The Lord Whispers: Go Work Out
The Holy Elffleda Knights. One of the three holy knight orders belonging to the Church.
Their numbers were never great, yet with peerless swordsmanship and unshakable faith they had long stood as the Church’s shield. The Empire itself, recognizing that devotion, formally acknowledged the Church’s right to bestow its own holy-knight titles.
Compared with the other two holy knight orders, little set them apart. The size of their ranks and the overall caliber of their members were more or less the same. Yet whenever people spoke of a “holy knight order,” the name that rose first to their lips was always the Holy Elffleda Knights.
The reason was simple: the commander of the Holy Elffleda Knights was one of the Imperial 10 Strongest.
“Commander. Have you heard the news?”
Priscilla Franz, commander of the Holy Elffleda Knights, had been inspecting her knights when the vice-commander spoke. She was the youngest of the Imperial 10 Strongest after the Fifth Princess Yulika—known by the epithet Blue Moon.
At her subordinate’s words she stepped a pace back from the formation.
“Why the sudden formality? Has something happened?”
“You recall that the Saintess is bringing a guest this time.”
“His Eminence the Cardinal did mention it. And?”
“That guest, it seems, is from that place.”
“That place?”
“The John Nassen barony!”
A sudden light kindled in Priscilla’s eyes. After a brief silence she answered in a quieter voice than before.
“Is that true? A person of John Nassen is truly coming?”
“Yes! And not merely a retainer—direct blood. The second son of the John Nassen barony.”
Tales of the John Nassen barony were already famous throughout the Empire. Even without the story of how they had half-wrecked the Academy, earlier legends had long circulated: men who had fought the Empire for more than eight years, warriors so steeped in battle that none could match them. Some called the stories exaggerated; others claimed the imperial house had deliberately inflated them. A few, however, knew every word was true.
And among those few stood Priscilla herself.
The ones who gave Grandfather his first—and final—defeat.
In the days when the Empire’s wars of conquest were at their height, her grandfather had been a famous swordsman of dazzling speed, a powerhouse whose name always appeared when the Empire’s greatest were listed. The number of masters he had felled ran into double digits. Despite being a bastard of a minor house, he had founded a proper family of his own. Yet even that peerless swordsman had failed to break the monsters of the north.
“Grandfather…”
Barely three years old at the time, Priscilla had wailed without restraint. That the man she idolized—the strongest being she knew—had been defeated filled her with grief and fury. When he returned looking so haggard, she cried as though the world itself had ended.
Her grandfather had only laughed softly.
“It’s all right, little one. Don’t cry. I feel lighter, if anything. Yes—this old man feels wonderfully unburdened.”
Unburdened. Priscilla had thought it mere comfort meant for her ears. How could a swordsman feel anything but shame after defeat? Already tongues were wagging that he had lost to northern barbarians. She had pitied him desperately.
Yet he never regarded the loss as humiliation or grudge. He only burned with the desire to cross blades again someday if chance allowed. Even under pointing fingers and open mockery he stood tall. After the northern house entered the Empire and took the name John Nassen, however, age and illness stole his chance for a rematch. Only recently had the illness eased enough for him to take up a sword again.
Why did Grandfather look so relieved? What kind of battle could make a man that strong accept defeat so readily and step aside?
Years passed. She grew, gained wisdom, and became a fine swordsman in her grandfather’s image—yet the question never left her. Had he meant that one should not cling to victory or defeat but treasure the process itself? Or had he, though defeated by John Nassen, received some great teaching in the clash?
She could have asked him and settled the matter at once. She never did. Finding the answer herself, she believed, was the true way to follow in his footsteps. With that resolve she trained and trained until she rose to command the knight order—and even claimed a seat among the Imperial 10 Strongest, a height her grandfather himself had never reached.
It was a glory beyond measure, yet Priscilla still felt herself lacking. Had she truly surpassed him? And if so, what was this lingering emptiness?
She carried those doubts for a full year as commander. At last the chance to face someone of John Nassen stood before her.
“I humbly entreat you, Your Eminence.”
“Nothing difficult about it, Commander Priscilla. Still—unexpected. I never thought you cared for contests with the strong. You have never struck me as ambitious for renown.”
“It is not that I wish to defeat John Nassen. There is simply something I must confirm. If I can confirm it, I believe I may reach a higher realm.”
Though she numbered among the Imperial 10 Strongest, Priscilla remained a holy knight of the Church. Greater strength for her meant greater strength for the Church. Cardinal Paulus could hardly ignore the prospect of her ascending further. He promised to send word the moment the John Nassen guest arrived—on the strict condition that any clash remain strictly controlled. Injury to the guest would be a disaster; injury to Priscilla herself would be no less so. As the man responsible for the Church’s internal affairs, the cardinal’s caution was only natural.
And now the day had come.
“Commander. The Saintess has arrived.”
Upon the report Priscilla rose from her meditative seat. She bathed thoroughly, purifying body and spirit alike. This was a direct descendant of John Nassen—the bloodline that had bested the grandfather she so revered. To meet such a person with anything less than full respect would be an insult both to John Nassen and to her grandfather’s memory.
When her preparations were complete, she set out.
“Your Eminence. Commander of the Holy Elffleda Knights.”
“Enter, Commander.”
Commander of the Holy Elffleda Knights? That was another piece of lore Kyle had never heard of.
Wait—wasn’t this supposed to be an academy story? There was Church internal politics too?!
He swallowed a silent scream and carefully read the room. Cardinal Paulus showed no surprise at the sudden visitor; that meant the cardinal had known of the visit in advance—or had arranged it himself.
“Your Eminence? Why has the Commander come so suddenly?”
Unlike the cardinal’s calm, the Saintess looked thoroughly puzzled. Kyle nodded inwardly. The knight commander’s appearance had been orchestrated without the Saintess’s knowledge.
“Your Eminence. Saintess.”
The woman who entered first offered formal greetings to both Cardinal Paulus and the Saintess. Then her gaze locked squarely with Kyle’s.
This woman…
This youth…
The exchange lasted only a few seconds. In that brief span both finished their assessment.
Strong.
Incredibly strong.
As if on cue, Cardinal Paulus stepped smoothly between them.
“Brother Kyle. This is Commander Priscilla Franz of the Holy Elffleda Knights—one of the three swords of our Church. She is also one of the Imperial 10 Strongest whose name resounds throughout the Empire.”
Imperial 10 Strongest. No wonder her presence felt almost identical to Yulika’s. Dense, battle-hardened muscle sat in every line of her frame. At a glance she looked merely like a healthy, radiant beauty; in truth she was a finely tuned combat machine.
Introductions complete, it was time for courtesy.
“A pleasure to meet you, Commander Priscilla. I am Kyle of John Nassen.”
“Welcome to the Church, Brother Kyle.”
Their hands met in a firm clasp. In that pressure both confirmed once more the other’s strength.
“Brother Kyle.”
At the cardinal’s call Kyle released her hand and turned.
“I mentioned earlier that I hoped you might spare a little time for someone within our Church.”
“You did.”
Cardinal Paulus indicated Priscilla.
“That someone is the Commander here.”
“For the knight commander…?”
“Yes. She has expressed a desire to share a brief exchange with you.”
“I see…”
An Imperial 10 Strongest would hardly invite someone merely to sit and chat. And the other party was no ordinary noble scion but a son of John Nassen. Kyle already had a fair idea what the lady knight intended.
“Saintess. I know he is your guest, yet I must commit an unavoidable discourtesy.”
“Discourtesy? Commander, what on earth—?”
“As a swordsman, I wish to learn how far my skill truly reaches. Only once. I beg you to understand just this once.”
The Saintess’s eyes widened in comprehension. She began to protest—“You cannot treat a guest that way!”—but one look into Priscilla’s eyes made her bite her lip. Acquainted as she was with the Fifth Princess Yulika, she understood the hearts of the strong all too well: when a true power stood before them, they could not rest without testing blades.
“…Just don’t wear him out too badly. He is my guest.”
“I shall keep that firmly in mind.”
Priscilla bowed once more to the Saintess, then turned fully toward Kyle and spoke with solemn gravity.
“Brother Kyle of the John Nassen barony. If it is at all possible… would you grant me a single bout?”
“Sure.”
“I realize it is an improper request toward a guest, yet—pardon?”
“I said let’s do it. Just as you wish, Commander. We’ll have a light spar.”
Only recently a certain princess had barged in and thrown punches without so much as a greeting. By comparison the Church was positively civilized. At least they issued a formal challenge first. How thoughtful of them.
And besides—she’s the first truly healthy-looking person I’ve met since arriving at the Church.
Just how strong was the sword of the Church? The will of John Nassen blazed once more in Kyle’s chest.