The Weight of the Blade
"Today's duels are over."
Rodrik's voice pressed down heavily on the training arena. He was grinding his teeth in fury, but forced himself to suppress the emotion. It wasn't the right moment to stir up more trouble here.
"What are you doing? Move quickly, stop the bleeding on Leon, retrieve his severed arm, and bring him to the infirmary at once!"
Rodrik barked the order like a thunderclap. Only then did the frozen divine healers and knights begin to scramble into urgent motion.
"Uwaahhh! Father! My arm…!"
"Your Highness, please don't move!"
"We'll tend to the bleeding first, Your Highness!"
Leon screamed from where he crouched on the ground. Holy power radiated from the healers onto the gash. The severed arm was swiftly recovered and preserved through magical means.
Reattaching the arm wasn't impossible. But the problem came after that. Even if you set the bone, reattach the flesh, and reconnect the blood vessels, it would take a long time before he could grip a sword properly again. Significant rest, recovery, and rehabilitation. It wasn't something that could be done in a single afternoon.
As Leon was carried away on a stretcher, silence fell over the training arena.
Even the knights who had been pouring open contempt at Kyle moments ago were now quiet. Their gazes drifted once more to the center of the arena—to Kyle.
A blood-stained blade. A uniform soaked crimson. Eyes that hadn't wavered, even in pain, after three duels.
Not long ago, the knights had looked down on Kyle. A scoundrel who'd only won through dirty tricks. That was all they'd thought of him.
But now, it was different.
Tired and wounded. And yet from the very start of his duel against Leon—a man of considerable strength—he'd sliced off the arm.
It wasn't luck. It was dangerous. His skill was not to be underestimated.
That much, they could no longer deny.
'The way they look at me has changed.'
Kyle lazily swept his gaze across the knights. Contempt for him still lingered in their eyes. Hatred remained.
But something else had mixed in.
'Vigilance. And fear.'
Rodrik had read it too.
'This won't do.'
Rodrik's gaze turned glacial. The knight brigade had always leaned toward Karon. A bastard like the eldest son was nothing but trash that needed sweeping out. But now it was different. Fear led to a shift in perception. Especially in the north, where strength was what mattered most. Right now, they feared while they despised. But given time…
'That fear could turn to reverence.'
That was dangerous. Dangerously so.
Rodrik glanced sideways at Enora, who sat beside him. She too watched pale-faced as Leon was carried away. Neither of them spoke. There was no need to confirm they were thinking the same thing.
They needed to find a way.
"I'll go check on Leon's condition first."
Rodrik spoke curtly and turned his body. Enora hurried after him, wiping her tears.
"Hmph."
Balgrim let out a snort at the pair but didn't bother stopping them.
Kyle, meanwhile, brushed the blood from his blade and turned away.
"I suppose I ought to rest too."
He murmured lazily.
"Today was quite entertaining, so I'm looking forward to tomorrow. Please—try to challenge me as much as you can."
Thus, each carrying their own intentions, the people dispersed from the training arena.
"……."
Rayna stood silently, watching the spot where Kyle had been.
In his quarters, Kyle shed his blood-soaked outer garment and tossed it aside. Thanks to the divine healer's treatment, the external wounds had mostly closed. But something remained. Accumulated fatigue. Heavier muscles. A dull, deep ache lodged somewhere inside.
'Naturally.'
Roman. Barren. And Leon. Three consecutive duels. No matter how much Blood God's Power he possessed, the body's exhaustion didn't vanish instantly.
"Haa…"
Kyle sat on the edge of his bed and let out a short breath.
'Still, I've grown quite a bit.'
The first day had been especially efficient. He was looking forward to what a month would bring.
Then —
SLAM —
The door burst open, and a massive shadow entered without so much as a knock.
It was former Grand Duke Balgrim Hartvalt.
Kyle glanced up at him.
"I didn't expect you to come in person, Grandfather."
"Do you think there are places I can't reach?"
Balgrim dropped into a chair with the rough, unceremonious motion that matched his enormous frame. His predatory eyes swept over Kyle.
"Better than I expected."
A brief assessment. But it was praise.
Kyle smirked.
"Is that so."
Balgrim's gaze turned cold.
"But that doesn't mean you've passed."
The air in the room thickened in an instant.
"Don't mistake my speaking up for you today in the arena as me taking your side."
A clear line drawn.
Yet Kyle shrugged instead.
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"Oh?"
"The deadline hasn't even passed yet. Do I look stupid enough to think I've already passed on the very first day?"
Kyle lazily crossed his legs.
"If anything, it's you who's the strange one, Grandfather."
Balgrim's eyebrow twitched.
"What do you mean?"
"The deadline still remains. I haven't finished my proof yet."
Kyle twisted the corner of his mouth.
"And yet you came all the way here on the very first day just to issue a warning."
His green eyes met Balgrim's stare directly.
"Isn't that a waste of concern?"
A brief silence settled.
Then —
"Kkhkhkh."
Balgrim let out a low laugh. The sound grew a little louder.
"So I was worrying for nothing, then."
"Yes. You were worrying for nothing."
Kyle answered without hesitation.
Balgrim seemed pleased with the response and stroked his beard.
Kyle watched him for a moment, then said flatly:
"And one more thing."
"Speak."
"It seems Grandfather wants something from me."
Balgrim's hand paused for a moment.
Kyle smirked.
"You don't need to tell me what it is right now."
He leaned back and added:
"I'll tell you after I finish my proof."
Silence settled again in the room.
Balgrim regarded Kyle quietly for a long while. His gaze was different now. He was measuring, weighing.
Yet a flicker of expectation showed through.
"Not bad, in terms of perception."
Balgrim didn't deny it.
"Fine. I'll keep watching."
Leaving those words behind, he rose from his seat. And just as he'd entered—with heavy, decisive steps—he strode out of the room.
Only after the door closed did the silence return.
Kyle recalled that retreating figure and smirked.
"Keep watching, he says."
Grandfather and grandson. Bound by blood, yet there was nothing resembling affection between them. It was odd—the absence was almost unnatural.
But Kyle thought he knew.
What Balgrim was feeling right now.
'It must feel like spotting hope in the depths of despair.'
Balgrim's own children had never satisfied him. Rodrik was no exception. Strong, yes. Not weak. But in Balgrim's eyes, Rodrik was never a true founder. Merely an inheritor. Someone who'd climbed atop something that was already built.
Karon and Leon would be no different.
'Grandfather is old now.'
Balgrim was aging. There was no fixing that permanently. Ten years from now. Twenty. He wouldn't be able to grip this northern territory in his own hands anymore.
Which meant he must have been all the more despairing. The family he'd built with his own blood. The fact that it was flowing in the opposite direction from everything he'd taught, believed, and fought for.
'If every generation down to the grandchildren has rotted…'
Kyle closed his eyes.
'He probably would have given up cleanly.'
The martial world was the same. The founders of great sects. The patriarchs of the five great houses. The founding heroes of the empire. They had all started from nothing. Seized through blood and sacrifice. But as generations passed, they corroded. They forgot the weight of what they'd inherited and spoke only of how special they were. Never asking how their status had been born. Learning first how to flaunt rank and face.
Kyle had watched countless such lineages crumble.
'The Blood Cult was a bit different.'
In his past life, the Blood Cult had taken an extreme approach to prevent exactly that. The position of Blood Cult Leader was not inherited by blood. It was determined by strength. Every five years, a public challenge was held. Anyone who coveted the leader's seat could challenge the current leader. And the defeated leader… died.
The new Blood Cult Leader left no possibility of resurrection. They confirmed the kill. It was brutal. But it was certain.
That was why, in his era as Blood Cult Leader, Kyle had had to be stronger than anyone. One moment of carelessness meant death. You became strong in order to survive. That simple principle was what kept the Blood Cult from rotting.
Kyle looked down at his own palm.
"In the end, they're all the same."
Power began to decay the moment it was inherited. Only those who seized it with their own hands and fought to protect it could bear its weight. The Northern Grand Duke's household was no exception. The difference was that because this was a romance fantasy, it was rotting away within a single generation.
In the Grand Duke's Castle infirmary—
"Leon…! My son…! Ahhh!"
Enora's wailing filled the room. On the bed lay Leon, his face deathly pale. The severed right arm had been reattached by the hands of high-ranking divine healers, but that wasn't the end of it. The arm was attached, but it wouldn't move like before anytime soon. A long and grueling recovery lay ahead. It would take considerable time before he could grip a sword again.
Enora wept as she kept vigil beside Leon.
Rodrik stood by the bed, his fists trembling.
"How dare…"
Anger boiled in his eyes.
"How dare they touch my son…"
It was hatred aimed at Kyle. The brother who'd severed his sibling's arm. That single fact filled every corner of Rodrik's mind.
Rodrik knew Leon had been the one who reached for Kyle's arm first. But such trivialities didn't matter. Not to Rodrik, at least.
He ground his teeth and muttered lowly:
"That damn bastard…! How could he do that to his own brother…"
Enora couldn't answer. She could only sob.
But Rodrik's fury wasn't aimed at Kyle alone.
Balgrim. His father, the former Grand Duke. The moment that old man's name crossed his mind, Rodrik's face twisted further.
Today in the arena, Balgrim had openly taken Kyle's side. He'd trampled his own dignity as the reigning Grand Duke to defend Kyle. He'd laughed at every exchange. He'd accepted Kyle's provocation. He'd brushed off Leon's severed arm as a "regrettable accident." And he'd publicly humiliated Rodrik, telling him he wasn't even as capable as Kyle.
'If he'd stepped down from the Grand Duke's seat…'
Rodrik's fists clenched tighter.
'He should have stayed gone.'
Why. Why did he keep acting. Why did he keep behaving as though he still owned the Hartvalt name.
Deep inside Rodrik's chest, emotions he'd been suppressing for a long time began to stir again. It started with resentment and inferiority. Then came anger. And finally, hatred adorned the end.
Under the shadow of the former Grand Duke, he was still not the complete master.
Rodrik looked down at Leon on the bed.
And he gritted his teeth.
Kyle. Balgrim. Son and father. Both were thorns in his side. Their very existence was shaking his authority.