# The Day of Reckoning
The day of the decisive battle had arrived. At least for Elizabeta herself.
Since ten years ago when she had to stamp the official seal on the order to execute the Seven Dragon Generals, she had never been this tense.
Even when she had confined her father and purged all of her brother's close associates and in-laws, she hadn't been this nervous!
"Your Majesty."
Elizabeta snapped back to reality at the low, resonant voice. She deliberately hid her trembling fingers behind her back.
"How is your condition?"
"As usual."
"And your preparations?"
"As usual."
As usual. Meaning every moment of his breathing existence was in perfect readiness. That's how this steadfast man's words should be interpreted.
Like a well-forged sword. No, like a well-maintained cannon loaded with gunpowder. Like an armory on the eve of war, ready to fire at any moment.
Elizabeta felt both relief and a certain kind of trembling at his "usual" appearance.
This man could be trusted. Even in this cold world, on this isolated island where even blood relatives couldn't be trusted.
That's why she didn't want to lose him.
That's why she hoped he wouldn't let her go.
With such feelings in her heart, she approached Ivan, who was kneeling on one knee with his head bowed.
"My orders remain the same as before, Vanka. Do you remember?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Achieve an overwhelming victory, and dedicate it to me."
"Your Majesty need not ask. Simply give the order."
"Win. No matter who your opponent is. Without fail."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Click.
Ivan lowered his visor and rose to his feet.
The armor felt awkward. But tournaments were essentially evolved forms of jousting. This antique armor symbolized noble authority in itself.
The emblem hanging on his shoulder was unfamiliar. It was a noble family's crest he had never touched before.
Ivan moved forward with an axe on one side of his waist and a sword on the other.
Click, click. The heavy armor pressed firmly against the floor with each step.
No matter what appearance he took, he was an agent of the royal family. A descendant of the royal guards, a survivor of the Annihilation Squad, and the head of the counterintelligence command.
Therefore, though dressed as a knight, he could never become one. He had never desired an honorable defeat after doing his best, nor brilliant military achievements among warriors.
Today, too, he was an agent of the royal family. The only thing that mattered to him was the official seal on his orders.
The last order he received was the same as always.
Win without fail.
And his response to that order was also the same as always.
So it shall be.
Sergei Antonovich Turgenev was the eldest son of Count Turgenev.
He stepped confidently onto the tournament corridor wearing an ornately decorated magic-assisted plate armor.
"Wooooah—!!"
As soon as he appeared, all kinds of praise erupted. It felt like an earthquake had occurred. He wasn't sure if his body was trembling or if the cheers from the audience were shaking this temporary stage.
He opened his visor and waved to the audience in greeting. The cheers grew even louder.
"Count Turgenev's Sergei Antonovich Turgenev has entered!!"
The announcer shouted loudly to heighten the excitement.
Receiving the flowers and cheers thrown by the audience, he inwardly smiled a sinister smile.
Yes, my life begins now.
Marrying the princess, grasping the hollow royal family in my hands.
After our family inherits the royal bloodline and sweeps away that worm-like "constitutional monarchy" system, I will sit on the throne of this country and reign.
This handsome young nobleman climbed proudly onto the arena and shouted:
"Lord, bless my sword! I dedicate all the honor of this place today to the Lord in heaven and to the sovereign of this country! Come, fight honorably and concede like a nobleman!!"
His gaze turned to the opposite side. He could see a dim passage leading to the stage.
A shabby entrance with gloomy shadows cast even under the bright sunlight. Just like his opponent.
Yermolov Viscount family? One of the northern local lords, they said.
And northern local lords were just vermin who extorted tenant farmers with a handful of troops. They were worthless creatures, hunters and foresters who put on airs pretending to be nobles.
Moreover, a third son.
Unable to inherit the family name, he was a mercenary who had to sell his strength for money while wandering. A knight-errant, in other words.
Should such a worthless mercenary be pitied or despised for daring to dream of social advancement by coming to the capital?
Sergei grinned and held his sword upright.
Soon, the announcer shouted:
"From the Yermolov Viscount family, Sir Ivan Petrovich Yermolov has entered!!"
"Woah...?"
"Ah...?"
Unlike Sergei, who was a powerful high nobleman and had spread many rumors in social circles, this provincial nobleman from the northern territories had no reputation in this city.
Moreover, look at that common name, Ivan. Since the previous king's time, the name Ivan had been nothing more than a name casually given to "strong boys."
Under the audience's subtle cheers, a silhouette slowly appeared from between the shadows of the passage.
Click. Click.
He moved his steps heavily, as if unaccustomed.
It's ridiculous. Those footsteps bearing the full weight of the armor seemed to signify his inexperience.
Click, click, click.
Plain black-painted armor with an unfamiliar emblem on the shoulder. The fact that a family emblem was not familiar to the eye meant he came from an insignificant family.
Click.
The man who finally stepped onto the platform was silently looking down at him.
Only piercing blue eyes were briefly visible beneath the helmet visor.
"I am Sergei Antonovich Sergeev, eldest son of the Sergeev Count family, privately known among my friends as the Knight of the Lion. And your name?"
"..."
With his gaze fixed on him, the provincial knight before him still gave no answer.
"Well, never mind. You must be nervous. I understand. This seems to be your first campaign, and unfortunately, your opponent is me. What a pity."
"..."
The two slowly raised their swords. They slightly tilted their straight swords and slowly lowered their waists in a gesture of respect.
Tournaments have no starting buzzer or signal flare. They begin the moment the two duelists face each other.
So conversation is actually meaningless. But Sergei was disappointed that his first opponent was someone who didn't understand such refinement.
But that's fine.
No matter how shabby his opponent might be, he could impress the princess by completely overwhelming him.
Now, behold the appearance of your future husband...
CRACK!!
"Kuh...huk...?!"
The audience forgot even to cheer.
It happened right after the two knights showed respect to each other according to procedure and properly gripped their swords.
BANG!!
The sound clearly arrived later than the actual event.
By the time the audience heard the explosion, the knight in black-painted armor had already reached his opponent's front.
CRACK!!
A hastily countered sword strike, a clean textbook blow was struck down.
Along the grain of that sword strike, a long sword smoothly slid, catching its blade in the gap of the crossguard and twisting it.
A smooth combination like flowing water, but the result was not smooth. The blade flew off.
At the same time, the charging knight's shoulder was buried in his opponent's chest. Crunch, crunch. The armor, clearly reinforced with magic, crumbled entirely.
"Kuhuk...! Kuhwuk...!!"
A groan was heard. Flailing as if trying to resist desperately with bare hands.
The knight approached his fallen opponent and dropped his sword. With a crack, the blade was buried deep in the floor.
Thus empty-handed, he walked steadily forward...
"Where does your loyalty lie?"
"Kuhuk... kuk... wh-what... what does that...!"
CRACK!!
A fist was buried in the helmet. With a crushing sound, the expensive plate helmet, tempered with magic, was torn apart like paper.
His head rang from the impact. Through it, the low voice came again.
"Where does your loyalty directed?"
"I... iek...! I, no...!"
CRACK!!
Once again, he drove his fist down like hammering.
Since both had dropped their swords, the duel was not over. Until the complete neutralization of the opponent, that is, until a declaration of surrender or unconsciousness.
So, with just enough force not to cause unconsciousness. Steadily. But meticulously so that he couldn't declare forfeit with his own hands.
CRACK, CRACK.
Driving his fist down, carefully calibrating his strength to a level that wouldn't break him.
He "instills" loyalty to the country in this foolish nobleman.
The order received was one.
Win overwhelmingly.
The objective of the operation was also one.
To "warn" the nobles who harbored treasonous thoughts against the royal family.
To deliver a warning not to forget who the true master of this country is.
To ensure they wouldn't even think of violating that taboo, no matter how vulnerable it might appear.
To show the high nobles residing in this city, the so-called great nobles.
If that is what she desires, so it shall be. Ivan drove his fist down.
Until the noble youth with a broken nose and missing front teeth fainted with his mouth wide open.
"That was a difficult fight. Is it my victory?"
Ivan looked up at the platform, rattling his gauntlet dripping with blood.
The frozen announcer stammered and glanced at the seats where the nobles sat. No words flowed from among the nobles with their mouths agape.
Ivan turned his head to look at the high platform where the princess sat. He slowly knelt on one knee and bowed his head.
The princess sighed and clutched her forehead.
"V-Victor!! Sir Ivan Petrovich Yermolov of the Yermolov Viscount family!!"
There was no cheer.
And there was never a need for it.
Ivan quietly nodded and left the arena.
"Wow... uh... oh..."
"Oh."
"Uh..."
Not even noticing the popcorn dripping from their mouths, Isabelle, Asidis, and Pavel sat in the audience seats, blankly looking down at the arena.
"Like that... He was that serious...?"
He wanted to get married that badly, is that it?
About to get angry, but suddenly.
Realizing that he had never shown such an appearance during training or practice matches.
Feeling secretly proud that she alone knew his warm side that others didn't know.
Then once again.
"No, he wanted to get married THAT badly?!"
She burst out in frustration.
"Sigh, humans. How base they are."
An elf covered her nose with a handkerchief and left grumbling.
Meanwhile, Elfihera was blankly staring at the arena.
At the man in whom savagery and nobility, those two opposing values, were beautifully mixed. (By her standards.)
"So... cool..."
A real man should have such resolve, such spirit, such wildness. She glanced at the male members of her race sitting in groups, sipping fancy tea.
And they call themselves men.
"Ahahaha!!"
A clear laugh burst from the full-body armor sitting next to her. Elfihera finally came to her senses and looked at the armor.
The armor spoke cheerfully in a resonating voice:
"That temper hasn't died at all!! Ahahaha!!"
The armor giggled, then tapped the table and stood up.
"Well, now it's my turn to show off. Ahahaha!!"
The armor left the audience seats laughing happily. As if she couldn't wait for her turn, she said she would go down to the waiting room first and left.