Chapter 98
Chapter 98
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 98
Chapter Title: Defeating the Silver Knight
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Philador Kingdom's greatest knight, Mikhail Shen.
His armor gleamed spotless at all times, without a single blemish, and his sword was forged from mithril, known as true silver.
His every action and word carried dignity, and he possessed an unshakable composure that never faltered, no matter the circumstances.
That was why he was hailed as the knight of knights, bearing the honorable moniker of the Silver Knight.
But right now, the dazzling armor that symbolized him was dented and battered in places.
Paak!
"Ugh!"
He crossed both arms to block a knee flying straight at him, and his elbow guard crumpled once more, losing its shape entirely.
No, it wasn't just the guard's elegance that was lost. Mikhail's twisted expression revealed that his once-unwavering composure had crumbled.
"What's wrong, Sir Mikhail? Didn't you say you would take my life?"
The young man who had driven his knee into Mikhail's arms, then flipped backward through the air to land gracefully, asked in a low voice.
Jerome von Carviot.
The youth once branded a disgrace to his noble house, called a worm.
"...Don't underestimate me!"
Shing!
Mikhail's sword, brimming with sharp energy, thrust toward Jerome's body.
Clang clang clang clang!
The sound echoed like beans frying in a pan.
Unlike Mikhail, who relied heavily on his sword for defense, this disgrace of the Shield Family somehow turned his entire body into both weapon and shield.
It made him an utter nightmare to fight.
"Damn it all!"
Mikhail's refined speech finally shattered as he lost his composure.
"Sir Mikhail, what are you doing? My head's still pretty attached."
Jerome smirked at Mikhail Shen, feigning nonchalance, but things weren't so rosy on his end.
...As expected of a master.
Mikhail's sword was fast. Not just fast—it was razor-sharp.
Mikhail's armor was battered everywhere, but its defensive prowess remained intact.
It might not be solid mithril like his sword, but it was undoubtedly laced with plenty of the stuff.
And though Jerome grinned while deflecting Mikhail's strikes, there was no way he could emerge unscathed from a master's blade.
The auras infused in Mikhail's sword pierced through steel-like defenses, invading Jerome's body. He had merely used Iron Body to reshape himself, preventing blood from spilling out.
He glanced to his right. The Azure Field Knights and Miron stood at the tower's summit entrance, holding back the 1st Royal Guard Knights.
"Raaargh!"
Miron was fighting desperately, even unleashing his frenzy, but they wouldn't hold out much longer.
The Azure Field Knights, excluding Miron, weren't combat specialists to begin with. Expecting them to stop the Royal Guards was too much.
That was why Mikhail wasn't pushing recklessly despite Jerome's taunts.
"This is astonishing, Young Master Jerome. I never imagined the worm of the Shield Family could be such a formidable figure."
Ptoo.
Mikhail spat blood—likely from the hits he'd taken—then spoke, having regained his cool after assessing the situation. He wasn't a fool.
Clap, clap, clap!
As the fight paused momentarily, applause rang out from behind Mikhail.
It was Versailles, who had never lost his composure.
"Just as Sir Mikhail says, Young Master Jerome. Well, well. I must have overlooked a true talent."
Versailles, trained alongside knights, could tell.
Just how extraordinary Jerome's prowess was.
"Young Master, it seems the battle is decided. But allow me one proposal. If you surrender now..."
"Save the nonsense about surrendering, First Prince."
Jerome grinned at Versailles, who scowled as his words were cut off.
"The fight isn't over yet."
There are openings—definitely.
Mikhail was undoubtedly an elite knight. Jerome couldn't claim clear superiority; he was the real deal.
The moniker 'Silver Knight' suited him perfectly.
But there was one thing.
One area where Jerome could confidently say he held the edge.
Fwoosh!
Jerome channeled his aura and charged straight at Mikhail.
Fool!
Mikhail inwardly scoffed at the frontal assault.
Abilities far beyond his age. Yes, a genius. No—even accounting for his 'worm' days, it was a miraculous talent beyond mere genius.
But in this moment,
Mikhail himself was stronger.
The Shield Family's tricky pankration and unknown defenses had kept Mikhail from securing victory.
But that was only with erratic movements. Charging in so predictably wasted his own advantages.
His judgment's clouded by reinforcements.
Or intoxicated by bravado, making a reckless call.
Either way, not a sound choice here.
He fought better than expected, but this ends it.
Mikhail resolved to cleave Jerome in one stroke and rout the rebels.
Slash!
His sword arced from upper right to lower left, aimed at the charging Jerome.
Accounting for the blade's path, Jerome would twist toward his sword grip.
Then Mikhail would retract, shoulder-charge him into the wall, and seal those pesky moves.
That'll be the end.
Mikhail tensed his shoulder.
"...?"
But Jerome didn't twist away from the incoming slash.
Instead, he thrust out his left arm—right into the blade's path.
"Foolish!"
Mikhail shouted instinctively.
Yes, this was idiotic.
The sword brimmed with aura. Even an aura-clad, trained body might lose a limb.
For a martial artist, losing a limb meant losing their weapon forever.
Why make such a stupid call!
Thoughts raced, but reality was a split-second.
As the sword extended, it began slicing into Jerome's left arm.
Then—
Schling... clang!
Flesh tore with a wet sound, only to end in metal clashing against metal.
"What the—?!"
Mikhail desperately tried to pull away, but it was impossible.
His sword was lodged halfway into Jerome's left arm, stuck fast.
Just drop it and retreat? That's for lesser knights.
Mikhail was a master.
The pinnacle for any swordsman, short of the throne's elite.
Abandon his sword? Utter humiliation.
I knew you'd think that, Mikhail!
Bam!
"Gah!"
With his sword locked defending the left, Mikhail's unguarded face took a direct right hook.
Point-blank range. A martial artist's domain. Already favorable to Jerome, and now Mikhail's sword was sealed.
No way you lose this!
Thud!
Jerome stomped Mikhail's toes with his heel, crippling mobility.
Crack!
Then swept the opposite shin.
Crunch!
Right elbow slammed the armor over his solar plexus, stealing breath.
Rat-a-tat-tat!
With Mikhail's sword pinned in his left arm, Jerome unleashed a merciless barrage on the stunned knight.
Seriate.
Pankration's combo for dominating point-blank range.
"......"
Thump.
Mikhail's body, undefended for a full minute, slowly collapsed under the onslaught.
"Huff... huff..."
To guard against surprises, Jerome struck Mikhail's nape once more, then yanked the sword from his left arm—where he'd activated Iron Body mid-fight—and tossed it aside.
Splurt!
Blood poured from the extracted blade's gash.
That was close—nearly lost the arm.
What Jerome held over Mikhail without question.
What he had that Mikhail lacked.
Experience.
Silver Knight.
Always spotless armor meant no battlefield mud.
Dignified words and deeds meant no brush with death's edge.
Unshakable poise meant never pushed to rock bottom.
Stationed at the alliance's rear meant no direct clash with the Holy Empire's ambitions.
And as Philador's sole master,
The royals wouldn't risk him on external matters.
Jerome, by contrast, had led the Stigma Mercenaries through hellish slogs.
The gap in experience explained the outcome.
"Well then."
Jerome turned from Mikhail toward Versailles.
"Now it's your turn, First Prince."
"......"
"Any last words?"
"......"
Versailles said nothing. Jerome shrugged lightly.
"Doesn't matter. Marquis Midas will handle erasing traces of you."
As Jerome advanced slowly, Versailles raised both hands.
"...To think you'd defeat Sir Mikhail. My misjudgment, indeed."
"Life's all about that one edge, isn't it? Win big or crash hard."
And this time, Jerome had won big.
Unfortunately, Versailles showed no sign of accepting it.
"Will you kill me?"
"Yeah, gotta keep Marquis Midas safe."
Jerome clenched his fist lightly.
"Don't worry. I'll make it painless."
"Afraid that's a problem. Royal Guards!"
Declining Jerome's 'kindness,' Versailles shouted to the Guards straining against Miron.
"Nngh! First Prince!"
"Damn it! Move, you monster!"
Taking it as a call for aid, the Guards redoubled against Miron—but that wasn't Versailles' intent.
"All of you—stand down. No reckless moves."
"But!"
"That's an order!"
Versailles overrode their protests.
"Flee at full speed and report to the palace. Say Jerome von Carviot of the Carviot Count family brutally murdered this prince."
"...!!"
Frozen by the unexpected command, Versailles bellowed again.
"Hurry! That's how you save me!"
"U-Understood!"
Unbelievable as it was, they trusted their prince.
He was Philador's First Prince, after all.
Moments later, the Royal Guards fled, leaving Versailles alone.
He spread his arms wide.
"There, Young Master Jerome. No more interruptions. Go on—kill me nice and easy."
Jerome chuckled at the theatrics, relaxing his fist.
"Come on, don't say things you don't mean. Killing you here would spark a real international incident."
Versailles grinned, baring his teeth.
"Knew you were reasonable."
A path to survival.
Sending the Guards away wasn't empty talk—it saved him.
Miron's frenzy still raged; pausing the fight was feasible, but pursuing and eliminating them wasn't.
Same for the Azure Field Knights.
And Jerome couldn't chase personally.
Mikhail, regaining senses despite wounds, glared murderously.
Injured or not, without Jerome, he could escort Versailles out.
So killing Versailles per plan would just cause diplomatic hell.
He'd ordered the rumor: 'Jerome von Carviot' did it.
No mention of Marquis Midas.
Midas might cut Jerome loose without hesitation.
Leaving the Shield Family in the lurch.
Jerome had no reason to risk that for Midas' loyalty.
The deal was opening the gates, nothing more.
Now, with the Guards spreading that tale, Jerome had to ensure Midas didn't kill Versailles—to avoid international fallout.
Figures he'd bet our houses aren't that tight-knit.
A viper's cunning.
"Max, take the Azure Field Knights and step out for a bit."
"But Young Master Jerome..."
"Now."
"...Got it."
Confirming Max and the knights gone, Jerome turned to Versailles.
"Ears are clear now. Spill it, First Prince—what's your offer? Time's short."
"Knew we could talk."
Versailles murmured with a smile.