Unlike the shocking opening match, the duels that followed proceeded uneventfully.

The capital's great nobles might belong to different factions, but trace three or more connections and they were all relatives. Over their long history, they had built layer upon layer of blood ties, a network more formidable than any bond of school or hometown.

Besides, most nobles participating in this tournament either belonged to the Crown Prince's faction or were opportunists considering defecting to it.

Any sensible, loyal subject should have opposed holding the tournament in the first place. If the Princess declared she would put herself up for sale to preserve royal authority, they ought to have prostrated themselves at her feet, weeping.

Thus, all the participants engaged in appropriately aristocratic duels. Even in defeat, they needed to impress the citizens with their prowess, so the matches remained unexceptional but offered a respectable amount of spectacle.

Then a foreigner appeared.

* * *

"Entering the arena: Sir Edelflat Coenwulf of Kallion's Privy Council!"

Silence fell over the grounds. This was different from Ivan's reception. His cheers had been sparse because no one knew who he was. Here, there was not a citizen who did not know the name Edelflat Coenwulf.

Citizens generally grew more enthusiastic about knights than mages. Magic was remote from everyday life, its structure and workings difficult to understand. A knight's feats of arms, however, were immediately comprehensible.

That was why the citizens did not remember Kallion's heroes. Most elves were mages, after all.

But Edelflat was different. Edel the One-Eyed. The mighty warrior who had faced one of the Seven Dragon Generals during the war, losing an eye to save an entire legion.

That single feat alone was enough to set the citizens' hearts racing. And among those haughty elves, her figure striding freely with nothing but a sword was more than worthy of admiration.

And so the citizens fell silent. Why was an elf... a female elf, at that, entering this tournament? And the strongest of all elves... out of nowhere?

"It seems no one is pleased to see me. I'm used to it."

Edelflat surveyed her surroundings from the platform, amusement in her voice.

She did not lift her visor to show her face. This was profoundly rude. Not because anyone needed to verify the identity of the person inside, of course. With Veolgrin vouching for her and Krasilof having accepted her entry, an impostor would constitute a diplomatic incident.

But showing her face was, at the very least, a sign of respect for the royal house's authority. It was a matter of courtesy.

"Do you intend to keep me standing here?"

Coenwulf's words stirred the crowd. How rude! How dare an elf behave like that here! A succession of noises conveyed roughly those sentiments.

Soon, a knight emerged from the other side.

"A pleasure, Sir Coenwulf. I have long heard of your illustrious reputa—"

"Enough."

"What...?"

"I said, enough chatter, human. Neither introduce yourself nor offer your opinions. That little tongue of yours is not enough to leave an impression on me."

Coenwulf raised her sword, ignoring both the announcer and her opponent's introduction.

There was no starting signal in this tournament. Once both contestants stood in the arena, everything was ready for the match to begin.

So Coenwulf angled her sword toward her opponent with a casual gesture, neither particularly rude nor courteous.

"Come. Make me remember your name through your skill."

"You insolent...!!"

Every participant here was a great noble. A great noble of Krasilof should never receive such treatment anywhere in the United Kingdoms. That was common sense. The common sense of a social system built by humans.

But it was not the common sense of elves. Least of all Edelflat's. Nobility flowing through one's veins was no guarantee of survival in war.

Even a great noble with vast estates and immeasurable wealth would die just the same if a lack of skill put a sword through their chest. What made a person's name worth remembering was not the antiquity of their bloodline, but their own ability. That alone.

Besides, however ancient a human noble house might be, could it compare to the great families of the elven Privy Council?

SHING...

The sword swept smoothly down through the air. Its tip settled without a tremor, as though there were no need to move it at all. Coenwulf remained perfectly still.

"This... insolence... I shall hold your elven kind to account for it!!"

The opposing knight charged with pounding footsteps, like an enraged boar. In truth, a trained knight's charge was more powerful than a boar's even without a mount.

The weight of full armor, the destructive mana coursing through his veins, a lifetime of sword training: at the instant all these brought the distribution of force in his strike into perfect balance—

SHRIIIING!!

The stationary Coenwulf's sword slid smoothly along the descending blade, then broke away.

CLANG!!

That was all it took to gain complete control of the force behind her opponent's sword and send it flying outward.

Having moved less than two inches, her sword pointed forward again, perfectly still. Now the disarmed knight's throat rested against its tip. Her single stroke had accounted precisely for the direction of his approach and even the instant he would stop.

"I... I... yield."

"That was rather too disappointing a fight to stick in my memory. Pick up your sword if you like. I'll give you a second chance."

"Stop insulting me...!!"

"An insult is mockery directed at someone not far beneath your own level, human. Shouldn't you call what I'm doing education?"

"You... elves...!!"

Her opponent shouted, turned his back, and left the platform.

The spectators remained silent. The stands were too far away, and their eyes were not keen enough to comprehend the fight they had just witnessed. There had seemingly been a single exchange, then a sword had gone flying, followed by a sudden concession and the opponent's departure.

Amid the silence, Edelflat stepped down from the platform, her stride as brisk as when she had arrived.

* * *

Then she encountered Ivan, seated deep inside the passageway. Both wore armor, their visors still lowered, yet they were unmistakably staring at each other.

"John."

"Adel."

They stopped beyond sword's reach and quietly exchanged greetings.

"You haven't changed."

"You've lost your edge."

Adel's armor rattled at Ivan's words.

"Lost my edge? Me?"

"Your swordsmanship was more spectacular than that. As I remember it."

"Has it not occurred to you that he wasn't worth the effort?"

"Didn't you say swordsmanship was an art you displayed to yourself, not your opponent? Reining in your swordplay to suit your opponent isn't like you."

"How do you know I haven't changed my mind in ten years?"

"... Enough word games. I don't know how to talk around a subject. Adel, answer me. What is your objective?"

Ivan asked quietly.

"What does Veolgrin want from this country? Why did he send you, of all people?"

"Who knows? You've made me curious, though. What is your objective?"

"Victory."

"Mine... if I had to put it into words, is 'obstruction.'"

Adel spoke playfully.

"Sir Veolgrin's objectives are none of my concern. I don't know why he sent me or what he was thinking. But I received only one 'request': prevent the others from winning. What about you?"

"I received only one 'order' as well. Win through to the end. The purpose or reason behind an order is none of my concern."

"How amusing. Don't forget those words later. I hope that resolve won't waver even when you face me up there."

Adel chuckled and walked away down the corridor.

Ivan watched her retreating figure for a long time. Her gait, the length of her strides, her body's responsiveness, and even the 'feel' of her.

A superhuman's senses could infer even the body beneath a suit of armor. But there was only so much information to be gleaned from someone like her, a superhuman without equal in making use of her physical abilities.

Concealing her condition would be all too easy for her. And couldn't that mean she had grown weak enough to need to hide it?

As recently as ten years ago, she had never hidden her presence, not for a moment. That was the kind of woman she was. Always laughing flamboyantly, yet sometimes sinking into solemn contemplation. Impossible to predict.

A master. A master of the sword, a woman thought to have mastered every aspect of the art of swordsmanship performed with one's limbs.

A lunatic who had spent hundreds of years doing nothing but wielding a sword. Elven swordsmanship was divided into the eras before and after her.

If someone like that needed to conceal her physical presence from others...

'Has she lost her edge?'

Was her dementia progressing further than he had thought?

However advanced elven medicine might be, apparently even it could not defeat Alzheimer's. This suggested that the threat posed by elderly elves could safely be downgraded considerably. Few young elves distinguished themselves, and most Privy Council elders who underpinned Kallion's national power were old.

In any case, it was not a bad development. If the tournament's strongest contender was in that condition, perhaps he might even have a chance of winning head-on.

* * *

Over the next several days, the tournament walked a tightrope somewhere between the spectators' horror and outrage.

"The winner is Sir Ivan Petrovich Yermov of the viscountal House of Yermov!!"

"Wooo... ooh..."

"Woo... uh..."

A lunatic who always crushed his opponent within two exchanges, then discarded his own weapon once they lost theirs, strode up, and started throwing punches. Ivan the 'Face Destroyer.' Supposedly the third son of some unheard-of rural lord.

Simple and brutish. That was the nobles' verdict. The man's swordsmanship possessed neither subtlety nor honor, nor even respect. This was the common assessment voiced chiefly by the nobles he had demolished.

And then there was the other one.

"The winner is Sir Edelflat Coenwulf of Kallion's Privy Council!!"

"Booooooo!!!"

"Go back to your nest, elf!!!"

"Ahahaha!! If you need a lesson, come up here anytime, everyone!"

Edelflat smiled brightly and waved through the crowd's jeers, then strode away without a care.

The knights who faced her fell into two categories: those who criticized the elf's rudeness, and young knights hoping to earn recognition by crossing blades with a legendary hero.

Sometimes those immature knights, unable to curb their youthful ardor, would visit Sir Coenwulf's lodgings to attempt a more intimate acquaintance. More often than not, they were thoroughly beaten and driven out.

By this point, the nobles were beginning to catch on.

'This is a plot.'

Anyone unable to see that much ought to surrender their title. A tournament that had not even invited provincial nobles had suddenly acquired a borderland noble who kept sweeping every match. This was no knight-errant who had 'happened' to visit Prizhenkaya and entered in a fit of youthful enthusiasm.

Elizaveta had bought herself a skilled knight and devised a scheme to keep the nobility in check. And the elf had probably detected her scheme in advance through 'elven' methods and come to thwart it.

"Then why not simply make those two face each other first?"

Duke Sheretif stroked his beard and tossed out the suggestion.

"If the Princess wants to keep us in check, and the elf wants to thwart her, isn't this something of a love letter from the pointy-ears?"

"Aren't they being a little heavy-handed for a love letter?"

"They're elves. What can you do?"

Everyone present agreed. True enough. They were elves, after all.

"Unless the elves extend a hand first, there's no need for us to bow to them. So if we make those two fight, one of them is bound to be eliminated."

There were no draws in this tournament. The prize was the Princess herself.

"And judging by how he behaves, that 'Ivan' fellow should at least get one good cut into the pointy-eared bitch, shouldn't he? Hmm? We can hardly have lost because we lacked skill, so he must be reasonably handy with a sword. Have you looked into this viscountal House of Yeremov?"

"Yes, Your Excellency. They are one of the many northern noble houses that sprang up after the war. Rumor has it the third son enjoys hunting and is quite skilled with a sword."

"Ennobled after the war? Then it must have been some wretched mercenary's wartime elevation. Send the fellow a few suitable compliments and some equipment. Let him know he can come crawling to us even if he loses to the elven bitch and the Princess discards the lowborn thing."

It was reasonable. A nobody like that could never defeat the strongest elf anyway. So they would equip him to inflict at least some minor damage on Adelflat, and win the lowborn fellow's goodwill in the process.

Defeated mercenaries were invariably discarded. And the Princess was not a woman who valued defeated soldiers. The lowborn thing would certainly be thrown away, and then he might remember the nobles' kindness.

Having served under the Princess, he might know something useful. Even if he did not, acquiring a knight of such prowess would still make it a profitable deal.

"But Your Excellency, what if the lowborn fellow actually defeats Sir Coenwulf?"

That would make the elves look rather foolish after going so far as to send a champion to tacitly propose an alliance with the nobles. And if Viscount Yeremov's third son went on to win, wouldn't the grand prize be lost to them?

The elves could hardly be mad enough to send a female proxy and insist on marrying the Princess, so an elven victory could offer the nobles a fresh opportunity. But if this knight Ivan won, they would be reduced to mere supporting players in the tournament.

Duke Sheretif burst into hearty laughter at the question.

"Give a mouse a sword and will it defeat a lion? Hahahaha! He is certain to lose. What matters is minimizing our losses, isn't it?"

On the fifth day of the tournament, every knight scheduled to face Ivan or Edelflat withdrew. With just four contestants remaining, Ivan would finally face Edelflat.

* * *

Isabelle sat in the stands, gnawing furiously at her thumb. It was hardly a good habit, but her anxiety was understandable. Beside her, Yuri soothingly patted her shoulder.

"Mister Pavel."

"Hmm?"

"Is my mister going to lose?"

"No."

Pavel was also a former member of the Royal Guard. Indeed, he had served as its commander. Naturally, he knew Edelflat. And so he, too, suspected that her condition was not what it once had been.

Ivan, meanwhile, still possessed the abilities of his prime. It had only been four years since he slew one of the Seven Dragon Generals. Constantly honing his skills since then, he had only grown better, not worse.

Which meant...

"He'll win."

"Pfft?!"

"???"

Yuri, who had been listening, abruptly sprayed her drink onto the ground and began coughing. Pavel started patting her back.

"But if mister wins, he'll actually marry Her Highness!"

"Do you want to cheer him on or curse him?"

"I don't know! I don't want to see him lose, but I think I'll be fucking pissed if he wins."

"Aren't you a little old to be starting puberty?"

"No, I'm not! Mister calls me a pubescent brat all the time!"

"You... Just leave."

Pavel cursed his lot as the youngsters' personal bodyguard. He hadn't quit the rebels to put up with this.

"Entering the arena: Sir Edelflat Coenwulf of Kallion's Privy Council!!"

"Boooooooo!!!"

So he decided to add his voice to the jeers directed at Edelflat instead.

"Booooooo!!"

Surely that old monster couldn't hear his voice all the way from here? Surely she wouldn't recognize him?

He was one of the people enjoying this tournament the most.

If the commander won, well, he'd become the Princess's consort and could no longer be commander, leaving Pavel in line for a promotion.

If the commander lost, he could say something like, "Even you couldn't quite manage Coenwulf, eh? Hah, I should've been up there. You know? My dragon-slaying spear. One shot from this, and Einar or Edelflat, it's all the same. Both down in one."

Wait. Didn't that make him the one with the least to lose, no matter who won? That was his thinking.