Come Here, Take a Hit (1)
Come Here, Take a Hit (1)
A storehouse deep within the mansion.
Sharon cracked one eye open.
— Clank. Clank.
The shackles on her wrists and ankles rattled.
She blinked a few more times.
One eye still refused to open.
That would be where Hermann had struck her.
"...Ptoo."
She spat out a mouthful of pooled blood.
Her teeth seemed intact.
"A relief......."
Even with healing magic, teeth took their time coming back. Unlike bones that snapped or cracked, a tooth had to regrow from scratch. For a knight in training, that was a real detriment. If she had to take a hit anywhere, there were more convenient places—more efficient ones.
— Clank.
They would probably let her out in an hour or two.
Last night's banquet had fallen apart in every conceivable way. Hermann had ample reason to be angry. Whenever his mood turned foul, his hands invariably got rough.
And yet, Sharon had never once broken.
She bent to the house. She blamed no one. She simply swallowed it as her own failing and devoted herself to growing stronger. That, she had always believed, was composure. The correct path.
...That was what she had believed, anyway.
"Me? Suffering from an overinflated ego?"
Even now, in this state, why was Ian's jab the first thing to surface in her mind?
At least the fury that surged whenever she thought of him made one thing clear—this anger wasn't aimed solely at that bastard.
◆
"The caliber of participants in this year's tournament truly is remarkable."
"Surely that's because Lord Hermann himself is hosting it, heh heh."
Hermann Pierce occupied the seat of honor in the spectator gallery. The nobles flanking him were busy heaping praise upon the Grand Martial Tournament. After Yergina had effectively wrecked last night's banquet, this was all flattery meant to soothe Hermann's mood.
"Oh-ho. I even spot a few talents we don't often see."
The participants were indeed skilled—that much was true.
Nobles from across the continent, not just the North, had traveled to this remote place precisely to identify promising young talents ahead of the pack. Opportunities to evaluate the rising stars of numerous houses all at once were rare.
"By the by, Lord Hermann, whom has House Pierce entered this time?"
From the semifinals onward, a member of House Pierce always took the stage. The concept, so to speak, was the Grand Duke of the North's personal instruction. A young local nobleman blurted out the question, entirely tactless.
"It must be Lady Sharon Pierce, surely?"
"My good man. Lady Sharon is... well......."
An older noble caught him by the arm and whispered hurriedly.
Sharon was the North Grand Duke's only half-sibling among his four children. Her mother had been little better than a commoner, and she was dead. The young nobleman's face went progressively paler. Hermann smiled.
"No need for such concern. However different her birth, she is still my younger sister."
"W-why, Lord Hermann's magnanimity truly knows no bounds."
"Not at all. It's only natural. Speaking of which—"
"...?"
"This time, I shall be participating myself."
""!""
The heir, Hermann, entering the fray himself?
The tournament final was, after all, a stage to receive House Pierce's "instruction," so his participation wasn't outright impossible. But still—
"As this is the first house event I'm personally hosting, I want to give it my utmost atten—"
Hermann's explanation was cut short.
— Waaaaaaah!
A roar from the arena swallowed his words.
During the roll call of participants, Ian Blackangus's name had just been announced.
Hermann, interrupted, frowned.
Seizing the moment, the oily nobleman to his right began yammering, and the rest chimed in behind him.
"Worry not, my lord. A mere jester like that—my House Rimkshu's sons will put him on his knees tidily enough."
"If it's the Rimkshus, we can rest easy. The princess's... whatever-he-is? Those male parasites only appeal to the press rabble anyway."
"Indeed. They swarm over the slightest gossip."
Meanwhile.
At the very front of the gallery, Schwab—a reporter for the Imperial Daily—was listening to their chatter and smiling faintly.
'How can people be so clueless? Even I was personally invited by the North Grand Duke. They've got no eye for talent at all. That Ian's abilities let him haul an iron train with magic alone. Their faces later are going to be priceless.'
The matches were about to begin.
Schwab stopped eavesdropping and picked up his camera.
Through the mana-engineering lens, he captured Ian, standing alone in the distance with a blank expression.
'Nicely framed.'
Anticipation rose unbidden.
What sort of performance would Ian put on today?
And not just today—but going forward as well.
◆
— Kwaang!
"Uwoooohhh!"
The victor raised his wooden sword and bellowed.
The credit flowed upward to the "distinguished figures" spectating in the far gallery.
- "Hah hah hah! Your son's swordsmanship truly runs deep—worthy of the Anear name."
- "Perish the thought. The young man from House Gramm was equally formidable."
Judging by how things were going, the loudest voices belonged to those seated around Hermann.
'Feels more like a nobles' parlor game at this point.'
Ian took in the general situation with a nod.
Some had come genuinely aiming to grow through combat, as was the tournament's stated purpose. Others had entered to flaunt their house's prestige.
As Ian observed the nobles sucking up to Hermann, a knight beside him spoke.
"Are you also competing?"
"Yes."
"I look forward to crossing blades with the princess's man. You don't strike me as the type who's lived just to preen."
Ian gave him a sidelong glance.
Late twenties to early thirties.
Knights typically reached full maturity in their late thirties, so this man was still at a promising age—but at the same time, he had the seasoned air of someone who'd seen plenty.
"I appreciate the kind words."
"No need for thanks. That's excessive modesty."
'...What's with this guy?'
The way he spoke, it was as if he could see straight through Ian's abilities.
Having said that, though, he merely studied the tournament bracket with a composed expression.
"Huh. Pity. To meet you, it'd have to be in the final."
"Does that worry you?"
"Ha. Not a bit. The issue is I'll have to face someone from House Pierce in the semis. Whoever they send. Tch."
With a click of his tongue, the knight ambled off toward the far side of the training ground.
'...Strange character.'
Whether that was just an eccentric's act, or whether he actually had a talent for sizing up opponents—Ian would have to watch and see.
He was mulling that over when—
"Ridiculous. Do parasites like you not know your place?"
A cluster of men in plate armor had approached.
Ian remembered them: before the tournament began, while the young ladies had been paying him attention, these same men had sneered that a single low kick could snap his leg clean off.
His patience wasn't generous enough to forget provocation that quickly.
"Oi, gigolo. Isn't thinking about the finals a bit premature? You look like you'd crumple in three seconds."
"Anyone would think you've already pocketed the championship."
"A few low kicks and you'll come to your senses."
They spat out their lines one after another, as if they'd rehearsed beforehand.
Ian glanced toward the gallery.
The nobleman beside Hermann was pointing in this direction and murmuring something to him.
'Ah. So they're his stooges.'
He could roughly deduce why they were acting up.
The corner of Ian's lip curled upward.
"Were you gentlemen that jealous of me chatting with the young ladies?"
"What?"
"I noticed you kept stealing glances at them while I was talking."
"Wha—you—what did you just—!"
"If it stings that badly, shall I introduce you to one of them? You seem awfully lonely. But if you're a man, maybe just approach her yourself. That tends to be more popular."
"...You—!"
"Ah, my apologies. As knights, you're only sworn to your swords, so you wouldn't know. Right. A knight must gaze only upon his blade. Still, if you're hungry for female company, allow me to enlighten you. There's a method I recently developed called the Confession Attack..."
Ian delivered his lesson with a beaming smile. The faces of the three men swelled and flushed, ready to burst.
"You—you bastard!"
"To insult our honor—!"
Their raised voices drew attention.
Among the onlookers were several female participants.
The three men flinced in unison.
"Y-you just wait until you step onto the arena, you son of a bitch!"
They spat out the cliché line and retreated.
Ian watched their backs and smirked.
'Flag confirmed: the ones who say "just you wait" are never scary.'
A development tilting in his favor, served up for the first time in a while.
Satisfying.
◆
"Next up: Ian Blackangus, representing Her Highness the Third Princess! His opponent—a knight of House Rimkshu—"
"Waaaaaaaah—!"
A thunderous roar burst from the crowd.
The female voices sounded unusually loud—surely his imagination?
Ian ascended the steps into the arena.
In the meantime, a voice echoed in his mind.
[ Attention is fully on you. I'll examine the mansion interior. ]
Click.
Ian lightly clenched and unclenched his fist as he stepped onto the arena floor.
"Finally feeling some nerves, are we? Gigolo."
The plate-armored man looked down at him with an oily sneer.
One of the knights who'd picked a fight earlier.
'Not the low-kick villain, then.'
Instead, this was the "three-second" villain—the one who'd boasted he'd wreck him in three seconds flat.
Ian picked up a wooden sword from the corner of the arena.
"The way you hold a blade is laughable beyond words. I am Krimhild Rischelchich, knight of House Rimkshu—"
"One moment."
Cutting off the self-introduction, Ian raised a hand toward the referee.
"What is it?"
The referee inquired.
"We're fighting with wooden swords—is plate armor allowed? Isn't that a foul?"
"It's permitted. Equipment is free, so long as you don't take your opponent's life. That's the same reason you're armed with a training sword rather than live steel."
"Then, is magic permitted as well?"
"Of course. Consider the wooden sword to be a symbolic gesture."
Ian dipped his head respectfully to the referee, then turned back to the knight—Rischelchich.
"My apologies. There you have it. Thought it might be a foul."
Grin.
The corner of Ian's mouth curled up, brazen.
Rischelchich's eyes went bloodshot.
"I won't let this slide!"
"Do as you like."
The referee's shout signaled the start of the match.
At that same instant—
Whoosh—!
Ian vanished from Rischelchich's sight.