The Black Knight Swore to the Blind Saintess

The next day.

The day of the semifinal round.

"WAAAAH—!"

The arena was packed with far more people than it had been during the round of sixteen. The roar of the crowd was enough to completely drown out everything else.

While we waited, I passed the time chatting with Sieg.

Then the usher came and announced, "It is time for your entrance."

Unlike the round of sixteen, the four semifinalists were introduced one by one as they entered the arena.

"The Mustache Knight, Sagal Gelion!"

"Hero of the Empire, Sieg Friesen!"

"The Dancing Blade, Mika Bern!"

Then came my turn. The usher bowed politely and gestured with both hands for me to enter.

"And the Brute with the Club! Iaaaaan Casssss-tolini!"

Huh? No "Dildo King" this time?

Guess I got censored.

I walked into the circular dueling arena with an awkward smile on my face.

"WAAAAAAAAH—!!"

The cheering seemed to climb yet another notch louder.

The three other fighters were already standing in a line, spaced apart. I went and took my place beside the knight Mika Bern.

In the VIP seats I could see the white-haired saintess—Emilia Rosebloom. She was clapping away, clap clap clap, at my entrance.

Amid the cheers, the Emperor, the Empress, the First Prince, and their factions made their appearance. Rose rose from her seat and exchanged formal courtesies with them. All of them took their seats, save for the Emperor.

The applause and cheering gradually faded, and a heavy silence settled over the arena.

The four of us in the semifinal faced the VIP box. The Emperor, leaning on his magic staff, ascended the dais. The four fighters—I included—all dropped to one knee in unison and bowed our heads.

What a pain in the ass.

The Emperor cast a slow sweep of his gaze across the arena before speaking. The tip of his staff glowed, and his voice rolled out across the entire stadium.

"The Imperial Knights are the future of the Loreline Empire. The prospect of witnessing that new future with my own eyes today sets my heart truly aflutter. To the four who compete: let your hearts, too, be fixed upon the Empire's tomorrow, and show us a match that does not betray the code of chivalry."

When I stole a glance upward, the Emperor was looking down at me. For a moment, I had the strange feeling that our eyes had met. I quickly dropped my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠head again.

...That sounded like it was directed at me.

The Emperor returned to his seat.

The match between the Mustache Knight and Sieg was the first bout of the semifinals. Mika Bern and I climbed up to the waiting benches and sat down. Below, the Mustache Knight and Sieg faced each other in the arena, both fully geared.

Mika murmured as she looked down at them, "It seems the crowd prefers watching your matches, Lord Castolini."

By the original bracket, our match should have been the first one. The fact that ours had been pushed to the second slot was clearly deliberate.

"It was quite the spectacle," I said flatly.

The duel began. The two knights crossed blades, and every clash sent up a thunderous roar and showers of sparks. Amid the deafening cheering, Mika tilted her body slightly toward me.

"So it was the popularity?"

"No. Not at all. I had history with those two, that's all—things simply got a bit rough because of it."

"I see."

"With you, Lady Knight, I intend to fight with proper courtesy, so have no worries."

"...Is that all?"

Mika shifted her gaze to my hand. I looked down at the broken club in my grip. Tooth marks scored into the wood, as if to prove it had been inside Cascal's mouth and back out again just last week.

Then—someone tapped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my shoulder from behind.

"Lord Castolini."

It was the tournament usher. Behind him stood the First Prince. Mika and I sprang to our feet reflexively, dropped to one knee beside our chairs, and bowed.

Hands clasped behind his back, the Prince looked down at me. "Ian Castolini."

"Yes, Your Highness."

"In your last match, I overlooked the vulgarity you displayed—out of consideration for your origins and your occupation."

"..."

"But if you fight like a rabid dog again today, I will not stand by and watch."

"My deepest apologies, Your Highness."

"Take it."

He handed me a sword—fine steel set in a scabbard of luxurious craftsmanship.

"This is..."

"Use this today, not that club of yours. Mika Bern."

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Do you object?"

Mika bowed her head even lower. "Not at all. If anything, I can only be grateful for Your Highness's generosity—now I may finally fight a proper duel."

"Good."

With his hands still clasped behind his back, the First Prince turned and walked back to his seat. I watched him go—and watched the maid following behind him, head bowed at his rear.

I stared at the sword.

I see. So that's what it is.

Mika and I sat back down. The match below looked like a dead-even contest. I had asked Sieg beforehand not to finish it too quickly, and it seemed he'd obligingly dragged things out. Thanks to that, I'd had plenty of time to pre-scan the status windows of everyone around the First Prince and the Empress.

Sieg glanced my way. I gave him a small nod.

Then the Mustache Knight and Sieg, who had been circling at a distance, slammed into each other with a crash. The cloud of dust settled slowly, and the two men emerged. Sieg had his blade pressed to the throat of the Mustache Knight, who knelt on one knee with his sword propped against the ground. A hollow look crossed the Mustache Knight's face and his mouth moved—something like "I concede."

The referee swung his flag.

"The winner is—SIIIIIEG! FRIESEN!"

Mika and I were on our feet before the usher even approached. I picked up the sword.

The real move was the finals. And until then, there could be nothing around me I didn't know about. First, this sword—which had never appeared in the novel—and then Mika Bern herself; I knew nothing about her, so I needed to find out.

An Ego Sword, no less. In the novel, I'd always wanted to have a conversation with a sword myself, just like that.

Maybe because I'm not its master?

No answer.

And then—

Pretty cute, actually.

Mika and I entered the arena.

"WAAAAAAH—!"

"Dildo King! Dildo King! Dildo King!"

"Mi-ka! Mi-ka! Mi-ka! Mi-ka! Mi-ka! Mi-ka!"

The voices cheering for Mika Bern sounded like an army of middle-aged fanboys at an idol concert. And honestly, fair enough. A stunning face, plus a fallen-noble backstory that feeds the commoners' fantasy—surely she could fall for one of us, right? Add in her graceful, beautiful swordsmanship, and by idol standards she had the whole package: talent, beauty, and a story that made you want to root for her.

We took our places facing each other, about ten paces apart.

Shing—

Mika Bern drew her sword from its scabbard.

The host and the commentator began talking it over.

"If you look closely, Castolini is holding a sword—not that club of his."

"What's going on there?"

"Under the revised rules, semifinalists may now use their own weapons. I'm told that sword was personally bestowed by His Highness the First Prince."

"Ian Castolini with a sword. I, for one, am curious to see what he can actually do."

I raised the scabbard for the crowd to see—then drove it straight down into the arena floor.

Sssssk.

It sank a hand-span into the packed earth. The scabbard not shattering was a miracle in itself.

Mika's eyes went wide. Well—rough-handling a sword the First Prince had personally bestowed would do that.

I drew the blade out of the buried scabbard—and slid it right back in.

Shing. Shing. Shing.

Over and over, I sheathed and unsheathed the sword. It looked an awful lot like some kind of... explicit act.

Mika's brow furrowed—the display was genuinely obscene to watch. The stands, on the other hand, erupted.

"DILDO KING! DILDO KING! DILDO KING!"

I stole a glance at the First Prince. He was standing bolt upright in his seat, apparently furious. He seemed to think he was being mocked.

He was being mocked.

An opponent whose composure is shattered and whose judgment is clouded is always an easy win.

Shing shing shing.

I worked the sword faster.

Then—

[Hey! Th-that's enough, you bastard! This is embarrassing! What the hell are you doing?!]

The sword in my hand began to vibrate with a bzzzz—bzzzz— whine, like a toy rotor.

I looked down at it. Hm? Was that you talking?

Shing-shing-shing-shing.

I moved faster still.

[I said stop, you stupid human! I am not just some ordinary sword! What are people going to think of the great demon blade, huh?!]

What the hell? Didn't it say it only answers its master's call? Don't tell me "answering the call" didn't mean replying—it meant using its power?

What's your name?

[You stupid human. Swords don't have names.]

They could, though.

Fine. Whatever. Just do me one favor. Easy one. Do it and I'll stop.

[...Wh-what favor.]

Just repeat one line after me. Exactly.

[...]

Just say it once: "I ask you—am I your Master?"

[I... I...]

[Are you insane?! You're not even my master! Why the hell would I say that?!]

I drove the sword into the scabbard even harder and faster.

Shing-shshing-shshshing.

[Fine! FINE! I'll do it! I said I'll do it!]

Apparently it was mortifying beyond all bearing.

I stopped moving. The Ego Sword spoke, sullen and reluctant.

[I ask you... haaah... f-fuck. Am I your... m-m-m... m... Master?]

Sssshing—

I drew the sword out and held the blade up to the sunlight.

"That's right. I am your master."