The day of reckoning had arrived. For Elizaveta herself, at least.

She had not been this nervous since stamping her official seal on the order to slay the Seven Dragon Generals ten years ago. Not even when she confined her royal father and purged every last one of her brother's confidants and maternal relatives had she been as nervous as she was today!

"Your Highness."

The low voice brought Elizaveta to her senses. She made an effort to hide her trembling fingers behind her back.

"How are you feeling?"

"As I always do."

"And your preparations?"

"As they always are."

As always. In other words, he was fully prepared every moment he drew breath. That was how this steadfast man's words had to be understood.

He was like a finely honed longsword. No, like a well-maintained cannon loaded with powder. Like an arsenal on the eve of war, ready to open fire at any moment.

Seeing him "as always" brought Elizaveta a private sense of relief, and a certain kind of fluttering.

Here was a man she could trust. Even in this cold world, even on this lonely island where she could not trust her own blood.

That was why she did not want to let him slip away.

So please, do not let me slip away either.

With those feelings in her heart, she approached Ivan, who knelt on one knee with his head bowed.

"My orders, too, remain unchanged, Vanka. Do you remember them?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Win an overwhelming victory and offer it to me."

"Your Highness need not ask. You need only command."

"Win. Whatever you face. Without fail."

"Yes, Your Highness."

CLACK.

Ivan lowered his visor and rose.

The armor felt awkward. But a tournament was ultimately an evolved form of knightly competition. This antiquated armor was itself a symbol of noble authority.

The crest at his shoulder was unfamiliar. It belonged to a noble house whose crest he had never once touched before.

With an axe at one hip and a sword at the other, Ivan set off.

CLANK. CLANK.

His heavy armor bore down hard on the floor with every step.

Whatever he wore, he was an agent of the Crown. An heir to the Royal Guard, a survivor of the Extermination Unit, and the head of Counterintelligence Command.

Thus, though dressed as a knight, he could never be one. He had never sought an honorable defeat after giving his all, nor the glorious feats of arms warriors celebrated among themselves.

Today, too, he was an agent of the Crown. What mattered most to him was the official seal upon his orders.

His last order was the same as always.

Win without fail.

And his answer to that order was also the same as always.

So it shall be.

* * *

Sergei Antonovich Turgeyev was the eldest son of the comital House of Turgeyev.

Clad in lavishly ornamented, mana-assisted plate armor, he strode confidently onto the tournament gallery.

"Wooooo!!"

Praise rang out the moment he appeared. It felt like an earthquake. He could not tell whether his body was trembling or the spectators' cheers were shaking the temporary platform.

He raised his visor and waved to the crowd in greeting. The cheers grew louder still.

-Entering the arena: Sir Sergei Antonovich Turgeyev of the comital House of Turgeyev!!

The announcer, stationed there to stir up excitement, shouted at the top of his lungs.

Receiving the flowers and cheers the spectators showered upon him, he smiled a nasty little smile to himself.

Yes, his life began here.

He would marry the Princess and take the hollow shell of the royal house into his grasp.

His family would inherit the royal bloodline and sweep away that verminous institution called "constitutional monarchy." Then he would take the throne and reign over this country.

The handsome young noble mounted the fighting platform with confidence and cried out.

"Lord, bless my blade! I dedicate all the honor won here today to the Lord in heaven and the foundation of this nation's sovereignty! Come, fight with honor, and accept the outcome as a noble should!!"

His gaze turned to the opposite side. He could see a dim passage leading to the platform.

It was a shabby entrance, cloaked in gloomy shadows even beneath the brilliant sun. Much like his opponent.

Viscount Yermov's house? One of the northern landed families, he had heard.

And the northern landed families were vermin who used a handful of troops to fleece tenant farmers for a living. Nothing but insignificant hunters and forest keepers strutting about with their noses in the air, calling themselves nobles.

A third son, at that.

Unable to inherit, such men had to wander in search of experience and sell their martial skills for money. Sellswords. Knights-errant, in other words.

Some worthless mercenary had dared come to the capital nursing a vain dream of rising above his station. Was he to be pitied, or despised?

Sergei raised his sword upright, smirking.

Soon the announcer called out.

-Entering the arena: Sir Ivan Petrovich Yermov of the viscountal House of Yermov!!

"Wooo...?"

"Ah...?"

Unlike Sergei, a powerful high noble with a long trail of romantic scandals in society, this provincial noble from the northern backwaters had no reputation in the city.

Besides, Ivan—just look at that common name. Ever since the previous king's day, Ivan had been a name casually bestowed on any "strapping baby boy."

Beneath the crowd's uncertain cheers, a silhouette slowly emerged from the shadows of the passage.

CLANK. CLANK.

He moved with heavy steps, as though unaccustomed to it.

Ridiculous. Those steps, bearing the full weight of his armor, seemed to proclaim his inexperience all on their own.

CLANK. CLANK. CLANK.

Black-painted armor without a single ornament, and an unfamiliar crest drawn near the shoulder. If a family crest was unfamiliar, it meant the family amounted to little.

CLANK.

At last, the man mounted the platform and stared silently down at him.

Only a glimpse of vivid blue eyes showed beneath his visor.

"I am Sergei Antonovich Sergeyev, eldest son of the comital House of Sergeyev. Among friends, I am known as the Lion Knight. And your name?"

"..."

The frontier knight before him still offered no answer, his gaze fixed firmly upon Sergei.

"... Well, never mind. You must be nervous. I understand. This seems to be your first outing, and you have the misfortune to face me. A pity."

"..."

The two men slowly raised their swords. They gave their upright blades a slight dip, then slowly bowed at the waist in salute.

A tournament had no starting buzzer or signal shot. It began the moment the two duelists faced each other.

Conversation was therefore meaningless, really. Still, Sergei regretted that his first opponent had so little appreciation for flair.

But that was fine.

However inept his opponent might be, utterly overwhelming him would leave an impression on the Princess.

Now, behold your future husband—

CRUNCH!!

"Guh... hhk...?!"

* * *

The spectators forgot even to cheer.

It happened just after the two knights had exchanged the customary salute and straightened their grips on their swords.

BOOM!!

The sound arrived unmistakably after the event.

By the time the spectators heard the explosive report, the knight in black-painted armor was already directly before his opponent.

CRUNCH!!

A sword came down in a hasty response, a clean, textbook strike.

A longsword slid smoothly along the path of that strike, caught the blade in the gap by its crossguard, and twisted.

The sequence flowed like water, but its result was anything but gentle. The blade flew away.

At the same moment, the charging knight drove his shoulder into his opponent's chest. With a series of grinding crunches, the armor, clearly reinforced with mana, crumpled entirely.

"Guhh...! Hrrgh...!!"

Groans escaped as the fallen man flailed, seemingly scrambling to resist with his bare hands.

The knight approached his fallen opponent and released his sword. With a crunch, the blade sank deep into the floor.

Then, empty-handed, he strode over.

* * *

"Where does your loyalty lie?"

"Hrrgh... Hhk... Wh-what... what does that...!"

CRUNCH!!

A fist drove into his helmet. With a grinding crunch, the expensive, mana-tempered plate helmet tore like paper.

The impact left his head ringing. Through it, the low voice came again.

"Where does your loyalty lie?"

"Y-you...! You... bastard...!"

CRUNCH!!

Once again, the fist came down like a hammer.

With both men having relinquished their swords, the duel continued. It would not end until one opponent was completely neutralized—until he surrendered or lost consciousness.

So he struck with just little enough force to keep the man conscious. Relentlessly. Yet meticulously enough to prevent him from declaring his own surrender.

CRUNCH. CRUNCH.

Driving his fist down, controlling his strength precisely enough not to break the man, he "instilled" loyalty to the nation in this foolish noble.

He had received one order.

Win overwhelmingly.

The operation, too, had one objective.

To "warn" the nobles who harbored treasonous intentions toward the royal house.

To deliver a warning that they must never dare forget who ruled this country.

To ensure they never so much as thought of trespassing upon royal prerogatives, however vulnerable the Crown might appear.

To show it to the high-ranking nobles dwelling in this city, the so-called great nobles.

If that was her wish, so it would be. Ivan brought his fist down.

Until the young noble, his nose crushed and his front teeth knocked out, fell unconscious with his mouth hanging open.

"A hard-fought battle. The victory is mine, I take it?"

Ivan looked up at the dais, his blood-dripping gauntlets clinking.

The frozen announcer stammered and glanced toward the nobles' seats. Not a word came from the open-mouthed aristocrats.

Ivan turned toward the elevated dais where the Princess sat. Slowly, he knelt on one knee and bowed his head.

The Princess sighed and clutched her forehead.

"Th-the winner!! Sir Ivan Petrovich Yeremov of the viscountal House of Yeremov!!"

There were no cheers.

Nor had he ever needed them.

Ivan gave a quiet nod and left the arena.

* * *

"Wow... Ugh... Oh..."

"Oh."

"Uh..."

Seated in the stands, Isabelle, Esidisi, and Pavel stared blankly down at the arena, oblivious to the popcorn spilling from their mouths.

"That... He's that serious...?"

So he wanted to get married that badly?

Just as anger began to rise, it suddenly occurred to her that he had never shown that side of himself in training or sparring.

For a moment, she felt secretly proud that she alone knew a warmth in him that others did not.

Then, once again—

"Seriously, he wanted to get married that badly!?"

Her indignation erupted.

* * *

"Ugh, humans. How vulgar."

An elf covered their nose with a handkerchief and left, grumbling.

Even then, Elpihera was still gazing dazedly into the arena.

At a man in whom savagery and nobility, those two opposing values, mingled beautifully. (By her standards.)

"So... handsome..."

A man ought to possess that kind of resolve, that kind of spirit, that kind of wildness. She shot a glance at the men of her own people, sitting in little groups sipping fine black tea.

And those things called themselves men.

-Ahahaha!!

Clear laughter burst from the full suit of armor seated beside her. Only then did Elpihera come to her senses and turn toward it.

The armor chattered brightly in its resonant voice.

-That temper hasn't gone anywhere!! Ahahaha!!

The armor laughed merrily, tapped the table, and stood.

-Now then, it's my turn to show what I can do. Ahahaha!!

Laughing happily, the armor left the stands. As though unable to wait for her turn, she said she would head down to the waiting room first and departed.