"He refused all the supplies?"

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"Did he even check what they were?"

"No, Your Excellency. I am told he refused without even opening them."

"Hmm..."

Seated in the stands, Duke Sheretif wore an inscrutable smile. That lowborn wretch had refused outright magic items he could never afford even if he worked himself to the bone his entire life.

The gifts had been sent in his name. Anyone with common sense should have known they would be expensive, exquisite goods without even inspecting them. They might not be priceless family heirlooms, but arms unavailable on the open market, surfacing only occasionally at auction, certainly deserved to be called exquisite.

And he had turned them away without even looking?

"Either he's completely mad, or he's very clever."

The moment he accepted Duke Sheretif's support, a sort of "connection" would form. Not quite enough to place them on the same side, but accepting something created that impression nonetheless. Which meant that if he lost and was eliminated from the tournament, the Princess would have no reason to remain attached to the wretch.

Rather, she might suspect him of promising to lose in exchange for the nobles' money or gifts.

Thus, refusing the gifts now could be read as protecting both his safety and his value. Of course, he might simply be completely mad, blinded by patriotic devotion.

But men like that had all died during the war.

Loyal servants were needed in troubled times. Humans were political creatures, and peace... In an age without the pressing urgency of survival and struggle, humans inevitably became political creatures.

Duke Sheretif nodded. Neither his fighting skills nor his brains were lacking. The third son of a noble family of mercenary origins, at that. Quite a suitable fellow to employ at a fair price, then discard without loss.

Elizaveta did command an intelligence organization, after all. She had done remarkably well to find a man like that.

"When he loses, hold a magnificent banquet for him. In admiration of a Krasilof man who fought valiantly."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

As the chief attendant bowed and withdrew, Duke Sheretif added, almost in passing,

"But if he wins, kill him by whatever means necessary. This age no longer wants heroes."

There was no further need for third-rate romances in which an unknown soldier won the Princess's love through military exploits alone and ushered in an age of peace and prosperity. The world did not want one man's blade dancing above the vast majority of its people.

Heroic tales readily bewitched the masses. The more dramatic and dazzling, the more so. Elizaveta already possessed ample wealth and control. Add military might and popular support... and all that awaited was the return of a monarchy more firmly entrenched than any absolute monarchy of the past.

So that man, Elizaveta's likely final move—even if this marked the birth of a great warrior who had defeated the "strongest elf"... No, all the more so because of it.

He had to be uprooted now. Before he could fully bloom.

* * *

"Sir Ivan Petrovich Yeremov of the viscountal House of Yeremov enters!!"

Poor-quality armor, not even properly painted, rattled its way onto the platform to the heavy clanking of footsteps.

"So you've come."

Adel watched Ivan approach, her fingertips twitching. She wanted to draw her sword and dance with him right this instant.

At last, Ivan planted his foot firmly on the platform. The two knights' eyes met.

"Boooooo!!"

Boos rose from the spectators. Neither knight was paying their respects to the nobles or the royal family. They simply stared at one another, neither lifting their visors to show their faces nor bowing toward the royal seats.

An elf in magnificent mana-reinforced armor, and the third son of a provincial noble whose very name was unknown. Neither moving before the other, the two peculiar duelists slowly drew and raised their swords.

SHING.

Their blades rose toward the sky, then simultaneously tilted fifteen degrees toward each other and stopped. The two who had offered no courtesy to sovereign, nation, or people now gave a military salute to one another alone.

"Come, Cu-Geamhradh: Winter Hound. Show me your limits."

"Adel."

Ivan gave a brief nod.

Within reach of superhuman senses, close enough to hear the other's heartbeat. Was it tension? Or delight? The heart bouncing to that jaunty rhythm seemed to lie somewhere between the two.

Ivan examined Adel's stance. The same as always. A perfect centerline, free of any telltale habits. Her spine straight, her slightly rounded shoulders angled to narrow her frontal profile. The sword in her right hand extended without the slightest tremor. That meant perfect muscular control.

Even if dementia had set in, even if age had diminished her physical abilities, all those years remained with her.

What were his chances of victory?

No.

Once he stood before a blade with a sword in hand, he must cease considering his chances at all. That was how he had been taught. That was how he had to act.

Not whether he could or could not.

Was it necessary? Then he would do it. That was all.

Ivan tightened his grip on the hilt. He would defeat the strongest elf, the master swordswoman, the woman at the pinnacle of sword technique, here and now.

With that resolve, he took a step.

CLANG!

Their swords met almost playfully, then nudged each other's blades away. The flats collided slowly, a strike that neither caught the opposing edge nor pressed a fierce attack. One light exchange, like a clap of hands.

"Boooo!!!"

The spectators' boos grew louder.

"Are you playing around?! This match is rigged! Is this duel a joke to you?!"

Letting the angry crowd's noise pass in one ear and out the other, Ivan took another step forward.

CLANG!!

He drove his sword a little faster in a single high strike. A single opposing strike met it with perfect timing. A light clash, neither probing for weaknesses nor flowing into a sustained attack.

But superhuman senses gleaned far more information. The sword's weight, the responsiveness of the opponent's muscles, the direction of force, the countless possible blade trajectories arising from the wrist angle at the instant the swords met, and the follow-up moves that would close those trajectories off.

Using the information gained from one exchange, another.

CLANG.

Then, assessing the opponent's condition through the recoil of that strike, another.

CLAAANG!!

CLANG!! SCRAAAPE!!

Exchange after exchange linked into a single blade trajectory. Trajectories joined into sword techniques. Assessing which techniques held the advantage, they set their points, compensated for weaknesses, and pressed their strengths to close with the opponent.

Swordsmanship.

CLANG, CLANG, SCRAAAPE! SCRAPE! CLAAANG!!

With each repeated clash, they grew faster, until the spectators could no longer follow every movement.

Silence settled over the arena. Silence, dry swallows, involuntary murmurs of wonder or groans. Thousands of spectators, all sharing the same quiet shock.

CLAAANG! SCRAPE! CLANG!

Faster and faster, until the swords' trajectories surpassed the limits of sight. In the stillness, only the grating of metal filled the air as blades struck each other and scattered sparks.

Standing straight, the two knights remained rooted in place, moving only their hands as they embroidered the space around them in every direction with their blades' paths.

A wind stirred. A chilly wind ill-suited to a clear summer day.

CLAAANG!!

Warriors fighting in the realm of superhumans generally tended to prefer increasingly simple exchanges. Swordsmanship was, ultimately, the sum of the processes involved in driving one's weapon into an opponent's body.

Once they accelerated to the limits of their nerves, only efficiency remained: striking with greater impact. A contest of firepower, of sorts, inevitably decided the outcome. As a rule, swordsmanship was most dazzling before one reached the superhuman threshold.

Yet the two superhumans here were shattering that premise, proving that swordsmanship remained relevant even in their exchanges. That finely honed technique and mastery built through blood and sweat never betrayed their wielder.

In this moment, measuring the heights of skill each had attained through years of refinement, proving their own superiority with a single sword alone—

CLAAANG!!

Both swords shot toward the other's face.

* * *

As the blade flew toward him, Ivan swiftly recalled the condition of his armor. Not the slightest deviation from when he had last maintained it. He mapped the force and angle of Adel's strike in an instant, then thrust his head forward, accounting for the slope of his helmet.

Bracing for minimal impact, he let the blade slide past his visor and extended his hand.

SCRUUUNCH!!

His iron helmet sheared away. As the plate tore, a line of cold pain scored his cheek. At that same instant, his sword thrust straight toward Adel's helmet.

* * *

'Well, look at you.'

That had been Adel's only thought since their first exchange.

Whenever she struck, turned her wrist, and tried to follow with another blow, he broke the flow with precision and withdrew. Repeated over and over, it had brought them to this. Almost without deviation, like a perfect mirror print.

As though copying her swordsmanship in its entirety, even when she altered her blade's path and mixed in techniques from other schools, he imitated them instantly. Every moment, blue eyes flashed beneath his helmet. Reading the paths her sword had traced, discerning the techniques to come, he drove in precisely matched counterstrikes to block them.

'Imitation, is it? Then can you do this, too?'

Exhilarated, Adel swung her sword. Again, he followed. Until sword technique surpassed the realm of artistry and touched the heavens. As if he could follow her forever.

No, more than that—as if demanding that she show him the next technique.

Beneath her helmet, Adel's lips spread into a broad smile.

'I'll show you more. I will show you more. So show me what comes next from you, too. How far can you come? How far will you follow? In that human body, can you burn through your brief life and extinguish the starlight?'

SCRAAAPE!!

Adel could not help marveling at the acrobatic feat of taking her sword on his helmet. Ah, yes. He was no knight. Not a knight, but a mercenary... No, closer to a soldier.

Weapons and armor were mere military supplies in the end, so he held no attachment to them. Even his own body was, in the broader sense, part of a weapon of war, and he was willing to sacrifice it freely.

Anything, so long as he achieved that one objective.

'Very well, then. Let us see what comes next, and how much longer that resolve will last.'

Adel moved her head toward the incoming blade. It glanced off along the curve of her helmet. In that instant, Ivan's eyes, visible through his own helmet, wavered with surprise.

So delighted was she by the sight that she laughed.

'Well? I, too, know a thing or two about watching and copying.'

Reproducing Ivan's defense exactly, Adel stopped with her sword extended.

* * *

Having struck each other's heads, the two knights stood motionless as stakes. The spectators, forgetting even to swallow, were likewise frozen in silence.

At the center of a tournament turned still life, the two knights smiled at each other through their shattered helmets, like figures in a painting.

"So it wasn't dementia."

"... Dementia?"

Adel fell silent for a moment.

"What... What do you mean?"

"Your skills clearly fell short of your prime. Until this, they certainly did."

"Uh, that... Well, let's just say there were circumstances. And?"

"Even elves cannot escape dementia brought on by old age, so I came here weighing my chances of victory."

"Hmm. Mm. And now?"

Adel removed her helmet and shook her head. Black hair rippled freely before she tied it tightly and swept it back. An ornate eyepatch sat at an angle over one eye, while the golden eye that remained fixed Ivan with the piercing stare of a bird of prey.

"Do you see a chance of winning now?"

"I'll have to try."

Ivan, too, removed his half-shattered helmet and tossed it to the ground. Blood from the wound its breaking had left soaked his beard and dripped down.

"Take off your armor, John. I must see your full strength."

"Mm."

CLACK, CLATTER.

The thick armor came apart from both knights' bodies and rolled across the ground. Adel stretched with a crack of her joints, then took her stance with a smile, lightly dressed in nothing but a shirt and leather trousers.

"There are no distractions now. Only you and I are here. Take up your sword and look at me. Not victory, not your objective, not your operation, not your mission. Look at your opponent."

Adel tilted her sword toward Ivan. The sword salute they had exchanged when they first faced each other, accompanied by a brief meeting of eyes in mutual respect.

"Stand upon the earth, beneath the sky, sword in hand, and look only at your opponent. That is the first virtue of a swordsman, of martial arts."

Without answering, Ivan assumed the same stance. Stripped of their armor, the two knights offered one another the same salute as at the start.

"Waaaaaah!!!!!!"

The crowd rose like a tidal wave and roared.