Plains Duel (3)
“I am Bessimer, great warrior of the Baitur tribe! Uwaaaah—!”
Bessimer, his body smeared with blood like war paint, pounded his chest and let out a guttural roar.
“Chevalier, can you beat that monster?”
Rutger grimaced. He’d sensed the man’s size was no joke, but he hadn’t expected such raw power. Before that brute strength, all the blood, sweat, and tears the elite soldiers had poured into their training turned to nothing. No matter the drills they’d endured, the swordsmanship they’d mastered, or the futures they’d dreamed of—everything crumbled into futility before Bessimer’s axe blade. They all ended up as equal lumps of meat, fodder for the crows.
“He’s no monster. He was simply born with superior physical prowess and the innate talent to wield aura. That’s what makes the so-called great warriors of combat tribes—they’re all cut from the same cloth.”
Chevalier regarded Bessimer with a calm gaze.
“So, can you win or not?” Rutger snapped, irritation flaring. “I need certainty, not an assessment.”
Chevalier was undoubtedly the strongest among Rutger’s men, one of the top knights under Viscount Botmer. If even he fell, no one in the Botmer lines could face Bessimer. A full assault would follow, but victory would no longer be assured. Bessimer would seem an immortal god to them, and the regular soldiers—save the elites—would lose heart and flee in panic.
Rutger clenched his sweat-soaked fists. His father or brother would have rallied the troops with commanding presence and authority. But Rutger wasn’t that figure to them. No soldier would stake his life on a green commander on his first outing.
“I can win.”
Chevalier’s reply snapped Rutger from his thoughts.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes. But…”
Chevalier’s eyes weren’t on Bessimer, who prowled the center like it was his personal stage. They drifted to the black-haired man standing about a hundred paces away—Baron Binvelt’s guard knight.
“I can’t guarantee victory over Carlson. So once I’ve slain that great warrior and morale surges, order the advance immediately.”
“What nonsense is this!?”
Bishop Alquin, who had been listening silently, exploded.
“Sir Rutger, the duel is a sacred rite to discern His will. I stand here as the Church’s witness. If you defile its sanctity before my eyes, will those who revere God follow Botmer? What will the northern nobles think!?”
The bishop’s voice rose in agitation. The Church had framed duels as rituals overseen by God Himself. For Rutger to ignore that and order an attack would tarnish Botmer’s honor—and implicate the bishop as an accomplice to profanity, eroding his religious authority.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Unlike the inflamed bishop, Rutger’s tone was even.
“What you’ll witness soon—the clash of our lines—isn’t on my orders. Baron Binvelt broke the duel’s rules first. True to that Goethe madman.”
“…Pardon?”
“Chevalier. Break that monster. The moment you do, I’ll command a full attack.”
“Understood.”
Leaving the stunned bishop behind, Chevalier strode slowly toward Bessimer.
“I’ll need your help, Bishop. If you won’t lend your holy power, the least you can do is this much.”
“You’d have me commit falsehood? Before all these soldiers who saw it with their own eyes?”
The old bishop’s eyes twitched.
“You’ve committed plenty of sins in places where the Lord doesn’t watch. No need to strain yourself—just spin some fitting words. The Church will believe you over a single soldier.”
“…”
“I’ve no intention of losing honorably or being ousted as heir to take the cloth. Help me out. Isn’t it the shepherd’s duty to guide the wayward lamb?”
Rutger stared across at Isaac with an expressionless gaze.
“You said it yourself, Bishop: Better a deceitful priest than an honest sacrifice. That’s my plan.”
Whing—whing—whing—
Bessimer’s axe cleaved the air. The atmosphere hummed, dry dust swirling in its wake. A single hit would shatter armor, rend flesh and muscle, splinter bone. As an aura user, Chevalier knew this better than anyone.
You couldn’t dodge by watching just the axe head. The blade, infused with aura’s edge, swept a far wider arc than it appeared.
Yet Chevalier evaded with light, strolling steps. He’d dropped his longsword for an arming sword, shield abandoned. No thought of parrying, blocking, or deflecting—he relied solely on footwork and torso twists.
It drove Bessimer mad. The distance never closed; his body, a living weapon, couldn’t connect. Warriors or beasts fought without retreat, turning foreheads, elbows, fists, knees, feet into arms. But Chevalier kept three paces or more, denying any irregular strikes.
“You little rat!”
The open plain offered no obstacles. Unconstrained, Chevalier circled with sidesteps and backpedals.
“How long you gonna run, coward?”
“Run? Are you aware of your condition?”
“…”
Bessimer’s face twisted savagely. Shallow cuts riddled his body. Fresh blood trickled over the dried gore of foes. Fixated on offense, he’d ignored Chevalier’s blade play—slashes avoiding vitals, struck from maximum range. For Bessimer, who valued kills over his own life, they’d gone unnoticed.
“Not a rat—a snake.”
“Call me what you will. You won’t beat me.”
Chevalier stood, arming sword dangling. Unlike this brutish savage, he didn’t relish combat or violence. He swung only to survive. No overreaches, no risky counters—just profitable strikes. He feared pain, loathed wounds. Paradoxically, that made him more enduring, more coldly rational than most. No bloodlust frenzy. One suicidal lunge sufficed—when victory was certain. Until then, chip away like chess.
Whing—whing—
Bessimer flailed in rage, but nothing changed. A cut above his brow had blinded one eye; wiping blood only filled it anew. Fresh gashes marred arms, legs, flanks.
“Fancy knight with his toy knife, nicking away.”
Bessimer grumbled, smearing blood from his face.
“What’re you doing, Bessimer!”
“Snap out of it, boss!”
Soldiers from Binvelt’s lines bellowed, jeers following.
“Ow, you bastards. Should be cheering me on.”
Bessimer glared at Binvelt’s camp.
“Drop your weapon and kneel. I’ll spare you. No chance for you.”
Chevalier flicked blood from his blade, resuming stance.
“Hmph, snake to the core. Licking with words, not steel. Taught by your dam? Did she slobber for scraps like that?”
“Provocation’s useless.”
“Or your sire, maybe. Born in a pigsty? First lesson: lick the master’s crotch?”
Bessimer spewed filth. If he couldn’t close, make the enemy come. Fail that, and even a great warrior like him would lose without grazing Chevalier’s hem.
“Rant on. Your blood keeps flowing. You’ll run dry soon.”
“Huh, calmer than those honor-spouting knights.”
Chevalier was right. Sensation dulled, body heavy.
“Then it fits. No snake dam, no pigsty sire. Poor orphan knight—I shouldn’t have slandered you.”
Chevalier endured the insult stone-faced. But Bessimer caught the faint eye flicker. He grinned, slinging his axe over his shoulder.
“Ah, that’s why you fight dirty. Even alley scum learn better from their parents.”
Chevalier hesitated. Strike only with a sure kill shot. Was now it? Axe idle on shoulder, no stance—ripe for counter. Taunt-induced illusion, or real chance?
He gripped his arming sword tighter. Instinct—or emotion—screamed.
Now. Kill.
Aura surged into the blade. He swung.
Bessimer’s response seemed sluggish. His neck would fly before the axe met it.
“Gotcha.”
But he was caught. Bessimer blocked the blade barehanded. Impossible to halt an aura-infused edge with flesh—hand should shred like chaff. How tough was that skin to resist?
Chevalier faltered; Bessimer’s grin deepened.
Briefly. Chevalier twisted, yanked with both hands. The blade slipped free, blood spraying.
Bessimer’s axe descended. Chevalier didn’t retreat.
Pfuk!
Minimal motion plunged the sword into Bessimer’s gut.
“Kuhk—!”
Bessimer’s eyes widened.
“Advance!”
Rutger’s mana-laced voice boomed across the plain. The monster was stabbed. No more fear. Time for vengeance for fallen comrades.
Waaaaah!
Botmer’s soldiers roared, charging. Amid them, waiting cavalry burst forth in wedge formation.
Chevalier kicked Bessimer’s chest, yanking his sword. Or trying to.
“Kehhehe.”
Bessimer still grinned. His paling skin made the war paint vivid crimson. Gut pierced, he didn’t fall. Clutching the blade, he denied retrieval.
“…?”
A chill gripped Chevalier. Not just from Bessimer.
Awooooo!
Wolf howls echoed in broad daylight from all sides.
Hiihiihing—!
Mounts panicked, lines crumbling in chaos. Horses collided, fell; some veered into allies, trampling infantry.
Atop hills, pitch-black wolves crested.
“M-monster wolves…”
Rutger’s men faced fresh terror. The Black Forest march horrors: massive wolves bursting forth, dragging comrades into shadows, repeating nightmares. Visions of limbs torn by packs.
As soldiers milled, one hellwolf pierced Botmer ranks, barreling straight.
Brave elites blocked—necks severed in blinks.
Atop it, a sword wielder: Carlson.
He shattered the line, reaching Rutger.
Rutger couldn’t even draw.
Carlson’s blade loomed.
“As expected, brother.”
Bessimer chuckled, toppling.
Chevalier stared dumbly at the fallen giant.
Rutger’s defeat. Botmer’s.