Just the Right Temperature
Raon felt the gazes shooting at him from every direction and smiled coldly.
They're looking down on us.
The spectators had flinched for a moment at the madness the Light Wind Squad had radiated upon entering, but the contempt in their eyes was blatant. They were sizing up the Light Wind swordsmen by age, experience, and reputation—and finding them wanting.
Natural enough, I suppose.
The Light Wind Squad was younger than the warriors of every other faction. The youngest in this entire venue. The gap in years meant a gap in training time, so it was understandable that people would take them lightly.
But age isn't everything.
The caliber of their experience was on another level. The real combat and training the Light Wind Squad had endured rivaled that of any faction here. They had clawed their way through a living hell that could close a gap of a year or two without breaking a sweat.
"This King is beginning to find you frightening."
Wrath climbed up onto the frost-flower bracelet and narrowed his eyes.
"This King is hardly gentle with his own subordinates, but even This King cannot compare to you. Even that Envy fellow—the one said to treat his underlings the harshest in the entire Demon Realm—would click his tongue in disbelief if he saw you!"
Having watched the Light Wind Squad train for two full days, Wrath's chin was trembling as if he were genuinely terrified.
Is that so?
Raon let out a quiet snort of laughter at Wrath's shuddering.
If the training was enough to rattle Wrath, we had better not lose.
Time had been short, so he had pushed the intensity well past anything they had done back at the house—and still, not a single member of the Light Wind Squad had fallen behind. They had dragged up the latent potential that had been lying dormant beneath body and mind.
Anyone who still took the Light Wind Squad lightly—now that they were wrapped in madness and able to draw out their full power—would have the match decided in a single breath.
"Hrm."
Raon smiled in satisfaction and looked into the eyes of the Light Wind Squad. A yellow gleam of madness was lodged, sharp and glittering, at the center of every pupil.
All that madness is pointed at me. I can't tell whether to laugh or cry.
The Light Wind Squad did not look like they wanted to fight the warriors of the Six Kings. They looked like they wanted to beat the living hell out of the person who had put them through two days of torment.
"We will now reveal the bracket!"
The announcer climbed onto the arena and gestured, and magicians unfurled the Expert-class tournament bracket in midair. The number of participants was so large that it had produced a staggering Round of 128.
"Woooooooah!"
"The Third Prince is sixth! He's fighting the Beast Alliance!"
"Princess Jayna! You have to win!"
"The names on this thing are no joke. There's not a single match that looks boring!"
Most of the competitors were renowned warriors and mages, and the crowd roared as they waited for the tournament to begin.
Our first match is…
Raon searched the cheers for the first Light Wind name to appear.
Burren.
The eldest-brother figure of the Light Wind Squad going first. A bracket he could be satisfied with.
And his opponent is Rikel Robert.
Not a direct descendant of House Robert, but a swordsman in his early twenties who had made a name for himself with flashy swordsmanship. The old Burren would have found him a difficult opponent—but after this round of training, he had grown enough to handle it.
"Uh…"
"Th-that guy looks way stronger than me…"
"Nngh…"
"W-we're screwed."
The Light Wind swordsmen's faces went stiff as they found their own names on the bracket. Already cowed by an audience that seemed to have written them off as losers, they appeared to be measuring their own meager reputations against the famous seniors they would have to face.
"Everyone. Listen up."
Raon clapped his hands and gathered the Light Wind Squad's eyes.
"You already know, don't you? Right now, inside this arena, there is not a single person betting on a Zieghart victory."
"Nngh…"
"Damn it…"
The Light Wind Squad ground their teeth. Even in their half-maddened state, their pride had clearly been stung.
"That's not something to get angry about."
Raon shrugged at the seething squad.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Burren, his cheeks already hollowed out after only two days, tilted his head.
"This is a stage made for you."
Raon spread both arms, taking in the spectators packed on every side.
"Wouldn't it be fun to watch those arrogant faces—the ones already calling your defeat—drain into shock?"
"Ah!"
"That's…"
The madness receded from the Light Wind swordsmen's eyes, replaced by a rising heat. They looked out at the crowd and clenched their fists.
"Yeah. That does sound fun."
Marta, the circles under her eyes pitch-black, licked her lips as she stared at the spectators.
"Watching those idiots' jaws hit the floor would save me the trouble of needing a side dish with dinner."
"I really want to see that."
"My heart's pounding."
The Light Wind Squad bit their lips as they looked over the crowd. Excitement seemed to be rising in them a little faster than madness.
The temperature's still a bit low.
Their current state wasn't bad, but to put on a proper showing they needed a touch more madness.
"The way I see it, every last one of you drew an opponent you can beat."
Raon lifted his chin as he looked over the Light Wind Squad.
"Unless you run into each other—if any of you happen to lose…"
Madness hotter than the squad's own curled at the corners of his mouth and burned in his eyes.
"The moment we return to the house, you'll repeat every training drill you've done so far. For an entire month."
"Ghk!"
"Guhk…"
"Khup…"
The Light Wind Squad made sounds as if their breath had been cut off. The madness that had been sinking in their eyes surged up like a wildfire.
A low rumble rolled through the air.
Raon smiled as he faced a madness more chilling than killing intent.
"Just the right temperature."
"Victory goes to Charlie Wibin of the Owen Kingdom!"
"Woooooooah!"
The young knight of the Owen Kingdom, having defeated a knight of Valkar, raised both hands and answered the crowd's cheers. He savored the moment of victory a little longer, then descended from the arena with the smile still on his face. The fallen knight bit his lip, his complexion gone pale.
"The next match will now begin. Burren Zieghart versus Rikel Robert!"
"Wooooh! It's Zieghart versus Robert!"
"A clash of sword houses!"
"The match should be over pretty quick, though, right?"
"Obviously. Rikel reached Expert Peak-Class ages ago. He's even got the epithet Hundred Stream Sword."
The spectators called the match for Rikel before it had even started. Most of the famous names so far had won, and there was not a hint of hesitation in their judgment.
"Hoo."
Rikel Robert stepped up onto the arena and let out a short breath.
Burren Zieghart, is it.
Should be easy. A nineteen-year-old brat he'd never even properly heard of. Direct lineage or not, squad leader of some combat unit or not—this was absolutely not his equal.
It's Zieghart, after all. A house that has no one but Glenn.
Until Glenn had recently overwhelmed the White Blood Cult Leader and Tatcheon, House Zieghart had been considered the bottom seat even among the Six Kings. Glenn was the strong one—not the rest of them. There was nothing here worth watching.
Better to finish this fast.
It was a tournament. He had no desire to waste time and stamina on some Zieghart whelp. End it as quickly as possible and save himself for the next fight.
Footsteps sounded from the opposite side.
The boy they called Burren came up. His name had been called some time ago, and the fact that he was only now climbing the steps suggested he was nervous.
If he's tense on top of everything else, this will be even easier.
Rikel studied Burren with a faint smile as the boy came up. Fine blue hair, and those eyes…
Why did that brat's eyes look like that?
The color's completely changed.
A madness even more vicious than what Burren had worn on entry was burning in his pupils. It did not feel like a duel. It felt like a real fight—the kind where a life hung by a thread.
"A-ah, are both sides ready?"
The announcer seemed to sense that something was off as well; he swallowed dryly.
"Yes."
Burren nodded as if he were possessed.
"Mm. I am ready."
Rikel Robert narrowed his eyes and nodded as well, and the announcer climbed down from the arena.
"Then the sixth match—begin!"
The instant the announcer's hand came down, Rikel Robert kicked off the ground.
As fast as possible!
A chill ran down his spine at Burren's gaze. Determined to end it in a single exchange, he drove in from the left and brought his sword down. A fierce slash of the White Wave Sword, modeled after a crashing tide, fell on a diagonal.
A thunderous clang rang out.
As if the surprise attack meant nothing, Burren casually turned his blade and knocked the White Wave Sword's form aside.
"That all you've got!"
Rikel rolled his wrist and loosed a second strike. Stronger aura and a fuller current rode the blade this time—the White Wave Sword form called Hundred Stream Phantom.
A high, keening shriek of steel.
Once again, Rikel's strike failed to break Burren's guard and faded away.
Not bad. So he has at least one trick, does he?
Young or not, this was a direct descendant of Zieghart. It would not do to take him too lightly.
A deep, gathering hum of aura.
Rikel steadied his breathing and drew up more than half the aura in his core.
"Try blocking this one too!"
He lunged in from the left and brought his sword down. A slash faster and fiercer than before carved toward Burren's waist.
"Hup!"
Burren showed no panic even as he faced a blade of an entirely different caliber. He eased a half-step to the side and sent out a strike that carried a cold wind.
Steel screamed as the two swords met.
The power of their techniques was even. Burren had not given a single inch; he simply stood there, looking at Rikel.
"What in the…"
Rikel's jaw trembled. He had drawn up more than sixty percent of his aura, and the brat called Burren had not been pushed back at all. He could not begin to understand what was happening.
"I'm sorry, but…"
Something like murky smoke spilled from Burren's mouth.
"There's a reason I absolutely cannot lose. Especially not to people like you…"
He ground his teeth and lunged.
"You insolent little—!"
Rikel wrenched every last drop of his aura into his sword and thrust. The silver blade rolled like water, raising a mighty tide of sword-aura.
He can't stop this!
It was the White Wave Sword's secret art, a technique that grew stronger and more protean the more the opponent dodged or blocked. He had been saving the form for his next opponent, but this was no time to hold back.
"It's over— huh?"
Rikel's eyes flew wide. Burren neither dodged nor gave ground. He drove straight through the massive surge of sword-aura.
"H-how do you know the counter to that technique?!"
"Counter? I don't know a damn thing about that!"
A battle cry thick with madness burst from Burren's lips.
"If I lose, I die!"
And with those words, his sword came down.
A colossal crash.
The tremendous will and power loaded into his blade shattered Rikel's secret art and buried itself in his shoulder.
"Guhk!"
Rikel screamed and crumpled. His sword gone from his hand, he looked up at Burren with eyes that rolled like a sailboat caught in a breaking wave.
"Wh-wha…?"
"Rikel lost…"
"D-does that make any sense?"
"It's not even a year or two of difference in age!"
"What the hell…"
The spectators trembled, jaws shaking, at a scene they had never imagined. Their eyes, blown wide, were fixed on Burren alone.
"Y-you, what even are you…"
Rikel called out to Burren with a trembling hand, but Burren was staring only at his own.
What is this…
He had only swung his sword, wrapped in madness because he did not want to die under Raon's training—and somewhere in the middle of that, Rikel had gone down.
How did I win?
Rikel was a swordsman of some reputation. He had not been a favorite to win the tournament, but he had been expected to sail comfortably into the round of eight. Burren had broken him far too easily.
"V-victory goes to Burren Zieghart!"
Hearing the announcer declare his win, Burren turned around. Raon was wearing a faint smile, as if to say he had done well.
What the hell did you do to us this time, you demon king bastard!
A titanic crash.
Unlike Burren, Marta charged her opponent from the very first breath and brought her sword down. Under an assault even more savage than the Beast Alliance, a Valkar knight renowned as the finest defender of his house went rolling across the floor with his armor torn open.
"That makes it ten wins out of ten, then."
If Marta won as well, the Light Wind Squad would have taken every one of their ten matches. They were the only ones so far to have won them all.
"Is this for real?"
"Th-the Light Wind Squad was this strong?"
"They're still just kids, so how…"
"I-I know this is a bit much, but don't the Zieghart swordsmen look like rabid dogs?"
"Right? Not Light Wind—Mad Dogs…"
The spectators could no longer even gasp. Their lips just trembled.
"Hrm."
Wrath narrowed his eyes as he watched Marta split a knight's breastplate.
"Power gained through training and combat does not convert into true skill immediately. It sinks to the depths of body and mind, then slowly rises to the surface."
That's right. Growth in martial power comes in steps.
Raon nodded. Unless one had stats the way he did, most warriors grew in a stepwise pattern. Strength did not rise all at once; there had to be time to adapt before real growth could take hold.
"But you forcibly plastered over an unfinished staircase and dragged them up it. Most people know such a thing is possible, yet few would ever dare attempt it. You vicious little wretch…"
I'm not the vicious one. The kids just followed well.
Dragging out someone's true ability was not something an instructor could do through cruelty alone. It had only been possible because every swordsman in the Light Wind Squad had kept up.
"Followed well? They nearly died!"
Wrath's chin trembled as he looked at Marta, who was still standing on the arena floor.
"The beef girl was always fierce, but never to that extent! That's a mad dog, not a human being!"
At his words, Raon looked toward the arena. Even in victory, Marta's dark eyes were still glittering a vivid yellow.
Just right.
Raon nodded with a faint smile.
Human beings need a little madness, after all.
"A little?"
Wrath shook his head hard.
"That is not 'a little'! That is a raving madwoman!"
The highest floor of Owen's royal palace.
In a conference hall originally reserved for matters of state, five Transcendents had gathered.
"They said they'd run it through the quarterfinals today, didn't they?"
Chamber, the Grand Mage of Splendor, twisted a lock of her own red hair around a finger and smacked her lips.
"Yes. The semifinals and the final will be held tomorrow. We will be there as well, of course."
Derus nodded with a faint smile.
"Duels and the like are a waste of time. Expert or Master, it won't matter—our kids will climb all the way."
Beast King Ogram drained the cup sitting on the table in a single swallow, then grinned with his teeth bared.
"It will not be so easy. The others have not been sitting idle either."
King Lecross waved a hand lightly. Confidence overflowed from his eyes as well.
"You've been our favorite meal ticket since way back."
Chamber sneered at Ogram.
"Getting cleaned out again this time, aren't you?"
"Shut that snout of yours."
Ogram crushed the cup in his hand to powder and glared.
"Our swordsmen will not be pushed back so easily either."
Derus smiled faintly and tapped the table with a finger.
"We've had a few friends come into some rather fine insights of late."
"Insights? A skewer jabbed with some half-baked insight will never pierce a body that's been properly tempered."
Ogram twisted his mouth as he looked at Derus.
"That oh-so-magnificent body of yours gets punched through by our magic every single time, though."
Chamber giggled as she looked at Ogram.
"You shut up!"
Whether because the matchup really did favor her, Ogram had no retort for Chamber's words.
"Well, that may be so. But the Master duels, at least, I am confident in."
Clear trust shone in Derus's eyes, eyes as calm and bright as the sea.
"You mean the Blue Sword. His growth has indeed been dazzling. However…"
King Lecross nodded slowly and continued.
"Sir Borini Kitten has also reached a new realm. If those two were to meet, it would make for a most entertaining bout."
"Hmph. Those brats are decent enough in their own way. But if they fall into Garona's hands, their limbs will be wrung out like a wet rag. The boy tore a drake apart with his bare hands."
Ogram lifted a hand the size of a cauldron lid, radiating confidence of his own.
"You people never change, no matter how old you get. Don't you ever get tired of this?"
Chamber swept back the hair that had fallen over her forehead and snorted. She turned her gaze to Glenn, who had kept his silence until now.
"What about you, old man? The Light Wind Squad, was it? How far do you think those kids will go?"
"……"
Glenn did not answer, as if the matter were of no interest to him. He simply sat with his chin in his hand.
"Ugh, you're no fun at all."
Chamber clicked her tongue and turned away.
"Of course he has nothing to say. He knows better than anyone that they don't stand a chance."
Ogram offered Glenn a cold smile.
"That boy Raon going out for the Master duels is the one who got himself kidnapped, isn't he? A martial artist, getting kidnapped? If it were me, I'd have bitten my tongue and died. There won't be a single Zieghart brat left in the quarterfinals. They even look green around the gills."
"Mm. That was an unavoidable affair. Against Merlin and the 10th Apostle, escaping would be no easy feat for anyone."
Derus took Glenn's side, smacking his lips.
"Of course, it is also true that the Frost-Flower Sword Hero as he stands now would have a rather difficult time reaching the quarterfinals. A few years from now, perhaps, but…"
"Ahem. I hold a somewhat different view, but let us set talk of the matches aside for now."
King Lecross waved a hand and looked behind him. Attendants who had been waiting came forward with documents and set them on the table.
"The quarterfinals? What a load of nonsense."
Once the papers had been laid before the leaders of the Six Kings and the attendants had all withdrawn, Glenn opened his mouth for the first time.
"Raon and the Light Wind Squad have accumulated experience that transcends their age. The will of children who have already tasted defeat once is burning thicker than before."
At that cool voice, edged as if with killing intent, the other leaders' mouths snapped shut.
"They will not yield—not in martial power, and not in spirit. And above all else…"
Under Glenn's chilling gaze, the leaders' fingertips trembled faintly.
"…?"