Sparks flew the instant their swords collided, but the sound echoed far away. The nerves governing sight responded faster than those governing hearing. That meant their battle was now unfolding in the instants between nerve signals.

He could not wait to see before reacting. He had to anticipate the next move and act before he saw it. The delay between perception and judgment would become the turning point of the fight.

SKRRAAANG!!

Only now did the sound of their first clash reach his ears. Ivan gritted his teeth and moved.

A clash of swords was a contest of moves and countermoves. With every collision came recoil, an opponent's movement, and countless branching paths arising from them—a long struggle to find the right answer among them.

Only then did Ivan understand. This was what they called swordsmanship.

Every exchange of blades he had ever performed had been mere imitation, fixated on swinging a weapon. He had done nothing more than mechanically learn the intricate principles someone else had established and reproduce them exactly. Now, making his own judgments and choices as he drove his sword forward, he was finally learning a martial art.

CLANG!!

That "good eye" of his—the one asset he had always believed he possessed—might have been a curse. Without needing to discover or develop anything himself, he had stopped at copying the answers of those who came before him.

It was a ceiling on growth, so to speak. Just as grass and trees could grow only so far, however much nourishment they received, his exceptional ability to learn had itself been setting his limits. The moment he encountered someone else's answer, perhaps he had accepted it as the only solution.

Only now could Ivan understand Edel's praise of the sword.

To pile up the years and reach for the sky. Even if it lay beyond reach. Perhaps even if it was nothing but a vague ideal he could never attain in his lifetime. Simply to yearn for it.

To know no limits. Or, knowing them, to refuse to accept them. And so, for a lifetime—to devote one's entire life, to cast every year of it into that challenge.

Freedom.

That was Edel's intent. It was her life. Even as countless lives fell amid the devastation of war, her sword had danced, singing of freedom.

And so, that day in the dark forest on the northern front, the paths traced by the sword she wielded alone had been comfort for the living, a requiem for the dead, meditation for herself, and a yearning for freedom.

Just as the hero's sword symbolized hope, hers symbolized freedom. That was what it meant to establish one's intent.

Could he reach it? Could this dullard, only now grasping the true purpose of martial arts, undertake the ordeal of establishing an intent and forging the true purpose of his swordsmanship? Could he stand shoulder to shoulder with the giants of the previous age who had walked ahead of him?

Ivan silently swung his sword, sinking ever deeper into thought.

* * *

He was keeping up.

Edel thrust her sword forward with a radiant smile. His blade met hers. However much she increased her speed, however she mixed feints with killing thrusts, he met every strike and kept pace.

The boy was growing. The feeling made her impatient for more.

Like watching a dragon hatch from its egg. Or watching the seed leaves unfurl on a new shoot. As she had seen in a handful of the pupils she had taken over her long years.

How radiant that first step was in things that grew. How beautiful the courage, the will to reach toward new horizons they had never known, never even dared imagine.

Ivan's swordsmanship resembled Edel's. Naturally. He had a good eye. He could imitate her swordsmanship, absorb it in an instant, and use it exactly as it was.

And so, now—

CLAAANG!!!

Each time a sword technique she did not "know" emerged, Edel's smile deepened.

The boy who had called himself a soldier rather than a knight, who had regarded himself as a weapon. The boy who had done nothing but repeat inputs and outputs like a precision device of magical engineering. The sight of him taking his own first step down a path of his own sent a thrill through her.

"Do you see it? John, can you see this too?"

She knew he would not hear. Their battle, the instants of their perception, had already passed beyond the realm where conversation was possible. At this moment, their only conversation was the clash of swords and the sounds trailing slowly behind.

Yet now, as their blades collided, Edel believed, through that conversation between steel, that he felt what she did.

"That is the road to the pinnacle of martial arts!"

* * *

The many senses he had relinquished to hone his perception of battle produced a strange synesthesia. The shower of petals became snow; the muffled cheers sounded like a biting wind cutting into flesh.

The sunlit arena vanished. Before they knew it, the two stood facing each other at the far reaches of the northern front, exchanging blows.

"You foolish boy."

Edel smiled as she brought her sword down, her voice carrying a little reproach and an immense fondness.

"You have taken far too long. John, if you understood the moment you saw it, you should have arrived here the moment you understood."

"My apologies."

A faint smile touched Ivan's lips too. Locking his badly chipped sword against hers, he closed in on Edel.

"What can I do about a lack of talent?"

"Even now?"

"From here on, I'll have to find out."

"That is enough."

CLANG!

The steel sword, long since pushed beyond its limits, snapped and flew apart. Ivan let it go without hesitation.

This was a battlefield. The corpses crowding around them were littered with abandoned weapons. He had no trouble finding an axe among them and taking it up.

"What have you taken up?"

"An axe. Seventy-three centimeters, blade width twelve centimeters. Just under two kilograms, I'd say."

"A nimble, sturdy weapon. Come."

No answer was needed. Ivan's offensive changed. Unlike a sword, an axe was not a weapon that traced straight lines. Every blow converged in a curve—a ferocity devoted solely to cutting and cleaving.

And beneath Edel's blade, all those attacks turned into long, sweeping rotations. Like a storm making landfall.

"Einar's method."

"Yes."

"What next?"

"Spear and shield."

Ivan threw the axe to divert her gaze, then swept the ground to scoop up his next weapons: an infantry short spear and a round shield with a long gouge in it.

His offensive changed again. A thrust to mark a point, a sweep of the shield, another thrust. Solid yet sharp blows.

"This is Gilles Vert's. You learned well. A troublesome style to face."

Did he have another?

He did. In place of an answer, Ivan took up a dagger. He imitated Enrique's attacks: swift, stealthy, lethal.

With the clank of chain links catching, he felt a limit snap—the limit beyond which he had believed he could move no faster. Yes, a person could move faster still. A new realization.

Past that new horizon, on to the next weapon. And the next. A mace, a halberd, longsword and dagger, mixing in gunfire at times, occasionally throwing a knife.

When he had exhausted the last weapon in his mind, Ivan stood still, right before Edel.

"So this is your home, John."

"..."

"This is the only home you can imagine now. You have filled too many years of a human's brief life with battlefields. These things you hold because you cannot let go of what you have lost—you call them home."

"..."

"I will not call your intent home. John, I, at least, will not. Your will is not home."

Edel smiled, brushing a petal from Ivan's head.

"I will call it memories. Not things you cannot let go of, but things that have accumulated alongside you. Leave room for home yet. The place you will reach and settle in, where someday you can lay down all your burdens and rest—only then will I tell you that you have reached home. So..."

Time flowed.

Petals fluttered. Countless sword marks scored the arena floor, spread out like an abstract painting.

Edel quietly regarded Ivan, standing motionless, then looked up at the sky. It was a clear day. The summer sun shone down on them.

Closing her one remaining eye tightly, she whispered, "Sir Veolgrin. I must refuse your request."

Then she cast aside the sword still in her hand without a trace of regret. Turning around, she bowed her head to the stunned spectators.

"I, Edelflat Coenwulf of Kallion's Privy Council, concede defeat. Under the Lord's grace, honor to the victor."

She walked lightly out of the arena. Recovering from their shock, the spectators rose as one and shouted, and the arena shook like an earthquake behind her.

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

Alongside that astonished announcement came a lower, quieter sound: the thud of something heavy collapsing.

Yes, rest easy. It had been worth it.

Smiling, Edel resumed her paused steps and left the tournament passageway.

* * *

"Are you awake?! Vanka, do you recognize me?!"

"Yes, Your Highness."

The moment Ivan opened his eyes, Elizaveta leaned in and seized his collar. He gazed up at her.

He shifted his gaze, quickly checking his surroundings. A hospital room. Late at night. The presences nearby... probably guard officers. Only then did he relax and lie back.

"What happened to the match?"

"You... don't remember?"

"No. My apologies."

All he remembered was swinging his sword in a state almost devoid of self. He had a sense that someone had said something terribly embarrassing to him, but he could not recall exactly what.

His muscles were screaming. So were every joint and the tendons wrung to their limits and stiffened solid. His mana-accelerated neural network was overloaded to the point of snapping. The aftereffects were almost as severe as when he had fought one of the Seven Dragon Generals. Ivan gave a faint chuckle.

She had been that formidable an opponent. So formidable that even a defeat like this would have left him without regrets.

"You won. Vanka, you won."

And so it took him a while to understand Elizaveta's words. Quite unlike himself, he had to ask again.

"I did... against Edel?"

"Hehe, yes, Vanka. You won."

"Was the result... sufficiently overwhelming?"

Only then did Elizaveta realize how absurd her order had been. Good heavens, had she truly ordered a man facing the strongest elf to "win overwhelmingly"? How was that any different from the death sentence she had once passed on the Extermination Unit?

Struggling to hold back the tears that suddenly welled up, she spoke in a voice thick with emotion.

"Yes, Vanka. Your valor was... more than overwhelming enough. To all of us. To everyone. I swear it: you are the pride of this royal house."

"Then that is enough."

Ivan nodded and sat up. Ignoring the muscles and bones screaming at him, begging him not to push himself, he slowly put his clothes in order.

"Vanka...?"

"My apologies, Your Highness, but my work is not yet finished. Was there something Dmitry or Pavel failed to report to you?"

"Hm? What do you mean...?"

"I will personally question them on that matter. Now it is time to complete the plan you prepared."

"Hm? Me? The plan I prepared...?"

But that had been to marry him?

Murmuring blankly, Elizaveta stared at Ivan. Expressionless, he put on his coat and stood, so composed that it was hard to believe he had been bedridden a moment ago.

"W-wait. Where do you think you are going? What more can you possibly do in that state?"

"I will follow the words you spoke when you reviewed the Extermination Unit, Your Highness."

"What...?!"

The speeches she gave at every review of the Extermination Unit...?

Elizaveta was quite an intelligent woman. She recalled ten years ago as easily as yesterday. Something she had often said with the Extermination Unit drawn up for inspection...

["You are the pride of Krasilof!"]

No, not that.

["Your country has faith in you!!"]

Not that either.

She had said something a little more like an adolescent brat...!

["Only death shall halt your crusade!"]

Ah. Damn it.

Elizaveta covered her forehead and lowered her head. Right. She had said that too. It had seemed so incredibly cool back then.

So, taking those words at face value and turning them around, the operation would not stop unless he died. That was what Ivan was saying now.

"Th-the final?! What about the final! You must preserve your strength to bring me another overwhelming victory there!"

"There is no need to go as far as the final, Your Highness."

Ivan rose, soothing Elizaveta like the grown-up in the room. Watching him leave, she thumped her chest and groaned.

"You idiot... You have to win the tournament to claim the prize..."

* * *

After leaving the room, Ivan was walking down the corridor when he stopped at the sight of a shadow lingering at its far end.

"Dmitry."

"Yes, sir!"

The shadow waved briskly. Ivan walked past him, and Dmitry fell in behind.

"Any approaches?"

"Just as you predicted, sir. Yes. Two invitations, one tampered-with high-grade healing potion, and one fellow disguised as a priest from Thilles. That was the lot."

"Pavel?"

"He's lying in ambush at the strike point."

"We aren't too late, I trust."

Ivan crooked his fingers. Dmitry promptly placed an envelope wrapped in fine paper in his hand. It was an invitation bearing Duke Sheretif's seal.

"When have you ever been late, sir? The timing is perfect."

"Let's begin."

"Our way?"

Ivan nodded. Dmitry grinned, baring his back teeth, and vanished beneath the hospital's outer wall.

"Our way."

The Extermination Unit's way.