WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: Hydrogen B
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Chapter 90: 14. The King's Silence (8)
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"He rejected all the supplies?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Did he at least check what they were?"
"No, Your Grace. Apparently, he refused them without even opening them."
"Hmm...."
Duke Sheletif wore a faint smile as he sat in the stands.
That lowborn had rejected expensive magical artifacts, things he could not afford even if he worked himself to the bone for the rest of his life, without a second thought.
The gifts had been sent under the Duke's name. Anyone with common sense would have expected luxurious items, even without checking them.
They were not priceless treasures such as a noble house's heirlooms, but weapons and armor unavailable on the open market, items that appeared only occasionally at auctions, were more than worthy of being called masterpieces.
And he had rejected such things without even looking?
"Either he's completely mad, or he's very clever."
The moment he accepted Duke Sheletif's support, a kind of connection would be formed. Not enough to say they were on the same side, but accepting something carried its own implications.
If he lost the tournament and was eliminated, the Princess would have no reason to cling to that lowborn.
If anything, she might become suspicious. She could think he had promised the nobles to lose in exchange for money and gifts.
Refusing the presents now could therefore be read as protecting both his safety and his value.
Of course, there were also people so mad with patriotism that their eyes had rolled back in their heads.
Well, men like that had all died during the war.
Loyal subjects were needed in chaotic times.
Humans were political creatures. In peaceful times, when survival and conflict were no longer urgent, people inevitably became political creatures.
Duke Sheletif nodded.
His martial ability was not bad, nor was his head. He was the third son of a noble family descended from mercenaries. He was not a bad sort to use for his full worth, then discard without taking a loss.
So Elizaveta truly did control an intelligence organization. She had found someone like that from somewhere.
"When that man loses, hold a grand banquet. Make it a tribute to the Krasilov man's valiant effort."
"Yes, Your Grace."
As the head steward bowed and withdrew, Duke Sheletif added a word in passing.
"But if he wins, kill him by any means necessary. This age no longer desires heroes."
There was no longer any need for third-rate romances where an unknown nobody won a Princess's love through martial achievements alone, then ushered in an era of peace.
The world did not want one person's blade dancing over the overwhelming majority of the people.
Heroic tales easily captivated the masses, especially when they were dramatic and dazzling.
Elizaveta already possessed sufficient wealth and influence. If martial power and popular support were added to that....
It would only become the return of a monarchy more secure than any past absolute rule.
That man, Elizaveta's final move, had to be uprooted now. Even if he became a great warrior who defeated the strongest elf.
No, precisely because he would become one.
Before he could fully bloom.
* * *
[Sir Ivan Petrovich Yermof of Viscount Yermof's house enters!!]
Poor-quality armor without even a proper finish clattered as he climbed onto the platform, each heavy step ringing out with a clank and a clatter.
[You've come.]
Adel watched Ivan approach, flexing her fingertips. She wanted to draw her sword immediately and dance with him.
At last, Ivan stepped firmly onto the platform. The two knights looked at one another.
-Boooooo!!
The crowd's jeers continued. Neither knight had paid respects to the nobles or the royal family.
Neither had raised their visor to show their face, nor bowed toward the royal family. They only watched each other.
An elf dressed in splendid mana-enhanced armor, and the unknown third son of a provincial noble.
Neither moved first. The two strange duelists slowly drew their swords and raised them.
-Shing.
Their blades rose toward the sky, then tilted fifteen degrees toward each other and stopped.
Neither offered courtesy to sovereign, nation, or people. At that moment, they gave a military salute to each other alone.
[Come. Cu-Geamhradh, the Winter Hound. Show me your limits.]
"Adel."
Ivan gave a short nod.
Within the senses of a superhuman, they stood close enough to hear each other's heartbeat.
Was it tension? Or excitement? The brisk beat seemed to lie somewhere between the two.
Ivan studied Adel's stance.
It was the same as usual. A perfect neutral guard, without a trace of habit.
Her spine was straight, her shoulders slightly bent and angled to conceal her frontal width.
The sword in her right hand extended without the slightest tremor. That meant her muscle control was flawless.
Even if dementia had set in, even if age had diminished her physical abilities, the years she had accumulated remained.
What were his chances?
No.
The moment he held a sword and stood before its edge, he was not meant to consider his chances. That was how he had been taught. That was how he had to act.
It was not about whether he could do it.
Did he have to do it? Then he would. That was all.
Ivan tightened his grip around the hilt. Here and now, he would defeat the strongest elf, a master swordswoman standing at the pinnacle of sword aura.
With that resolve, he took a step.
-Klang!
Their swords met as if in play, then lightly pushed each other's blades away. The blades came together slowly, neither biting into the other nor pressing fiercely forward. It was a light exchange, like clapping hands together.
-Boooooo!!!
The crowd's jeers grew louder.
"Are they playing around? It's fixed! Do they think this duel is a joke?!"
Ivan let the angry crowd's noise pass through one ear and took another step forward.
-Klang!!
The next strike came slightly faster, a blow from above.
Adel's blade met it at the exact moment, also with a single strike.
It was another light contact that neither exploited for a weakness nor followed with a combination.
Yet to a superhuman's senses, that single contact carried far more information: the sword's weight, the opponent's muscular response, the direction of force, the countless possible sword paths created by the angle of the wrist when their blades met, and the follow-up moves needed to block those paths.
Using the information gained from one exchange, another exchange followed.
-Klang.
Then, while assessing the opponent's condition through the rebound of that strike, another exchange.
-Klang!!
-Klang! Kagaang!!
One exchange, then another, joining into one sword path. Sword paths joined again into sword techniques. They judged the advantages of those techniques, raised the tip of their blades, covered weaknesses, pressed their strengths, and advanced into the opponent's reach.
Swordsmanship.
-Klang, klang, kagagagak! Kkak! Chaaeng!!
Their clashing blades gradually grew faster, until they could no longer be fully followed by the crowd's eyes.
The surroundings fell silent. There was silence, the sound of dry throats swallowing, and unbidden gasps of admiration or pain.
A quiet shock rippled through the thousands of spectators.
-Kaaang! Kkak! Klang!
They were growing faster. Their sword paths passed beyond the limits of sight.
In the stillness, there was only the sound of metal scraping against metal as their blades struck each other and scattered sparks.
The two upright knights did not move from where they stood. Only their hands moved, stitching sword paths through every direction of the space around them.
A wind rose. A cold wind that did not suit the clear summer day.
-Kaaang!!
Warriors who fought in the realm of superhumans generally preferred increasingly simple exchanges.
After all, swordsmanship was the entire process of driving one's weapon into the opponent's body.
Once neural acceleration was pushed to its limit, only efficiency remained. Greater force was packed into each thrust, and the battle was decided as a contest of firepower.
Swordsmanship was, by nature, most splendid before one reached the realm of superhumans.
Yet the two superhumans here were shattering that principle, proving that swordsmanship remained effective even in a superhuman battle.
As if declaring that polished skills and mastery earned through blood and sweat would never betray their wielder.
They measured the heights of the arts built through their years. With a single sword each, they sought to prove their own superiority.
-Kaaang!!
The two blades shot toward each other's faces.
* * *
As the blade flew toward him, Ivan swiftly recalled the state of his armor.
There had not been the slightest deviation since its last maintenance. In an instant, he mapped the force and angle contained in Adel's strike, then considered the angle of his helmet and thrust his head forward.
Prepared to endure the smallest possible impact, he let the blade slide past the visor and reached out.
Krrrunch!!
His iron helmet was scraped away. A strip of freezing pain cut across his cheek as he felt the metal plate tear.
At the same time, his sword thrust straight toward Adel's helmet.
* * *
Look at this bastard.
That was all Adel had thought since their first exchange.
Every time she struck, twisted her wrist, and tried to continue into the next technique, he cut off that flow at precisely the right moment and withdrew.
The result was this. They had become almost perfect mirror images, without even the smallest error.
As if he were copying her swordsmanship exactly, even when she altered her sword path and mixed in techniques from another school, he imitated them instantly.
At every moment, a blue gleam flashed beneath his helmet. He read the path her blade had taken, grasped the technique about to come, and drove in a strike from exactly the opposite direction to stop it.
Imitation.
Then could he follow this too?
Excitement rising within her, Adel swung her sword.
And again, he followed.
Until their sword aura transcended the realm of technique and reached the heavens. As if he could keep following forever.
No, as if he were demanding that she show him more, demanding the next technique.
Adel's lips curled into a broad smile beneath her helmet.
I'll show you more. I will show you more.
So show me what comes next as well. How far can you go? How far can you follow?
With a human body, with that brief life burning away, can you make starlight fade?
-Kagagagak!!
Adel could not help but admire the acrobatics of him catching her sword with his helmet.
Ah, yes. You were never a knight.
Not a knight, but a mercenary.... Closer to a soldier.
Weapons and armor were only supplies to you, so you did not grow attached to them.
Even your own body was part of a weapon of war. You were willing to offer it up without hesitation.
So long as you could achieve your goal.
Very well. Let us see how much farther that resolve can carry you.
Adel brought her head toward the incoming blade.
The sword slid along the curve of her helmet. Between their helmets, Ivan's two exposed eyes shook with surprise.
That pleased her, and Adel laughed.
What do you think? I have some skill at watching and copying too.
Reproducing Ivan's defense exactly, Adel held her extended sword still.
* * *
The two knights, each having struck the other's head, stood frozen like stakes.
The spectators, who had forgotten even to swallow, also remained motionless in the silence.
At the center of the tournament, turned into a still life, the two knights looked at each other through their broken helmets and smiled as though they were part of a painting.
"So it wasn't dementia."
"...Dementia?"
Adel fell silent for a moment.
"What... what does that mean?"
"Your skill was clearly below what it had been in your prime. Until now, it definitely was."
"Ah, that.... Well, there were circumstances. So?"
"Even elves cannot avoid dementia caused by old age. I came here thinking I had a chance of winning."
"Hmm. Um. And now?"
Adel removed her helmet and shook her head. Her black hair rippled, then she pulled it back and tied it tightly.
A splendid eyepatch lay diagonally over one eye. Her other eye, whole and gleaming gold, shone like that of a bird of prey as it stared sharply at Ivan.
"And now you think you have a chance?"
"I'll have to try."
Ivan removed his own half-destroyed helmet and threw it onto the ground.
Blood dripped into his beard from the wound left by the shattered helmet.
"Take off your armor, John. I need to see your full strength."
"Hm."
Clank. Clatter.
The heavy armor fell apart from both knights' bodies and rolled across the ground.
Adel loosened her body with a crack, then smiled and took her stance in nothing more than a shirt and leather trousers.
"Nothing will get in the way now. There is only you and me here. Hold your sword and look at me. Not victory, not your goal, not your strategy, not your mission. Look at your opponent."
Adel tilted her sword toward Ivan.
It was the same salute the two knights had exchanged when they first faced each other, a brief meeting of eyes to show respect.
"Stand upon the earth, bear the sky above you, hold your sword, and look only at your opponent. That is the first virtue of a swordsman, of martial arts."
Without answering, Ivan assumed the same stance.
The two knights, stripped of their armor, showed each other the same respect as before.
-Waaaaaah!!!!!
The crowd rose like a tidal wave and roared.
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Footnotes:
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