Duel (3)
“Busy since dawn, eh?”
“It’s a proper duel, after all. Gotta warm up the body a bit, don’tcha think?”
Bessimer dismounted, rolling his shoulders to loosen up. The men who’d ridden with him wore outfits unlike the other soldiers—no gambesons, but leather breastplates draped with fur cloaks. One look, and it was clear they were tribesmen from the same clan. The reins of their horses were tied with ropes that led to the hind legs of a massive wild boar. It was far bigger than two horses combined, not some ordinary beast. Its tusks were excessively long and sharp, jutting out in jagged prongs. No mere mountain animal—this was a magic beast. A monster.
The only fatal wound on the boar was a single one: a deep axe blade embedded in its forehead. As if to boast of their hunting prowess, they’d left it there, unpulled.
“Wasn’t too cold last night?”
Bessimer grinned, his face screaming he knew exactly what had happened.
“Thanks to your consideration, I slept like a baby.”
Isaac replied flatly. But Schrader and Hans, standing behind him, glared daggers at Bessimer.
“Glad to hear it.”
“Hope you got some shut-eye too. Don’t wanna hear any excuses after I beat ya.”
“Kahaha!”
Bessimer bellowed with laughter, his tribesmen joining in. Every one of them had their faces painted white, with blood drawn in metaphysical patterns. It looked like a ritual before an important battle. In other words, a warning that they wouldn’t go easy just because Isaac was a young boy.
“The young master’s got some foresight, eh? The village women warmed me up good—I slept sound. They love how toasty my body gets.”
“So, you got an oracle from that quack prophet too, I bet.”
“……”
The grin faded from Bessimer’s face at Isaac’s words.
“The wolf king’s coming back?”
“That ain’t for the young master to worry ‘bout. You won’t be settin’ foot in Binvelt again anyway.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Hmph, even a cripple’s still a Goethe, huh? That glare’s just like the little lord’s. Good thing. Been wantin’ to see fear in eyes like those.”
Crack—
Bessimer yanked the axe from the boar’s brow between its eyes. Black blood and brains oozed out, soaking the ground.
“Hear me! I, Bessimer, brave warrior of the Baitur tribe, stake my warrior’s honor on this duel right here! I demand all you gathered be witnesses!”
He thrust the dripping axe high overhead, his roar booming like thunder. The sheer ferocity made listeners shrink back just hearing it. Isaac, the one who’d called for the duel, yawned with half-lidded eyes.
“C-Carlson, sir.”
“?”
Hans called to Carlson, who watched from amid the soldiers.
“You’ll save him, right?”
“Save who?”
Carlson replied indifferently.
“Who else? The young master!”
Terror etched Hans’s face. The gruesome scene to come was all too vivid.
The height difference alone was nearly double. No contest in sheer bulk. He’d slain that monstrous boar with one axe swing. With that raw power, Isaac wouldn’t block even a single blow—his sword would snap, and he’d be cleaved in half.
“Guess you don’t trust your master much.”
“It’s not about trust! It’s a giant versus a kid!”
“Disqualified as a squire.”
“Huh?”
“Quit panicking and watch.”
Carlson glanced at Schrader as he spoke. The old butler already had mana gathered in both hands, ready to cast at any moment. Carlson smirked.
The onlookers were on edge, but Isaac looked utterly bored.
“Young master got nothin’ to say?”
The duel hadn’t even started, but Bessimer already wore the victor’s smirk.
“Not really.”
“Wonder how long that cool head lasts, eh? Pick yer weapon. What’ll it be? Dagger? Axe? Flail? Mace? Club? Hook? Name it—I got ‘em all. Kekeke.”
The leather-armored men around Bessimer rummaged in their cloaks, tossing iron weapons to the dirt. Rusty and blood-crusted, neglected on purpose. Useless as proper arms, but perfect for intimidation.
“Use whatever you want. I’m ready. But let’s set the victory conditions first.”
Isaac ignored the pile, tapping the sheathed sword at his waist.
“Conditions?”
“Does the winner kill the loser? Or make ‘em surrender? That kinda thing.”
“Gettin’ cold feet now?”
“Nah. Lose a decent talker if you die.”
Bessimer’s smug look cracked at Isaac’s jab.
“Callin’ me a pawn…?”
“Let’s do it Baitur-style, how you pick a chieftain.”
“……?”
“Decidin’ this camp’s boss? Nothin’ better. Kills us both if one dies.”
“……”
Bessimer blinked blankly, then chuckled.
“Young master’s sharper than he looks. Came prepared, huh?”
“Told ya. Here to defend my land. Gotta be serious.”
“Fine. Would love to chew out that guts comin’ outta the castle walls, but yeah—best way.”
“Duel’s on, then.”
Isaac nodded.
“Don’t get comfy thinkin’ you saved yer skin. Might not control my strength—could cleave ya with the iron.”
“Watch yourself. My swordplay’s sloppy—might not know when to hold back.”
“Kahahaha! What a mad bastard.”
Bessimer roared, but his eyes on Isaac were ice-cold. Pure killing intent.
“You know Baitur tradition? The method?”
“Of course.”
Isaac drew his blade, lightly slicing his palm. Bessimer did the same with his axe. The giant and the boy clasped wounded hands. Bessimer had to bend nearly to a squat for the handshake. Isaac’s wrist was about as thick as Bessimer’s thumb.
The duel had already begun with this rite. As their hands met, Bessimer bared his teeth in a grin. Time to etch terror into this arrogant, naive brat.
His grip could crush stone. Pulverizing the kid’s hand? Child’s play.
“……?”
But no matter how hard Bessimer squeezed, Isaac’s face stayed blank. Not gritting through pain—he felt nothing. Like clutching steel.
Veins bulged on Bessimer’s bald scalp, but Isaac’s hand held firm.
“Plannin’ to hold all day? I wanna wrap this up for lunch.”
Soldiers had gathered to watch. Nearby, stifled chuckles escaped. Bessimer glared; they stopped, but his face flushed purple.
“Won’t go easy on ya, pup.”
Bessimer spun away, taking steps back. Isaac did the same. At a fair distance, they leveled weapons. No war cries—just ominous wind trailing Bessimer’s charge.
Whoosh—
The giant closed in instantly, rearing back his axe arm with full might. Soldiers sensed it: something was wrong. Bessimer meant to bisect Isaac for real. No one had ever blocked his full-force axe. Even with steel shields, the first hit might glance, but the power crumpled shields and shattered shoulders. Trained shieldmen survived one, died on two. A kid with a sword? Forget it.
Visions of doom flashed: the brat hacked apart, the enraged count slaughtering the camp.
Stop it. But too late to move or shout—the giant’s full weight crashed down.
Soldiers screamed silently.
Clang—!
A deafening boom rattled ears. Hans squeezed his eyes shut. Ringing filled his head; legs buckled. Couldn’t face the horror.
“Open yer eyes, Hans.”
Carlson’s voice cut through the buzz. As ringing faded, excited murmurs rose—not tragedy, but thrill.
“He—he blocked it!”
“Gods above, what sorcery?”
“Ain’t Goethe a magic house?”
Hans slowly opened his eyes at the unbelievable voices.
“Lucky break.”
Bessimer growled like a beast.
“Dunno ‘bout luck.”
Isaac propped himself on his sword, rising. He’d rolled from the impact, clothes muddied. He brushed off casually.
“S-stop it! If the kid dies, the count kills us all.”
“Try it! Anyone interruptin’ this sacred duel gets this axe in the face!”
Bessimer menaced the crowd.
“Hah……”
Schrader exhaled in disbelief—not at the axe swing, but Isaac parrying it so brazenly.
“What in the world’s goin’ on?”
“Catchin’ on now?”
“But how’s the young master usin’ magic…?”
No fooling Schrader’s eyes. Isaac’s block wasn’t sword skill or brawn. Magic.
“Who’d have thought? I was floored first time too.”
“Any chance of winning?”
“Dunno. But since we went Baitur-style, it’s all per his plan.”
To warrior Baitur, chieftain meant peak might. But no killing kin—so they stripped a warrior’s honor: their sacred weapon. Drop it, lose honor, get exiled or relegated to labor. Victory: disarm the foe.
“Watch with eyes open. See what kinda man yer lord is.”
Carlson told trembling Hans.
Clang—clang—
Not mere metal clashes—intangible forces shattering. Absurdity unfolded. Isaac flew and rolled from the giant’s blows, but blocked somehow. Even shieldmen struggled with that axe; he parried on a knife’s edge. Rather than meet force, he rolled with it or angled his blade to deflect.
Jaws dropped. Bessimer swung full power. Yet the frail boy defended like it was natural.
Clang—clang—
Isaac’s clothes dirtied, hair disheveled. Cold sweat beaded despite the chill, from tension and thrill. But his eyes unchanged—gazing past Bessimer, to some distant void. Empty, indifferent. Bessimer wasn’t even there.
“You insolent brat!”
Not falling. Not crumbling. Not breaking.
This kid. To Bessimer, ever feared and revered in Binvelt’s camp, such apathy was intolerable. Rage blinded him to numb hands, creeping chill up his arm.
Clang—clang—
One hit sent Isaac sprawling, resetting guard. Holding on heroically, but victory seemed distant. Yet on the eighth strike—
Bessimer felt vague dread. Warrior instinct’s warning. Ignoring it always brought peril. And this time, it was right.
Isaac’s stance looked defensive—but primed to counter.
Shring—
Downward axe met upward blade. Impossible to overpower a chop without matching strength.
Impossible.
‘Should be impossible…’
Ear-splitting screech. Bessimer froze. His head snapped skyward.
The axe flew. He clutched empty air. It plummeted—his axe.
Thud.
Bessimer’s axe sank into the mud.