The Festival of the Sword
The day of the Festival of the Sword had finally arrived. Lurie's largest sword arena was so packed with spectators that temporary seating had to be hastily constructed. Held for the first time in seven years, the festival commenced amidst the roaring cheers of the crowd.
Ten knights in total—five from each side—stepped onto the circular stone arena. They wore ceremonial armor far more ornate than their everyday gear. Filgret, marching forward in stoic silence, stood in stark contrast to Walter Grave, who waved both hands enthusiastically to his adoring fans.
The VIP box, situated in the prime viewing location, was reserved for royalty and high-ranking nobles. Seated right next to me, Pehart spoke with an air of cheerful anticipation.
"It seems resuming the festival was the right choice, just as you suggested. A duel between the kingdom's finest knights... I am truly looking forward to this. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Indeed, I am quite excited as well. What about you, Princess Sera?"
Carmel passed the conversational baton to me, wearing the sweet, gentle smile of a loving stepmother. She was undoubtedly trying to get under my skin. I countered with my own radiant, picture-perfect princess smile.
"My understanding of swordsmanship is rather lacking, so I am not sure if I will be able to appreciate it fully. However, as long as Your Majesty and Mother are pleased, I am happy as well."
At my textbook response, Carmel let out a quiet, derisive snort. Pehart, on the other hand, nodded in agreement.
"Mmm, yes, this certainly wouldn't be to your taste."
To be completely honest, I wished they would just call the whole thing off. I didn't have a single grain of interest in watching people swing metal at each other. Besides, the winning side gets command and personnel rights over the losing side? How could the knights, let alone the people of this era, accept such an absurd arrangement? Having lived in an efficient, modern society, I found this backward system utterly intolerable. I mean, even the black company I used to work for never did anything like—well, actually, I can't say that with absolute certainty. Damn it.
In any case, the moment I seize absolute power, the Festival of the Sword will be the very first thing I abolish. If the commoners need entertainment, I can just throw some gladiators and a pack of lions into an arena. That would be far healthier than forcing knights with vital duties to fight each other for public gossip.
Yet, it was also true that my fate rested, to some extent, on this tacky sword dance. I clasped my hands together as if in prayer.
I'm counting on you, Filgret...
Carmel's scheme to plant a seed of mana in the Golden Knights' swords had been utterly thwarted. Judging by her state yesterday, she hadn't attempted any other tricks. If she had any remaining hope to cling to, she wouldn't have been depressed enough to bury herself in her bed. This meant the match would be a fair and square duel. Only their sheer skill would determine victory or defeat. All I could do now was trust my first vassal, Filgret.
"Commander of the Obsidian Knights! Walter Grave! As the leader of the Direct Guard serving by royal decree, I enter this Festival of the Sword dedicated to the Goddess!"
"Commander of the Golden Knights. Filgret Ostana. As the Captain of the Royal Guard protecting the royal family, I enter this Festival of the Sword dedicated to the Goddess."
The two commanders crossed their swords in the center of the arena as they made their declarations. Then, they each took five steps back and stared each other down. Next, the presiding priest stepped forward and began to recite a prayer dedicated to the Goddess. The content was tedious, and his droning voice was practically an invitation to fall asleep. Pehart, also struggling to endure the boredom, quietly struck up a conversation with the man sitting behind him.
"Hmm, this is going to take a while. Lord Alen, how do you foresee this Festival of the Sword unfolding?"
Alen Grave. The general responsible for capital defense and the father of Walter Grave. He replied from the row behind us in a refined, solemn voice.
"I only pray that my foolish son puts up a fight that does not bring shame to our name."
This was the first time I had seen him in person. His face evoked the image of a weathered winter tree. Not a frail, decaying branch, but a sturdy, ancient oak that had endured the harsh winter winds, standing firm and unyielding. As the patriarch of his family, he must have heard about the marriage talks between Walter and me. In fact, he might have been the mastermind behind this entire situation.
"Haha, there is no need for such modesty. Everyone knows of Filgret's exceptional prowess, but Walter is highly regarded as his equal. Is he not called a prodigy of the sword? Putting aside your family ties, what is your honest assessment of him as a fellow warrior?"
Alen shook his head slowly, yet firmly.
"Filgret Ostana is not someone my son can be compared to. If I may speak frankly—"
At that moment, a trumpet blast signaled the start of the match. Immediately after, Walter's booming voice echoed through the arena.
"Charge!"
The five knights of the Direct Guard surged forward with immense momentum. The crowd erupted into wild cheers at the sight of their spirited advance.
Are they trying to force a chaotic melee? Either they believe their individual skills surpass the Royal Guard's, or...
I glanced sideways at Carmel. She was watching the match with a smug, confident smile. Perhaps Walter was charging so boldly because she had assured him that the Royal Guard's swords were practically wooden toys.
Filgret quickly moved his hand, signaling his knights. In an instant, they formed a defensive line and clashed head-on with the Direct Guard's charge.
Clang! Clang! The sharp ring of metal on metal echoed continuously as swords clashed. The knights leaped, rolled, and thrust with such precision that it resembled an exquisitely choreographed group dance.
Among them, the two wearing the commander's crests on their helmets stood out the most: Filgret and Walter. While the other knights displayed impressive movements, those two were clearly in a league of their own.
"Let us settle this here and now, Filgret!"
Walter's combative shout was amplified, echoing throughout the entire arena. The crowd reacted enthusiastically to his fiery competitive spirit. His voice sounds completely different from when he spoke to me. This is probably his true self.
Filgret showed no reaction to Walter's provocative declaration of rivalry. He simply scanned the battlefield, calmly directing his knights with hand gestures.
There was no sign of the Direct Guard underestimating their opponents' weapons. It seemed Carmel hadn't tipped them off. Come to think of it, they were proud knights; they wouldn't have wanted to win through such underhanded means anyway.
The only person in the entire arena shocked by the fact that the Royal Guard's weapons were perfectly intact was Carmel. Watching the two sides fight on equal footing, she looked utterly dumbfounded. Then, she slowly turned her gaze toward me—with eyes that, for some reason, burned with a sense of betrayal.
Well, let's just say Monas was exceptionally competent. I shrugged, offering her an innocent smile as if I had absolutely no idea why she was looking at me like that.
Meanwhile, the battle raged on. No matter how skilled the knights were, it was impossible to evade every single blow in such a chaotic melee. Swords pierced through leather armor, drawing crimson blood that made me grimace. Thanks to non-lethal magic, the wounds weren't fatal, but painful screams still echoed through the arena.
According to the rules of the Festival of the Sword, the moment a knight's body touched the ground, they were out. Those who were too injured to continue kneeling or sitting down withdrew from the combat zone. Slowly, the tide of battle began to turn against the Royal Guard. Out of the three eliminated so far, two belonged to our side. A three-on-four match meant it wasn't over yet, but as time passed and stamina drained, the numerical disadvantage would only grow more severe. I watched the arena, my throat tight with anxiety.
At that moment, I witnessed a scene that made me doubt my own eyes.
W-Wait. What on earth is he doing?
Filgret gestured to his remaining two slightly injured knights, and they promptly retreated to the edge of the arena and sat down on the ground. At this miraculous act of self-sabotage—turning a three-on-four into a one-on-four—not only I, but even the opposing Direct Guard knights stared at Filgret in sheer disbelief.
"Have you lost your mind, Filgret?"
To think the day would come when I actually agreed with that bastard. If Filgret were in front of me right now, I would have grabbed him by the collar and shaken him senseless.
"Walter, have you ever thought about why you wield a sword?"
"What?"
"I have searched for a long time. What is the purpose of honing oneself as a knight... And finally, I have found the answer."
Filgret's gaze drifted toward the VIP box. To the spectators and the King, that look would surely be interpreted as a display of unwavering loyalty to the royal family. But I alone knew that he was looking directly at me. But still, why did you make your subordinates withdraw?!
"So what of it?"
Irritation was beginning to seep into Walter's voice. In contrast, a faint, amused undertone laced Filgret's words.
"Let us continue the fight, Walter. Frankly, I have always found your arrogance quite irritating. Come at me. You can face me one by one, or all four of you can attack at once."
"Cut the nonsense... Attack!"
All four knights, including Walter, rushed him simultaneously. I watched the arena, feeling as though I were trapped in a nightmare.
The first knight collapsed, his neck slashed. Had it not been for the non-lethal magic, his head would have been severed. The second knight aimed for Filgret's arm but missed; in the next instant, Filgret kicked his knee, buckling his leg. Seizing the opening, the third knight managed to plunge his sword into Filgret's torso. Yet, even as blood spilled from the wound, Filgret slammed the pommel of his sword directly into the man's face. With a painful groan, the third knight rolled across the ground.
The fourth knight... Walter Grave stood frozen in place, watching his comrades get utterly demolished in a matter of seconds.
"...What?"
"What are you doing, Walter? Aren't you going to attack?"
Blood seeped from the stab wound. Pressing his left hand against the injury to stem the flow, Filgret took a step forward.
"If you won't come... I will."
Moving quickly with a sword wound to the abdomen was impossible. Yet, as Filgret advanced with slow, deliberate steps, he looked as menacing as a phantom knight from an ancient legend. Ultimately, Walter took a step back. This was likely the first time in his life that the self-proclaimed prodigy had ever encountered an opponent so overwhelmingly superior to him.
Walter seemed to have completely lost the will to fight. The grand, festive atmosphere of the duel had vanished. The crowd's feverish excitement cooled instantly, leaving behind a silence so profound that not even a cough could be heard. Amidst the quiet, every eye in the arena was fixed on Filgret and Walter.
Walter's hands were trembling. There was no competitive drive left in his posture, nor any fighting spirit. It was a mercy that his helmet concealed his face. His ragged, trembling breaths echoed embarrassingly through the magic amplifier.
"Ugh... Urrgh... Aaaaargh!"
Finally, Walter kicked off the ground and bolted. Not toward Filgret, but straight out of the arena. It was the most pathetic retreat imaginable.
"Sigh... That utter fool...!"
A heavy sigh escaped from the row behind us. Alen Grave closed his eyes tightly, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together.
I had never mentioned the marriage proposal to Filgret. However, he seemed to have realized that this Festival of the Sword was being used to corner me. The only reason for setting up such a grand stage was to elevate Walter's reputation. Even if Filgret didn't know the exact details of the marriage arrangement, he would have easily deduced that much. That was why he chose this specific method of victory—cruelly destroying the honor of a man he had previously respected as a fellow knight.
I wish he had told me beforehand.
No, I probably wouldn't have allowed it. There was no way I would have approved a plan where he dismissed his own men to fight alone just to crush the enemy's morale. Yet, Filgret had executed it flawlessly. He had delivered a magnificent return on my trust. After such a pathetic display of cowardice, the Grave family wouldn't be able to utter a single word of protest even if the marriage talks were completely called off.
Even as the bewildered priest declared the Royal Guard's victory, not a single soul in the stunned, silent crowd applauded the victor. But I, at least, could not help but offer him my utmost respect. Well done, Filgret.