A tournament was not a festival for the common people. Strictly speaking, it was more properly understood as an evolved form of aristocratic social gathering. All the competitors were nobles, the occasion existed to display their continuing strength, and its ultimate purpose was a royal marriage—an infusion of royal blood.

Thus, throughout the five days of the tournament, every great noble in Prizhenkaya had spent from their own coffers to host banquets each day.

"Oh, Sir, your duel yesterday was truly magnificent!"

"You flatter me, Your Excellency. How could my meager skill compare with your son's? Allow me to offer my congratulations in advance."

"Ha ha! Really, now! What does it matter if my boy has a little talent? Surely it is all thanks to the loyalty he has cultivated under Her Highness's benevolence?"

"Indeed it is. Ha ha!"

As drunken great nobles and the scions of noble houses showered one another with compliments, all the while competing to read how the factions would splinter once the victor married the Princess, the banquet's host, Duke Sheretif, was among the most displeased people present.

"He still hasn't come?"

"No, Your Excellency."

The attendant bowed his head low. Sheretif clenched a fist out of sight, suppressing his anger.

Even if he was considered the least of the three dukes, he was still a duke. One of the nation's most exalted nobles—and now its wealthiest.

Unlike the other dukes, who commanded the military forces along the borders, his domain of Yelyabinsk stretched across southeastern Krasilof. It had escaped direct exposure to the last war and stood at a vital transport junction for ocean trade coming through Thilles.

The enormous wealth this brought him, his authority as a central noble, his unrivaled standing in Prizhenkaya's aristocratic society—both participants in today's duel had disregarded all of it and failed to attend his banquet. This was an insult.

"Never mind the elf. Is that lowborn wretch really in such grave condition?"

"I understand Her Highness personally requested nursing care for him... But since it was Her Highness's personal correspondence, information is difficult to obtain."

"Tsk. Paranoid creature."

However cold relations between the Princess and Counterintelligence Command were growing, she still possessed the finest intelligence organization in Prizhenkaya. Extracting information from a place under her personal supervision was all but impossible. Sheretif clicked his tongue in frustration.

"He refused the priest and hasn't even answered the invitation..."

"What shall we do about tonight's preparations, then?"

"Leave them in place. And see that our 'guests' are generously compensated."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

The attendant bowed deeply and withdrew. The duke tapped the table, lost in troubled thought.

'If his injuries are worse than expected...'

Then there was no problem. But if he was merely recuperating from overwork, exhaustion, or some insignificant injury, the man had to be dealt with tonight. Two days remained until the final. If he recovered in that time, there would be no way to stop him from winning.

Could his own inadequate son, or the equally inadequate noble facing him, possibly fight Coenwulf like that? No. They could not. However generously he tried to assess them, the skill that had forced Coenwulf to struggle so fiercely was real.

So the lowborn wretch had to die tonight. But how?

He could hardly storm a hospital guarded by the Princess. A rash assassination attempt would be no different from provoking a lion that had finally grown quiet.

He must remember: however badly her recent blunders had damaged her authority, even if her closest supporters were beginning to defect, Elizaveta Kirillovna Krasilof, Iron-blooded Liza, was a beast who had confined her father and driven out her brother's faction in a single night.

This desperate situation, in which she had put herself up for sale, was an opportunity that would never come again. He must not provoke her carelessly. In battles between nobles, wasn't justification more important than force or the ability to act?

"Your Excellency! Your Excellency!"

The attendant hurried up to the brooding duke.

"What is it?"

"H-he's here!"

"Who?"

"Sir Yeremov. They say he's just arrived outside the mansion!"

"Alone? He came alone?"

"Pardon? Yes! As far as I know, no one accompanied him..."

"Ha!"

The duke set down his glass and laughed loudly.

So, the man who had sheltered in the Princess's embrace had come alone to a banquet of the Crown Prince's Faction. This was precisely why one must never put such value on lowborn mercenaries, Your Highness.

The duke gave a nasty smile.

"What hound can resist the smell of meat? The hungrier they are, the greedier they become."

Some fools believed the poor and weak were righteous. They were wrong. The hungrier a person was, the more fiercely and unscrupulously they coveted their prey.

The third son of a northern noble of mercenary origins—a wandering sellsword with no inheritance rights. One should never have expected loyalty from such a man. A plan's success depended first not on how elaborate it was, but on how trustworthy the people carrying it out were.

The Princess would have been better off buying one of the young nobles of the Crown Prince's Faction. Not a knight-errant who strutted about on the strength of his abilities alone.

"Show him in. I'll welcome him myself."

What expression would the Princess wear when her cherished hound went wagging its tail to another house, only to return as a severed head? If she married a noble after losing her last grounds for resistance, the rights of royal blood would never again smile upon Krasilof.

* * *

When Edelflat Coenwulf's entry was first confirmed, Ivan had not panicked. He was a trained agent. Trained agents did not panic at emergencies during an operation. Fluster was the first step toward a bad decision.

And so Ivan had changed the operational objective. This would have to be a somewhat daring, delicate diversionary operation.

"Welcome! I was terribly worried when you didn't reply. Are you well? You collapsed in the arena!"

"No different than usual."

Ivan answered as he gazed at the duke, who had spread his arms in a grand welcome. After looking him over, the duke gave a hearty laugh and patted him reassuringly.

"A true man of Krasilof. Such a fine-looking fellow beneath that helmet! I was quite hurt that you never showed your face before."

"I see."

"..."

Edelflat Coenwulf was certain to reach the final unless he faced her first. No arrangement of the bracket would allow him to avoid her. Her defeat would be an even greater unforeseen complication: it would mean they had failed to identify someone capable of beating her.

Thus Ivan had already assumed he would fight Edel. Not that he would win—only that the duel would happen.

"Come, let's go in. Everyone will be greatly surprised. The star of the day has arrived! Your valiant struggle was truly a great honor to our nation!"

"Yes."

Then when was the most sensible time to face Edel? The round of four. The semifinal. Win or lose, that was the best place to meet her.

Fighting her in the final would make the operational objective itself—gathering the nobles opposed to the Princess in one place and defeating them—difficult to achieve. But if the bracket placed their encounter in the semifinals...

'Naturally, the nobles opposed to the Princess will converge on the other semifinal.'

Whether he won or lost against Edel, the opposition would inevitably approach him. All the more so if the battle was spectacular and fierce. With his value soaring, they would try either to win him over or to assassinate him. In their eyes, he was unmistakably a knight of the Princess's Faction.

It would not matter even if Edel won the tournament. Edelflat Coenwulf could never marry the Princess. Every member of the House of Nobles would foam at the mouth, and the other nations of the United Kingdoms were certain to object as well.

A marriage alliance between Kallion and Krasilof would have repercussions on that scale. If the landlocked brown bear joined forces with the ruler of the seas, becoming the strongest power in the United Kingdoms would be child's play.

'If the bracket puts Edel and me in one semifinal, then on the other side, without fail...'

Duke Sheretif's son and Count Yelchinopov would advance. The two most influential great nobles remaining from the Crown Prince's Faction needed a marriage to the Princess to secure new political power.

If Edel won, one of those two would demand the Princess's hand. If she lost, they would attempt to eliminate Ivan, the finalist.

Either outcome was fine. He only needed the moment when those two rival great nobles joined hands. His duel with Edel was merely a step along the way—one whose result did not matter. All that mattered was that he had enough strength left to act afterward.

And now Ivan was walking on his own two feet. That was enough.

"May I take your coat, Sir Yeremov?"

"Mm."

Ivan removed his coat and handed it to the attendant, along with the longsword slanted at his hip.

Sheretif quickly inspected his lightly clad figure. The screening device in the reception room remained silent. The man was now completely unarmed. The duke promptly smiled and shook his head.

"Do forgive us, Sir. There's no curing an old man's worrying."

"It doesn't matter."

The attendant politely opened the door to the banquet hall. A salon of splendor befitting a great noble unfolded before them.

Marble had been lavished on the furnishings. Red velvet curtains were embroidered with gold, and the enormous chandelier was adorned with intricate snowflake-shaped sculptures of gold and pearl.

Ivan recognized none of the drinks or refreshments the attendants carried. Wine from Thilles and assorted finger foods circulated busily.

"Now, it is a true honor to have this opportunity to introduce him. The star of today's tournament has arrived! Everyone, acclaim the victor!"

"Hurray!"

Applause echoed through the banquet hall. The musicians had courteously paused the instant the duke began to speak.

Ivan slowly surveyed Prizhenkaya's great nobles, wrapped in expensive gowns and suits. Beside him, the duke smiled warmly and patted his shoulder.

"Was the potion this old man sent of any help?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. It wasn't easy to obtain."

No doubt. The potion had probably contained some undetectable drug. It must have taken meticulous preparation, but there was one thing the duke did not know. Ivan would never willingly drink a healing potion. He would rather endure his injuries.

"Ah, this is Count Yelchinopov. Have you heard the name? He'll be your next opponent, in the final."

"You flatter me, Your Excellency. Sir Boris is a knight even I would struggle to handle."

"My boy may have a little talent, but how could he stand against you? My congratulations in advance. Ha ha!"

Count Yelchinopov extended a hand with a warm smile. Ivan took it without expression. Beneath the firm muscle, he could feel powerful mana pulsing.

"I was deeply impressed by your prowess. There's something I'm curious about... You're Viscount Yeremov's son?"

"Yes."

"I heard the viscount's son had only just turned twenty. You look rather older than I expected."

Yelchinopov tightened his grip as he asked,

"Who are you?"

"Count Yelchinopov, what is the meaning of this rudeness?"

"Why bother with more courtesies at this point, Your Excellency? This one lowborn wretch is the reason we've waited so late."

Yelchinopov gave a nasty smile and flicked his free hand. Roughly half the seated nobles rose. The musicians set down their instruments, while the attendants slowly withdrew to the walls and drew the curtains.

"Let's dispense with the pointless formalities. They aren't meant for the lowborn, are they?"

"You're impatient."

"Isn't it rather absurd that I'm sharing smiles and drinks with you here at all, Your Excellency?"

At Yelchinopov's words, Sheretif gave a sigh of disdain and stepped back.

Purple lines of mana began spreading across the floor around Ivan. He looked up to see mages on the second-floor terrace, each weaving a spell.

Around the chandelier, attendants drew weapons. Their blades gleamed blue beneath its light. Most of the nobles who had entered the tournament were already armed. Yelchinopov, standing before him, likewise held a longsword handed to him by an attendant.

"I'll crush his face myself! For what he did to my son!"

A large, middle-aged man seated in the distance shouted harshly. What was his name again? Ah, Count Turgeyev. Right. His son must have been one of the opponents Ivan had beaten in the tournament. Good.

Ivan slowly shifted his gaze. Each noble's face brought a name and faction to mind. He had memorized every detail of his targets' identities.

Nearly every noble on his tentative target list was here. Most of the great nobles formerly of the Crown Prince's Faction, now clinging to the House of Nobles, were here.

"Frightened? You've gone quiet. Hmm?"

Under normal circumstances, eliminating the nobles one by one was impossible. They were not idiots. The moment they realized they were being gradually purged, civil war would erupt.

So, with all the great nobles conveniently gathered together, and with the added justification that they were attempting to assassinate a man set to compete in the final of a royally sponsored tournament...

"Shouldn't you be on your knees begging us by now? Are you too stupid even for that? What did the Princess give you? Did that whore spread her legs for you? Hmm?"

No one there thought Ivan would leave alive. They laughed as they dared to insult the royal house openly.

His silence only made their language more vicious. A Princess fucking a lowborn wretch. The ruin of a thousand-year-old Krasilof. The Princess's pet concubine.

"I'll keep the place beside Her Highness nice and warm in your stead. Close your eyes without a care, Sir."

Yelchinopov released Ivan's hand with a nasty smile. He slowly raised his sword hand and waved the weapon about, showing off. He, too, was skilled enough to reach the final.

Assessing an opponent's condition was the most basic of fundamentals. Ivan was clearly far from well. He was so badly overstrained that not even a trace of mana could be felt.

And if he had also swallowed that old man Sheretif's poison, these preparations might even be called excessive.

"Five targets. Second-floor terrace."

"What?"

Ivan slowly raised a hand and pressed firmly behind his earlobe.

—Targets confirmed.

"Eliminate light sources."

—Executing.

BANG!

A gunshot rang out. A superhuman would have recognized it as dozens of shots fired at precisely the same instant, their reports overlapping.

The curtains billowed violently with the gunfire. Every light illuminating the salon shattered simultaneously. Groans followed. Those with keen hearing would have known they came from the second-floor terrace.

Feeling the magic circle writhing beneath his feet unravel, Ivan reached out.

WHIZZ!

An object flew into his hand as his Line of Fire Detection registered it.

At the same moment, Yelchinopov's sword fell toward his head. True to his superhuman ability, the count had not panicked at the gunfire, but swiftly attacked Ivan before him.

CLANG!

Sparks flew. Ivan spun the axe in his grasp, deflected the sword, and stepped forward. Sounds of movement continued in the dark.

"What is this? Guards! Guards!"

The mansion was under impregnable protection by troops the duke had personally raised. A surprise attack—even an assault by an army—could not possibly have escaped advance detection.

Sheretif stumbled in the darkness, looking around.

CLACK.

From the bullet-shattered windows and between the torn curtains came the scrape of heavy metal.

Ivan raised his axe toward the bewildered, fumbling Duke Sheretif and Count Yelchinopov, who stood with teeth clenched and sword in hand.

"Where does your loyalty lie?"

At that same moment, through the salon's shattered windows, atop the terrace railing, behind the seated nobles, and among the armed attendants, agents of Counterintelligence Command emerged with weapons leveled.