To the North - 4
Things were still unfolding precisely as Adele intended, yet Lotos, watching it all, felt nothing but lingering unease. Part of him wondered whether this was truly wise. The sword aura from last time had certainly been a spectacle, but that hardly meant Bunta was a man to be dismissed. Dull-witted as he was, wasn't his skill second only to the Archduchess herself? Choosing Bunta of all people — might that not prove a fatal blunder?
Wearing a faintly worried look at the thought that the young lord might simply be inviting himself an embarrassing spectacle, Lotos let out a small sigh. Then he quietly approached Robert and cleared his throat.
"Ahem. Ahem."
Robert regarded him in silence. He had a fair idea of what was coming — something along the lines of: Are you quite certain about this? Wouldn't it be wiser to choose someone else? — and he smiled faintly at the thought. Under ordinary circumstances, Lotos would have found him a thoroughly awkward charge, but having concluded that he was Adele's destined one, the man was evidently prepared to accommodate his comfort.
And Robert did know that Bunta was the finest fighter here. That was precisely why he had chosen him. Anyone else would drag the affair out with this trick and that trick, whereas facing a man as straightforward and unsubtle as Bunta was, all things considered, the easiest way to lay bare a gap in skill. With his mana still so meager, he could not fight for long — better, then, to make it brief and striking if he could. Tricks... well, tricks would buy him time. But they would never leave a good impression on these people. Fierce as a wolf, relentless as the north wind — that, and only that, was the kind of strength this crowd readily acknowledged.
His heart gave a small flutter as he left the banquet hall and made for the empty clearing. It was nothing more than the verification process he had always performed, and yet at moments like this, the feeling always crept in.
"It will be fine."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I only mean there will be nothing to be disappointed in. Feel free to watch with an easy mind."
With that, Robert drew his sword. The light, crisp ring of the drawn blade stirred a curious breeze.
His expression remained so composed it bordered on indifference, and Lotos shook his head with another sigh. Whenever he saw that face, did it not remind him uncannily of the Archduchess? Born in different places, having lived entirely different lives — and yet. Narrowing his eyes at the strange déjà vu, Lotos finally raised both hands in surrender.
"Have it your way, then. I did clearly try to talk you out of it. If things go sideways later, it won't be on me, will it?"
"Understood. And so — is this where we fight?"
"...Yes. Bunta will be along shortly."
A clearing where the crowd had seated themselves in a wide ring. Robert swept his gaze over the scene. The faces of those who had been enjoying the banquet mere minutes ago were now brimming with a peculiar delight. A stranger arriving out of nowhere and putting on a fight like this — from where they sat, it could only be a fine piece of entertainment. Better still if Bunta smashed the stranger to bits.
The stray thought drew a small smile from Robert, and then, quietly, he began drawing up the mana sleeping within his body. Blue veins of light rippled through the dark. Barely had curiosity settled into the crowd's eyes before a fresh chorus of gasps rose at the massive figure visible in the distance. An axe vast enough to split a man in two at a stroke — its mere existence was a symbol of terror. Lotos swallowed drily and studied Robert's face, wondering if the boy might finally be afraid. But Robert only smirked wryly and stepped back.
...Is that really the young lord? So he wouldn't be rattled even by that. At this rate, it was hard to say which of them deserved the title. Even as he withdrew to mingle among the crowd, Lotos's eyes remained fixed on Robert.
The circumstances could hardly have differed more from my fight with the assassin. Back then, I had fought with careful restraint so as not to wake Arwen; this time, showing my ability in full was the proper course. I did intend to keep a certain amount hidden, depending on how things went — but I was confident I could dominate even while holding back, so I fed mana slowly into my blade as I took stock of my surroundings.
Still swinging that axe, I see.
Every time that axe came down, dozens died. I had witnessed that sight from mere paces away — and it was precisely why I was confident I could avoid it. As for my body... well, it wasn't in bad shape, all things told — far better than at my first regression, at least. I had kept up steady training since the business with the assassin, and my senses had recovered a good deal from what they had been. Still, nothing like the days when I swung a sword from dawn to dusk. Across all my lives, it would be hard to find a time when my body served me better than then. It couldn't be helped.
A few light hops — hup, hup — and I tested my swings in the empty air. Horizontal, vertical, a thrust. The moment mana settled into the blade, blue trails bloomed along its path, and soft gasps rippled out from the onlookers. These movements were meant for Bunta's eyes. Be wary. Come at me with everything you have — this is no idle swinging. Few could channel mana into a blade, and seeing Bunta's gaze sharpen with fresh seriousness, I stilled my hand.
"I believe we can begin whenever you're ready."
"Is that so? I suppose I won't need to lend you a sword this time."
"This one serves well enough. There's no need."
Adele nodded, then checked on Bunta as well. He hefted the axe — far taller than himself — gave it a few practice swings, and the moment it was clear nothing was amiss, she began making her way back to her seat. In the circular clearing, from the loftiest seat of all, Adele lounged in her lopsided posture and spoke.
"The fight ends when one side declares surrender or drops their weapon. I'd rather nobody got hurt. Then we can start right away, yes?"
No one answered, but Adele signaled the start of the duel all the same.
Bwooooo—
The horn sounded once more, and I re-gripped my sword. By the time its last note faded, silence had swallowed everything, leaving only the pulse in my own ears. Russsh — the whisper of feet moving across the earth. Wind rose, and I felt it glide over my whole body in one soft pass.
Thud.
I could see Bunta kicking off from the ground — and yet it all unfolded as if endlessly slow. The mana-awakened brain, the sharpened senses: what they showed me was the path his body would trace before he moved. There were things I could see even with my eyes closed. Weeds crushed underfoot twisted and tore, scattering into the air — and from that alone, I could read his direction.
The instant I dipped my head, a colossal gale tore past. An axe wielded by a nine-foot colossus was destruction given form; realizing I had slipped past it by a hair's breadth, Bunta blew a hot blast through his nose.
"Hngh!"
THOOM! The axe struck the earth, raising hairline cracks. Dodging cost me little strength. Just so, just barely. This margin — near enough to touch, never quite touching — was the one thing that could not be faked. It conserved my strength while, at the same time, fraying the patience of a man with precious little of it to spare. Each time the axe swept past the air around me, my sword rapped against Bunta's armor in answer. I did not cut. I could have, with mana in the steel — but this was, first and foremost, a sparring match. Cutting into an opening here would not sit well with the onlookers. And my mana hardly brimmed over besides. If I was to pour it into the blade, it would be at the most certain moment — when I had seized the momentum and could press the attack. That would be enough.
It was a short while later that I, until then occupied purely with evasion, began to cross blades. Part of it was that Bunta's attacks ran simple; part of it was that I had finally found the feel for matching his strength with measured swings of my own. CLANG! Every time the weapons met with a roar, it was Bunta's body that was driven back. One step, then another. With each advance, the crease between his brows deepened.
"Growing tired?"
"Not once in my life!"
Ka-ang—
I thrust for Bunta's arm, then let a small smile show. As time wore on, it would be Bunta who ran dry. He was straining to land a blow on a man who slipped away by inches — a far greater tax on the nerves than swinging wild across a battlefield.
Bwuuum—
It never touched me. Even hampered by my cumbersome cloak, his axe could not so much as graze my collar. With every pivot of my feet, Bunta's body lurched backward. Shifting my weight forward, I drove my sword at his swaying frame; with a low roar, Bunta tore a wide distance between us.
Glancing around, I could tell the crowd had grasped how thoroughly the shape of this fight had warped. The silence held, but their faces no longer wore the confident certainty of Bunta's victory. Instead, they were watching me — watching the sword I unleashed. I regarded Bunta steadily as he huffed out furious, wheezing breaths.
"Hah!"
Exhaling another ragged breath, Bunta fixed his face into deadly earnest and reset his stance. One hand stretched out before him, the axe drawn back behind split the air with a lethal keen. It was a stance he often brought out when fighting one-on-one. The mana boiling off his body rose like steam, soon mingling with sweat to shroud him in blue vapor.
"Ooooh...!"
Like living flame, Bunta roared back to full ferocity — and he closed the distance between us in the blink of an eye. KAAANG! The force was nothing like before, and gasps tore from the crowd. Sparks burst with every clash of blade and axe, and wherever our feet ground against the earth, it caved into little craters. The ground, always kept neat and smooth, was now gouged into a churned mess; with every swing of my sword, dirt whirled up around me, dizzying to behold.
Bunta's body no longer gave ground. But even that alone was humiliation enough for him — and so, for the first time, the body that had known nothing but the charge hesitated.
"GRRRAAAH!"
With a grinding shriek, the outcome was decided in the space of an instant. A single heartbeat of hesitation broke his balance — and an attack launched off-balance could carry nothing of its true strength. A dry laugh slipped out of me. Along the trajectory that had brushed across my eyes for only a moment, I guided my arm. Shwaaaak — the plate across his chest parted, smooth and clean. I had cut shallow enough to leave no wound, so there was no blood, but Bunta, visibly shaken by the strike, swept his axe in a great arc to drive me back.
Ragged, heaving breaths spilled into the air around us. ...Though every last one of them belonged to Bunta alone. The instant his eyes found me — not a single drop of sweat on me — they wavered. Nothing looks quite so pitiful as a warrior who has lost his certainty. Every method he had ever relied on was failing him; before the unknown, seen for the first time in his life, primal instinct stirred. Bunta gritted his teeth once more and re-set his grip on the axe.
At the sight, the crowd took up their cheering again — but that was all it amounted to. Most of them, at least anyone with a practiced eye for battle, would have understood by now: that the momentum had long since passed to me.
And so I took hold of my sword. The blade I had fought with in both hands came into one, and the mana cradled in my heart began to resonate. I took a single step, and a blue radiance coiled around me. Across the snowfield, white to its every corner, a bloom of blue light began to rise — a brilliance paler than moonlight, bluer than water.
Mana, at its root, was this pure. It does not exist merely to be wrapped around a sword. Sword aura is but one of its countless uses — why do men fixate on that alone? The sword is a tool, nothing more than an instrument that serves the will to cut.
"Well then — I'm coming."
At my murmur, Bunta reset his stance. But what came next was not the sort of strike that could be stopped. I had hoarded my mana for this one blow alone, and so I simply walked forward.
There had been a time when I lived mad for the sword. A time when disillusionment with everything I lived for and chased drove me to discard it all and keep my eyes on nothing but the blade. Something I understood only at the very brink of death at Mirajane's hands — only as the life I had staked on the sword drew to its close did I finally grasp what the sword truly meant.
If you will to cut, there is nothing that cannot be cut. Even if all you held was a tree branch, to truly will the cut is to fell a mountain. And if it were a sword — what could possibly escape its edge?
Swoooosh.
The blade traced through empty air, drawing a single streak of light. Like a meteor cleaving the night sky, the sword carved out its long, solitary arc — and for one breath, stillness fell. The cheering for Bunta, even the applause for my own show, every sound cut off and vanished. Only the single line the sword had drawn remained. Only the result: a shattered axe, not one wound on flesh, and armor sheared away in one clean, perfect cut.
Silence stretched on. In a hush where no one could so much as breathe, the first to open their mouth was Adele. A shade more flushed than usual, her voice — thoroughly satisfied — split the assembly.
"It's over."
Bunta, his weapon fallen to the ground; me, my sword still raised. Even as the blue radiance faded, the result stood unchanged — and the cheers that had been dammed up broke loose at last. Perhaps from the spent mana, a dull stiffness had settled into my neck; I lifted my head and looked up at the sky. The stars had not changed. The night was exactly as I remembered it from that day — and the one standing beneath it was still me.
As Bunta crashed to the ground, I let out a slow breath through a faint smile. My eyes held nothing but that jet-black sky, not one shade different from that day — and with satisfaction welling up in my chest, I managed a small smile.