The Blood Cult Leader Does Not Fight Alone
The sealed training arena, located within the inner walls of the Hartvalt Grand Duke's Castle.
This place was utterly silent.
It bore no resemblance whatsoever to the open circular arena where hundreds of knights and soldiers had surrounded him just yesterday.
There was no seating worthy of the name "audience."
A few chairs placed on the elevated bench.
A handful of knights waiting on one side of the arena.
'That's all there is to it.'
The only people present were the current Grand Duke, Rodrik Hartvalt.
The former Grand Duke, Balgrim Hartvalt.
Graham Berk, serving as judge.
And a few knights who would challenge Kyle today.
Not even Grand Duchess Enora, nor the sight of Leon still receiving treatment for his injuries, could be seen.
Kyle stood at the center of the arena, his gaze flicking toward the heavy iron gate that stood firmly shut.
'A halfhearted little scheme.'
It wasn't difficult to figure out what had happened.
Rodrik had used his hand.
Yesterday's duels had been witnessed by too many eyes.
Roman had fallen.
Barren had died.
Leon's arm had been severed.
The result was that the knights feared Kyle, and Rodrik wanted to prevent that fear from evolving into reverence.
'You don't want to keep showing people the sight of me winning, do you.'
Kyle smirked.
Reduce the audience.
Block the spread of rumors.
Cut off the scenes of victory.
It was a plausible scheme—but Kyle didn't particularly care either way.
Whether there were spectators or not, the purpose of growing stronger never changed.
'The moment you possess overwhelming power, nothing else matters.'
People were drawn to strength.
Especially in the north, the overwhelming strongest meant order itself.
"Next."
Kyle dropped the tip of his sword to the ground with a tok.
Two mid-level knights were already sprawled on the arena floor.
One was groaning with a deep gash across his thigh.
The other had his jaw crushed and was unconscious.
"Kreh…ugh…"
"Ugh…"
It was a wretched sight.
They had attacked together, and still ended up like this.
Rodrik's face on the bench had gone rigid with coldness.
'His movements have improved since yesterday.'
Rodrik was a martial artist.
His eyes hadn't rotted to the point where he couldn't even detect that degree of change.
Yesterday's Kyle had been rough around the edges.
His senses were sharp, but his body hadn't fully caught up yet.
But today was different.
His sword arcs were shorter.
His footwork was lighter.
The flow connecting his upper and lower body was far smoother than yesterday.
It was change that was hard to attribute to a single night.
"Hoh."
Balgrim chuckled lowly.
Interest flickered in his eyes as he stroked his beard.
Graham, meanwhile, said nothing, watching Kyle with his gaze fixed on the tip of the sword.
But what he was observing wasn't simple swordsmanship.
From his breathing to the smallest movements, everything was being measured.
Kyle let out a short breath.
"Huu."
He hadn't taken any wounds, but the experience of fighting two opponents was now etched into his body.
Kyle rotated the sword lightly in his hand.
'The more people you cut down, the better it feels.'
The sensations he had been familiar with in his past life were slowly returning.
Yet the two knights he had just felled were disappointing enough to warrant notice.
Mid-level knights were far too weak relative to their station.
'The framework of their swordsmanship isn't entirely absent.'
The basics were there.
Their aura management wasn't a complete mess.
They knew how to hold a sword and how to move their feet.
The problem was that all of it had been polished far too neatly for show.
Wide, sweeping sword arcs.
Exaggerated movements that scattered blue aura.
Poses designed to draw gasps from onlookers rather than sever an opponent's neck.
Swordsmanship that prioritized appearance over practicality.
The characteristics of romance-fantasy knights were the same as always.
Swing big, and your armpit opens up.
Leap dramatically, and your center of gravity shifts on landing.
Flourish your aura extravagantly, and you burn through your inner energy all the faster.
Blood Cult martial artists would have found more than enough openings in those flaws.
'Advertising your weak points that blatantly, huh.'
Kyle exploited that opening.
He twisted joints, struck vital points, and collapsed their sword forms.
The result was the two men now lying on the ground.
If they had possessed practical, real-world swordsmanship, their combined assault would have left Kyle's body in no better shape than it was now.
"What are you waiting for."
Kyle glanced toward the waiting bench.
"I said the next one should come out."
The third knight flinched.
His face had already turned the color of a bruise.
He had watched, with his own eyes, what state his two colleagues had been left in.
He rose from his seat.
But his footsteps were heavy.
Clang.
His fingers trembled where they touched the scabbard.
Kyle smirked at the sight.
"Why?"
His green irises, glowing with a crimson aura, fixed on the knight.
"Didn't you come to cut me down too?"
The knight, pinned by those blood-red eyes, couldn't speak.
Kyle's lips twisted further.
"You came here to chop off my arms and legs, didn't you."
"…"
"So why are you the one trembling?"
The knight's face twisted.
Fear, shame, and humiliation tangled together, clouding his reason.
"Uraaaaah!"
The knight let out a beastly roar and charged.
Blue aura rippled along the blade.
He gripped the sword with both hands and swung it straight at Kyle.
The force was real.
But it was too honest.
Kyle didn't dodge.
He twisted his torso at an angle.
The blade's edge grazed his clothes and passed by.
In that instant, Kyle stepped forward one step.
Thwack!
The pommel of the sword struck the knight's solar plexus.
"Hah—!"
The knight's eyes bulged.
His body locked up, apparently gasping for breath.
Kyle kicked the back of his calf without hesitation.
And when the knight's balance collapsed, he struck his jaw.
Thwack!
The knight's body toppled backward.
Crash!
The third duel didn't last long either.
Kyle looked down at the fallen knight.
"You couldn't even draw blood from me."
Cold. Dry. As though he didn't consider the man worth getting angry over.
"What kind of mentality is it that makes you think you can cut anyone down like this?"
Silence fell over the arena.
Rodrik's fists tightened.
Balgrim still wore an expression of interest.
Graham's gaze had grown deeper.
Then—
The dark-haired beauty with the captivating features, whose very presence made one think of the phrase an empire-toppling beauty, stepped forward from one side of the arena.
Rayna Garo'en.
Kyle turned his head to look at her.
Rayna glanced once over the fallen knights.
Then she looked directly at Kyle.
"Your Grace."
"Hm?"
"Do you only accept challenges that become spectacles like this?"
It was a cold question.
Kyle's eyes narrowed.
Spectacle.
That word struck at the essence of this arena.
Rodrik had sealed the arena to hide Kyle's victories.
The knights had challenged out of anger and pride.
Kyle had cut them down, proving his danger.
In the end, all of it was a stage meant to be seen by someone.
What Rayna wanted was not that kind of stage.
She had no interest in the political purposes of this gathering.
What she wanted was one thing.
To be a knight.
A martial artist who wields a sword.
To fight to the end without anyone's interference.
Kyle read her intent and laughed lowly.
"A spectacle, huh."
He shook his head.
"I don't care where."
And he immediately looked toward the bench.
"Grandfather."
Balgrim's eyes flashed.
"Speak."
"Tomorrow, I will fight that woman."
Kyle jerked his chin toward Rayna.
"No audience needed. Just the judge. Set it up so that no one can interfere—just the two of us.""
Rayna's eyes trembled for the first time.
She looked at Kyle.
She realized he had understood the very intention she had turned around and stated.
But it wasn't just that.
He had gone directly to Balgrim and demanded that stage.
This pathetic wretch who had mocked and humiliated her.
The ugly man who had trampled her under the shield of the Grand Duke's bloodline.
And yet he was the first to recognize her wish.
That fact left Rayna momentarily silent.
Balgrim stroked his beard.
"Kruhuhuhu."
A savage grin spread across his lips.
"So you want to fight to the end, somewhere with no outside interference."
Balgrim's gaze turned to Rayna.
Rayna did not look away.
"Very well."
Balgrim nodded.
"Do as you say."
Then his gaze swept past Rodrik.
It was a brief look.
But it carried unmistakable mockery.
Eyes that said: your pitiful little control ends right here.
Rodrik's brow furrowed.
He looked at Rayna.
The north's most beautiful woman.
A genius who had proven mid-level knight-class strength with a woman's body.
Yet to Rodrik, Rayna was nothing more than a knight.
A woman fit to stand by Karon's side.
If Karon didn't want her, she could be given to Leon as a reward.
That was all she was.
If that woman fought Kyle alone to the end—
Scars might remain on her face.
Her body might be broken.
She might suffer irreversible injuries.
'Damn it. A gift for my sons.'
Disgust flickered through Rodrik's eyes.
Kyle didn't miss it.
'Disgusting little bastard.'
The man who had lived as the Blood Cult Leader had seen countless such intentions.
Reading Rodrik's true feelings was no difficult task.
Rodrik's gaze wasn't that of a lord worrying about a knight's injuries.
It was the look of a man fretting that a well-maintained object might get scratched.
Eyes anxiously watching over a gift meant for his sons.
Kyle recalled the flow of the original story in that moment.
In the original, Rayna Garo'en barely appeared after the early chapters.
'Now I understand why.'
She hadn't died.
It wasn't a lack of skill.
No matter how many feats she accomplished, she was excluded simply because she was a woman.
Rather than being recognized as a knight, she was treated as an ornament to be placed beside someone.
There was no way Rayna could have endured that treatment to the end.
'If she couldn't remain a knight, she would have been better off leaving.'
Kyle looked at Rayna again.
Whether she hated him or not didn't matter.
Hatred was fine.
But at the very least, he liked those eyes.
She didn't want a spectacle.
She wanted a fight.
A stage where, without anyone's interference, they would cut each other down with everything they had.
As a martial artist, there was no reason to refuse that.
"Oi."
Kyle slung the bloodstained sword over his shoulder.
"If it's just the two of us, there'll be no one to separate us. That judge over there doesn't look like the type to step in, either."
Rayna watched him in silence.
Kyle smiled.
"You might end up pretty banged up. A scar might remain on that pretty face of yours."
It was a provocation.
A way of saying: if you're going to give up, do it now.
But Rayna did not step back.
"It doesn't matter."
Cold. Unwavering.
"And Your Grace might end up pretty banged up yourself."
Her hand rested on the grip of her sword.
"Who knows what part of the body I might accidentally cut off."
Her eyes held the gaze of someone who feared death not at all.
Kyle looked at those eyes and smiled.
'Good.'
This was nothing like the knights he had felled today.
There was no knight's gaze in those eyes that pursued style.
He saw the resolve and determination to prove herself with the sword.
The will to cut him down, no matter what.
'With a bit more refinement…'
A dark smile tugged at Kyle's lips.
'I could shape her into a Blood Cult martial artist.'
In the old days, the Blood Cult Leader was meant to have Blood Cult subordinates.
'Fine. I'll make you a Blood Cult elder.'
