The Real Thing
"The real thing? What is that supposed to mean?"
The Third Prince swallowed dryly and took a step back. He had no idea who this elf was or what he wanted, so putting some distance between them seemed the wisest move.
"There's no need to be so frightened."
"I am not frightened."
He looked up at the red-haired elf and frowned.
"Answer my question first. What do you mean by 'the real thing'?"
"That would be…"
"Hold it."
Before the elf could finish, Duke Tartan erupted from the floor as if he'd burst straight out of a shadow thrown by the chandeliers.
"The Light Sword of Zieghart. What the hell are you doing here?"
"Hah—!"
Grier's eyes flew wide at the title Duke Tartan had just spat out.
The Light Sword of Zieghart…!
Now he knew who the elf was. One of Glenn Zieghart's most trusted retainers — a man said to swing his blade at the speed of light.
But why would he come looking for me…?
He'd heard the man had retired from an injury. Why seek him out now?
"Ahh, no need to get so defensive."
Rimer waved a hand as if he had no intention of fighting.
"I've watched you pull crazy stunts more than once or twice. You expect me to just relax?"
"As you can see, I've changed quite a bit."
"Hmph…"
Duke Tartan didn't drop his fighting spirit as he glanced back over his shoulder.
"Your Highness. What did this lunatic elf say to you?"
"He asked if I wanted to see the real thing."
"The real thing? What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, this isn't really the place to talk about it, is it?"
Rimer spread his arms and gestured at their surroundings. The banquet had gone quiet without anyone noticing, and every eye in the hall was on them.
"To be fair, I am an uninvited guest."
He let the stares wash over him with a laugh and turned to leave.
"Prince of Owen."
Rimer stopped at the exit and looked back.
With that, he walked out of the banquet hall.
The moment the self-proclaimed uninvited guest vanished, music began to fill the hall once more. But the only thing ringing in Grier's mind was Rimer's final remark.
The real thing is at the Fifth Training Ground?
"Hmm-hmm-hmm~!"
"Hnh."
Raon listened to Rimer's humming and frowned.
What's gotten into him?
Rimer was the sort of instructor who handed off orders to someone else and then sprawled out for a nap. Today, for some reason, both of his eyes were wide open, and he was running the drills himself. A nameless unease settled in Raon's gut.
"What's wrong with that guy?"
"No idea."
"Did he eat something weird?"
"Maybe he actually won money at the gambling den yesterday."
Burren and the other trainees kept sneaking glances at Rimer even as they swung their swords.
"Head Instructor, sir. Has something good happened?"
For all his cowardice, Dorian was just as curious. He edged up beside Rimer.
"We've got guests coming."
Guests?
Rimer hated anything troublesome more than anyone alive. The idea that he was waiting for visitors made even less sense.
Just train.
The elf was so peculiar that neither his actions nor his thoughts could be predicted. Focusing on practice was the only right answer.
Raon drew up the aura burning hot in his core and drove his right foot forward.
A stomp like splitting earth rang out — and from that first impact he unfolded the Garam Footwork and the Refining Sword Technique at the same time.
Sharp threads of sword-light surged up between steps that unfurled as naturally as flowing water. The defensive footwork and the aggressive swordsmanship should have clashed, yet both prized flow and connection above all else, and so there was no disharmony at all. They linked together as if they had been a single martial art from the very beginning.
With the now-familiar gazes of the other trainees on his back, Raon carried both the sword work and the footwork through to the end.
"Hah."
He let out a breath and lowered his blade.
Still not enough.
Running the swordsmanship, the footwork, and the flow of his aura all at once left little snags — places where the pieces drifted a fraction out of true. If he wanted to show his real strength in a fight, he needed far more practice.
"Again."
He was about to start over when a cluster of presences brushed against his senses from the front gate of the training ground.
"Hm?"
"What is that?"
The instructors reacted a beat after Raon, and behind them the trainees stopped their swords. Every gaze in the yard turned toward the gate — and a knock sounded against the wood.
"Go on."
"Yes, sir."
Rimer kept his smile and jerked his chin at an instructor. The man standing in the center of the yard opened the gate.
"Gesman, from the Administrative Office."
A clean-cut young man in a dress uniform leaned into view. Behind him, knights in silver armor waited in a tight cluster.
"The Owen Kingdom's delegation has asked to observe training at the Fifth Training Ground. I realize this is sudden, but would that be possible?"
"Come in. Guests are always welcome."
Rimer was at the gate in a blink, throwing it wide.
"Th-thank you. Please, this way."
Gesman bowed, wiped the sweat from his brow, and led the Owen Kingdom's delegation into the training ground.
"Heh."
Raon slid his practice sword into his belt and let out a dry laugh.
Guests are always welcome?
Rimer wouldn't even show his training methods to swordsmen of his own house. Claiming he welcomed guests was the most ridiculous thing Raon had heard all day.
He glanced around. The other trainees were rolling their eyes in the same stunned disbelief.
"The Owen Kingdom's delegation has taken precious time to come here. Show them what kind of martial arts the trainees of Zieghart have learned."
Rimer, who had been standing at the gate a heartbeat before, was suddenly on the platform. He had crossed the air like a ghost, the wind itself seeming to part for him.
"What's he expect us to do, springing this on us?"
"Ugh…"
"Well. We just do what we always do, right?"
Under the Owen delegation's stares, the trainees started to grind and hitch like dolls with jammed joints.
"Snap out of it! This is exactly when you stay calm and show what you can actually do!"
Burren was no different from usual. If anything, his movement was cleaner, and he pulled the other trainees along with him.
That landed perfectly.
True to the boy who lived and died for House Zieghart, he knew exactly what needed to be shown right now.
"I don't do circus acts."
Marta snorted and folded her arms. She poured out a fierce aura as if she'd just come face-to-face with an enemy, and glared at the Owen delegation without a shred of courtesy. The look on her face said, Come at me if you want.
She hasn't changed either.
Marta had softened toward Raon and Raon alone. Her mouth was still as foul as ever, and the wild pressure rolling off her hadn't dimmed in the slightest.
Runaan had never cared about the visitors to begin with. She hadn't stopped once — she was still stepping through her footwork and swinging her sword as if nothing in the world had changed.
In a way, she might be the strongest of all of us.
To keep that kind of focus in a mess like this was a talent no one else could touch.
Raon swept his gaze across the Owen Kingdom's delegation in turn. The blue-eyed squire-knight he'd locked eyes with before was studying Burren, Marta, and Runaan one after another. His mouth had fallen slightly open. The three of them had clearly shaken him.
And of course he still can't read me.
He'd picked out those three, but he hadn't noticed Raon's strength at all.
"Well then."
Raon smiled faintly, set his feet at shoulder width, and drew his practice sword.
I may as well get started too.
The forms and stances of both the Garam Footwork and the Refining Sword Technique were simplicity itself. That was their strength — even watched, they lost none of their power. Being observed was no problem at all.
Raon paid no mind to the people watching him. He let himself melt into the natural current of sword and step, and the air itself seemed to part around the blade.
Before coming to the Fifth Training Ground, Grier de Owen, the Third Prince, had stopped at two others.
The first was the Second Training Ground, where those who had already earned the title of swordsman trained.
They were impressive.
The swordsmen there carried a strength worthy of the great name of Zieghart. Sword force, presence, body, and mind — none of it fell short of the knights of the Owen Kingdom.
The Sixth Training Ground, though, where the trainees were, was a disappointment.
The talent among those trainees was genuine, but the tempering itself was lacking. He had originally meant to request a spar, then thought better of it. The result had been obvious.
That was when I remembered.
He had been about to turn back when Rimer's words came to him — that question about whether he wanted to see the real thing. So he asked the Administrative Office clerk who was trying to steer him elsewhere. He wanted to see the Fifth Training Ground.
The man had looked flustered, but he couldn't refuse, and he brought them here.
Grier hadn't expected much. How different could a Fifth Training Ground be from the Sixth?
That had been a grave mistake.
The moment he stepped inside, he understood. This place was different. The trainees' talent and the depth of their tempering existed on another plane entirely from the Sixth.
This was the real thing.
Just as Rimer had said. The strength of the Fifth Training Ground's trainees didn't yield an inch to a squire-knight. The blue-haired boy and the silver-haired girl, in particular, stood a full step above the rest. And the black-haired beauty glaring this way carried an overwhelming presence of her own.
All three of them had enough power to rival Grier as he was now — or even Setun, said to be the strongest of the squire-knights.
"This was the real thing, without a doubt."
Duke Tartan narrowed his eyes as he watched the trainees.
"So it seems."
"Setting a few of them aside, the gap in talent isn't that large. The difference is in the tempering."
"Mm…"
Grier nodded. The very air of the Fifth Training Ground was different. It smelled of zeal — of blood and sweat clinging to every trainee.
"Those three in particular are extraordinary."
The squire-knight Setun's eyes glittered with competitive fire. He, too, was looking at the three Grier had marked as the strongest.
"I'd like to fight them once."
"So would I."
The Third Prince and Setun both licked their lips as they watched the three young men and women they took for the strongest in the Fifth Training Ground.
"Well? Just as I said — the real thing is right here, isn't it?"
A voice like a cool breeze drifted in from behind them.
"Hm?"
They turned. Rimer was standing there with the same smile he'd worn the night before.
"Indeed. I understand now why you said it."
Grier nodded.
"You look like your hands are itching. How about a spar with our kids?"
"So that was your aim."
"Opportunities to clash safely with the talents of the Six Kings don't come around often. It'll do your side some good as well."
Rimer pointed at the trainees, their minds locked on their swords.
"Mm…"
Grier looked to Duke Tartan. The duke was the true leader of the party; his permission was required.
"I suppose that's fine."
Duke Tartan nodded, but his eyes on Rimer were ice-cold. The look on his face said he would cut the elf down the instant he tried anything foolish.
"I simply want a spar. That said…"
Rimer raised both hands and smiled.
"A small wager wouldn't hurt, would it?"
"A wager?"
"That's right. We run twenty spars, and the winners take a prize."
"Hah. You actually think you can win?"
"Oh? That's a lot of confidence."
"Of course it is. Those children were raised as elites even among Owen's squire-knights!"
Duke Tartan looked over his squire-knights with pride burning in his eyes.
"Perfect."
Rimer's smile deepened. A vivid deep-green light kindled in his gaze.