Chapter 79

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It was a beautiful forest, with just the right balance of shade and sunlight. The old castle blended with the ancient trees as though it were part of the woods itself.

Sunlight fell straight as a spear from the sky, piercing the forest to strike Ricard’s sword. It flowed along the blade from base to tip. The drop of light that gathered at its point dazzled several onlookers, making them briefly squint.

The Third Prince was older than Ricard and already an adult, but he had been raised in a hothouse. Faced with a beast that had grown up in the wild, he had no idea how to bring the situation under control. No one had ever shouted at him like this before, and Ricard had such an imposing presence that it was hard to believe they were close in age.

In truth, he had little interest in tormenting Marie. He simply enjoyed showing everyone that he was superior to the Crown Prince. But when faced with a real problem, he too lacked the ability to handle it. A duel? He had only ever heard of such things.

The nine-year-old Crown Prince was startled, but his expression was closer to curiosity. This was intriguing—even entertaining. He could only blink his wide eyes, unable to look away from Ricard.

Bellator, who had come here with Ricard, also watched him from a distance. He had never seen such confidence in the imperial palace. It shocked him, yet at the same time drew him in.

In short, this was the first time Bellator had ever thought someone looked impressive. There was no manly, warrior-like figure in the palace whom he could take as a role model.

Everyone bowed their heads and behaved courteously on the surface, but their inward contempt was plain to see. Bellator had therefore assumed that all people were different on the inside from what they showed on the outside.

Yet here before his eyes stood someone who was not. And he thought how wonderful such a person could be.

Bewilderment, curiosity, and shock. The three imperial princes each felt something different as they watched Ricard.

The ones truly displeased were the swordsmen who had come for the tournament. A subtle killing intent emanated from them, but they restrained themselves in the presence of the Crown Prince and the imperial princes.

Everyone staying at the palace had passed Helauman’s scrutiny, and all were highly skilled. Ricard was not the only one who had fought with his life on the line. Each of them had survived brushes with death.

They keenly assessed Ricard’s ability: his stance, his breathing, his eyes, and his mana.

The more one mastered Mana Drive, the more precisely one could gauge an opponent’s mana. Though they were not Helauman’s equals, those present could judge it almost exactly.

Yet strangely, they could sense no mana from Ricard, even though he had clearly knocked the dagger out of the air.

That had been an almost miraculous feat. Even with Mana Drive, throwing something from another angle to strike a flying object with such precision was nearly impossible.

That alone was enough to establish his right to stay at the palace. His accuracy and reflexes were so highly developed that they almost surpassed human limits.

But who would win if they fought him? Could they beat him without getting hurt? He seemed to practice longsword fencing, but wasn’t his sword a little large for his build? What style did he use? Did he favor the fierce, powerful attacks typical of the north?

The swordsmen had forgotten all about impressing the Crown Prince and the Third Prince. They stared at Ricard like wild beasts confronting an unfamiliar rival. None were frightened, but neither did anyone step forward rashly.

Then someone came forward: Stone-Skipping Liberio. Whether it was mere confidence or the result of his assessment of Ricard was anyone’s guess.

“I believe I told you to be humble. You’re a brat who won’t listen. Well, there’s still time before the tournament. A little entertainment wouldn’t hurt.”

Keeping a fair distance from Ricard, who stood with his back to the castle, Liberio slowly circled him like a prowling wolf.

He drew his long sidesword with his right hand and held a dagger in his left. Apparently he fought with two blades. It was an exceedingly difficult style, but in skilled hands, it had few equals.

“I hear you’ve killed a Sword Master. But did you know? Once people become Sword Masters, they only fight opponents weaker than themselves, and their skills sometimes deteriorate. I hear that Mad Dog fellow did nothing but slaughter farmers. I don’t need to see him to know how little he amounted to.”

“Sorry, but I’ve never heard of you,” Ricard said.

In other words, someone like Liberio had never even merited his attention.

“Hah. Let me introduce myself again. I am Liberio, Fourth Sword of the Bonatelli swordsmanship family. Did your family teach you swordsmanship? Or was it that academy? Either way, your swordsmanship has no pedigree. I’ll show you the difference between a proper tradition and a fool who relies on talent alone.”

Just as when they had met in the corridor, Ricard had no idea what he was talking about. Clearly he was brimming with pride, but what did pedigree matter in a duel to the death?

Liberio took his stance some distance away. He placed his left foot forward, extended his dagger, and raised his sidesword above his head with its tip aimed at Ricard.

With each step, however, he would also draw the dagger back and extend the sidesword instead. It seemed like a small thing, but it confused the distinction between a probing strike and the main attack.

The problem was that anyone attempting it clumsily would only confuse himself. But since Liberio had caught Helauman’s eye, there was no question that he could wield both freely.

One step forward, one step sideways. Switching his leading and rear hands, Liberio slowly approached Ricard.

The sidesword and dagger differed so greatly in length that each switch made judging his reach difficult. For anyone else, that is.

Ricard bent his knees slightly and held his sword beside his face, gazing into Liberio’s eyes with his characteristic cool stare.

Then, midway through changing his stance, Liberio suddenly thrust his sidesword straight out. The duel had begun.

Ricard swung directly at him. His strike was much faster and more powerful than it had once been. But in that brief instant, Liberio’s oncoming sword bounced just like a stone skipping across water.

It skimmed past Ricard’s blade and made a shallow cut across his right upper arm. At the same time, Liberio stepped aside, narrowly evading Ricard’s sword.

WHOOSH! CLASH!

A rose-colored afterimage lingered in the air. Liberio seemed to be at the stage just short of Sword Master.

He drove his dagger upward toward Ricard’s abdomen—his hidden killing stroke. From a distance, it looked as though he were thrusting with something blazing red.

Yet astonishingly, in that brief instant, Ricard drew back the sword he had swung out and brought its pommel down squarely on the dagger.

CLANG!

The mana-infused dagger snapped. Before he even felt the pain in his wrist, Liberio sprang backward to open the distance.

That immediate reaction, despite the sudden lurch of fear in his heart, was commendable. But he could not help his bewilderment. Was what had just happened even possible?

Infusing a weapon with mana increased its sharpness and strength. In an age when the quality of iron goods, weapons included, varied enormously, that alone conferred tremendous power. A Sword Master could slice through shields and armor like cheese.

Yet Ricard had broken a mana-infused blade with a pommel. For a moment, common sense had ceased to apply.

The watching swordsmen were all astonished. Even now, they could clearly sense no mana from him.

This had happened because Ricard had acquired the strength of Ilya, the legendary hero said to have slain a dragon. His muscles alone were stronger than most people using Mana Drive.

Ricard pursued the retreating Liberio closely. Rather than attacking, he seemed intent on closing the distance first. Despite his superhuman strength, he did not rely on it alone.

Liberio hastily sidestepped and swung his sidesword at Ricard’s sword wrist. Ricard turned his blade and knocked the wind-swift attack aside with his guard.

CLANG!

Red mana burst out as though exploding. A follow-up attack came as naturally as breathing.

WHOOSH! THUD!

The carefully styled, wet-looking black hair. The ruby earring dangling from one ear. Liberio’s head parted from his body.

His body lost control of its furious motion, spun around, and collapsed, spraying a circle of blood. His head, flung upward, landed after the body fell.

And so the swordsman of proper pedigree died with his head severed, and the duel ended.

A shiver ran through the watching swordsmen. Seeing an unheard-of technique so cleanly countered and its wielder finished left them momentarily speechless.

They knew that what looked easy was anything but. Above all, Ricard had neither panicked nor grown excited. From beginning to end, he had not made a single wasted movement.

Even after the duel, Ricard showed no excitement. He merely looked calmly down at the cut in his sleeve over his right upper arm. There was no blood. The blade had not cut his skin.

“Wow...”

The Crown Prince, who had watched the duel, breathed in admiration, his eyes wide.

“What was that? What happened? I didn’t see it properly. But that was amazing!”

Without a trace of fear, he tried to run over to the swordsman who had just finished the duel. His nearby guards hurriedly lifted him off the ground to stop him.

“What are you doing? Let go.”

“He has not sheathed his sword yet, Your Highness.”

At the knight’s words, Ricard wiped the blood from his sword and sheathed it. The Crown Prince promptly ran over again and looked up at him.

“That was amazing. I’ve never seen a real duel before. You said you were Ricard of House Kaldebern, didn’t you? Are you entering the tournament too?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Ricard replied with a bow of his head.

Despite the headless corpse lying nearby, the Crown Prince paid it no attention. He had seen plenty of such things at executions.

What fascinated him now was the contest itself, in which swordsmen poured out a lifetime’s worth of skill.

Of course, Ricard had not exerted his full strength, but to someone who knew nothing about swordsmanship, it was impressive all the same.

“Aren’t you scared?” the Crown Prince asked.

“Everyone is frightened at first. But once you grow accustomed to it, you are no longer afraid.”

“Really? Then how much would I have to practice to fight like you?”

“I couldn’t say. But if you train hard and test yourself against others, there comes a time when you feel certain of yourself.”

“Is that so? Good. Then teach me swordsmanship. Come to my room every morning. I already have a swordsmanship tutor, but he isn’t as impressive as you.”

“...”

This was unexpected. Ricard felt as though he had gotten himself embroiled in something troublesome. But if he was to protect Marie, there was no helping it.

“In return, could you release Princess Martellia from the castle and ensure that no one torments her?”

“Hmm... I’d like to grant that request, but the Count Palatine decided it, so I’d have to ask Grandmother. She’ll probably say no. Sorry.”

The real power in the palace lay elsewhere—with the Empress Dowager and Helauman. The Crown Prince was still too young to make decisions.

“... I understand. I will see you tomorrow morning.”

“No. I want to talk to you some more. Come with me.”

He took Ricard’s bloodstained hand and pulled him along. The Third Prince and Bellator could only watch. Before he quite knew what was happening, Ricard found himself being led away by the Crown Prince, with the guards following.

The swordsmen of the Crown Prince’s faction were dumbfounded. They had tried so hard to win his favor, only for Ricard to seize all his attention in one stroke.

The Crown Prince led Ricard through the forest to his room. It was enormous and extravagantly decorated, yet luxurious rather than vulgar.

There were mobiles hanging from the ceiling and mountains of curious toys of every kind. Each was a work of art painstakingly fashioned by the finest of master craftsmen.

“Do you see a toy you like? Shall I give you one?”

The Crown Prince smiled innocently as he asked. Was he naive, or simply pure? At his age, Ricard had left home, defeated bandits, and wandered from one battlefield to another.

The Crown Prince seemed to have no idea how to win people over. He simply gave nice things to people he liked, and reported those he disliked to his grandmother so they would be punished. Perhaps that was only natural, since he had never had a true friend.

That was why everyone except the imperial princes tried to please him.

But Ricard did not. And right now, all his thoughts were on Marie.

“They are curious things, but they do not interest me. I am merely a swordsman here to enter the tournament. I must compose myself and focus on the contests ahead, so I will take my leave. I will visit you each morning, but I’m afraid I cannot play with you.”

“Huh? Oh... uh...”

Having never experienced anything like this, the Crown Prince was momentarily dazed. Ricard was courteous, but not servile. Nor did he flatter him. He had truly never met anyone like this.

An anxious desire to make Ricard like him began to stir within him.

“Uh, I, I could give you a good sword too. And a horse. I have armor as well, you know? You like those, don’t you?”

Ricard shook his head at every offer. He did like those things, but he could not accept them this way. Friendship and love were not feelings one could give in payment for something.

“You cannot buy someone’s heart with money or possessions. Don’t be anxious. Let us get to know one another gradually. There is always tomorrow, isn’t there?”

“Y-you want me to wait until tomorrow?”

Having always received whatever he wanted immediately, the Crown Prince had no patience.

“If waiting is painful, why not do something else? That will make the time pass quickly.”

“Like what?”

“You could read a book, or practice your swordsmanship, since you said you wanted to learn. Take another look at the things you cast aside because you were bored with them. You may discover something enjoyable that you missed before.”

“... Should I? All right. I’ll try.”

“I will take my leave, Your Highness.”

“All right...”

The Crown Prince sounded dejected. Watching him, Ricard thought he was not a bad child. His upbringing had simply left something missing.

His status as Crown Prince looked like a curse. It seemed to have robbed him of the chance to learn and practice, to endure pain and overcome adversity, and through those things gain understanding and grow.

Like a beautiful bird, Ricard stole the Crown Prince’s heart only to slip from his grasp. Then he headed back to Irmin Castle.

When he arrived, the corpse had been removed, leaving only bloodstains. There was no one around the castle. Everyone had gathered to win the favor of the Crown Prince and the Third Prince in the first place, so once they had gone, the others had naturally left as well.

Ricard raised his head toward the window. They were so close, yet could not see each other. He sat with his back against the castle and simply stayed there. Should he call up to her? Would that be all right?

All sorts of thoughts crossed his mind, but he could not quite act on any of them. As he hesitated and let the time slip by, the sun set.

He rose to return to the palace, then, with a sudden feeling of to hell with it, caught hold of the vines and began climbing the castle. It was terribly dangerous.

If a vine snapped, he could fall and be badly injured. Sure enough, the vines crackled several times and nearly broke, but he climbed all the way to the window.

Moonlight lay across the room. Silk curtains screened the bed, and a silhouette was visible beyond them.

“Marie.”

Standing on the vines and leaning against the window frame, Ricard called to her. But the silhouette seated on the bed did not respond.

“Marie, it’s me. Riki. Are you all right? I was worried, so I came to see you.”

Again he spoke, and again she said nothing. No—after a long while, she answered.

“What does that have to do with you?”

Her words were cold, but her voice trembled faintly. Hearing it again after so long made something swell in Ricard’s chest.

“There’s something I want to tell you. Could you come over here for a moment?”

“...”

After another long silence, Marie drew aside the silk and emerged. She wore a thin nightgown, her long hair hanging loose.

The soft moonlight draped over her seemed like a garment made just for her.

She was breathtakingly beautiful, but her expression was ice-cold. Faced with her air of go on, then, say what you have to say, Ricard forced himself to speak first.

“First of all, um, I came to enter the tournament too.”

“... But if you win, isn’t that something you didn’t want?”

Winning meant becoming engaged to Marie. But Ricard had rejected her feelings before. That was what she meant.

“No, I do want it. I like you too.”

Smiling, Ricard spoke his feelings plainly. Marie looked confused. He wasn’t the sort to joke about this. What was going on?

But his confession was not over.

“You see, I carry a deep wound. I was afraid that if I truly came to care for someone, it would cut even deeper, until I lost myself. Honestly, I’m still terribly anxious. I think I needed time before I could let myself come closer. But this much I can tell you for certain. I like you, Marie.”

Marie stared at him, especially his eyes. Those unwavering hazel eyes. Eyes purer than anything, eyes that knew no falsehood. Marie knew that better than anyone.

She blinked. Then she blinked rapidly, and an indescribably complex expression crossed her face.

She looked as though she might cry, then as though she might laugh. Her heart was in such turmoil that she could not tell whether she was sad or happy.

As though embarrassed by her own reaction, Marie turned her head, hiding her face behind long golden hair that shimmered in the moonlight.

The anguish that had made her feel she might die was not merely washed away as if it had never existed. It turned to rapture—enough to make her feel she might faint.

She tried to force a smile and act as though nothing was wrong, but she kept wiping at her eyes with trembling hands. Each falling tear seemed like a drop of moonlight.

“Could I wipe your tears for you?” Ricard asked after watching her quietly.

“What are you talking about, idiot? I’ll wipe them myself.”

“Hmm. So Bori was right.”

“Huh?”

“He said you’re a female Riki.”

Marie was so incredulous that her tears stopped. She turned toward Ricard with a disbelieving laugh, her tear-soaked sapphires sparkling.

He watched her with the gentlest of smiles.

“What do you think? Is he right?”

“No. Not at all. You’re the worst, you know?”

“But you like me anyway.”

“Hah!”

Marie let out an incredulous breath. But she could not deny it, and before she knew it, a smile spread across her lips.

“Then does that make me a male Marie?”

“Stop it, Riki. You’re not funny.”

“But you already laughed.”

“Only because that was ridiculous. Not because you were funny.”

“Fine, let’s say that’s it. Anyway, how have you been? How’s the academy?”

“Just boring, really. Carly wants to become a professor. Did you know she’s actually pretty good with a sword?”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“You know that book Boribori wrote? It seems to help a lot.”

“What about mine?”

“Well...”

Marie could not bring herself to tell him that nobody read it because they could not understand what it meant.

“Not many people read it. I think it’s mostly the more advanced students.”

“Just as I expected. My book really is better.”

“... R-right. But how have you been?”

“Oh, right. Marie, have you ever seen a vampire? A High Vampire?”

“A vampire?”

“You get your first commission when you graduate, you know? Remember Sally? That woman...”

Ricard began telling her about the Special-Grade Commission from the previous year. It had been an extraordinary experience, and perhaps Armand was the reason he was here now. His words about facing himself had helped Ricard overcome his fear little by little and open his heart.

Yet Ricard and Marie simply kept up their idle conversation, as though they had seen each other only yesterday. And it was so comfortable, so wonderful in itself.

They needed nothing special. Simply facing each other made every little thing special.

At some point, Marie had seated herself on the windowsill, looking down at Ricard as she listened.

Stars seemed to spill from the eyes of the boy and girl as they gazed at each other.

Then, without either quite realizing it, their lips met.

A cloud drifted over to veil the moon for a moment, keeping it from peeking.

Part 15 — The Imperial Princess in the Oak Forest. End.