"You want to reject all the support items?"
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"Did you even check what they were?"
"No, Your Excellency. I'm told he rejected them without even opening them."
"Hmm..."
Duke Sheretif sat in the stands with a subtle smile.
That commoner had outright rejected expensive magical tools that he couldn't afford even if he worked his entire life.
Since the gifts were sent under his name, anyone with common sense could have guessed they were expensive luxury items, even without checking them.
While they might not be priceless family heirlooms, they were certainly weapons of such quality that they could only occasionally be found at auctions, deserving to be called luxury items.
And he rejected them without even looking?
"Either he's completely mad, or extremely clever."
Accepting Duke Sheretif's support would immediately create a certain 'line.' It might not be enough justification to consider someone an ally, but the very act of receiving something creates a certain perception.
So if the commoner were to lose and be eliminated from the tournament, the princess would have no reason to concern herself with him.
He might even be suspected of accepting bribes from nobles in exchange for promising to lose.
So rejecting the gifts now meant he was safeguarding both his safety and his value.
Of course, there are those completely deranged individuals who act under the pretext of patriotic loyalty.
Well, such people all became the deceased during wartime.
Loyal subjects are necessary in times of chaos.
Humans are political creatures, and in peacetime—when survival and struggle are not urgent—humans inevitably become political creatures.
Duke Sheretif nodded.
Not bad in strength or intelligence. And he's the third son from a noble family with mercenary origins. Quite suitable for using at the right price and then discarding without loss, he thought.
Elizabeta certainly knows how to handle intelligence operations, finding such a remarkable man from who knows where.
"When that man loses, hold a grand banquet for him. With reverence for the Krasilov man who showed such valor."
"Yes, Your Excellency."
As the head servant bowed and withdrew, Duke Sheretif casually added one more thing.
"But if he wins, kill him by any means necessary. This era no longer desires heroes."
There's no longer any need for third-rate romances where an unknown soldier wins a princess's love through military achievements and leads to a golden age.
The world no longer wishes to see one person's blade dancing above the masses.
Heroic tales tend to easily enchant the common people. The more dramatic and spectacular, the more so.
Elizabeta already had sufficient wealth and control. If military power and public support were added to that... it would only result in the revival of an absolute monarchy more solid than any past absolute regime.
So that man, Elizabeta's final move, even if he becomes a great warrior who defeats the "Strongest Elf"—no, precisely because of that—
The sprout must be pulled now. Before it fully blooms.
[Lord Ivan Petrovich Yeremorov of House Yeremorov enters!!]
Low-quality armor that wasn't even properly forged clanked as he ascended.
With heavy footsteps—clank, clatter.
[He's here.]
Adel twitched her fingertips as she watched Ivan approach. She felt like drawing her sword and dancing right away.
Finally, Ivan firmly stepped onto the platform. The eyes of the two knights faced each other.
-Booooooo!!
The audience's jeers followed. Neither knight was showing respect to the nobility and royalty.
The two stood looking at each other without raising their helmets to show their faces or bowing their heads toward the royal family.
The elf in magnificent magically-enhanced armor and the third son of a provincial noble whose name wasn't even known.
The two strange duelists, without any signal, slowly drew their swords and raised them.
-Shing.
The blades rose toward the sky. Simultaneously, they stopped, angled 15 degrees toward each other.
The two who showed no courtesy to the monarch, the nation, or the people, at this moment showed military courtesy only to each other.
[Come, Cu-Geamhradh (Winter Hound). Show me your limits.]
"Adel."
Ivan nodded briefly.
Within superhuman senses, within a distance where even the opponent's heartbeat could be heard.
Was it tension? Or pleasure? The heartbeat bouncing with a light rhythm seemed to lie somewhere in between.
Ivan examined Adel's stance.
It was the same as usual. A perfect centerline with no habits.
A straight spine, shoulders slightly curved to hide the frontal width.
The sword in her right hand extended without the slightest movement. That indicated perfect muscle control.
Even if she had dementia, even if her physical abilities had deteriorated with age, that woman's years of experience remained.
What were his chances of winning?
No.
Once you hold a sword and stand before a blade, from that moment on, there should be no consideration of winning chances. That's how he was taught. That's how he had to act.
Can I do it or not? That's not the question.
Should I do it? Then I will. That's all.
Ivan tightened his grip on the sword hilt. Here and now, he would defeat the strongest elf, the master of swordsmanship, the woman standing at the pinnacle of sword energy.
With that determination, he took one step.
-Clang!
The playfully meeting swords pushed each other's blades away.
Slowly colliding blade surfaces, strikes that neither bit into the blade nor fiercely drove it away. A light exchange, like clapping hands.
-Booooooo!!!
The audience's jeers grew stronger.
Are you playing around! This is match-fixing! Do you think this duel is a joke!!
Letting the angry crowd's noise pass through one ear, Ivan stepped forward once more.
-Clang!!
A sword strike pushed faster toward the upper section.
Against this, a sword strike that engaged at precisely the right timing, also a single blow.
It was a light friction that neither dug into each other's weaknesses nor continued to link attacks.
But to superhuman senses, more information was intertwined.
The weight of the sword, the responsiveness of the opponent's muscles, the directionality of force, the countless sword paths generated by the angle of the wrist when the two swords engaged, and the follow-up moves that twisted to block those paths.
Based on the information gained from one exchange, another exchange.
-Clang.
And examining the opponent's condition from the rebound of that sword strike, another exchange.
-Clang—!!
-Clang—!! Clang-clang-clang!!
One exchange, one exchange. These connected into one sword path. The sword paths connected again into sword techniques, and by understanding the superiority of techniques, pointing the sword tip, compensating for weaknesses, pushing strengths, and heading toward the opponent's form:
Swordsmanship.
-Clang, clang, clang-clang-clang! Clang! Claaang—!!
As the sword exchanges repeated, they gradually became faster, until at some point they became too fast for the audience's eyes to follow.
The surroundings grew quiet. Silence, the sound of swallowing dry saliva, and involuntary exclamations or groans.
The quiet shock collectively released by thousands of spectators.
-Claaang! Clang! Clang!
It was getting faster and faster. Until the sword paths transcended the limits of vision.
In the silence, only the metallic friction sounds of blades striking each other and sending sparks flying filled the air.
The two knights standing straight were, without moving from their spots, moving only their hands to fill every direction of the surrounding space with sword paths.
A wind arose. A cool wind unsuited to the clear summer day.
-Claaang—!!
Martial artists fighting in the superhuman realm generally tend to prefer increasingly simple exchanges.
Since swordsmanship is ultimately the totality of the process of driving one's weapon into the opponent's body.
After raising speed to the extreme limits of neural acceleration, only efficiency remains, striking with greater impact force. Battles tend to be decided by a kind of firepower contest.
Generally, swordsmanship is most spectacular before reaching the superhuman realm.
However, the two superhumans at this moment were breaking and proving that proposition. That swordsmanship is clearly effective even in superhuman exchanges.
That honed skills and hard-earned mastery never betray you.
In this moment of comparing the heights of artistry they had built up over years, proving their superiority with just one sword.
-Claaang—!!
The sword strikes of the two people thrust toward each other's faces.
When the blade flew in, Ivan quickly recalled the condition of his armor.
There was not the slightest error from the last time he had maintained it. He instantly diagrammed the power and angle contained in Adel's sword strike, considered the slope angle of the helmet, and pushed his head in.
Prepared for minimal impact, he extended his hand while letting the blade slide past through the helmet visor.
Screech!! With the sensation of the iron helmet being scraped and the metal plate being torn, a cold pain drew a straight line around his cheek.
And simultaneously, his sword thrust straight toward Adel's helmet.
Well, look at this one.
That was all Adel had been thinking since exchanging the first move.
He would deliver a strike, twist the angle of his wrist, and whenever she tried to continue with the next sword strike, he would precisely cut off that flow and step back.
The result of that repetition was now. Almost without error, like a perfect decalcomania.
As if perfectly imitating her swordsmanship, even when she twisted the sword path to mix in different school techniques, he instantly mimicked them.
Every moment, a cold gleam flashed under that helmet. Reading past sword paths, understanding upcoming techniques, and precisely thrusting in opposing sword strikes to block them.
Imitation, is it?
Then can you do this too?
Adel, excited, swung her sword. And again he followed. Until the sword technique reached the sky beyond the realm of artistry. As if saying he could follow forever.
No, rather, as if demanding she show the next technique.
Under her helmet, the corners of Adel's mouth rose long.
I'll show you more. I will show you more. So.
You too, show me what comes next. How far can you come, how far will you follow?
With a human body, can you burn your short life to borrow starlight?
-Clang-clang-clang!!
At his acrobatics of receiving her sword with his helmet, Adel couldn't help but admire him. Ah yes, you weren't a knight.
Not a knight, but a mercenary... closer to a soldier.
Weapons and armor are ultimately just military supplies, so you have no attachment to them.
And your own body, broadly speaking, is just a part of war machinery, so you're willing to sacrifice it.
Only one thing matters: achieving your goal, at any cost.
Very well then. Let's see how long that determination will last.
Adel brought her head toward the incoming blade.
The blade slid off along the curve of the helmet. Meanwhile, Ivan's two eyes revealed between the helmet pieces shook with surprise.
Finding that amusing, Adel couldn't help but smile.
How about that? I too am skilled at 'seeing' and imitating.
Perfectly recreating Ivan's defense, Adel stopped with her sword extended.
The two knights who had struck each other's heads stood still like posts.
The audience, forgetting even to swallow, also stood still in silence.
In the middle of the tournament that had become a still life, the two knights looked at each other through broken helmets, smiling like a painting.
"I thought you had dementia."
"...Dementia?"
Adel was silent for a moment.
"What... what do you mean?"
"Your skill was clearly not at its peak until now. Until then, it definitely wasn't."
"Well, that's... Let's say there were circumstances. So?"
"Since even elves cannot escape dementia due to old age, I came here calculating my chances of winning."
"Hmm. Hmm. And now?"
Adel shook her head as she removed her helmet. Her black hair rippled as it flowed, and she quickly tied it back.
A splendid eye patch diagonally covering one eye, and in her intact eye, a golden, hawk-like pupil that glared sharply at Ivan.
"Do you see your chances now?"
"We'll have to see."
Ivan also took off his half-shattered helmet and threw it to the ground.
Blood from the wound caused by the breaking helmet dripped down his beard.
"Remove your armor, John. I need to see your full strength."
"Hmm."
Clank, clatter. The thick armor disassembled from the two knights' bodies and rolled on the ground.
With a crack, Adel stretched her body and took her stance, smiling in light attire of just a shirt and leather pants.
"Now there are no distractions. There's only you and me here. Hold your sword and look at me. Not at victory, not at your goal, not at strategy, not at your mission. Look at your opponent."
Adel angled her sword diagonally toward Ivan.
With the same sword courtesy shown when the two knights first faced each other, a brief eye contact showing respect for each other.
"Stand on the earth, bear the sky, hold your sword, and look only at your opponent. That is the first virtue of a swordsman, of martial arts."
Ivan silently took the same stance.
The two knights, having removed their armor, showed the same courtesy to each other as at the beginning.
-Waaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!!!
The crowd rose like a tidal wave and screamed.