A Match with Svein Caroxon
The war had ended, and though the air seemed a touch warmer, the northern wind still sliced like a blade.
Upon the snowfield blanketed in white, powdered snow swirled at their feet, the wind carrying it between the two men who stood facing each other.
The middle-aged man opposite him regarded Arteon and asked,
“Are you Arteon?”
His voice was low and heavy. Even through the noise of the wind, its resonance carried with perfect clarity.
Arteon nodded.
“Yes.”
“As I thought.”
The man answered shortly and raised a hand to grip the sword at his waist. In that instant, the heavy presence he had been radiating sharpened into something far keener.
He spoke to Arteon.
“I know it is rude, but I find I cannot help myself.”
Srrrng!
The blade cleared its scabbard, and a presence sharp as the edge itself washed over Arteon. There was no killing intent, yet it felt as though his body might be cut simply by standing within it.
This man…
No ordinary warrior.
Arteon’s expression hardened.
“Would you cross blades with this old man once?”
Despite the pressure he emitted, his tone held a strange leisure. When Arteon remained silent, the middle-aged man faintly curved his lips into a smile.
“Of course, refusal is not an option.”
At that moment the presence flowing from the man’s body erupted, swallowing the surroundings. Heavy, razor-edged pressure crushed the air, and the ground trembled as if it might sink all at once.
Arteon’s eyes grew more serious. Someone of this caliber—
From the capital, then.
Perhaps a high noble… or one holding a post of equivalent weight.
Arteon steadied his breath and asked,
“May I ask your name?”
“I will tell you when we are finished. I will warn you beforehand—if you do not take this seriously, you may well be hurt.”
With those words—
Thud!
The middle-aged man stamped the ground hard and charged. His speed far exceeded expectation. Closing the distance in a blink, his sword descended vertically toward Arteon’s chest.
Arteon stepped back swiftly and slipped past the blade, yet—
Boom!
The sheer velocity and force split the swirling snow and carved a straight line through the white ground.
Arteon reflexively raised his spear and thrust it forward.
Swoosh!
An exquisite range the sword could not reach. Seeing the spear tip driving for his chest, the middle-aged man swung his blade in a flash.
Clang!
Metal rang. The shock that raced up Arteon’s wrist was considerable.
“Hmm.”
Exhaling low, the man wasted no time diving into Arteon’s guard and swinging again—a diagonal cut rising from below. With the distance now so tight, there was no room to evade.
Arteon lifted his spear with both hands and caught the blade. Yet—
“...!”
At the moment of impact his pupils shook. He had merely blocked a single strike, yet the hands gripping the shaft trembled faintly.
Strong.
He had thought the man was not pouring aura into the blows with particular force… but the aura control was refined far beyond expectation, amplifying the power from within the blade rather than coating its exterior.
Moreover—
Whoosh! Slash! Clang!
“Kh…!”
One step, one cut. Not a single motion wasted; the sword path flowed like water. Movement so natural it seemed the blade itself was an extension of his body. Even Arteon, who had held a spear for more than ten years across two lives, found it astonishing.
This… this kind of movement…!
He had clashed with countless Kar warriors, yet never once had he felt this. It was not merely the strength of aura or flesh; he was being outmatched in pure weapon mastery itself.
Arteon lowered his center and spun the spear. He retreated swiftly to open distance, but the man clung to him like a shadow. Trajectories of the sword flashing left and right glittered like sparks through the blizzard.
Barely catching them on the spear tip, Arteon clenched his teeth. Every clash of steel made the air itself ring.
Boom! Bang!
The shocks traveling up his arms grew steadily heavier. Arteon’s eyes narrowed.
His distance control is… absurd.
The man clearly possessed vast experience against spear users. Maintaining the awkward interval that made a spear nearly unusable while still cutting freely—his offense was not merely impressive; it was wondrous. A single lapse of focus and Arteon felt his head would leave his shoulders.
Had it not been for the Vargas Northern Spearmanship he had mastered, the match would already have been decided.
And then—
“Hup!”
With a short shout the middle-aged man’s sword thrust straight as an arrow.
Clang!
“Kh!”
Blocking the thrust, Arteon was driven sliding backward. Before he realized it, sweat beaded on his brow despite the freezing wind.
Yet the one more surprised was the middle-aged man.
“...Truly remarkable. How can you fight like this at close quarters while wielding a spear?”
He marveled at spearmanship that yielded nothing even at point-blank range with a mid-range weapon. But—
“Is this all?”
“Pardon?”
“Is your spear nothing more than a fool’s art that knows only how to defend?”
The eyes of the man radiating such fierce presence sank cold.
“If this is everything… I am far too disappointed.”
“...”
Arteon regulated his breathing and met his gaze squarely. There was truth in the words. Believing the man a high noble or one of lofty imperial rank, he had moved with caution. A defensive stance had been inevitable—yet that very caution had become discourtesy.
Arteon’s eyes changed. At the sight, the corners of the middle-aged man’s mouth lifted slightly.
“Yes. That is more like it.”
“Then… forgive the rudeness.”
In an instant explosive presence burst from Arteon’s body—no longer the restrained force of before, but the wild surge of a beast unleashed. White snowflakes scattered in every direction; the surrounding air warped. Golden energy, as though it held light itself, coiled and shimmered around Iglis.
Swoosh!
Arteon’s spear shot forward like lightning. Snow exploded outward, and in the same breath the man’s sword met it.
KWAANG!
A thunderous roar. Shockwaves rolled outward, heaving snowdrifts; wind whipped into a frenzy and snow rose in a whirlwind.
For the first time the defending middle-aged man’s face hardened.
…Impressive.
No—could a single word like “impressive” even begin to cover this? The youth was said not yet to have reached adulthood.
This… an absolute monster has been born within the empire.
In only a few more years, someone of his own level would no longer even be a match. Yet—
Still… it is too early.
The middle-aged man’s eyes flashed blue, and aura bloomed along his blade as well.
“Then let us play in earnest.”
“Hyaaaaaah!”
Boom! Bang! Clang! Kaboom!
Every collision of spear and sword made the ground tremble. Energy bursting in all directions set the tents of nearby barracks shaking violently. Yet even amid the ferocity both men remained aware of their surroundings, and no true damage was done.
Whoosh!
The middle-aged man slipped to Arteon’s flank and cut. Arteon raised his spear at once and caught the blade on the shaft.
Bang!
The earth gouged open; pillars of snow erupted around them. Seizing the momentary break in balance, Arteon stepped in. The spear tip drove forward as if to pierce.
In answer the middle-aged man’s sword soared skyward and his body was flung far back.
Tremble…
The white blade quivered violently in his grip. He stared at it for a long moment, then exhaled softly.
“Hoo…”
Surprise lingered in the short breath. He leveled the sword horizontally once more.
“Let us stop here. Any further and it will become serious.”
Arteon lowered his spear tip and settled his breathing. His heart still hammered, yet his eyes remained unshaken.
“I am grateful for the consideration.”
The man smiled.
“Consideration… perhaps. Though I am not certain which of us showed it.”
He slowly returned the sword to its scabbard.
Click.
The sound echoed across the distance. In the snowstorm their white breaths drifted and faded.
Then the middle-aged man spoke.
“Come, then. There is someone who wishes to see you.”
“Me? Who is this person…?”
“You will know when we arrive. Ask no further.”
He turned. Yet a moment later—
“Ah. I nearly forgot my promise.”
He looked back at Arteon.
“My name is Svein Caroxon. Thanks to you I enjoyed a proper match for the first time in a long while.”
The name left his lips casually, yet the instant Arteon heard it his expression froze.
Svein Caroxon…?
One of the Eight Pillars that upheld the empire. In the years to come he would stand among the five strongest in the realm at the mid-7-star level… yet—
He met a mysterious death, and for a time the empire was thrown into uproar.
How great must the shock have been for the rumor to reach even this distant north? And having crossed blades with him just now—
With his present realm alone… one must already call him 7-star.
The exact measure was unclear, but one thing was certain: he was far stronger than Arteon was now. And because of that, Arteon understood at once who wished to meet him.
The empire’s… First Prince, Sedrian Aurelian.
In his previous life the man who had the throne torn from him in bitterness—what business could he have now…?
Complexity clouded Arteon’s eyes as he followed Svein across the snow.
A golden chandelier hung low; paintings and an array of weapons lined the walls. Thick curtains stirred faintly in the draft that slipped through a slightly open window.
At the center sat a man—the empire’s Second Prince, Belacrod Aurelian. Clad in black silk, he reclined against a chair that rivaled a throne and tapped the armrest with one finger.
“...Elder brother has gone north?”
A strange chill threaded the low voice. Count Edrian Valenruuk, head bowed before him, answered.
“Yes. Owing to the victory at Belikezel, he has gone to personally commend the soldiers for their merits.”
The moment the words ended, Belacrod’s eyes flashed. His crimson lips curved slowly upward.
“Which means Svein is also absent from the capital.”
His gaze glittered cold as glass.
“How long has it been since the fighting ended, and already he rushes to raise the troops’ spirits. Just like elder brother.”
“Yet Your Highness—because of this war the First Prince’s faction has swollen far too large. A great many nobles have already crossed to his side. If matters continue thus… the balance will collapse entirely.”
“...”
The situation was undeniably poor. The triumph at Belikezel in particular had delivered the decisive blow that made everything far more grave.
Belacrod regarded Edrian.
“So, Count—what do you believe we should do?”
Edrian’s eyes glinted.
“I believe this is the opportunity, Your Highness. Sir Svein and the First Prince’s knight order under his command are all in the north. A vacuum has opened in the imperial capital. It is the perfect moment to remove the thorns in our eyes.”
Silence settled over the chamber for a time. With that silence Belacrod’s expression slowly shifted—neither smile nor fury, but a strange mixture of both. He interlaced his fingers and lowered his gaze.
“I leave it in your hands. But… should another disappointing result like the last occur…”
“Have no fear, Your Highness. This time I shall never give you cause for disappointment.”
Edrian answered swiftly and bowed low. Belacrod nodded.
“You may go.”
“I will return before long with good news.”
He bowed deeply once more and left the room. The door closed; stillness returned.
Belacrod spoke not a word for a long while. He merely turned over in his mind the means by which he might set right the situation that had gone so thoroughly awry.