A constellation shone in the darkness.

Yet it did not hang in the vast night sky. It shone at the tip of a swordsman's blade, his feet planted on the earth. The constellation shining on that human blade was silent and brilliant.

Najin, seeker of the sword.

Having reached the realm of Sword Seeker, Najin raised his sword. The constellation moved with its tip, and where that tip came to rest stood his opponent.

"... Ha."

Jerold laughed as he looked at the blade pointed at him. What an incredible opponent. The unease he had felt moments earlier was nowhere to be found. The moment this swordsman became a Sword Seeker, the distinction between the weak and the strong had ceased to matter.

"Klaus."

Jerold spoke, letting out a long breath.

"My apologies, but I'll take the first strike. That is one thing I cannot concede."

"That's a pity. I was about to say the same thing. But you beat me to it, so there's nothing to be done."

With those words, Klaus took a step back, while Jerold stepped forward. They seemed to be taking turns challenging Najin. It was tantamount to throwing away their numerical advantage...

But in this case, that was not entirely true.

A fighter of Sword Seeker caliber was an army unto themselves. One could do the work of dozens, even hundreds, so the comparison was hardly inaccurate. Naturally, the movements of someone so powerful came with restrictions.

Such fighters split enormous trees with their swords, tore through their surroundings, and swept everything around them aside with every step.

Unless they had coordinated beforehand or spent years together on the battlefield, they were liable to get in each other's way. If they charged simultaneously, their allies were sure to be caught in one another's sword aura and aura.

That was why they had held back to a degree—Klaus and Jerold alike.

If they hurled everything they had into a full-strength clash, their ally would be caught in it. They were certain to interfere with each other, nullifying their numerical advantage.

'But now that it's come to this...'

Their numerical advantage meant nothing. A halfhearted attack would only get them crushed. This fight had already dragged on far too long, and in the end, a sufficiently powerful strike would decide the outcome...

"No, that's not it."

Jerold shook his head.

No. They could certainly attack together. If they apportioned their strength properly and surrounded him, perhaps they could gain a little more of an advantage.

But he did not want to.

The swordsman who had completed emergence, who had brought a constellation into bloom at his blade's tip, had said it clearly: this was an honorable duel. Jerold no longer had the right to proclaim his honor or harbor pride, but...

'Still, for the final strike...'

For that last exchange, at least.

He wanted to trade blows worthy of the honorable duel his opponent had declared. Even if it cost him his life.

Jerold and Klaus both felt the same.

Foolish. It was foolish, and yet...

Najin's declaration had made this neither an assault, nor an ambush, nor a war, but simply a duel. Should they not oblige him, then? Was that not the duty they ought to uphold as men who had once been knights?

Jerold took a great stride forward.

He drew forth sword aura fiercer than ever before.

His right foot planted firmly on the earth. His left braced at an angle. His breathing controlled. Together, these completed the stance for his prized Shattering Sword—the swordsmanship with which he had smashed countless demons and their contractors.

Though the swordsman before him was no demon, neither wicked nor sinister, he was an opponent who demanded Jerold's full strength.

No words were needed. Jerold kicked off the earth and charged. The ground shook with thunderous thuds beneath each footfall. Like a charging bull, he split trees and scattered fragments wherever he stepped.

Shattering.

Smashing everything he touched, Jerold raced toward Najin. And Najin waited for him, sword lowered. As though he would neither retreat nor evade. As though inviting him to come with everything he had.

A laugh escaped Jerold's lips.

What a proud swordsman. Even now, he refused to retreat! He was declaring that he would meet a full-strength strike head-on! Jerold even felt grateful to this swordsman, who retained a purity that had died out in this age.

Then came the clash.

As Jerold took his final step, the earth split with a crack. He swung his greatsword with the full weight of his charge behind it. The mental image within his sword aura was a bull charging forward, smashing everything in its path.

CRACK, THUD, BOOM...

Before his sword had even completed its arc, the surrounding trees split apart. The onrushing wind pressure sent dust billowing and churned the air. Facing it all head-on, Najin's clothes whipped in the wind. His skin split, and blood burst forth.

Yet Najin did not retreat.

He swung his own sword toward Jerold's oncoming greatsword. Greatsword met longsword. Ordinarily, the greatsword should have crushed the longsword and pulverized Najin along with it. But common sense did not apply to battles between Sword Seekers.

A deafening roar erupted the moment the swords collided.

Sword aura tore at sword aura.

The constellation wrapped around Najin's sword met Jerold's sword aura in full, yielding not an inch. No—it was pushing it back. The flickering constellation scattered pure-white light with a rapid crackle.

A brief silence. A momentary deadlock.

It felt like dozens of seconds, but to an onlooker, it lasted barely more than one. Then the balance broke. Najin clenched his teeth. Straightening the knees that had nearly buckled beneath the weight, he swung his sword with all his might.

Then—

SHING.

Najin's halted blade advanced. It cut through sword aura, cut through the greatsword, and cleaved Jerold's technique in two. The sword swept forward first, and the constellation blossomed in its wake.

Light burst explosively along the blade's path.

That light was a mass of sword aura. Watching the constellation flicker before his eyes, Jerold gave a hollow laugh. It had been a perfect strike, and he had lost. A moment later, the repulsive force of the sword aura slammed into him.

BOOOOOOOM!

For all the force with which his steps had split the earth, Jerold's feet left the ground. Caught in the sword aura's repulsive force, he was hurled away. He flew a considerable distance, only stopping after smashing through several enormous trees.

Coughing up blood, Jerold collapsed.

Najin drew a long, ragged breath. The constellation still wrapped around his sword had lost none of its light. There was still an opponent left to defeat. He raised his head and looked ahead. His final opponent stood there.

Klaus Aten.

The fifth wing of the Kingdom of Prolea.

The last Blue Wing cavalryman stood before Najin.

2.

"Well, now. He's not the sort to go flying quite that easily."

Klaus smiled bitterly.

He pulled free the lance he had planted in the earth. This turn of events astonished him. Had that boy not only just experienced emergence?

Emergence—the act of breaking free of a chrysalis.

Immediately afterward, many struggled to keep pace with their reconstructed sword aura and the flow of their mana, requiring time to adjust. Klaus had been no different. But what of the swordsman before him?

'He handles his sword aura naturally, as though he's already spent years as a Sword Seeker.'

How absurd. According to the order, this young man was only eighteen. It was so preposterous that Klaus could only laugh in disbelief. There was something in that boy that even the words "a once-in-an-age genius" could not describe.

"Perhaps this is an honor."

Klaus exhaled.

A boy who would reach the pinnacle before long. Meeting the blade of such a person could rightly be considered an honor. Despite the circumstances, Klaus found himself smiling.

A duel. How that word stirred the heart.

Now that the moment of their one-on-one clash had finally arrived, Klaus smiled. If such a duel was to end his filth-stained life, he would welcome it. Whether he won or lost this fight, he intended to take his own life.

He believed a knight who had lost both honor and pride should not go on living. The end of the Blue Wing Cavalry must be marked by suicide, not execution.

Klaus Aten had been as good as dead since the day he lost all his comrades four years ago. He had merely postponed his death indefinitely, insisting that it must come only after he restored their honor.

And now that time had come.

The time had come to put an end to the life of a dead man who lived only because he could not die. Gloriously, the one who would bring that end was a proud swordsman. An opponent more than worthy of meeting his full strength. Klaus truly understood why Jerold had laughed.

How could he not smile?

How could he not rejoice?

"Najin."

"Klaus Aten."

They spoke each other's names.

That was enough. Klaus raised his lance and lowered his stance. His center of gravity tilted forward, as though he might spring toward Najin at any instant.

"I'm coming."

"Then come."

Aura rose over Klaus's body. The raging aura coiled around his lance's tip. Branches that touched its swirling power crumbled without a trace.

The constellation gathered over Najin's sword. Its long, trailing form wound around the longsword. Wrapped in that flickering constellation, the longsword evoked the Sword of Stars.

Klaus and Najin each assumed their stance.

Then, neither moving before the other, they charged.

3.

Klaus Aten runs.

He has no banner. He can no longer bear the glorious emblem that marks him as the kingdom's fifth wing.

He has no horse. On the day his comrades were buried in the mire, his beloved steed met its death as well.

He has no comrades, either. The Blue Wing Cavalry was annihilated. They died without honor or pride.

Still, Klaus Aten runs.

He needs no banner. The memory of riding alongside his comrades lives within his mental image. He needs no warhorse. He can push off the earth with his own two legs. He needs no comrades beside him. Klaus Aten was still a Blue Wing cavalryman.

A mere defeated commander.

A knight bereft of honor and pride.

Klaus Aten runs.

He raced onward, yearning for his comrades' honor. Though his eyes were open, he saw his mental image. Cavalrymen racing across a vast grassland. Ah, they charged across the battlefield bearing the emblem of blue wings.

He stood at their head.

He could almost hear hoofbeats behind him. His comrades' mighty roars echoed. Klaus picked up speed. The valiant Blue Wing Cavalry—his comrades—would follow him, no matter how fast he went. So let him run with everything he had.

Faster, and faster still.

Klaus Aten looked at the enemy he must pierce. He saw a proud swordsman. That man, too, was running toward him. Head-on, resolute and honest, seeking to shatter his lance.

Try it. Give it everything you have.

He accelerated further. The scenery rushing past slipped from Klaus's sight. His eyes were fixed solely on Najin, on the sword he was about to swing. That was why Klaus recognized it.

The technique Najin was about to unleash.

Klaus knew that technique.

Was it not a technique of the knights of Atanga, knights among knights? Come to think of it, had the boy introduced himself as an Atanga knight's squire? So that was it. An Atanga blade would decide the end of a man who had lost both honor and pride. Yes, he could ask for no more fitting end.

But then Klaus's eyes widened.

No. That was not it.

An Atanga blade swung to execute a knight did not charge like that. It was not wielded in that manner. That was no blade of execution.

It meant: I acknowledge you as an opponent.

A blade that said he was worth shattering with all the swordsman's strength. Realizing that, Klaus burst into laughter.

Then I shall live up to your expectations.

The kingdom's fifth wing, commander and vanguard of the Blue Wing Cavalry, Klaus Aten thrust his lance. Najin, squire to Ivan, knight of Atanga, swung his sword.

In that instant when lance and blade crossed, nothing else intruded upon their duel. Their backgrounds, their allegiances, the order—all of it became utterly meaningless. There was only a cavalryman and a swordsman, each unleashing a full-strength strike at the other.

To decide the outcome of the duel.

To claim victory.