Chapter 107
Chapter 107
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 107
Chapter Title: The Sword Dance Duel
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At first, everyone was brimming with confidence.
Nobles through and through, each one had trained in solid cultivation methods and credible sword techniques.
Taking down a single boy knight who hadn't even reached adulthood should be a piece of cake.
Even if the boy knight proved unexpectedly skilled, they'd wear him down over multiple bouts and win eventually—that's what they figured.
But that assumption was wrong from the start.
"Next."
A noble crumpled before Allen.
Not just him—none of the other noble brats could withstand even thirty exchanges before shattering completely.
"Come on out, next."
The nobles began eyeing each other warily.
The hotheads who'd charged in first hadn't even ruffled the boy knight's breathing, and their confidence plummeted as a result.
Eventually, one stepped forward reluctantly, sword in hand, facing off against Allen.
"Tch. Get on with it."
By my standards, I'd been forcing them back up whenever they dropped their swords, fell on their asses, or collapsed.
To think these sorry excuses for fighters had been strutting around as the pillars of Karpe. The thought of leading them into war against the Empire already gave me a headache.
'Not that there aren't a few decent ones.'
Most were trash, but a handful stood out as usable.
Rough gems whose talents were being wasted in this atmosphere, but who could shine if polished.
'Even so, Allen's fighting impressively.'
Perhaps it was the battlefield experience.
Allen's swordplay had grown more cautious since losing an eye in the North's war, and he didn't allow a single clean hit.
His unique style, honed in real combat, subtly revealed his temperament.
His skill had improved leaps and bounds, and his straightforward sword lacked fancy tricks but formed an ironclad defense without gaps.
He seemed to have integrated the Seven Star Staff's cultivation method into his swordsmanship well. After this, his skills would likely surge.
Chaeng.
"Ugh...!"
Another noble dropped his sword, trembling as he looked up at Allen and asked politely.
"Why could you read my swordsmanship so easily?"
Allen glanced at me, and I nodded for him to answer simply.
"When you aimed for my sword, I targeted your heart."
"...Ah."
The goals of a sword tempered in battle differ from one that isn't.
He seemed to grasp something.
Then he asked another question.
"I've heard the North endured a great war against the orcs. May I ask how strong they are?"
"Regular warriors match me. Great Warriors outclass me by far. And the Warlords above them approach Master level—they're terrifyingly strong. Even Kallias barely triumphed over two near-death brushes."
Suddenly, all eyes turned to me.
Their gazes screamed: That wastrel's that strong? No way it's just rumors.
What rude bastards.
"I see... Thank you for answering."
Then he looked at me and added,
"I've learned much. If you ever face hardship, seek me out, House Prine. I'll aid the Count."
So he was from House Prine.
I acknowledged him and scanned the room.
The nobles' stares had already shifted.
No one dared step before Allen. They'd felt the overwhelming gap and fallen silent.
Unable to bear the heavy quiet, one man strode forward.
"Let me witness the swordsmanship that felled a Warlord, right here."
Jordan, the one who'd just been smacked flying.
One side of his face ballooned like a steamed bun—quite the comical sight—yet he challenged me anyway.
His confident expression made his thoughts obvious. He figured I was just showboating by propping up a strong knight like Allen.
When vermin that've been crushed once crawl back up, you stomp them flat.
"Fine."
I approached the table he'd wrecked earlier and casually picked up a fallen knife.
A royal-made piece, it was finely crafted with a sharp edge.
"What... are you doing?"
He suppressed his rage, trembling as if he couldn't contain it.
"Matching your level."
"Brace yourself!!"
Chaeng-!
I didn't use Flower of the Other Shore this time.
This was still the Sword Dance Assembly, after all.
There are times to crush with raw power, and times you shouldn't.
Showing the gap another way would be better than brute force here.
His sword was honest.
His face was annoyingly greasy like slathered in butter, but his technique followed the orthodox path.
Surprisingly solid, but orthodox meant no tricks—which made it easy to parry.
Even with a dining knife, I deflected and defended effortlessly.
Occasionally, I grazed his shoulder, waist, and throat with the tip.
Each time, his face paled in terror, yet he never dropped his sword.
"Hraaaah!!"
His intent was painfully predictable.
I'd planned to apply the Golden Lion's Golden Armor Principle to the knife, but it proved trickier than expected.
The Golden Armor Principle, pursuing utmost rigidity, blends the cycling subtleties of bodily holy power and sword aura into one seamless whole.
Easier than suppressing recoil like with Flower of the Other Shore, naturally.
I couldn't envelop my whole body like true Golden Armor yet, but maybe with just the knife.
"Damn it!!"
Kikikik!
The knife slid along his blade.
From tip to crossguard, sparking as it rode, then I spun it in a flash, pressing it to his throat.
"It's over. Now scram."
Jordan froze stiff, speechless.
Swordsmanship, footwork, technique—all woefully inadequate against Kallias.
Just a knife.
The knife hadn't even bent—instead, it menaced his throat.
He couldn't come to terms with losing to Kallias wielding mere cutlery.
Jordan utterly crushed.
No one could beat Allen among the nobles. Then, someone stepped forward from their midst.
"Count Jervan."
I thought it another taunt, but he politely asked Kallias instead,
"May I request a bout with Sir Allen?"
This wasn't a wager.
He genuinely sought to cross swords.
"Allen."
"Draw your blade."
The noble charged at Allen with a joyful expression.
After him, several young nobles followed suit, like the Prine fellow, challenging Allen.
Most flew back, sweating and splitting their palms.
Yet after losing, most didn't look displeased.
Kallias offered unstinting advice after each bout.
Pointing out defensive weaknesses or flaws in their styles turned skeptical faces to ones of deep admiration.
"Ah... So my sword suits a shortsword over a longsword?"
"Your style's unique. Probably a family heirloom, tweaked a bit? Am I right?"
"Y-Yes. Our house were originally merchants, skilled with daggers, but after gaining our title, they said nobles wielding daggers looked poor, so we switched."
"Use a dagger or rework the style. I'd say dagger's quicker for you."
His insight was exceptional.
Stiff-necked nobles bowed their heads, eyes sparkling at his words.
"Anyone could say that..."
"Such a smug bastard."
Not everyone approved, but the room was captivated by his presence.
"You smell divine..."
"What perfume is that?"
"Should I ask?"
Some ladies fixated less on swords, more on other allure.
But soon, the Sword Dance Assembly revolved around Kallias.
And Allen was impressive too.
Over ten bouts with nobles, yet no fatigue.
Someone asked why.
"On the battlefield, you can't rest. We fought days nonstop. Slackers died easy."
Every question drew war tales.
Yet no one could reproach him.
The one-eyed knight spoke of war with utmost gravity and pride.
Time passed, most collapsing from exhaustion.
"Baroness Esther Sol Ciliad enters."
Someone arrived.
Confident strides.
Lips curved in excitement, water-blue hair flowing.
Her left hand gripped her waist sword as she walked solely toward one man.
"You've gone too far. He's a swordsman too—fighting him with a knife?"
Her beauty and poise made even Jordan forget his defeat, staring.
Kallias, watching impassively before her, quietly set down his plaything knife.
'Wastrel and saintess candidate.'
An odd pair that somehow fit, but I couldn't shake the thought rising unbidden.
Who would win if they dueled?
What swordplay, what sword dance would they show?
Others craned necks, sharing the curiosity.
"Pilgrim Esther. What brings you here?"
"I came as Baroness now. Didn't want the honorary title, but it's useful sometimes."
An honorary barony, then.
So thinking, Kallias set the knife aside.
"You won't use a knife on me?"
"This wouldn't suffice against you."
Kallias slowly drew his sword.
Esther vanished instantly.
Kaaang-!!
Whoooong—
A fierce gust hit the exhausted nobles.
Hair whipping, their eyes widened like saucers, then gleamed at Kallias and Esther's clashing sword-storm.
Blink, and they'd exchanged near ten bouts.
Unbelievable speed, too fast to track—each clash thundered, every strike destructive.
How could a woman's frame unleash such ruinous swordplay?
A saintess candidate, indeed.
Yet Kallias calmly parried it all—impressive.
Esther seemed slightly stronger, pressing relentlessly, but suddenly—
The flow reversed.
Esther leaped skyward, unleashing ten piercing thrusts, and upon landing, felt the shift.
Kikikik!
Whiiing!
Esther's pupils narrowed.
Unnoticed, Kallias's sword had softened.
If before was speed and power, now it was pure technique.
"Is that... really swordplay?"
"Then what is it?"
"But listen—hear any sound?"
"Sound? What about—"
"!!"
Blades met, yet barely a whisper.
Just faint metallic scrapes, like an instrument's melody.
Their forms danced to the sword-song.
Sword dance.
Was that true sword dance?
Karpe's ancient tradition—
perhaps born just like this.
The thought lingered. Glancing around, other nobles seemed entranced too.
Esther felt it likewise.
'Amazing.'
She'd meant to test his skill.
But at some point, like syncing steps, she followed his lead.
As if holding hands in a dance.
She advanced, he retreated; he advanced, she retreated—blades crossing.
Seeming to desire it, she matched him fully.
She understood his constant deflections.
Not mere flowing.
Pretending to receive.
Pretending to deflect.
Then, like a greater wave, redirecting force to surge back.
Esther's lips curved.
His swordsmanship was incomplete.
But she grasped his obsession.
'A piece of the stella saintess's.'
The subtlety of her invented style.
At that realization, sword-aura petals fluttered around Esther.
Seeing them, the flow shifted again.
'She's pressing.'
Could he block?
The petal wave.
A moment's hesitation—fleeting.
Karpe's top genius.
Esther Sol Ciliad.
She cleaved the petal cascade.
Dodged the blooming white underflowers entirely.
Thrust a single pure strike.
Kwaaaang-!
Whiriririk.
Puk.
The gale cleared, revealing two snapped swords.
Kallias and Esther gripped the shards, points at each other's throats.