Chapter 81

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“If—and this is a very big if—you ever find yourselves in danger, you won’t need any special techniques. Stab your opponent in the belly like this, turn your wrist, then simply slice upward or sideways. The ribs make the chest difficult for a beginner to attack. Cutting through bone isn’t easy.”

Ricard demonstrated, thrusting a sharp dagger into the air. The Crown Prince and Bellator sat on the ground, staring blankly up at him.

“Most people will lose their strength and collapse after that. Then you run without looking back.”

He wasn’t sure he ought to be doing this, but what Ricard was teaching the Crown Prince and the imperial prince was less swordsmanship than the art of killing. For self-defense as a last resort, of course.

Bellator raised his hand as he listened.

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“Wouldn’t the neck be more lethal?”

“It isn’t easy to aim accurately for the neck when you’re frightened and panicking. Your hands will shake against your will, too. If you insist on going for the neck, you’re better off doing it after slashing the belly as I just explained. Here, you see this soft part beneath the jaw? Stab here, then slice sideways. There’s cartilage in the middle, so you’ll feel some resistance. Cutting the throat guarantees a kill, but a beginner should keep movements to a minimum.”

As he spoke, Ricard had the impertinence to draw his finger across the Fifth Prince’s throat. The prince himself didn’t mind, of course.

The lesson was chilling enough to make one question whether children should be taught such things, but Ricard had already put the technique into practice at ten.

The Crown Prince, however, simply seemed bored.

“But that doesn’t look impressive like you do, Riki.”

“It isn’t impressive, but it works. Learning to use a longer weapon properly takes more than a year or two of practice. Especially if you intend to use it in a real fight.”

“We shouldn’t test it out, should we?” Bellator asked.

“No. Please don’t.”

“Not even on animals?”

“No.”

“Then how do we verify it?”

“Honestly, neither of Your Highnesses is likely to have any use for this, are you? But knowing it might help should something unexpected happen. When you’re truly desperate, a side of you that even you don’t know comes out. What matters then is not hesitating.”

Even outside the imperial household, the great nobles used champions and seldom fought or dueled in person.

“That will be all for today.”

“Are you going to see my aunt again?” the Crown Prince asked.

“Yes.”

“I wish you could become part of our family, Riki. You’ll win, won’t you?”

Ricard had little desire to become entangled with the imperial household, but those words pleased him. A natural smile spread across his face.

“Of course.”

Ricard returned the dagger to its owner, Bellator, said his farewells, and left.

With the lesson over, the imperial knights who had been watching from a distance took the Crown Prince away.

Left alone, Bellator gazed down at his dagger. It was extraordinarily sharp, enough to slice through skin without effort.

Whatever was on his mind, he spent a long time staring at the blade.

Yet rather than heading straight to Irmin Castle, Ricard went into the city. He had ordered a gift for Marie.

The imperial palace overflowed with treasures, and he could have obtained any number of them by asking the Crown Prince, but he didn’t want to.

He headed for the street where the jewelers congregated. It was home to the jewelers’ guild, where goldsmiths, silversmiths, and gem cutters worked together to create a single piece.

When Ricard entered one of the shops, a meticulous-looking man smiled and produced a small wooden box. Inside was a necklace with a gentian flower carved from amethyst and a sapphire set in its center.

The craftsmanship was so exquisite that it seemed alive, like a real flower. What mattered was that it would never wilt.

I liked it, but I felt anxious, unsure whether Marie would. Still, for the sake of the craftsman who had worked so hard, I forced a smile.

“Thank you. I like it.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Having already paid, Ricard took the necklace and left the shop. As he walked down the street, someone suddenly called to him.

“Young lord?”

He turned to find a finely dressed lady who looked vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t place her.

“Uh...”

Try as he might, her identity wouldn’t come to him, leaving him at a loss. But the beautiful lady smiled gently, as though she understood.

“It’s me. Daisy’s mother.”

“Oh? Ah, it’s good to see you. What a surprise to meet you here.”

He was pleased to see her, but something felt strange. When she had left her homeland, she had surely had nothing, yet now she looked for all the world like a noblewoman.

“I’m relieved to see you doing well. Even I’ve heard of the young hero in the red cloak. But you don’t actually wear one?”

“Ha ha, it depends. I don’t wear it all the time. Is Daisy doing well, too?”

“Daisy... Yes. I expect she is. She has become a Sister of Prophecy in service to the God of Judgment. A joyous thing.”

“... Pardon?”

“Have you come to watch the swordsmanship tournament as well, young lord?”

Daisy’s mother seemed to be changing the subject deliberately.

“No. I’ve come to compete.”

“What? Oh, well...”

She suddenly seemed hesitant, and something about her manner was odd. Ricard tilted his head with a slight frown.

“If at all possible, you shouldn’t compete...”

“That isn’t an option. There’s a reason I have to win.”

“Is that so... But the promised day...”

What promise? Ricard was bewildered. But Daisy’s mother never finished. A middle-aged man had put his arm around her shoulders.

Behind the man stood a bodyguard with an extraordinary presence. Ricard knew instinctively: that bodyguard was a Sword Master.

The middle-aged man was none other than Emperor Claudis—the Crown Prince’s grandfather, and Bellator and Marie’s father.

He never showed his face at the palace, yet here he was, strolling openly through the city.

“Your son? He’s bigger than I expected.”

“No, someone I briefly crossed paths with some time ago.”

“You were involved with him?”

Apparently the Emperor could think of nothing else. What an offensive thing to say.

“Oh, honestly, what are you saying? He helped me when I was in trouble.”

“I see. If you’ll excuse us, young man.”

Ricard was so dumbfounded that he forgot even to observe proper etiquette. Meanwhile, the Emperor took Daisy’s mother into a carriage and drove away.

After watching the carriage go for a moment, Ricard abruptly came to his senses and headed straight for Irmin Castle.

The castle had a perfectly serviceable door, but officially no one except the maids was allowed through it, so Ricard always had to climb the vines.

When he reached the window, the maids were having Marie try on a dress. She would have to appear in one on the day of the tournament.

“Oh?”

“Oh?”

Ricard hadn’t expected anyone but Marie to be there and was flustered. But hadn’t everyone heard about them already?

“That’s enough. You can leave now,” Marie said.

Fortunately, the quick-witted maids merely giggled and left them alone.

Embarrassed though he was, Ricard climbed through the window.

In her white dress, Marie truly looked like a flower. That was precisely the effect the dress had been designed to achieve.

Together with her bright golden hair and fair skin, it was almost dazzling. He couldn’t tear his gaze from the blue stars set in her large eyes.

She was beautiful enough already. With the addition of a little makeup, Ricard could hardly think straight. This was Marie, who had always dressed for ease of fighting.

“Don’t stare so hard. It’s embarrassing...”

“Huh? Oh, sorry.”

“This is a bit tight. I can’t move freely. But, um, do you like it?”

“Yes. Enough that I might die if I keep looking.”

Marie chuckled. But far from displeased, she was touched. She was so glad he was a man who couldn’t lie.

“Oh, um, I came to give you this.”

Ricard took out the wooden box. He could have presented it more romantically, but in his current state, he was afraid he might forget.

“What is it?”

“Open it.”

When Marie opened the box, her heart seemed to stop for a moment, leaving her speechless. The necklace was beautiful, but more than that, it was the meaning behind the gift. What the gift was didn’t matter.

“Do you like it?”

This time, Ricard was the one asking. But Marie was so overwhelmed that she truly couldn’t speak.

“Sit down. I’ll put it on for you.”

They sat side by side on the bed. Ricard placed the necklace around her neck while Marie lifted her hair out of the way.

It was just the right length and suited her perfectly. Though really, what wouldn’t?

Marie studied her reflection in a brass mirror, but the metal couldn’t capture all the colors.

“Anyway, everyone seems to know about us. I wonder if there’s any point to the tournament.”

His words made Marie burst out laughing. Only then did the tightness in her chest begin to ease.

“I know. Can’t we just leave?”

In truth, people entered the tournament for their own honor and that of the groups they belonged to, for land, and for advancement in society. Ricard was the only one competing for something like love.

“I’d like that too, but it would be better if we could be together properly.”

“Whew... Yes...”

Marie drew a deep breath and let it out as she spoke. In truth, she cursed her own origins.

Her mother had never once shown her love, and she had yet to so much as see her father. Yet on the day of the tournament, she would have to play the part of a cherished imperial princess.

She had lived most of her life as a bastard and had been entered into the family register only two or three years ago. To her, being a member of the imperial household was revolting rather than glorious.

But none of that mattered now. Because he was beside her. Because he cared for her. Because she cared for him.

Her heart wanted to give him everything that very moment, but she couldn’t. There was a belief that a boy who knew a woman before coming of age would lose his prowess in battle.

It was an ancient tradition and folk belief, handed down since the days of tribal society.

Marie’s racing heart refused to settle. Reality felt too good to be true, as though she were breathing inside a dream.

Could she really be allowed such happiness? It almost made her grateful for all the misery that had come before.

People turned to God in desperation, but also in overwhelming joy. Thank you, God. For letting me be born into this world, for being alive, for being able to love.

Only when she caught sight of her sword, Riki, propped against the wall did she finally begin to calm down.

“Riki.”

“Hmm?”

“If things go wrong, let’s kill them all and run.”

Ricard chuckled, taking it as a joke.

“I don’t run.”

As the tournament drew nearer, competitors began dropping out. In the end, only six of the formidable fighters staying at the imperial palace remained, including Ricard.

Those who withdrew had enjoyed their fill of luxury and would simply watch the tournament before leaving.

Meanwhile, hundreds of entrants had been fighting through the preliminaries for months. Of those, only two survived to the end and earned a place in the swordsmanship tournament.

Eight competitors in all would compete in an elimination bracket. Just three victories would make a champion.

But those three would be anything but easy. Between evenly matched opponents, even a single duel offered no assurance of survival.

More importantly, even victory often came with grave injuries. Anyone unable to continue would be eliminated.

The day of the tournament arrived. The broad, rectangular wooden arena looked hastily built, with elevated seating from which spectators could look down.

Its capacity was limited, so nearly everyone seated inside was either noble or wealthy. Both ends of the arena were practically wide open, however, allowing commoners outside to see some of the action.

As a result, vast crowds had gathered around it. Even the trees were so packed that there was no room left. Some watched from the castle hill, though it was doubtful they could see anything from there.

The preliminaries had been nothing short of a festival of blood, and the city’s excitement had reached fever pitch.

Hundreds of bladesmen from across the Empire had died dueling in this very arena. No amount of cleaning and fresh earth could conceal every bloodstain.

The eight duelists wore their assigned colors, red or blue, so they could easily be distinguished from a distance. As it happened, Ricard was in red.

The Emperor, the Empress Dowager, the Crown Prince, imperial princesses, and even the Emperor’s mistresses were seated in the center of the stands. Marie, the victor’s prize, sat all alone opposite them.

Absurdly, the seats closest to the Emperor belonged not to his family, but to his mistresses.

Two of the Emperor’s champions had gone to war. The other two were present: his personal bodyguard and Helauman.

Helauman had been all but retired. Still hale and hearty past a hundred, his first public appearance in a long while made his very existence a fascinating spectacle.

Apparently in excellent spirits, he laughed heartily as he shook hands and exchanged greetings with the nobles around him.

He was so pleased because a certain goal of his was already half accomplished: the deaths of hundreds of bladesmen during the preliminaries.

Nor had all of them died in the arena. Many had been assassinated amid the confusion.

Using the tournament as a pretext to thin the ranks of those hostile to the imperial household and cultivate useful talent—that was what he had wanted. The others swept up in it and killed were none of his concern.

He was also pleased that Ricard and Marie were getting along. It would only have been an annoyance if they hated each other.

To ordinary people, this was a festival filled with spectacles. To the imperial household, it was a show concealing political aims. A successful festival also increased popular support for the throne.

So what if the Emperor was a libertine? He hadn’t hurt them, had he? As long as they were having fun, what did it matter? Long live His Majesty! The festive mood naturally reshaped even people’s opinions.

The leaves had not yet begun to fall, but they were ripening into reds and yellows.

It was harvest season, a time of abundance in all things. Laughter, excitement, and merriment easily concealed the sinister schemes.

The Emperor, meanwhile, apparently knew no shame. He was too busy kissing and fondling his mistresses to spare a thought for the mother and children sitting there with him.

Marie was seeing her father for the first time, and the shock left her numb. That man was her father? The Emperor?

The Crown Prince and the imperial princes sat with their heads bowed, looking miserable. The Crown Prince buried his face against his great-grandmother, trying desperately not to see his father’s disgraceful behavior.

What an appalling family.

Even Helauman, who had been laughing so heartily, stiffened at the sight of the Emperor. Surely the man should have caught some venereal disease and died by now. Honestly...

“Ahem! Hm! Hm! Ahem! Ahem!”

Only after several forceful clearings of his throat did he manage to draw the Emperor’s attention.

“Shall we begin, Your Majesty?”

“Haven’t we started yet? Get on with it.”

At the Emperor’s gesture, several trumpeters raised their instruments at once.

BA-BA-BAAAM! BAH BAH BAH, BA-BA-BAAAM!

On cue, the duelists in blue and red emerged from the far side of the arena. Ricard among them, they formed a line before the Emperor.

Standing there, Ricard turned his head toward Marie, seated directly across from the Emperor.

Just as a smile began to spread across his lips, a herald beside the railing unfurled a scroll and shouted.

“Competitors! Kneel and pay homage to His Majesty the Emperor, the pinnacle of all mankind!”

The eight competitors dropped to one knee before the wretched Emperor. He waved a hand to indicate that was enough, and they rose almost as soon as they had knelt.

Watching them, the herald shouted again. His voice was truly thunderous, as befitted the man chosen for the task.

“Hear me, people! Since ancient times, our ancestors have believed in a single truth! Victory! The victor takes all! The defeated lose all! This harsh truth alone is the justice ordained by God! He who triumphs is justice! Thus, it is a virtue to honor and hone the martial arts! To encourage this, His Majesty the Emperor has convened this tournament of swords! People, follow the example of the victorious! But you who fall in defeat, do not despair! For God has mercy upon the brave! Die with a weapon in your hand, without fleeing, and heaven awaits you!”

Right or wrong, those words reflected the spirit of the age. Perhaps all the little wars, petty quarrels, and bloodshed arose from just such notions.

“Hear me, competitors! Swords, axes, maces, clubs, spears! All close-combat weapons are permitted! But the coward’s bow and crossbow are forbidden! And no one may interfere with these sacred contests! Anyone who strikes from afar! Anyone who defiles a match with wicked magic! You will be hunted down and subjected to the most dreadful punishment! And in death, you will fall into hell to suffer eternal torment!”

Having finished the proclamation, the herald rolled up the scroll, put it away, and shouted.

“Competitors, proceed to your waiting areas and prepare for an honorable death!”

With that, Ricard headed for the waiting area with the others in red.

For a moment, he glanced at the blue-clad competitors heading the other way. Neither they nor Ricard seemed to bear any personal feelings toward the other side.

The waiting area was a temporary tent. Its thick fabric prevented them from watching the other matches.

The canvas fluttered slightly in the wind. When the herald called a competitor’s name, one of the men picked up his weapon and stepped out.

A moment later, the herald shouted.

“Let the match begiiiin!”

A roar rose from the crowd that seemed to shake heaven and earth.

It was so loud that even Ricard flinched. He couldn’t understand what there was to get so excited about.

RAAAAAAAAH!

Before thousands of spectators from every walk of life, a match to the death—no, a show—unfolded.

A show in which one man died and another lived, or, if he was unlucky, survived as a cripple.

The first match ended sooner than expected. Cries of “Oh!” and “Whoa!” rang out, and a moment later the man who had left returned.

But not alone. An attendant was helping him walk. His calf had been slashed so deeply that it hung in tatters, blood pouring from the wound. He clearly wouldn’t be fighting again.

That meant someone would advance with a bye.

The attendants poured a potion over the wound and administered first aid, but a day or two hardly seemed enough for the muscle to knit back together completely.

The competitors had all weathered their share of hardships, but none had ever fought a duel to the death before thousands of spectators. They kept drawing deep breaths, trying to settle their nerves.

Ricard was no different. Fighting itself didn’t bother him, but the situation, coupled with thoughts of Marie, made it impossible not to tremble. Please, heart, just settle down.

Then the herald’s booming voice rang out.

“From Stormhertz! Third son of House Kaldebern! Of the Beringen Guild! Red Cloak Ricaaard!”

At those words, an almost miraculous calm swept through Ricard’s body. He seized his weapon, sprang to his feet, and swept the tent flap aside as he strode into the arena.

A thunderous cheer crashed over him, seeming to bear down on his entire body.

RAAAAAAAAH!