WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: Hydrogen B
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Chapter 88: 14. The King's Silence (6)
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* * *
The day of the decisive battle had arrived. At least, it had for Elizaveta.
She had not been this tense in ten years, not since she had stamped the order commanding the execution of one of the Seven Dragon Generals.
Even when she imprisoned her father and purged every one of her brother's close aides and maternal relatives, she had not been as tense as she was today.
“Your Highness.”
Elizaveta came to her senses at the low voice. She quickly tucked her trembling hands behind her back.
“How are you feeling?”
“The same as always.”
“And your preparations?”
“The same as always.”
The same as always. In other words, every moment he breathed, he was fully prepared. That was how one had to interpret this stubborn man's words.
He was like a finely honed longsword. No, like a well-maintained cannon loaded with gunpowder. Like an arsenal on the eve of war, ready to fire at any moment.
Elizaveta felt both relief and a strange tremor at the sight of him as he always was.
She could trust this man. Even in this cold world, on this isolated island where she could not even trust her own blood.
So she did not want to lose him.
So please, do not let go of me.
With that feeling in her heart, she approached Ivan, who was kneeling on one knee with his head bowed.
“My order remains the same as before, Vanka. Do you remember it?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Win an overwhelming victory, and offer it to me.”
“Your Highness need not ask. Just give the order.”
“Win. No matter who stands against you. Without fail.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Click.
Ivan lowered his visor and rose to his feet.
The armor felt unfamiliar. Still, a tournament was ultimately an evolved form of a knightly joust. This old-fashioned suit of armor was itself a symbol of noble authority.
The banner draped over his shoulder also felt strange. It bore the emblem of a noble house he had never touched before.
With an axe at one hip and a sword at the other, Ivan began to walk.
Click, click. His heavy armor pressed firmly against the floor.
No matter what he wore, he was an agent of the royal family. A descendant of the Royal Guard, a survivor of the Annihilation Unit, and the head of the Counterintelligence Command.
Therefore, though he was dressed as a knight, he could never become one. He had never desired an honorable defeat after doing his best, nor some glorious martial achievement among fellow warriors.
Today, too, he was an agent of the royal family. The only thing that mattered to him was the royal seal on his orders.
The last order he had received was the same as always.
Win, without fail.
And his answer to that order was also the same as always.
It would be done.
* * *
Sergei Antonovich Turgenev was the eldest son of Count Turgenev's house.
Wearing an extravagantly decorated suit of mana-assisted plate armor, he strode proudly onto the tournament walkway.
-Waaaaaah!!
Cheers burst out the moment he appeared. It felt like an earthquake. He could not tell whether his body was trembling or whether the audience's roar had shaken the temporary arena.
He opened his visor and waved to the crowd. The cheers grew louder still.
[Sergei Antonovich Turgenev of Count Turgenev's house enters the arena!!]
The announcer, seated to raise the excitement, shouted at the top of their lungs.
As flowers and cheers rained down on him, Sergei smiled to himself.
This was where his life began.
He would marry the Princess and seize the royal family, which was nothing more than an empty shell.
His house would inherit the royal bloodline, sweep away that verminous system called constitutional monarchy, and he would sit upon this country's throne as king.
The handsome young nobleman stepped boldly onto the platform and shouted.
“Lord, bless my sword! I dedicate the honor of this day entirely to the Lord above and to this country's heir to the throne! Come, fight with honor, and accept defeat like a nobleman!”
His gaze turned toward the opposite side. There was a shabby entrance, a dark passage leading to the arena.
It was an entrance draped in a gloomy shadow despite the brilliant sunlight, much like his opponent.
The Yermof Viscount House? One of the northern landed houses, he had heard.
And northern landed houses were nothing but vermin living off tenant farmers with a handful of soldiers at their backs. Hunters and mountain keepers who strutted around with their noses in the air, pretending to be nobles.
And he was the third son, no less.
Unable to inherit the family line, such men wandered the world selling their swords and strength for coin. That was what a wandering knight was.
Should he pity or despise this pathetic mercenary trash for coming to the capital with the foolish dream of rising in status?
Grinning, Sergei held his sword straight.
Then the announcer cried out.
[Ivan Petrovich Yermof of the Yermof Viscount House enters the arena!!]
-Waa...?
-Ah...?
Unlike Sergei, a powerful high nobleman who had left many romantic rumors in his wake within high society, this provincial noble from the northern hinterlands had no reputation in this city.
And look at that name, Ivan. Since the previous king's reign, Ivan had been nothing more than a name casually given to any strapping boy.
Amid the crowd's uncertain cheers, a silhouette slowly emerged from the shadows of the passage.
-Click. Click.
He walked heavily, as though unaccustomed to the armor.
Ridiculous. Those footsteps, bearing the full weight of his armor, seemed to prove his inexperience by themselves.
-Click, click, click.
Black-painted armor without a single ornament, and an unfamiliar crest on the banner over his shoulder. If even the family emblem was unfamiliar, it meant he came from an insignificant house.
-Click.
At last, the man stepped onto the platform and stared down at Sergei without a word.
Only a flash of blue eyes could be seen beneath his visor.
“My name is Sergei Antonovich Sergeyev. I am the eldest son of Count Sergeyev's house, and my friends call me the Lion Knight. What is your name?”
“...”
His gaze fixed on Sergei, the knight from the frontier still gave no answer.
“...Well, never mind. You must be nervous. I understand. This appears to be your first outing, and your opponent had to be me. What a pity.”
“...”
The two slowly raised their swords. They lightly tilted the blades held upright, then bent at the waist in salute.
There was no starting buzzer or signal flare in a tournament. It began the moment the two duelists faced each other.
That made conversation meaningless, really. Still, Sergei regretted that his first opponent had so little appreciation for such things.
But fine.
No matter how sloppy his opponent was, crushing him completely would surely leave an impression on the Princess.
Now then, behold the man who will become your future husb...
-Crunch!!
“Guh...?!”
* * *
The audience forgot even to cheer.
The two knights had exchanged the customary salute and just readjusted their grips on their swords.
-Boom!!
The sound had clearly arrived after the event itself.
By the time the spectators heard the blast, the knight in black armor had already reached his opponent.
-Crack!!
Sergei's hastily delivered counterstroke came down cleanly, straight from the textbook.
A longsword slipped smoothly along the line of that stroke, caught the blade in the gap of the crossguard, and twisted.
It was a fluid sequence, like water flowing, but the result was anything but gentle. Sergei's blade sprang free.
At the same time, the charging knight's shoulder slammed into his chest. With a crunch and groan, the suit of armor, clearly reinforced with mana, crumpled in on itself.
“Guh...! Ngh...!!”
A groan escaped him as he flailed, apparently trying to resist with his bare hands.
The knight approached his fallen opponent and let go of his sword. With a crack, the blade buried itself deep in the floor.
Then, empty-handed, he walked forward.
* * *
“Where does your loyalty lie?”
“Guh... Cough... Wh-what... are you talking about...?!”
-Crack!!
A fist buried itself in Sergei's helmet. With a tearing sound, the expensive mana-tempered plate helm ripped apart like paper.
The impact made his head ring. Through it, the low voice came again.
“Where does your loyalty lie?”
“Y-you... bastard...!”
-Crack!!
The fist came down again, like a hammer striking metal.
The duel did not end just because both men had dropped their swords. It would continue until one side was fully incapacitated, either by surrender or by losing consciousness.
So Ivan put only enough force into each blow to keep Sergei conscious. He struck steadily, carefully ensuring the man could not declare forfeit himself.
-Crack, crack.
He drove down his fists, measuring his strength with precise care so that nothing broke beyond repair.
He was instilling loyalty to the state into this foolish nobleman.
He had received one order.
Win overwhelmingly.
The operation had one objective as well: warn the nobles who harbored treasonous ambitions toward the royal family.
Remind them who ruled this country.
Make sure that, even if the royal family looked weak, they would never dare contemplate violating its authority.
Show the high nobles living in this city, the so-called great noble houses.
If that was what she wished, it would be done. Ivan brought down his fist.
Until the young nobleman's nose had collapsed, his front teeth had fallen out, and he fainted with his mouth hanging open.
“That was a difficult fight. Did I win?”
Ivan looked over the platform, his blood-dripping gauntlet clattering softly.
The frozen announcer stammered and glanced toward the nobles' seats. Not a word came from the nobles sitting with their mouths agape.
Ivan turned and looked up at the high platform where the Princess sat. Slowly, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
The Princess sighed and pressed a hand to her forehead.
“Th-the winner!! Ivan Petrovich Yermof of the Yermof Viscount House!!”
There were no cheers.
And none were needed.
Ivan quietly nodded and left the arena.
* * *
“Wow... Uh... Oh...”
“Oh.”
“Uh...”
Isabelle, Aesidis, and Pavel stared blankly down at the arena from the stands, not even noticing the popcorn slipping from their mouths.
“He... He was that serious about it...?”
So he wanted to get married that badly?
Anger started to rise, but then came a sudden realization.
He had never shown that side of himself during training or sparring.
For a moment, there was a brief, private sense of pride in knowing the warm side of him that others did not.
Then, once again.
“He wanted to get married that badly?!”
That was when the indignation burst out again.
* * *
“Ugh, humans. How vulgar.”
An elf covered their nose with a handkerchief and grumbled as they left.
Elphihara, meanwhile, stared blankly at the arena.
At the man in whom savagery and nobility, those two opposing values, had mixed so beautifully. At least, by her standards.
“So... cool...”
A man ought to have that kind of resolve, that kind of spirit, that kind of wildness. She shot a glance at the male elves of her race, sitting in little groups and sipping refined black tea.
And they called themselves men.
[Ahahahaha!!]
A clear laugh burst from the suit of full plate armor seated beside her. Elphihara finally came to her senses and looked at it.
The armor chattered brightly in a resonant voice.
[That temper of his hasn't died at all!! Ahahahaha!!]
The armor laughed heartily, slapped the table a few times, and stood.
[All right, now it is my turn to put on a show. Ahahahaha!!]
Still laughing happily, the armor left the stands. Unable to wait for her turn, she said she would head down to the waiting room first.
* * *
Footnotes:
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