An Unfortunate Accident
The moment those words were spoken, every gaze in the training arena turned at once toward the high seats. More precisely, toward Leon Hartvalt, the third son, who sat on one side of the high seats. Leon clamped his trembling lips shut tight. He had been glaring at Kyle with nothing but resentment and disgust moments ago—far too blatant for the occasion.
Graham Berk asked quietly, "What is it that displeases you so?"
The air in the training arena turned frigid. Leon couldn't answer right away. His eyes drifted aimlessly, unsure of where to land.
Kyle, standing in the center of the arena, looked up at that wretched display and curved his lips into a thin smile.
'As expected. The old tiger still has its teeth.'
Kyle had no trouble guessing Graham's intention. Graham Berk. A true-blooded knight who had lived through the era of Balgrim. A knight from the age when the north was buried under blizzards and monster blood. An old veteran who had carved through battlefields with the sword of the former Grand Duke. There was no way a man like that could look favorably upon the current Grand Duke's heir.
Rodrik's soft politics that cared only for face. The knights whose loyalties openly revolved around Karon. The young knights who wrapped the rot of the family's discipline in words of honor and loyalty. And Leon, who took it all for granted. All of it must have looked to Graham like signs of the family decaying.
'That old fool doesn't actually like me. This isn't affection—it's curiosity.'
Kyle idly swung his blood-stained sword.
What Graham harbored was not goodwill. It was curiosity. Could this wretched eldest son truly keep proving himself? Were his cruel words and savage actions mere bravado, or did he possess the strength to shake the rotten foundations of the Hartvalt family? Graham wanted to find out. And the one who had drawn his ire was Leon—the third son who was displeased that a traitor had been executed as the next sacrifice in that very trial.
Leon was sixteen this year. Two years younger than Karon, and four years younger than Kyle. But he knew enough for his age. When Graham was about to speak again—
"How rude."
A heavy voice dropped from the center of the high seats. It was Balgrim Hartvalt. The moment those words fell, Graham immediately bowed his head.
"I apologize, my lord."
Graham's lord was not the current Grand Duke Rodrik. It was still Balgrim, the former Grand Duke. He had already stepped down from active duty, a retired elder knight. He no longer received the salary of an active Hartvalt family knight. He was a retired warrior living off the land and a modest pension earned through past deeds. In essence, he was still Balgrim's sword. An old knight whose oath of loyalty from the past had never been revoked.
That was why men like Barren Kreuz must have been utterly repulsive to Graham—eating the Hartvalt family's rust, wearing its uniform, carrying its authority on their backs, only to pledge loyalty to the second son in the middle of the arena. Traitors. And Leon, a direct descendant of the Hartvalt family, had shown displeasure at the execution of such traitors.
Graham had been trying to pin down the fact that the family's discipline was being undermined by the Grand Duke's own third son.
'Phew. Thank god.'
Leon let out a brief breath of relief at Balgrim's scolding, mistakenly believing his grandfather was shielding him from Graham.
But that was a misunderstanding.
"Leon."
Tiger-like eyes looked down upon him.
"It seems you have quite a grievance against your eldest brother."
"What?" Leon's shoulders went rigid.
"Well then." The corner of Balgrim's mouth curled upward.
"Get down there too."
The training arena stirred again. Leon sucked in a sharp breath.
"What? Grandfather, what do you mean—!"
Kyle had already felled both Roman and Barren. Bloodstains marked his left arm and side. His uniform was soaked through with crimson. Having fought two duels, his stamina had certainly been drained. But Leon reasoned that if he relied purely on swordsmanship, he still had a chance. Yet at the same time, fear had seized his ankles. The way Kyle fought was not noble swordsmanship.
'What if that madman charges at me to bite my throat?! What other insane thing will that lunatic pull?'
Leon felt the terror that the lunatic might actually tear him apart. In the end, he came up with an excuse.
"I—I have no intention of fighting an injured man! That is an act unworthy of a knight!"
It was a hastily invented justification, recalling how Barren had challenged the wounded Kyle to a duel only to be mocked.
Balgrim snorted. "Kyle."
He gestured with his hand.
"That boy is making excuses. Have the divine healers treat him, then face him."
Kyle shrugged. "I could manage fine in this state, but."
His blood-red eyes pierced through Leon.
"So he says he can't possibly fight an injured man bleeding all over the place. Then he should be eager to get treated, shouldn't he?"
Divine healers rushed onto the arena. Holy light seeped over Kyle's wounds. The flesh of his deeply slashed left arm knitted back together. The bleeding from his side stopped. But that was only surface treatment. The stamina drained from fighting both Roman and Barren. The internal injuries. None of it could be undone in a single instant.
Yet Kyle's face showed no unease.
Once the treatment was finished, Balgrim looked at Leon again.
"Now then. The excuse of being an injured man is gone."
Leon's face went blank as parchment. He tried to come up with another excuse, but Balgrim's expression gave no room for it.
Rodrik sensed the situation spiraling toward catastrophe. He rose from his seat, trying to protect his youngest son.
"Father. Today's bouts have already caused enough bloodshed with two incidents—"
But Balgrim's voice cut him off.
"Leon."
Balgrim didn't even look at Rodrik. He gazed only at Leon.
"Do you think everything your eldest brother just said in this arena was correct?"
Rodrik clamped his mouth shut. Leon couldn't answer either.
In Leon's mind, Kyle was always trash to be disposed of. A useless madman blocking the path of his beloved older brother Karon. A bastard half-brother at best. He could never acknowledge such a person as right.
But if he said no—if he denied it right now—he would have to go down there immediately and prove it with his sword.
Leon could only sputter, unable to force a single word out.
Balgrim's gaze turned ice-cold.
"A disgraceful wretch."
With those words, Leon's face twisted in humiliation.
"If you think your eldest brother is wrong, then get down there right now and prove it."
The air in the arena froze heavy and still.
"If you're too cowardly to do even that, then you have no right to carry the Hartvalt blood in your veins. You're nothing but a stray."
Leon swallowed hard. Balgrim's voice dropped even lower.
"If you don't get down there right now, I'll cut off your arm myself."
"Wh—Grandfather!" Leon's eyes trembled. Rodrik was also thrown into panic, unsure what to do.
"Or." A killing intent flashed in Balgrim's eyes.
"I'll erase your name from the Hartvalt family registry."
That was not mere intimidation. Balgrim was a man who could genuinely do it.
'Damn it!'
Leon realized he had nowhere left to retreat. "I was going to go down and fight even without being told to!" He forced his trembling legs into motion, strutting down from the high seats with what little bravado he had left. Thud. Thud. Descending the short steps toward the arena, Leon desperately coached himself.
'Right. Kyle. That guy did get treated, but he hasn't fully recovered. His stamina must be completely drained. He fought twice already.'
I have a chance. I'm a direct descendant of the Hartvalt family. I've trained in swordsmanship since childhood. I'm different from that madman Kyle. Above all, a plan had taken root in Leon's mind.
'I'll go for his right arm.'
He'd slash Kyle's right arm so deeply that even divine healers couldn't fully restore it. If he could cripple Kyle, it would help his brother Karon too. He'd buy time to prepare before Kyle recovered.
Leon stood in the center of the arena, clutching his plan—dishonorable as it was. Kyle looked up at his younger brother gripping the sword hilt with a pale face and smiled lazily.
"Came, did you, little brother."
'Who's your little brother. You wretched madman!'
Instead of answering, Leon irritably drew his sword. Then Graham slowly descended to the center of the arena. Following Balgrim's instructions, the elder knight who had been serving as judge withdrew, and Graham Berk took his place as the new judge. Graham regarded the two men in turn.
"The rules of the duel remain the same as before."
Direct killing blows are forbidden. The duel ends immediately if one party loses consciousness or declares surrender. All other injuries are considered legitimate parts of the duel. While Graham explained the rules, Leon's gaze was fixed unyieldingly on Kyle's right arm—the one holding the sword.
Kyle noticed that brazen stare and let out a quiet chuckle.
"Your eyes are awfully honest."
Leon's lips tightened.
"Do you want my arm that badly?"
Leon didn't answer. He only poured more force into the hand gripping his sword, thinking solely of how he would cut off Kyle's right arm.
Graham slowly raised one hand.
"Begin."
The moment that declaration fell, Rodrik's eyes snapped wide open from the high seats. His trained eyes had caught something far from ordinary. He sensed instinctively that something irreversible had gone wrong. Rodrik shot to his feet.
"Stop!"
His desperate cry tore through the arena. But it was already too late.
Thwack!
Kyle stomped the ground the instant the duel began. No probing. No feinting, no creating an opening by letting the opponent's sword slip. 'Finish this before he can react!' Blood-red aura erupted viciously along his blade. Leon intended to go for Kyle's right arm as planned. But Kyle was faster.
Whoosh—!
A sound of cutting wind split the air. Then a crimson flash passed through. Snick. A chilling severing sound carved the empty air. Leon's right arm—the one gripping his sword—lifted into the sky. From below the elbow, Leon's right arm, sliced clean off, spun through the air trailing blood and clattered to the ground.
Spurt—!
Blood erupted from the severed stump. "Huh?" For a moment, Leon couldn't comprehend what had happened to him. The emptiness where his right arm had been. His own hand and sword, writhing on the ground. And then, belatedly, the sight of blood spurting from the severed end. "AAAGH!"
A piercing scream tore through the arena. Leon collapsed to the ground, clutching the stump with his remaining hand, writhing in agony. Shock rippled through the entire arena.
"Leon!" Grand Duchess Enora shrieked, leaping from her seat. Rodrik's face drained of all color. Amidst that father-son tragedy, Kyle calmly brushed the blood from his sword.
Thud.
A drop of blood landed on the sand.
"My, my."
Kyle looked down at his younger brother writhing on the ground and the severed arm lying on the floor with a perfectly composed expression, tilting his head.
"What an unfortunate accident. You okay, little brother? Does it hurt much?"
"AAAGH—!"
Leon couldn't answer Kyle's words. He just kept screaming.
Rodrik trembled with rage. "Kyle! You damn—!"
A father's roar, spat out like vomiting blood. But Kyle didn't even flinch.
"The declaration to begin the duel was clearly made."
Kyle stepped on the spreading pool of Leon's blood with his boot. Thud. Thud.
"And as you can see, I had just been treated for my injuries. My stamina was depleted, and I'd already fought twice before."
The corner of his mouth curled up coldly.
"If I was going to win against a fresh opponent in that state, I had no choice but to gather all my remaining strength into a single blow, didn't I?"
Kyle spoke as if he really had no other option.
"It was a desperate struggle for survival."
He smiled.
"If it had missed, I would've been the one who lost."
Kyle's gaze swept over the severed arm and sword lying on the ground.
"Truly unfortunate. What a terrible accident."
No one would believe that excuse. The entire arena froze in fear and shock. Someone was about to speak—
"KuhahahahaHAHAHA!"
A thunderous laugh erupted from the high seats. It was Balgrim. He was pounding the armrest of his chair, roaring with laughter.
"That's right! An unfortunate accident! Yes, exactly!"
Balgrim's laughter shook the entire arena. He was laughing hard enough to carry his aura with him—deliberately so.
"The duel began fairly, and that boy Kyle poured his very life into moving to win. All that resulted was one weakling's arm flying off!"
Balgrim laughed satisfiedly at Kyle. "Just as you said—truly an unfortunate accident, isn't it!"
Kyle watched that Balgrim and thought, 'As expected, Grandfather…he's got the Blood Cult Leader's temperament. People who grow up in harsh places all end up the same, I suppose.'
On the other hand, he wondered whether people who grew up in peaceful places all turned out the same.