When the princess finished speaking, silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace.

Roden wished he could go back to before he had heard those terribly dangerous words. What the girl before him had just said was that shocking.

'An age of magic...'

Those words alone would send the followers of the Old Faith, who made up half of Pendia's religious community, into fits. If she actually attempted such a thing, the kingdom would surely split in two and plunge into civil war.

No, neighboring Old Faith nations such as Libert and Ajun might even send armies to intervene. It would be the return of the great religious war of five hundred years ago, when the Arman Empire fell and believers split into the New Faith and the Old Faith, slaughtering one another.

The mere thought that such a thing could happen made his mouth go dry.

“W-who else knows about this?”

“A few professors at the Magic Society whom I consulted may know fragments of the research, but hardly anyone knows its full scope and ultimate goal. The Society's president, myself, my maternal uncle, and Aran and Kagon here, who have handled all manner of errands for me... And now the two of you.”

In short, she had abruptly divulged a secret among secrets, something that had never leaked anywhere.

Then please keep it a secret from us too, Roden pleaded inwardly, aghast. He spoke cautiously.

“I'm not sure this is something we should be allowed to know.”

Sherin had clearly wanted to remain loosely allied with Shan—or friends, as she put it. Even after knighting him, she had offered only brief hints about matters of this kind.

For her to suddenly reveal ambitions one might hesitate to share even with a sibling, let alone a friend, there had to be a reason.

Sherin shook her head.

“The court is already overflowing with ugly rumors about me. One more will make little difference. Conrad still believes I tried to poison Father. He says that someone who dabbles in wicked magic is more than capable of such a thing. Compared to that, what is one more suspicion without a shred of evidence?”

True, compared with suspicions that she had tried to poison her father, the king, talk of an age of magic could pass for an idle rumor. Indeed, the sheer scale of it made it impossible to take as something real.

“Besides, I am speaking of the distant future—decades after I take the throne. I have no intention of forcing through reforms and reigning over the corpses of my subjects. I bring this up now only because the reward for this commission will be an item made using that technology.”

At the promise of a magical device, Shan's eyes lit up and he sat straighter.

Naturally, it would be less capable than A Thousand Forms, which he already possessed. But since she would be making it herself, surely he could specify the form and effects he wanted. More importantly, something of middling power would actually be easier to use openly.

“Once this joust is over, I would like you to hunt down the master of Kastaman Castle.”

“The master of a castle?”

The master of a castle would be a noble. Was “hunt down” an expression people normally used for one?

Seeing Shan's puzzlement, Sherin elaborated.

“He is a vampire. And not one of the lesser vampires scattered through the hills and fields, but a greater vampire who has lived for at least several centuries.”

Vampires were generally no more than lowly monsters, emaciated creatures that shrieked in their thirst for human blood until someone exterminated them. Occasionally, however, one would feed on human blood for long enough to undergo a metamorphosis.

These greater vampires were dangerous beings, endowed with exceptional physical abilities and the various innate magical powers peculiar to greater monsters. Most terrifying of all was their intelligence, which rivaled that of humans.

“I'm surprised something like that has managed to avoid being hunted down.”

“He has concealed his identity rather well. Apparently, he bought some human noble's identity and took over a castle. We only discovered him recently, when information reached us that he was planning to cooperate with Elvin in secret. It seems he intends to help put him on the throne, then claim a small domain as his reward. A vampire's hunting ground, in other words.”

Human intelligence or not, cooperating with a monster was hardly fitting conduct for a nation's prince.

Startled by a story that grew more outrageous with every word, Roden offered a deduction of his own.

“A monster would have a much easier time exploring the Demonlands than a human. I imagine he wants its help searching for a magical device to cure His Majesty.”

“Hmm?”

Sherin looked puzzled by Roden's words, then suddenly covered her mouth with a hand and let out a small laugh.

“Ah, forgive me... Now that you mention it, there was that business.”

That business? Whoever cured the king would all but secure the next turn on the throne, yet she seemed utterly unconcerned.

Sherin explained the truth to the bewildered pair.

“Neither of my brothers has any intention of wasting his energy searching the Demonlands for a magical device to cure Father. They are simply desperate to dispose of each other in secret. That vampire will probably be used as an assassin to eliminate the other side's knights.”

“What?”

“Could a powerful healing device that no one has found in centuries suddenly turn up after a hurried search of the Demonlands? Besides, even if they found one, Father's full recovery would mean spending another several years, perhaps decades, as princes. With bad luck, they might even die of old age before he does. What reason have they to want to find it?”

Put that way, it did make sense.

Even so, it was chilling to hear that, with their father bedridden, his children had no thought of curing him and were consumed instead with killing one another. Roden had heard how frightening power could be, but to think it went this far.

“Then the armies the two princes sent to the Demonlands...”

“Are merely for show, since Father is still alive. They cannot afford to openly incur his displeasure. In reality, they are gathering all their skilled knights and assassins here in the capital. The fact that Marquis Abel has not departed for the Demonlands should tell you enough.”

That meant the knights' plans to win the joust, enter the princes' service, and rise in the world were flawed from the outset. If the princes recruited them, it would likely be to kill one another.

“Well, let us set that aside for now. It is not yet time for a confrontation, and I am safe while those two are so eager to kill each other. So, will you accept this commission?”

“Yes.”

After exchanging a quick glance with Roden, Shan nodded his assent.

It was not an assassination, and hunting vampires was practically a knight's duty. He had no reason to refuse.

Of course, even greater vampires varied wildly in strength, and the powerful ones could easily devour a knight or two. Even so, they were several notches below a cockatrice. Shan even had a secret weapon that would work particularly well against creatures like that. It was the perfect prey to add to his hunting record.

“Excellent. Tell me what you want for your reward, and I will have the magical device made in advance. Testing it in actual combat is another part of the purpose.”

Come to think of it, she had said the research was nearly complete, with only final verification remaining. Apparently, she intended to verify it by having Shan use it himself.

“Oh, and if you kill him alone, I would like to examine your body again, as before. Just in case.”

Still, the princess added quietly, knights did occasionally slay greater vampires single-handedly, so he should not get his hopes up.

A short while later, Shan and Roden left the princess's villa and walked through the dark streets, each lost in thought. Roden was the first to speak.

“Honestly... Every new thing we learn is another blow to the back of the head.”

“It really is.”

“Until last year, I never imagined I'd even learn about a world like this, let alone get caught up in it. All I wanted out of life was to beat that damned illness and become a knight.”

Becoming involved with the small boy beside him had changed his world. The sense that the darkness of the court and all its schemes were coming closer with great, steady strides was utterly chilling.

“Sorry.”

Taking his words as a reproach, Shan apologized in a somewhat crestfallen voice. Roden reached over and thoroughly tousled his black hair.

“What are you apologizing for, you idiot? Now that it's come to this, let's climb as high as we can, whatever it takes. Hell, you only die once, right?”

They were already astride a galloping horse. There was no getting off now.

All they could do was grip tight with their thighs and ride forward, all the way to the end. Whether a precipice or paradise awaited them.

* * *

On the second day of the joust, the average level of skill certainly seemed a little higher than the day before. Presumably, everyone who had lost all three first-day matches—those with little to offer beyond their status as knights—had been eliminated.

But none of them matched Feonil.

Even now, whenever Shan closed his eyes, the path of that thrust rose in his mind with painful clarity. An ideal thrust, formed by every muscle in the body working in natural harmony, as though he were facing his own reflection in a mirror...

'What would happen if we fought again now?'

It went without saying that Feonil had been somewhat off guard at the time. He had merely made a casual thrust to kill some stray boy who had suddenly begun slaughtering his men.

Against a fully armed knight carrying a lance, he would naturally be far better prepared mentally. Considering how profoundly the mind affected a knight's use of spirit, Shan would have to judge him twice as dangerous an opponent as he had been then.

Even so, Shan did not think he would lose. His equipment and skills were on an entirely different level now, too.

Of course, he would only know if they actually met and fought.

CRASH!

A distant impact cut through his thoughts. A knight tumbled limply from his horse like a puppet with its strings cut.

'Still, there is one fairly formidable fellow here.'

“Raaagh!”

The knight who had just unhorsed his opponent raised his lance and roared. Well over two meters tall, with a long, treelike build, he would stand out anywhere.

“Who are you watching so closely, sir?”

“That tall knight over there.”

“Ah, Sir Lug the Beanpole.”

Like a faithful squire, Roden had been gathering information while Shan attended to his state of mind. He recited what he knew.

“I hear he's a country knight newly arrived in the capital from southern Pendia. Apparently this is his first time entering the joust, too.”

“That sounds right.”

“His results weren't much on the first day, but he seems to be doing brilliantly now.”

Indeed, Shan remembered paying him little attention on the first day because his movements had been so sloppy. In just one day, however, his technique had become considerably cleaner, and today he had won all three matches.

Above all, his great height and arms, extraordinarily long even for his stature, gave him an immense advantage. Unless his swordsmanship was truly abysmal, they would probably serve him quite well with a sword, too.

“By the way, I think the man he just sent crashing down was Sir Katra.”

“Oh, now that you mention it...”

Sir Katra, finally eliminated after losing every match on the second day, could be seen rising with a sigh. Before leaving, he came over to Shan.

“Give it your best. I'll leave avenging me to you.”

“I'll do what I can.”

Once only sixteen remained, the competition would switch to a knockout format anyway. Shan would meet him if he kept advancing—assuming the Beanpole did not lose to another knight first, of course.

A short while later, when his turn came, Shan finished arming himself and entered the lists. He could not see the opposing knight's face behind the visor, but the man's nervousness was plain.

As the flags crossed to signal the start, Shan gave his horse a light kick in the flanks and moved forward.

“Hyah!”

It always felt good to gallop hard on horseback. As though he had grown four new legs that ran for him of their own accord.

In truth, the black horse Shan rode was the one he had purchased back when he hunted the troll in Ovilos. It was hardly impressive as a knight's warhorse. He was only continuing to ride it to avoid unnecessary expense, since he might soon acquire a fine horse.

What would it feel like to ride a better one?

With that thought in mind, Shan thrust his lance hard at the helmet showing above his opponent's shield. His control of spirit was approaching mastery now, and the man immediately lost consciousness and toppled.

“[Ah! As expected, Sir Shan Barendil finishes with six wins from six matches!]”

The announcer's cry was accompanied by distant cheers that had become quite familiar by now.

Having felled every opponent with a single blow, Shan was celebrated as the overwhelming favorite to win the tournament. To everyone except the Old Faith's followers and a few Altoan-haters, a teenage boy who had appeared like a comet and swept through the joust could hardly fail to shine.

Once everyone had fought six fierce matches, the top sixteen were finally selected according to their results. Those eliminated on tiebreakers despite having the same win-loss record vented their frustration.

“Damn it! This is a fraud! That bastard was definitely unconscious!”

“If he doesn't fall from his horse, it's one point regardless. Accept the result.”

“Hah... I swore I'd make the main draw this time...”

Naturally, all of that belonged to another world as far as Shan, who had advanced in an overwhelming first place, was concerned.

When the completed bracket appeared shortly afterward, the man he had been watching was on the opposite side. Shan had wondered whether his poor first-day results would eliminate him, but he seemed to have scraped through.

“Damn it, I'm in the same half as that Altoan bastard.”

“I'm his very first opponent! I finally make the main draw, and now this tournament's a lost cause.”

Groans rose from the knights who found themselves near Shan in the bracket.

* * *

The following day was the third and final day of the joust.

Just as everyone expected, Shan crushed each opponent with a single blow and continued his string of victories.

With the chaff now thoroughly sifted out, those who remained were formidable competitors: men who had won several tournaments in other cities, warriors with reputations abroad, descendants of venerable knightly houses.

Yet none of them was a match for Shan.

All manner of nicknames spread through the streets: One-Blow Shan, Shining Eyes, the Green Knight, the Hope of the Altoans.

The odds had grown so short that the servants betting on Kalion's orders could no longer make any money.

At last, the long-awaited final arrived.

Looking at Lug standing opposite Shan, the spectators clicked their tongues in amazement.

“Wow, seeing them like this, the difference in size is ridiculous.”

“That's not even an adult against a child. More like a human against a goblin.”

Appearances notwithstanding, the betting odds overwhelmingly favored Shan. From his six qualifying matches through the round of sixteen, quarterfinal, and semifinal, he had knocked every opponent down with one blow—a record rarely seen even in Hasra's storied joust.

Despite his disadvantage, of course, Lug had no shortage of supporters.

“Win it, Beanpole!”

“Don't lose to some Altoan!”

Except for a few who had stayed away in outrage at an Altoan sweeping the tournament, every follower of the Old Faith supported Lug. They shouted themselves hoarse, insisting that an Alto bastard must not be allowed to win this sacred joust.

A short while later, the final began, and the two knights spurred their horses toward each other.

'Wow...'

Watching his opponent through his visor, Shan clicked his tongue in disbelief at the enormous difference in reach. Tall and long-armed was one thing, but wasn't extending nearly fifty centimeters farther than him practically cheating?

Lug's head was so high that Shan had to raise his lance almost diagonally to aim at it, widening the difference further still. Had they been equally skilled, Shan would have lost helplessly, without a chance to fight back.

Of course, in a world where a fleeting instant stretched almost into eternity, Shan could observe the tip of his opponent's lance and its slightest tremors perfectly, then raise his shield to block.

He divided his spirit between lance and shield at roughly a three-to-seven ratio. His opponent's armor was not particularly good, so that would surely let him defend safely and knock the man down.

Just as he closed in with that thought—

'Huh?'

Immediately before impact, his opponent suddenly uncouched the lance from beneath his arm and extended that arm straight forward.

It was an astonishing feat of strength, even considering that tournament lances were hollow and relatively light. The difference in their reach widened to nearly a meter.

What was more, the movement was exceptionally polished. Like Feonil's strike or the secret thrust Sir Darkal had once demonstrated, it was an ideal attack acquired through countless hours of painstaking refinement.

The lance, already striking from above because of his height, now angled almost straight downward and slipped past Shan's shield.

Shan reacted immediately, trying to knock the approaching lance upward from below. Unexpectedly, however, his opponent's spirit—his determination to force it through—was so fierce that Shan could barely overcome it.

Apparently, Lug had not only abandoned defense to focus all his spirit on the attack, but poured every ounce of strength into it without sparing a thought for conserving his stamina.

'Ugh.'

CRASH!

Struck in the shoulder, Shan faltered, and his lance hit his opponent's exposed head half a beat later.

The crowd cheered as the knights struck each other and passed.

“Oh! For the first time, he didn't bring his opponent down in one blow!”

“He even took a hit!”

“What happens now?”

“Neither fell, and they hit the body and head respectively. That's two points for Sir Shan and one for Sir Lug!”

Bringing his horse to a halt, Shan checked the shoulder the lance had struck. Fortunately, most of its force had been spent pushing past his shield, and his armor's protective enchantment had helped as well. He had taken no serious damage.

'Wow, I didn't see that coming...'

Using a finely honed secret technique, and committing all his spirit to offense. One or the other might have been manageable, but with both at once, Shan had been unable to avoid the surprise blow.

Of course, that gamble had exacted a heavy price.

Struck in the helmet by Shan's lance, Lug had remained upright but unconscious, only barely coming around after the referee called to him several times. Had Shan's lance not wavered slightly when he was hit first, Lug would probably have been unhorsed outright.

“Sir Lug, are you conscious? If you do not answer, you will be disqualified!”

“Ah, ah! I'm fine! I am!”

“Confirmed. Prepare to charge again!”

But the outcome was obvious when he had exhausted himself by squeezing out nearly all his spirit and his head was reeling from a concussion.

In the second clash, Lug could not even steady his wavering lance before Shan's attack sent him tumbling. A chorus of groans rose from the stands.

“Ah...”

“Damn it, you still did well! You hit him once!”

“Give me back my money, you useless lanky bastard! How do you lose to a kid less than half your size?”

“You're a disgrace to Westerners!”

Afterward, as Shan made a circuit holding his broken lance, the announcer shouted louder than at any point before.

“[Hear ye! The winner of this Hasra joust is—Sir Shan of House Barendil, from Libert! May the Goddess bless this great conqueror!]”

“Yes!”

“Wooooo!”

As Shan rode an easy circuit of the arena, waving in acknowledgment of the thunderous cheers and jeers, he noticed the lanky knight he had just defeated approaching.

Did he want to exchange a few gracious words about a fine match? Or perhaps vent his frustration as the loser?

Unexpectedly, it was neither.

“What in the world was that thrust? I definitely struck you first, so how could you counterattack so calmly without even faltering?!”

Helmet off, Lug cried out excitedly, as though he had witnessed something utterly unbelievable.

He looked about Roden's age, a young man barely twenty, with a long, horselike face and an artless expression. His large, round eyes shone not with hostility toward the opponent he had just fought, nor regret, but with wonder and admiration.

“Ah, well... I have good armor.”

“It certainly looks good! But armor alone couldn't explain such an extraordinary technique! Father was right. He said Pendia had as many brave warriors as stars in the sky, and someone like me would be nothing in the capital!”

No, I don't think it's quite that bad, Shan thought.

Though Lug had lost to him, his outstanding athleticism and technique despite his enormous height made him the best knight Shan had met after Feonil. With such impressive physical gifts and youth on his side, Shan could even imagine him surpassing Feonil if he continued to grow.

“Your skill was impressive too, Sir Lug. Enough that I'm surprised your first-day results weren't better.”

“Ah, I was so nervous on the first day that I made a few mistakes! I almost charged with my lance backward once, even.”

If nerves at his first event of this kind were to blame, that was understandable. Shan himself might have entered his first match overexcited if not for the advice of a knight whose name he could no longer quite remember.

Lug continued to ramble. He had nearly wept with admiration at Shan's skill on the very first day, he said. He had wanted to speak to him, but had only hovered nearby for fear of being dismissed as some presumptuous country bumpkin pestering him.

Had the announcer not summoned Shan for the winner's award ceremony, Lug would probably have kept him there talking forever.

* * *

The award ceremony began a short while later, presided over by some marquis said to be the son of the king's cousin. His scowl and curt manner alone made it clear that he was none too pleased by Shan's presence.

“Er... Yes, congratulations, victor. May the Goddess watch over you. Though I don't know whether she would watch over the likes of an Altoan.”

He seemed to think he was muttering that last part too quietly to be heard. It was so petty that Shan found it funny rather than angering.

In truth, with the victor's prize he was about to receive in mind, he could easily laugh off that much.

“Bring it here!”

At the marquis's gesture, someone who appeared to be an attendant led forward a horse whose entire body gleamed like metal.

Its mane was a light brown like human hair, and its four long, strong legs were elegant yet taut with muscle, radiating power.

The most beautiful in the world, the strongest in the world, the fastest in the world, the hardiest in the world...

A horse among horses, the king of all horses, praised with every superlative imaginable.

The reason knights from all across Pendia, and even from foreign lands, had risked their lives crashing into one another.

“A warhorse bred in Horace.”

Shan did not even hear the marquis muttering about what a terrible waste it was.

For the first time in his life, Shan had fallen in love.