The Bedwetter
Among the countless superhumans, there was a special reason the Blue King had been able to found a nation.
His innate superpower was inherited through bloodline.
Unlike other superhumans who seized superhuman power through talent, effort, or fortunate encounters—the Blue King was a being truly bestowed by the heavens.
His child, Elenoa Astra, was likewise a quasi-superhuman who had inherited the Blue King's power.
“Ahahaha—! Next one coming!”
Superhuman strength. Superhuman reflexes. Transcendent charm.
Her sword carried none of the anguish or deliberation that came with technique—as if technique itself were something only the weak bothered to learn—yet even so, it was more than threatening enough.
I can't read the trajectory…
Swordsmanship, by nature, followed proper principles according to its purpose. A style meant to kill sought the vital points along the fastest path. A style meant to subdue focused on joints, wrists, or neutralizing the opponent's weapon.
But Elenoa's sword, never having learned any of that, was pure lawlessness. It forced its way in along irrational, unintelligent trajectories. What made it possible was the superhuman power she had been born with.
“How about it, Swordmaster?! I'm pretty decent myself, right!”
Elenoa burst out laughing as if she were having the time of her life. Evan, however, could not laugh. If this had been a real duel to the death, there would have been no problem at all.
He could simply cut down the weapon swinging at him and take her neck in the same motion.
But this was a spar, not a real fight—and she was a princess. Even a single hair out of place would cause an uproar. That option was off the table.
This is hard. Really hard…
It was like sparring with shackles on his arms and legs. Evan realized the situation he faced now was tougher than most of the opponents he had ever fought.
Still, he could not lose. Shackles on his limbs, his magic sword sealed, forbidden from wounding his opponent—if he lost under those conditions, he would have to hand back the title of Swordmaster.
“How long are you just going to keep blo—!”
“One.”
Clack!
Evan thrust his sword and cut off the trajectory of Elenoa's swing before it could fully form. No matter how strong she was or how sharp her reflexes, once her swing was blocked at the outset she had no choice but to abandon the attack and try something else.
Which was exactly what she did.
“Two.”
Clack!
But Evan targeted the sword she had just pulled back a second time. At the same moment he struck her wrist with the magic sword.
Elenoa's grip was powerful enough that she did not drop the blade, yet her wrist began to flush an angry red.
“Y-Your Highness!”
The royal guards watching the scene went pale and glared daggers at Evan, but he paid them little mind. A potion would fix it. He hadn't severed the wrist, after all.
Elenoa seemed to share the same thought; she ignored the blow to her wrist entirely and kept swinging at him.
“Three.”
“Four.”
“Five.”
Evan simply kept increasing the number of strikes. Even Elenoa, who had looked unbreakable, could do nothing once five blades came at her at once and simply stood there taking the hits.
“Ack—! What is th—!”
“Five.”
“Th-that's cheating! Cheating! Ugh, ack! U-using five of them by yourself—ack—! I bit my tongue!”
When Elenoa finally showed clear signs of having lost all will to fight, Evan at last lowered his sword and stepped back.
The moment he did, the royal guards who had been fretting and stamping their feet on the sidelines rushed in and pressed potions into the princess's hands. Some among them also possessed the qualities of priests and began praying, pouring holy power into her body.
“……Even if you are the Swordmaster, wasn't that a little too much for Her Highness?”
“Pardon? What do you mean…?”
“You could have held back more. Unless you harbor some malice toward Her Highness, there was no need to swing your sword so viciously. I ask that you apologize to Her Highness at once.”
One of the royal guards, blood apparently boiling from watching the princess take a beating, even demanded an apology from Evan.
Evan scratched his cheek, at a loss for words.
I was going as easy as I could…
Not that he could exactly demonstrate that.
When Evan simply kept his mouth shut, the royal guard drew her own sword and leveled it at him.
“It seems you have no intention of apologizing. In that case, I would ask you to teach me a lesson as well.”
“Monica! How dare you be so rude to the Swordmaster!”
“Your Highness. This is a verification procedure. To confirm whether the Swordmaster truly harbored no malice toward Your Highness…”
“Shall I go first?”
Monica, who had been speaking with the princess, turned at Evan's words. His stance was completely unprepared. Had anyone else taken such a posture she would have been furious at the insult—but the opponent was the Swordmaster.
Perhaps that, too, was a stance of its own. Thinking as much, Monica charged straight ahead. Unlike the princess, who had never properly learned swordsmanship, the kingdom's sword style—researched and refined with desperate effort by the knight order—unfolded from her hands.
“Here I come—!”
Monica recalled the Swordmaster's magic sword she had just witnessed and launched a single decisive strike. She would block the attacks coming from every direction with her armor and force a hit through no matter what—!
That thought vanished the instant she met Evan's blade, which pierced straight through her own sword as if it were not even there.
His sword did not stop. It continued on and passed clean through Monica's neck. She felt the certainty of death and pure terror.
“Wh-wha—!?”
While the royal guards watching from behind let out gasps of horror, Evan—having linked Monica's sword and the nape of her neck into one continuous line—merely shrugged as if it were nothing and looked at her.
“If you move, you'll get hurt.”
“Wh-what is thiiis…”
“I couldn't use something like this on the princess, could I? I can't exactly turn Her Highness into a bedwetter the way I did you…”
The next moment, Evan casually withdrew his sword. As the blade that had pierced both sword and nape slid free with a soft shhhk, Monica crumpled backward onto her rear.
Lying on the ground, slowly feeling at her own neck, Monica realized two things. First, her skin was completely unmarred—not so much as a scratch. Second, her backside was thoroughly soaked.
“Waaah— Monica. Did you think you were going to die and get that scared? Did you think the Swordmaster got mad over a few words and was going to kill you?”
The princess tossed a mischievous joke at the sight of her. Monica, who had wet herself in front of everyone—the princess and her fellow royal guards—could not manage a single word and simply hung her head.
“……I-I was rude. I-I apologize, Swordmaster.”
“Yeees… I'm sorry too.”
Watching Monica tremble so hard she could not even stand, Evan realized he had overdone it. Simply cutting her sword and resting the tip against her neck would have been more than enough.
In fairy tales, this was the moment the hero gallantly offered a hand to the fallen lady knight and helped her up—but unfortunately, Evan did not possess the courage to extend a hand to a lady knight who was currently soaked in piss.
And so Monica remained where she was until her fellow knights brought her a change of clothes.
“Thank you for indulging my playful proposal, Swordmaster.”
Once the cleanup was finished, the princess bowed her head and offered her thanks. Still unaccustomed to receiving gratitude from a beauty as noble as a princess, I answered with an awkward smile.
“It was nothing.”
“No—I'm grateful enough that you didn't turn me into a bedwetter like Monica. If I'd taken that hit, I would have ended up the exact same way.”
The princess briefly scrunched her face as if imagining herself with a sword through her neck just like Monica, then immediately changed her expression and looked at me.
“I've seen both your skill and your character, Swordmaster. The future of our kingdom looks bright.”
“No, I mean…”
“Just in case, I'll ask. —Do you happen to have a lover?”
At the princess's words, my heart felt like it dropped straight through my chest. Asking if I had a lover right after a spar where I'd shown off my cool side—this was that, right?
As a rule, princesses married knights—especially ridiculously strong ones. And while I wasn't a knight, I was most definitely a ridiculously strong swordsman…
Wh-what do I do?
Standing one step away from receiving a confession, I felt my face heat up. I chewed my lip and studied Elenoa's face. Beautiful no matter where you looked. Just how pretty would a child of hers turn out…?
“Swordmaster?”
“Uh, I don't!”
“That's a relief.”
But Elenoa left only those words and turned her back. Unable to understand what exactly was a relief, I stared blankly after her. She paid my gaze no mind at all and instead kicked the rear of Canelly, who was lying dejected on the sofa.
“How long are you planning to stay like that?! We're heading back, so come on!”
“But… the earrings I was going to give Evan got taken… someone like me has no value in living…”
“Aaah, honestly—! I'll get them back for you later!”
“If it's not now it doesn't mean anything…”
“I said let's go!”
In the end, Canelly was forcibly scooped up by one of Elenoa's royal guards and dragged away.
I watched Elenoa's retreating figure disappear without a single confession, then swallowed my tears and returned to the inn.
Yeah. Who am I to get a confession? Figures…
I trudged back to the inn, flopped onto the bed, and was staring blankly at the ceiling when someone knocked on the door—knock knock.
Housekeeping? I wondered, and opened the door—only to tilt my head at the sight of Monica standing on the other side.
“You're…”
“T-take responsibility.”
“Excuse me?”
Monica glanced furtively around, then quickly stepped into the room and shut the door. Watching her lock it with a click, I felt something was very off.
Had she come to assassinate me for turning her into a bedwetter? I quietly rested a hand on my sword hilt and watched her. Monica's face flushed red as she opened her mouth.
“B-because of you… I got kicked out of Her Highness's personal royal guard…”
“How is that my fau—”
“She said she has no need for a knight who pisses herself!”
Clack—with those words, Monica began slowly stripping off the armor she was wearing. Wondering if this was some kind of scheme, I watched carefully—then froze at the sight of the form-fitting leather outfit revealed beneath the armor.
“If I want to come back—she told me to stay here and serve you properly… M-men like this sort of thing anyway, right?! Come on! Take responsibility for me already!”
Listening to her, I finally understood why the princess had asked whether I had a lover.