The Grand Duchess Remains Unchanged
Three years had already slipped by since I found myself transmigrated into The Crown Prince Wields a Sword.
A great deal had happened in that time, but if I were to pick out only the changes that truly mattered—
"Albert, it's time for lunch. Put that down and come along, dear."
"Yes, Mother."
The first change was that I had finally, fully adapted to life in this world.
When I first arrived, I had played it cool, pretending none of it fazed me—but the truth was, nothing could have been further from how I actually felt.
Who on earth could keep their composure after waking up inside the very web novel they'd been happily reading the night before?
And it wasn't as if I'd written some five-thousand-word resignation letter or anything. I had left a single comment saying I was dropping the series, and that alone had gotten me isekai'd.
I was in a position where I could have thrown a fit about the sheer unfairness of it all and no one would have been able to say a word against me.
But human beings are, above all, creatures of adaptation—and as the days rolled by one after another, all of this somehow became my ordinary life.
When Mother called for me just now, for instance, if it had been the me of three years ago rather than the me of today, I would have stammered and fumbled and failed to answer properly.
"Is it lunchtime already? In that case, let's stop here for today, my lord."
"Good work as always, Aaron."
"I merely did what was expected of me."
Another change was that I had taken up the sword.
This novel was a romance fantasy aimed at male readers, yes—but a romance fantasy was still, at its heart, a fantasy.
While magic wasn't a major feature of the story, it existed in this world, and I couldn't rule out the possibility that other strange fantastical elements might pop up as well. I decided I needed at least enough skill to protect my own hide, just in case.
The author, after all, had once had the House of Valencia—one of the empire's greatest noble families—suddenly branded with the crime of treason simply because readers had pelted him with criticism.
Who was to say some other absurd, outlandish plot device wasn't lurking out there that I didn't know about?
So I told my father, Count Zernias, that I wanted to learn swordsmanship, and he replied:
"Any man worth his salt should know enough of the sword to defend himself."
And with that, he cheerfully assigned Aaron, a knight of House Zernias, as my instructor.
Thanks to him, I had been training every morning in lessons like the one we'd just finished, and I could now confidently say I was capable of holding my own anywhere I went.
Granted, I still fell short of the Crown Prince himself, the hero of the novel—or of my fiancée Rebecca, for that matter.
...Well, it's not as if I'm going to become a knight.
I wasn't planning to make my living by the sword in this world, so I never aspired to anything beyond that.
"Are you heading to your lessons after lunch, my lord?"
In truth, as Aaron's remark suggested, what deserved my real focus wasn't the sword but the lessons I needed to attend in preparation for becoming the next Count Zernias.
The fact that I had to endure the same tedious studying I'd suffered through before my transmigration was nothing short of despair-inducing.
"He who does not work, neither shall he eat. That is the motto of our house."
...
"So study properly, son."
The memory of skipping a single lesson once and enduring two full hours of Mother's scolding was more than enough to make me attend my lessons diligently(?) ever since.
Ordinarily, when Aaron asked whether I was heading to class, I would have said yes.
"No. I have somewhere to be today."
But today was not an ordinary day.
When I shook my head, Aaron nodded slowly, as though only now remembering.
"Ah, that's right—it's the day you visit the House of Valencia, isn't it?"
"Yep. I have to go pay my respects to the Grand Duchess."
Aaron looked at me with what could only be described as envy.
"Lucky you. I wonder if I'll ever find someone to love the way you have, my lord."
...
"I'd like to meet my own destined match someday too—settle down happily, the way you and Her Highness have."
To that, I offered neither agreement nor denial.
And understandably so—because the biggest change of all, the one I hadn't yet explained, was—
"...You're late."
...
"What's the matter? Are you afraid you might actually lose to me today?"
—my fiancée, the woman I was in love with: Grand Duchess Rebecca.
The day I fed Rebecca the last remaining slice of cake—
That was the day I finally understood my own heart.
I had fallen for Rebecca Valencia.
But I couldn't possibly confess it. Not to her.
The moment she caught wind of it, that notoriously hot-blooded Grand Duchess would have me wrapped around her little finger—of that I had no doubt.
And so, to keep her from ever finding out, I picked fights with her constantly.
Little contests with simple stakes—the loser gets a smack on the wrist, or a swat on the back of the hand. That sort of thing.
The specifics varied from contest to contest, but in all my time, I had never lost once.
Naturally—I was a reader who had pored over this novel with tremendous dedication, and I knew every last one of Rebecca's described traits by heart.
And I was very, very good at weaponizing that knowledge.
"Does Her Highness the Grand Duchess tremble before such a trivial challenge?"
"Perhaps this one is simply beyond Her Highness."
Pulling her into contests with provocations like these, rattling her composure until her focus shattered—that was how victory came to me, time after time.
But there was one thing I had overlooked.
"What are we competing in today?"
...
Rebecca's competitive fire and pride burned far, far hotter than I had ever imagined.
Losing every single day for three years would be enough to wound anyone's pride, enough to make anyone quit. Not her.
Obsessed with the single goal of beating me, Rebecca challenged me to a contest every time she laid eyes on me.
...What is she, some kind of rival trainer who battles you on sight?
Of course, having the woman I loved come to me like that without fail was, in itself, a wonderful thing.
But there was such a thing as too much of a good thing.
Once, I had actually considered throwing a match.
She was that obsessed with winning—so I thought that if I let her have one victory, her fixation might cool down a little.
But then I imagined the smug, insufferable expression Rebecca would wear after defeating me—
"Ha. So in the end, you were simply no match for me after all."
—and found myself competing with total sincerity once again.
As I mentioned before, I had a ferocious competitive streak of my own.
I absolutely, positively could not allow Rebecca to beat me and strut around wearing that triumphant face.
Absolutely not.
While I was busy steeling my resolve, Rebecca's lovely voice cut through the air.
"Are you even listening to me?"
"...Yes. I'm listening."
"I asked how we're competing today..."
"Hmm. Hard to say."
"'Hard to say'? Did you just say 'hard to say'?"
My evasive, noncommittal answer visibly irritated Her Highness.
Well, fair enough. She'd come here today brimming with determination to finally claim a win after losing to me every time, and here I was being hopelessly deflating. Of course she was annoyed.
But I had my own problems.
...What do I even pick?
We had competed in so many different things over the years that there was nothing left to try.
Truly, we had done every contest imaginable.
Starting with the staring contest that began it all.
Then chess, poker, One Card, Jenga, and a whole parade of games beyond.
We'd even stooped to stacking pebbles and playing slapjack in the water—there was genuinely not a single contest we hadn't attempted.
Except for one, and exactly one.
"If there's truly nothing left, then perhaps we should settle this with swords—"
"No."
A contest of raw physical ability.
"Are you afraid?"
Rebecca kept tossing out that swordsmanship bait to goad me, time after time.
"Yes. I'm terrified."
And I always owned up to it, clean and simple.
Sure, I'd been training hard with the sword lately—but there was a difference between ambitious and impossible.
If we actually crossed blades, I would be flat on my back in less than ten seconds, guaranteed.
And I had no hobby of deliberately walking into losing battles.
"Tch."
Rebecca clicked her tongue in clear disappointment.
No matter what face she made, my resolve on this one point was ironclad: we would never, ever settle anything with swords.
So there I stood, racking my brain under her impatient prodding, until suddenly a brilliant idea struck me.
"Your Highness. Instead of repeating contests we've already done—how about we change the stakes?"
"You mean, instead of the loser getting smacked, we do... something else?"
"Exactly."
"...I'm listening. Go on."
With a flick of her hand inviting me to explain myself, I launched into the outrageous scheme I'd just thought up.
"The stakes in our contests have always been, at most, a smack on the wrist, haven't they?"
"...That's true."
"But we're both approaching our coming-of-age ceremonies now. A little smack feels rather childish, don't you think?"
Rebecca gave a reluctant nod—she'd evidently harbored some of the same thoughts herself.
"So from now on, let's make it this: the loser grants the winner's wish. Whatever it may be."
"...You mean to say that if I win, I may command you to do anything I please?"
"You've understood perfectly."
"Very well. Let's do it."
Rebecca agreed on the spot, nodding immediately.
Frankly, that caught me off guard.
I'd fully expected her to glare at me in contempt and demand, 'What exactly are you planning to make me do?'
Instead, the Grand Duchess wore the unmistakable expression of someone already anticipating what she'd make me do.
"...Aren't you getting a bit ahead of yourself? You haven't won anything yet."
"Don't you worry. I will win today. Without fail."
"We haven't even decided what we're playing."
"Whatever it is, I'll win it. So it doesn't matter."
Her voice dripped with confidence from every syllable.
Any ordinary person faced with that kind of swagger might have felt a chill of dread—what has she prepared for this?
I, however, felt no such thing.
She says that exact line every single time. And loses.
After all, I'd heard that speech so many times by now I'd lost count.
"Then let's go with chess. It's been a while."
"Fine by me."
And so the first contest with our newly changed stakes was decided: a duel of chess.