Duel (4)
One month earlier, Isaac asked Carlson,
“Carlson. If I want to beat you with swordsmanship in just a month, how should I do it?”
To Carlson, this was the first question from Isaac that sounded like something a child would ask. Noble kids usually believed they had a natural genius for swordsmanship and that they could surpass someone who had trained for over a decade in a short time.
“Impossible.”
Carlson answered without a moment’s hesitation.
“Not even one chance in ten?”
“No.”
“One in a hundred?”
“Are you serious?”
“You always think whatever I say is a joke.”
“Because you only say ridiculous things.”
“But what if I have to win anyway? No matter what it takes?”
“If it were magic, you’d win, young master.”
“It has to be swordsmanship.”
“……”
Carlson shook his head. A firm declaration that there was no hope.
“Then let me rephrase. What do I need to do to have even one chance in a hundred?”
“Haa.”
Carlson let out a long sigh and fell silent for a moment. By then, Isaac had already taken a full beating from Carlson’s wooden sword. Any normal kid would have lost heart by now, but Isaac was still pondering ways to win.
What made this little brat so desperate? Carlson wondered. But Isaac’s face showed no readable emotion.
“Three conditions.”
“Tell me.”
“First, I have to completely underestimate you and let my guard down. Second, we duel with swords, but with specific victory conditions that narrow the skill gap even a little.”
“Makes sense. And the third?”
“Finally, in a situation where those two align, you need a surefire way to exploit my opening. With only a month, you’d have to drill that one move nonstop.”
“You sure have a roundabout way of saying it’s impossible.”
“That’s because it is impossible.”
“Still worth a shot.”
After that, Isaac hounded Carlson relentlessly. All for utterly unrealistic goals. Like overcoming their absolute physical disparity to land even one solid hit.
“Swing harder.”
“Haaap!”
“Wrong angle! Your opponent’s blade is far from their center of gravity, yours is close! Deflect it with the part of the blade nearest a crossguard.”
Isaac’s requested training time was just one hour. But Carlson quickly realized it didn’t end there. At some point, Isaac started wearing leather gloves everywhere. When handing over a wooden sword, Carlson glimpsed the palms stained dark brown.
A man who’d lived by the sword his whole life recognized it instantly. Train too hard without rest, and first come calluses, then blisters, then torn skin.
“Shouldn’t you get treatment?”
“You said make me look underestimated. To do that, even the people around me have to be clueless, right?”
“It’s a mad plan.”
“That’s why it’s worth it.”
As training dragged on, Isaac gradually revealed his plan to Carlson. He’d already analyzed Binvelt thoroughly before receiving it as a fief. Its problems, countermeasures, ideal uses. For any of it to work, he first had to subjugate the garrison under his command.
But over half the soldiers were from tribes the Goetes had crushed by force. They harbored resentment toward the Goetes and often bullied kingdom officials.
That’s why Pfeil, a tribal native, had been granted Binvelt originally.
“Using Goete force or authority on them will just breed more hostility. The only way is to respect and follow their traditions.”
“But it’s too reckless. It’s been half a month of training, and you still can’t deflect my casual swings.”
“I will. Watch.”
The day before leaving Binvelt finally arrived. Carlson held zero expectation that Isaac could deflect his sword.
“Use a real sword. And I mean it—no joke.”
“……”
“And swing harder than usual.”
“……”
Carlson hesitated. What gave him this confidence? Isaac had trained nonstop for a month. Pushing too hard here could cause serious injury. And with wooden swords, Isaac had never once countered a single strike.
But.
Kaang—
“……!”
A sharp metallic ring shattered Carlson’s hesitation.
“Harder!”
Kaang!
“Harder!”
Kaang!
“More!”
Kaang!
“More!”
Isaac caught his breath and reset his stance, panting. Carlson’s eyes wavered. Strikes Isaac hadn’t deflected once in a month—he parried in succession. The harder Carlson swung, the stronger Isaac’s deflections. The impact points were perfect, needless to say.
“What… did you do?”
“A little trick.”
Isaac grinned. Nothing grand. His scabbard was covered in torn pages from magic tomes. The phase change spells Bishop Lebonius had used to launch stakes. Tomes containing rituals to shift objects’ positions from multiple directions.
Channel mana, and the inscribed rituals activated. Isaac had selected only the needed pages, pasted them to the scabbard, and wrapped cloth over them to hide it.
He seemed to grip the sword, but really just mimed it—the blade floated in midair. Levitating objects was easy with phase change magic. But controlling it as freely as a person’s swing? Normally impossible. No one brain could manage it.
But Isaac could. Swordsmanship learned from Lucas in his past life, endless mental spars while imprisoned underground. He could predict the next strike from Bessimer’s footwork and shoulder alone.
Imagination to foresee seconds ahead, five circulation paths in motion. Like five fingers, they triggered the needed rituals instantly.
Most crucial: mana control. Precise output. To block a mighty warrior’s strike with a floating sword demanded perfect balance. Too little or too much mana, and the unsupported blade would collapse—fly away or spin wildly, slicing him instead.
Hand gestures set the blade’s position, angle, mana direction. Split-second timing—no delay, no rush.
Isaac’s mind danced like a musician syncing to Bessimer’s rhythm. It required supreme focus, control, reflexes, and athleticism. A mad feat no mage would dare. But Isaac was ready.
No—he had to succeed.
And when the first clash rang out—chjaeng—
Isaac knew he’d won.
‘Carlson’s final strike yesterday was way heavier.’
Simultaneously, he cast cooling on Bessimer’s arm entering his domain. Freezing a living body’s warm blood like ice crystals was impossible, but frostbite? Yes. One cast wouldn’t do much, but accumulated with each clash? Unignorable.
Cold hands lose sensation, grip weakens. Even a hulking brute couldn’t escape human limits. Especially an excited foe who never saw it coming.
Thud—
The axe sank into the mud with a clear sound. The soldiers watched in dead silence. They saw Bessimer drop it but couldn’t grasp what happened. Near a hundred men, yet an unbelievable hush hung over them.
“My victory, Bessimer.”
“……”
Bessimer stared at Isaac, head creaking like a broken puppet. Disbelief etched on his face.
“H-He won! The kid actually beat him!”
A soldier finally realized and shouted.
“The young master beat Bessimer!”
Woooaaah!
The soldiers erupted in cheers. Tribal or Goete, it was a rare spectacle in their lives. Flushed and thrilled, the underdog’s upset boiled their blood.
“I’m not ‘young master’—I’m Isaac! Isaac von Goete!”
Isaac raised his sword high.
Isaac! Isaac! Isaac!
The soldiers chanted his name.
“Shut up! All of you, shut it!”
Bessimer bellowed, face crimson, but no one heeded a duel loser.
“I said shut up!”
He snatched his axe and swung it threateningly.
“Whoa.”
The soldiers backed off in alarm.
“Y-You sly Goete bastard!”
Bessimer grabbed Isaac’s collar and hoisted him up, snarling.
“What dirty trick did you pull!?”
“Refusing to accept defeat? Abandoning a warrior’s honor?”
“You defiled this sacred duel! I’ll wash it in your blood right here!”
Bessimer raised his axe.
“What are you all doing!?”
Schrader shouted urgently.
“You serve the Goetes. Touch a hair on the young master, and you’re all traitors—executed!”
The soldiers snapped to and rushed Bessimer. His strength was monstrous; two or three burly men per arm and leg.
“Let go, you rotten pig bastards!”
Bessimer thrashed.
“Snap out of it, boss!”
“You trying to get us all killed, you lunatic!?”
“Aigoo, boss lost it again!”
A dozen piled on, but he flung them like straw dolls. Finally, with all their might, his balance crumbled. He face-planted into the mud, soldiers swarming atop.
“Let me gooo!”
Bessimer couldn’t axe his comrades and just roared. Carlson finished it with a pommel strike to his skull.
“I can’t go.”
“Go. Won’t say it twice.”
“Can’t. I’ve bragged to the other servants enough about serving you. Get demoted from squire too, and I can’t show my face in the manor.”
“Your cheek won’t work this time.”
Go back to the manor—you’re fired as my servant. Isaac repeated it endlessly, but Hans wouldn’t budge. Frustrating for Isaac.
While in Binvelt, who knew how many life-or-death crises awaited? Hell wolves—hundreds—would swarm the garrison soon. Normally, in weeks, Binvelt would fail as Goete land, becoming a monster den.
Isaac’s first task: stop it. Blood would flow—maybe his own. He hadn’t come to live well, but to change the Goetes’ future. Survival let him tackle the next, but death loomed.
To save his house, protect loved ones, he’d dive into hellfire. But a loved one jumping in too? Unacceptable.
Shring—
Isaac drew his sword at last.
“You climb because I’ve indulged you once or twice. Go—or die by my hand.”
No matter Hans’s loyalty, he had family. Things to protect. Isaac’s final resort.
“If I can’t serve you, dying by your hand’s fine. Kill me. What’re you waiting for?”
Hans gripped the blade and pressed it to his throat.
“You think I’m a pushover? That I won’t cut you?”
“Then do it quick.”
“……”
“I’m dense, but do you think I don’t know you? I saw it when you said you’d duel that Bessimer brute. You’re ready to die. You think I’d let you go alone?”
“……”
“I don’t know how you see me. But you’re family to me—more than that. You saved my son, feed my family. I’ve spent more time with you than them. I’d die for them, or for you. If they die, I follow. If you die, I follow.”
“……It’s noble, but your face is pale as a ghost.”
“Blade to the throat—who wouldn’t be scared? I’m not crazy.”
Hans trembled but spat it all out.
“Lucky guy, whoever’s servant you are.”
“Carlson? You heard all that?”
“Your voice carries. Almost brought tears.”
Carlson entered the tent, deadpan.
“Leave him here.”
“You too?”
“I know better than anyone the pain of failing to protect what matters.”
At Carlson’s words, Isaac looked at Hans. His gaze stubbornly met Isaac’s, eyes conveying his sincerity.
“I’ll train him. Make him a proper sparring partner.”
“Haa.”
Isaac sighed. The pain of failing to protect. How could he not know? He’d lived it his whole life. Trapped forever in that moment of failure. That wasn’t living.
Isaac’s miscalculation: the depth of Hans’s feelings.
“……Fool.”
Isaac sheathed his sword, muttering.
“Hans.”
“Yes, young master.”
“From now on, you’re my servant and Carlson’s squire.”
“Carlson’s squire?”
“And Carlson. You’re coming with me.”
Isaac left the tent, walking the garrison. Afternoon sun still lingered.
Word of Isaac beating Bessimer in a duel spread among the soldiers. But it didn’t win their favor. They glanced sidelong, whispering among themselves. None acknowledged or showed warmth. They just avoided him.
In Bessimer’s words, barely better than a cursed cripple.
Isaac walked silently out of the garrison. Carlson followed wordlessly.
Once away from people, Isaac spoke.
“Carlson.”
“Yes.”
“If Hans dies in Binvelt, I won’t help you.”
“Break our deal, and I’ll cut you down.”
“Fine. Still won’t help.”
“……”
Carlson realized the cost of swaying Isaac’s heart.
“A mere commoner servant that important?”
“To me, yes. So protect Hans—or if that’s a hassle, make him strong enough not to die.”
“Impossible order. Everyone dies eventually.”
“Do your best.”
“Always thought you were a weird noble.”
“You’re no prize yourself.”
Isaac chuckled and kept walking.
“Let’s head back, Kyle.”
“It’s Carlson.”
Carlson followed Isaac back into the garrison.
“You’ll be Cayenne’s son Kyle someday.”
“Until then, Carlson.”
“Fair enough.”
“About Hans.”
“Yeah.”
“Can I drill him to the brink of death—as long as he doesn’t die?”
“Sounds good. Turn the disobedient servant into an obedient squire.”
“As you command.”
Isaac and Carlson shared a laugh.
‘One more reason to get stronger.’
Isaac thought. Fail to protect even Hans, and he had no right to speak of saving the house.
So he had to grow stronger.