Not Even Five Exchanges

Rimer grinned as he looked down at the sparring ground, where Raon and the Third Prince stood facing each other. The duel he was about to watch promised to be so good a tune slipped from his lips all on its own.

And of course, there's the reward.

The wager he'd collect from Owen afterward was just a little extra. The thought that Raon might lose never so much as crossed his mind.

"You look like you're enjoying yourself."

Duke Tartan approached without expression and came to stand beside him.

"I am. Watching young talents throw everything they have at each other—what's not to enjoy?"

"The Mad Swordfiend really has changed."

"A hellion like you turned out a proper-looking duke. You think I'd stay the same?"

Rimer snorted a laugh as he glanced at him.

"Yesterday, when you went up to His Highness—that was all for this duel, wasn't it?"

"Of course."

"What are you playing at? Why go through all that trouble? It's not like you."

Duke Tartan turned, and a fierce pressure rolled off him—the kind that said he would draw his sword this instant if Rimer was up to something underhanded.

"It's a chance for those kids to grow. If it were the Five Demons, that would be one thing. But chances to fight the children of the other Six Kings don't come around often."

Rimer didn't bother looking back as he answered. The words were light, but there was nothing casual in them.

"…You're serious?"

"I am."

"I thought you were joking. You really have changed."

Tartan clicked his tongue and turned his gaze back to the sparring ground.

"Every trainee knight stepping out today is one Owen is putting its full weight behind. If your lot are on that level, they're a fair bit stronger than I expected."

"Of course they are. Who do you think trained them?"

"Hmph. Always bragging. But that boy…"

He pointed at Raon, who was rolling his wrists and ankles, loosening up on the sparring ground.

"No—what is that monster? His presence is so faint I nearly missed him myself. The way his swordsmanship links with his footwork is nowhere near Trainee level."

"So those aren't sparrow's eyes after all."

Rimer cackled and tipped his chin toward the Third Prince, who was standing opposite Raon with all the ease in the world.

"If you can see that, why didn't you warn him? His Highness seems to think Raon is just leftover scraps."

"His Highness will be the future of the Owen Kingdom—but he has never known defeat. I simply thought it would be better for him to taste it somewhere safe."

That was why Tartan, having already taken Raon's measure, had said nothing to the Third Prince. He wanted the boy to learn what losing felt like, and climb higher for it.

"That said, His Highness is strong. Even a genius swordsman like that one won't put him down easily."

"Well…"

Rimer shook his head, wearing a smile more confident than any he'd shown all day.

"I see it a little differently."

"That stubborn streak hasn't changed."

"Then how about one more wager?"

"Again?"

Tartan scowled.

"You really do love a bet, don't you."

"A simple one, then. Loser buys the drinks."

"Fine. And what exactly are we betting on…"

Rimer held up five fingers.

"Raon will finish your hope in five exchanges."

"Bullshit! I'll grant the boy's strong, but five exchanges is impossible!"

Tartan's eyes flashed as his fists clenched.

"Then let's bet. Call?"

"Fine! I'll take that as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠many times as you like."

"That's what I like to hear."

Rimer snickered and rubbed his hands together.

Looks like I'll be drinking for free for the first time in a while.

"Hmph."

Grier de Owen, Third Prince of the Owen Kingdom, was not looking at Raon standing right in front of him. His gaze had drifted down below the sparring ground, to Runaan and Marta, and he smacked his lips.

Now those two I'd enjoy fighting.

From the moment he'd arrived, his interest had gone only to those two—and to the blue-haired young man who'd fought Setun to a standstill. The cadet-branch boy facing him now barely registered. The face was unfairly handsome, but that was all. The martial presence coming off him was painfully ordinary.

I'll end this as fast as I can.

Using aura on the collateral in front of him would be a waste. He'd put the boy down with physical strength alone, then bring his full power to the next match.

"If both sides are ready, we will begin."

Rimer stepped forward and raised a hand.

"Final match. Begin!"

The instant that hand came down, Grier ripped his sword from its sheath.

He drove off the ground and shot straight at Raon, already bringing the blade down, intending to finish it in a single stroke.

But—

Huh?

The Raon who'd been right in front of him vanished in the space of a blink.

Wh-where did he—

He turned his head to find him, and a vicious rush of wind screamed in from the right.

A sword!

Grier felt the wind peeling off the blade and ducked on instinct.

Raon's practice sword whispered past his hair. The chill of it raised every hair on his body.

"Tch!"

Grier spun and slashed toward the right—a precise cut, aimed exactly where Raon ought to have been. Raon was not there.

A sound like a snake sliding over earth, and the boy was already gone, slipping away to the left. It happened in the time it took to blink.

What the hell is that!

Grier clenched his teeth and stamped out the kingdom's footwork, chasing Raon down from behind.

He brought his sword crashing down on the retreating figure. A blade heavy with power poured toward the earth.

It's over!

He'd cut off every line of retreat before he struck. There was nowhere left to run.

"What?"

In the instant he thought it was finished, his eyes met Raon's. Those eyes were utterly still—not a ripple of agitation in them—and a shiver ran straight down Grier's spine.

Raon's body swayed like a reed and flowed forward. His sword turned, tracing a half-moon.

The world turned with it.

Grier's mouth was still hanging open when a brutal impact slammed into his back.

"Ghk—!"

A groan tore out of him before he could stop it.

"Wh-what is…"

He lifted his throbbing head. Raon was standing far above him.

Only then did Grier realize he had been thrown clear of the sparring ground.

"Nngh… ah."

The Third Prince bit down on the pain in his back and raised his head—and froze.

Raon's crimson eyes, looking down from above. The moment Grier met them, he thought of Glenn Zieghart, the Absolute of this land.

H-he's the one.

The Third Prince swallowed dryly, his hands trembling.

He was the real one all along.

"Well now."

Rimer covered his mouth as if holding back a laugh and looked at Tartan.

"What do we do? It wasn't even five exchanges. The match ended in two."

Tartan didn't answer. His mouth had fallen open, and he wasn't looking at the fallen Third Prince. He was looking at Raon.

He wasn't the only one. Everyone in the training hall was staring at Raon with stunned eyes.

"Hah…"

It was a long moment before Tartan let out a hollow breath and straightened.

"What was that? What kind of footwork do you even step that smoothly? And the swordsmanship—the timing was perfect. So I hadn't seen everything after all."

His gaze was still locked on Raon. The footwork and swordsmanship the boy had just shown had already left a Trainee's realm far behind.

What stunned him more than raw power was this: Raon had beaten the Third Prince not with overwhelming force, but with the right movement at the right instant. The child named Raon seemed to possess a rare gift—the ability to bring out more than the strength he actually held.

"I told you. Raon was going to win."

"I knew that much. I just didn't expect His Highness to go down that easily without even showing what he can do…"

"I'll book us a table. See you this evening—and you know I only drink the expensive stuff, right?"

"Tsk!"

"W-wait!"

Tartan clicked his tongue and was turning away when the Third Prince thrashed his way back to his feet.

"I-it's not over. This isn't finished."

Unable to accept the loss, he climbed back onto the sparring ground.

"Y-Your Highness!"

"Oh-ho."

Tartan hurried toward him, alarm in his eyes. Rimer scratched his chin, a spark of interest lighting his smile.

"You can't—"

"Duke. I haven't even shown my true ability!"

The Third Prince ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pushed past Tartan's restraining hand and stepped forward.

"If I had used my real strength from the start—"

"Ah, fuck! That's so goddamn pathetic!"

Marta planted a foot on the edge of the sparring ground, her mouth twisting.

"A prince who can't even take a loss, crawling back for more. You look just like a certain someone I know."

She turned her head and looked down at Burren, who had been standing quietly off to the side.

"Ugh…"

Burren had done exactly that, once. He bit his lip and scowled.

"You—"

"Hey, Your Highness. I'm being as nice as I can right now. Pack your shit and get lost before I start cussing you out for real."

Marta didn't care that Burren was glaring daggers at her back. She kept right on mocking the Third Prince.

"Watch your tongue. Do you have any idea who His Highness—"

"If he's the heir to Owen's throne, then I'm a direct descendant of Zieghart. I've got nothing to kneel for."

Marta didn't give an inch, not even in front of Duke Tartan.

"That's enough!"

Rimer stepped up onto the sparring ground and spread his hands, blocking both their faces.

"The match is over, but we haven't heard from the people actually involved. So let's ask. Raon."

"Yes."

Raon, who had been standing still the entire time, nodded.

"What do you want to do? You're the one in this. You decide."

Raon turned slowly, rolling his jaw.

"Instructor, you said there was a wager on this match. The bout is decided. I don't see any reason to keep fighting."

"Nngh…"

The Third Prince's clenched fists trembled.

"Your Highness. That's enough, please—"

"I acknowledge my defeat!"

The Third Prince shook off Tartan's restraining hand and stepped forward.

The Third Prince laid his sword down and bowed at a perfect right angle.

"Y-Your Highness!"

Duke Tartan rushed in to pull him up, but the prince did not move.

"Mm…"

Through the Third Prince's blue eyes, Raon felt the man's sincerity.

He's bowing his head.

The Third Prince of the Owen Kingdom—and one under Duke Tartan's protection, no less—meant a support base that was anything but fragile. Raon had not expected a man like that to lower his head and apologize so openly.

"Hey. Third Prince or not, stop this ugly shit and get the—"

"Marta."

"Tch."

At Raon's call, Marta clicked her tongue and stepped back.

"Hmm…"

Duke Tartan swallowed a low sound at the sight.

So it's not just raw power…

That direct-line girl had been ready to come at Tartan himself, and Raon had sent her back with a single word. It wasn't only the Third Prince who had misread the boy named Raon.

"Very well."

Raon nodded and withdrew to the far side of the sparring ground.

"But this is the last time."

"O-of course!"

The Third Prince no longer spoke down to him. It was the respect of one martial artist to another.

"When you're ready, say the word."

Rimer climbed back onto the sparring ground, smiling as if he'd expected this all along.

"Nnh…"

The Third Prince drew a lion-shaped necklace from inside his armor and stared at it for a long moment. Then, as if he'd made up his mind, he clenched his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠teeth and tore it free.

A crushing wave of wind pressure erupted from his center, and his presence swelled to nearly twice what it had been. It wasn't aura alone. The tempered power of a trained body rolled off him as well.

"He was hiding that?"

"Hah!"

Burren and Marta both frowned at the tremendous force pouring off the Third Prince.

"Y-Your Highness! That necklace—"

"This is no time to keep my strength hidden. I want to fight that man with everything I have."

The Third Prince let a breath hiss through his teeth and raised his sword. There was no carelessness left in his face—only the will to give everything from the first exchange.

"To think you didn't even notice your opponent was concealing his power. What a fool."

I can still win.

"His aura far outstrips yours, and the completeness of his body is above yours as well—and you say you can win?"

Then how about a wager?

Raon tipped his chin.

"Hah! ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Of course! I'll take that as many times as you like."

Wrath's snort had barely faded when the wager message rose before Raon's eyes.

I accept.

The moment the message appeared, he took the bet.

Another mark, right on cue.

If Rimer was the favorite sucker of Zieghart's gambling den, then Wrath was Raon's.

He held back the smile that wanted to surface and drew his sword. He'd known from the start that the Third Prince was concealing his power.

He'd accepted the second challenge because fighting a Third Prince who had steeled his will to win and unleashed his hidden strength would be good training—and then, contrary to all expectation, a sucker had attached himself to the deal.

"Then I shall come at you."

The Third Prince poured the power he'd drawn up into his legs and drove a stomping step into the ground. One pillar of the sparring ground buckled as he shot forward like a beast off its chain.

"Now this is a fight I can get into."

There's something in it for me, after all.

Raon stepped in to meet him and brought his turning blade down.

The Third Prince's sword, sheathed in aura as blue as the open sky, crashed against Raon's blade wreathed in crimson flame.