The Flower That Bears a Sword - Chapter 14

Translation: godsn

With her short-cropped golden hair and tall stature, Alice looked more like an elegant young boy than a girl. Combined with her plain navy-blue cadet uniform devoid of any decoration, she was the very image of a model officer cadet.

In a formal duel, one must return a received salute. Echinacea drew her sword while carelessly letting the scabbard clatter to the ground.

Her attitude showed little respect for the weapon. Several watching cadets openly frowned. The sword in her hand was no better—a cheap, poorly maintained longsword. Compared to the sword, her attire was excessively ornate by cadet standards. The sword and the woman didn't match, like puzzle pieces forced together wrong.

Eki gripped her sword with one hand and gathered her dress skirt with the other. Her right hand simultaneously held both the sword and the fabric. She stepped her right foot back, lowering her body as she slightly bent then straightened her knee. Returning her foot to position, she straightened her posture with perfect posture before releasing her skirt.

Had she not been holding a sword, it would have been the perfect curtsy of a lady. It was a greeting no one had ever seen from a military academy cadet before.

Whether by academy tradition or knightly etiquette, these customs were all created with men as the standard. Ladies were meant to be protected, not become knights, so female cadets ceased being ladies the moment they enrolled.

But a lady wielding a sword? A cadet performing a lady's curtsy? No one had ever imagined such a sight. Thus her greeting felt profoundly alien and provoked discomfort. An awkward murmur spread among the cadets.

Eki paid no attention to their reactions. Truthfully, she was half out of her mind. Had she known being appointed as Yurien's squire was imminent, she wouldn't have deliberately provoked Alice. Her thoughts were in such disarray that she couldn't maintain her usual act.

In this state, gripping her sword for combat made it difficult to conceal her aura. She should have moderated it, but with her mind in turmoil, she wanted nothing more than to swing her sword wildly. She was barely suppressing that urge. The only saving grace was that her opponent was a greenhorn by her standards, making it hard to feel any fighting spirit.

And Alice, facing her, sensed this atmosphere. Alice's gray eyes narrowed.

'Something's... different.'

This wasn't the same woman she'd met this afternoon. That one had smiled sweetly while spouting sophistry, appearing every bit the sheltered noble girl who didn't know hardship. But now, something like restrained violence seeped from Echinacea. Her outward appearance remained as delicate and fragile as a hothouse flower, yet she gave the impression of a man-eating monster mimicking human form.

Alice adjusted her grip. Tension flooded her palms.

Ian Pelletro, confirming both duelists were ready, drew his own sword. He placed it horizontally between them. After one final glance at both sides, he swiftly raised and withdrew his blade—the signal to begin.

As agreed, Alice took the first move. As courtesy dictated when receiving the advantage, she began with a feinting thrust. A strike that seemed destined to pierce the throat but would instead graze past it. Yet it was incredibly fast—so much so that most wouldn't realize it was a feint.

Eki didn't so much as twitch. Alice's blade passed by her neck, stirring her hair in its wake. It was Alice who flinched when her opponent showed no reaction. She quickly recovered her sword and took a step back.

Eki remained motionless even as Alice retreated and reset her stance. Only when Alice's second attack came did she finally move.

At its core, swordsmanship is fundamentally about applying basics—blocking, thrusting, slashing. Whether Imperial swordsmanship or Southern style, all techniques ultimately expand upon these foundations.

Of course, such expansions created endlessly diverse variations, and when combined with individual traits and habits across countless schools, innumerable sword styles emerged. Thus, sufficiently accomplished swordsmen developed distinctive styles identifiable just by their techniques. This was common knowledge among knight aspirants.

So naturally, the cadets watching the duel couldn't help but be bewildered. There was no discernible personality in Echinacea Roaz's swordsmanship. No will, no fighting spirit, no distinctive color. She didn't use any special techniques—just the fundamentals. She blocked incoming strikes. Thrust when an opening appeared. Cut when space allowed.

Yet her form wasn't the clean, textbook-perfect posture one might expect. It was the haphazard style you'd see from a complete novice first picking up a sword. Compared to Alice's elegant and refined blade work, it looked downright crude. She didn't even take the offensive. Her responses were purely reactive—improvised counters or near-reflexive defenses against Alice's attacks.

And yet, nothing landed. Wherever Alice's sword went, Echinacea's blade was already there. Or sometimes, there was simply nothing at all.

Most cadets found it strange that Alice couldn't break through such chaotic defenses. But a few of the more skilled among them realized the truth. At first glance, it seemed Alice was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠overwhelming with her rapid attacks, but in reality, Echinacea was the one in complete control.

This was practically Echinacea toying with Alice. She wasn't taking this seriously at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠all. Her responses were like absentmindedly patting a whining child while looking elsewhere—that level of disinterest. And yet, Alice still couldn't defeat her.

'What exactly is she trying to do now?'

No one recognized this more clearly than Alice herself. Her face gradually paled.

Every single one of her attacks was blocked by that casually moving sword. Not even the fluttering hem of Echinacea's dress could be touched. When blades clashed and Echinacea effortlessly deflected a strike only to counterthrust with the rebound, the sheer sharpness of it sent chills down Alice's spine—even when no clear intent to attack was visible.

As every attack was either parried or deflected, the interlocking trajectories of their swords began to resemble a prearranged sword dance. The fluttering dress hem, lace-trimmed sleeves, and ribbon ties only enhanced this impression. It looked less like a duel and more like a waltz at a ball.

Eventually, Alice stepped back. Even as she exposed glaring openings in her retreat, Echinacea didn't pursue. She simply stopped in place and let her sword hang loosely.

Alice's face burned red as she gasped for breath. She felt utterly played with. The fact that Echinacea refused to finish her off only made it worse. Even with their swords crossed, it felt like she wasn't being taken seriously. And this woman casually deflecting her was even wearing high-heeled dress shoes.

She'd never felt this wretched even when sparring with knights far above her skill level. Gritting her teeth, Alice demanded:

"Why... won't you attack me?"

"...Ah."

An expression finally returned to Echinacea's previously blank face. Internally, she was kicking herself.

The truth was, her swordsmanship did have distinctive characteristics. There were techniques unique to her that others couldn't easily replicate. She'd simply hidden them because she didn't want to reveal them—and because she hadn't needed to. But not attacking and only defending? That wasn't intentional; it was a mistake.

Echinacea was the master of the Magic Sword, and when she lost her rationality, she became influenced by the bloodlust dwelling within that blade. So whenever she faced others in a confused state, she'd developed the habit of never taking the offensive.

'I should've ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠just ended this quickly.'

Her thoughts had been elsewhere. But apologizing now would only insult Alice further—admitting she'd been distracted during their duel. Echinacea closed her mouth and moved her sword. A narrow first step, a wide second step. In just two strides, her blade was at Alice's nose.

Alice panicked and raised her sword to block. When their blades met at equal height, Alice—following years of training—pushed straight forward the moment steel touched steel. Her blade slid along Echinacea's sword, thrusting directly for her face.

Echinacea's response in that moment was simple. She raised her wrist. Rather than resisting the force, she accepted it and merely changed its direction. As a result, Alice's sword—still riding along Echinacea's blade—lost balance and flew upward. Using the rebound from shaking off Alice's sword, Echinacea's blade spun in a half-circle.

The blade swung toward Alice's temple—then stopped precisely, leaving barely half a finger's breadth of space. The gust from the sword lifted her short golden hair before letting it settle back down.

A low murmur spread among the cadets. For the first time, Echinacea had unleashed a proper sword strike. It was a simple, common technique, one even found in swordsmanship manuals. And with that single attack, the duel was over.

"......I've lost."

Alice spat out the words. Echinacea withdrew her sword and bowed—the same lady-like gesture as before. To Alice, it felt like mockery.

This... wasn't a duel. That girl wasn't focused at all.

Her stomach churned. Still, a duel was a duel. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The outcome was clear. Alice sheathed her sword and bowed stiffly. She couldn't stop her voice from trembling.

"I acknowledge my defeat. I won't interfere with you anymore."

"I'm the one who was rude, Miss Winterbell."

Echinacea spoke with genuine sincerity, but Alice didn't seem to take the apology seriously. Her eyes were icy as she straightened up. Ian clapped his hands, as if to lighten the mood.

"Good work, both of you. Glad no one got hurt. Oh, and since this duel took place before the first ranking matches, it won't affect your standings."

The moment Ian finished speaking, Alice turned sharply and strode out of the training grounds. The cadets, confirming the duel's end, began to disperse, buzzing with chatter.

She's decent, sure, but is she really Squire material on the first day? What's so special about her? The blonde just sucked. How the hell did she even get picked as a Squire? It's nothing impressive. Though that last move was alright. I could've pulled that off. If that's all it takes to be a Squire, then I'm a Squire too.

Exchanging such remarks, the cadets trickled away one by one. Echinacea picked up the scabbard she had tossed aside earlier. Ian gave her an awkward smile before speaking.

"You're something else, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't mind the ones who can't recognize real skill. That was an outstanding sword. I'm looking forward to the ranking matches."

What's he talking about? She didn't care about any of that. Echinacea gave a perfunctory bow.

"Thank you, Senior."

"See you tomorrow, Cadet Echinacea. Nine o'clock—don't forget."

"Understood."

As Ian turned to leave, something suddenly occurred to her, and she called out to his retreating figure.

"Ah, Senior!"

"Hm?"

"Do you know... why I was chosen as Captain Yurien's Squire?"

She had almost called him Yurien outright—a habit from constantly referring to him that way in her mind.

Ian tilted his head. His blue eyes, darker than Yurien's, almost navy, swept over her in silence. It was an observant, scrutinizing gaze.

"By the time I became a third-year, I'd served as the Captain's temporary Squire three times. Ah, I'm still his temporary Squire now, actually. Every time I attended him, it was... comfortable. Why do you think that was?"

"......I'm not sure."

"He was easy to predict. A regimented lifestyle, rational yet chivalrous judgment, respect for the law. Truly fitting for a Holy Sword's master. Do you know what Giosa the Holy Sword Langiosa was forged from?"

"Yes."

Just as the demon sword Valdergiosa was crafted from human malice and bloodlust, the Holy Sword Langiosa was a Giosa born from humanity's sense of duty and justice. When Echinacea nodded, Ian continued.

"He doesn't act on impulse or whims. He never makes decisions that are hard to justify. But this time... well, it's difficult to understand. Really difficult. Honestly, I want to ask you."

Ian smiled, his eyes crinkling. It was a strangely chilly smile. Then, with gentle curiosity, he asked:

"Why do you think the Captain chose you as his Squire? Do you... have some kind of connection with him?"