back. A woman in a dress, carrying a single sword.
Perhaps, when the Crown Prince and the other princes had harassed her, Rickert hadn't actually saved her. Rather, he might have just stopped Marie from slaughtering them all.
Regardless, the tournament continued. Some fights started out looking decent but quickly devolved into desperate dogfights. With lives on the line, there was no time to worry about looking graceful or ugly.
In the end, only three out of the eight competitors remained in fighting shape. Two of them would face each other, and the victor would fight Rickert.
If the winner of that semi-final match sustained a severe injury, Rickert would automatically win the championship after having fought only one match.
However, as if "Lucky Ricky's" luck had finally run out, Rickert had to step up for the final match. To make matters worse, his opponent was a Swordmaster.
Even if their raw levels of swordsmanship were comparable, a Swordmaster's blade could easily slice through solid iron, putting Rickert at an absolute disadvantage.
But being at a disadvantage didn't necessarily mean defeat. He had already proven that in his past duel with Steiner.
The herald called Rickert's name, but Rickert didn't hear it. His sharpest weapon—his keen senses—had been completely dulled.
"Swordsman, it is time for you to go out."
The other participants were either receiving urgent medical treatment or already dead. A staff member spoke to Rickert, who was now left alone in the waiting area.
Rickert picked up his sword and stood. The ground spun beneath him like a roulette wheel.
He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached, gathered his wits, and pushed past the tent flap, walking out with his head held high.
The crowd's cheers didn't reach his ears as sound, but rather as intense vibrations. The very ground felt as if it were shaking. Rickert stood firmly in the center of the arena, his legs planted wide.
No one noticed his poor condition. Or rather, only a select few experts realized he wasn't his usual self.
Marie sat in her seat, tightly clutching her famed sword, Ricky. This was a crucial crossroads for her as well—whether she would become a crazed sword demon or a noble swordsman.
Rickert's opponent was clearly extraordinary. He looked like a veteran who had survived countless battles on the frontlines, and his eyes burned with the determination to give his all, regardless of Rickert's condition.
"Let the match begiiiiin!"
At the herald's shout, the opponent drew his sword and tossed the scabbard aside.
As he gripped the longsword with both hands, the blade emitted a brilliant white light, its physical form turning faint and blending into the surroundings.
As the Swordmaster's blade glowed, the thunderous cheers of the crowd subsided into awe. It was a wondrous sight, as if they were witnessing a legend unfold before their very eyes.
"I bear no personal grudge. I only wish to fight a match with everything on the line. Even if I win, I will set the princess free."
The nameless opponent spoke to Rickert. Was he already offering a victor's mercy? Or was it a tactic to shake his focus?
Whatever the case, Rickert drew his sword and threw his scabbard aside.
He analyzed the situation: In my current state, I can't move violently. If I try, my head will be taken in an instant. One or two steps is my limit. I must decide the match within that range.
Right now, properly measuring the distance was impossible; his opponent wavered and warped in his vision like a heat haze. Rickert planned to gauge the distance the exact moment their swords clashed and settle the fight in that very instant.
But would that work? His opponent was no amateur. Yet, no other method came to mind, and Rickert had never been one to overthink before a fight anyway.
Perhaps because of that, a brief wave of anxiety washed over him. But then, Armand's words suddenly echoed in his mind.
What will happen, will happen. Just like the past, the future is as good as already decided.
Then what was there to hesitate about? If it was bound to happen anyway, his only choice was to stand tall before fate. There was no need for anxiety, no reason to fear.
His head spun, his vision warped, and his stomach churned so violently he felt like vomiting. Yet, strangely, his mind and heart remained entirely unshaken.
Seeing that Rickert's gaze did not waver, his opponent went all out. The man's feet left the ground as he lunged.
Would it end in an instant, or devolve into a messy dogfight? A duel with live steel didn't always produce beautiful exchanges just because the combatants were highly skilled.
His opponent's sword, now a blinding flash of light, aimed diagonally at Rickert's neck. Rickert instinctively moved to meet it, but his sense of distance was completely off. It was a bizarre action—neither a proper counterattack nor a solid defense.
When the blades clashed, the heavy meteoric iron sword that had been with Rickert for so long was effortlessly sliced in half.
Yet, as if feeling the sword's death rattle, Rickert felt the exact sensation of his blade being severed in that split second. Through that momentary resistance, he gauged the distance perfectly.
He instinctively twisted his body to evade the glowing blade and reached out, snatching his opponent's wrist. Even through his dizzy haze, Ilya's monstrous strength surged through him, crushing the man's wrist with sheer grip strength.
But the Swordmaster displayed incredible focus. Ignoring the shattering pain, he released his ruined grip on the longsword and smoothly drew his sidearm—a dagger. Rickert drew his own dagger in response.
Locked in a grapple so close that distance no longer mattered, the opponent aimed for Rickert's abdomen, while Rickert aimed for the man's heart.
In that final moment, the opponent relied on his ingrained martial techniques, but Rickert did not. A blade that would normally have been deflected by the ribs sliced straight through the bone, piercing the heart.
The moment the opponent plunged his dagger into Rickert's abdomen, the man's muscles seized and spasmed. He needed to twist and slash to spill Rickert's entrails, but his dying body couldn't complete the motion.
Rickert clenched his teeth and exerted every ounce of his remaining strength. Though the match was practically decided, he tackled his opponent to the ground, using his body weight to drive his dagger even deeper.
His hand sank almost entirely into the opponent's chest, the blade passing straight through the heart and severing the spine.
"Gasp!"
Pinned beneath Rickert, the opponent gasped for air, his body trembling violently. With his last breath, he uttered his final words:
"A good fight..."
Only then did Rickert pull out the deeply embedded dagger and push himself up. Though blood poured freely from his stabbed abdomen, he forced himself to stand on his own two feet, showing the thousands of spectators clearly who the victor was.
The arena fell dead silent. Up in the stands, Hellauman felt a strange sense of déjà vu. It looked like he calculated the distance the exact moment his sword was cut. Did he plan that in advance, or was it an instantaneous reaction?
It was similar to a question he had once harbored—a feeling he had experienced over a century ago when he first laid eyes on the very first Swordmaster, Ricky.
Regardless of his internal confusion, the herald's voice finally shattered the silence.
"The champion! Rickert!"
Cheers should have erupted like an exploding volcano. No, they would have. But just before the roar could break, an incredibly ominous cry echoed across the quiet arena.
"O God of Condemnation! Open your eyes!"
What is that? The crowd was utterly bewildered. But before they could process the confusion, servants and maids scattered throughout the spectator stands suddenly drew hidden daggers and began stabbing their masters.
"O God of Condemnation! Open your eyes!"
"Punish all oppressors!"
It happened so simultaneously and swiftly that the victims couldn't even scream.
While Hellauman and the other Emperor's Champions were momentarily distracted by the chaos, Daisy's Mother, who was standing near the Emperor, drew a hidden dagger and plunged it deep into the Emperor's abdomen. Without hesitation, she violently sliced upward.
"Gasp!"
The Emperor choked as a burning agony flared in his stomach. But before he could even react, another of his mistresses stepped forward and stabbed him directly in the neck.
Only then did terrified screams finally erupt from the stands.
"Aaaaaaaah!"
The assassins who had struck down the nobles did not flee. Instead, they went into a frenzy, trying to slaughter as many people as possible. They fought like zealots who already considered themselves dead.
The arena instantly devolved into utter chaos. Nobles leaped from the high spectator stands down into the pit, shoving and trampling one another in a blind panic.
Then, with a sharp slash, the heads of Daisy's Mother and the Emperor's treacherous mistresses fell to the floor with anticlimactic ease. It was like some horrific magic trick.
Though the Emperor's Champion had slain them in an instant with near-divine skill, it was too late. The Emperor was already gone. He lay slumped over with his mouth agape, blood pouring freely from his neck and abdomen.
"Uh...?"
Stunned by the unbelievable sight before his eyes, the Champion's mind went blank for a precious moment. Meanwhile, the remaining assassins swarmed the imperial family.
"You fool! Protect the Crown Prince!" Hellauman roared, drawing his own sword.
With a single monstrous swing, he cut down everyone in his path, whether assassin or fleeing noble. Blood sprayed in torrents as severed corpses collapsed to the ground.
"Stay back!" he roared like a furious tiger.
But his ruthless actions only added to the chaos, and the Emperor's Champion completely lost sight of the Crown Prince. Where is he?
Ignoring the surrounding madness, Marie ripped the long skirt of her dress, leaped down into the arena with her sword in hand, and slung the barely conscious Rickert over her shoulder before sprinting toward the exit.
Yet, amidst this bloody chaos, there were other assassins—ones who did not belong to the religious Order, but were targeting Rickert specifically. They were the ones who had deployed the poison during the match.
Although they too were bewildered by the sudden rebellion, they saw this as their golden opportunity.
"Stop right there, Red Cloak!"
"Do you remember Lorentz?! The Rubens Guild never forgets a grudge!"
But Marie was already far past the point of reason. She propped the unconscious Rickert against a stone wall and stood firmly before him, shielding his body with her own.
"Did you think I stayed quiet because I couldn't fight?!"
The emotions Marie had suppressed for so long finally exploded. Bastards? The Imperial family? To hell with all of it. No one can stop me now. I've endured enough! I'll kill anyone who gets in my way!
Marie was prepared to pay any price to protect Rickert. At that exact moment, a brilliant violet light erupted from the blade of the famed sword, Ricky.
It was a light forged by destiny, yet at the same time, a light created by shattering the chains of fate. It was a beautiful, contradictory irony.
Yet, such were the workings of God—sacrificing countless lives, yet loving without end.
Marie had finally grasped the freedom she had yearned for so desperately. She hadn't achieved it by carving away her human compassion, but by embracing it, awakening as a Swordmaster in the truest sense.
The assassins from the Rubens Guild were utterly bewildered by the radiant aura, a creeping sense of primal dread washing over them.
But there was no mercy in Marie's blade now. Everything that crossed her path—be it steel weapons or human flesh—was effortlessly sliced to pieces.
The assassins sprayed blood as they died, drenching Marie in a crimson shower.
Standing before the pile of corpses with her hair disheveled, holding her glowing sword of light, she looked like nothing less than a vengeful witch or a blood-soaked demon.
However, with the panicked crowd shoving and fleeing in utter chaos, it was impossible to tell if she had killed all the assassins or if more lurked in the shadows.
So, Marie simply killed anyone who drew near. With just a few swings of her sword, a pile of severed corpses quickly rose to her waist.
Only when the terrified crowd shrank back in horror did she sling Rickert over her shoulder once more and hastily make her escape.
Her torn skirt exposed her long, pale legs, but she was in no position to worry about modesty.
Whatever else had happened, Rickert and Marie might have achieved their goal, but a gaping hole was opening in the world: a vacuum of power.
The death of Mad Dog Steiner had caused such an uproar. If the Emperor died...
Perhaps the powerless, too, had been oppressed as much as Marie, or even more, until something finally burst.
And so an age of fire and steel, of blood and death, began to dawn upon the Empire.
Arc 16 – What Will Happen. End.