Chapter 82

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Anyone who had never fought a duel to the death could never understand it—the mindset, the resolve, the emotions.

Perhaps it took a touch of madness to resolve to kill someone with a slash or thrust of cold steel while accepting the possibility of one's own death.

Whether driven by noble justice or base greed, whatever their reasons, everyone stood equal before victory and defeat, life and death.

Ricard had fought more such duels than he could count, yet he had never trembled like this.

Was it because he had never had any particular reason before? In a duel, he had thought only of winning, surviving, and killing his opponent.

His heightened concentration muffled even the thunderous cheering. Forgetting where he was and what time it was, he seemed to hear nothing clearly but his own heartbeat and breathing.

All he could see was the man dressed in blue before him. He could sense the tension and resolve in the man's eyes. His opponent was plainly determined to kill him, too.

Yes, then neither of them needed to feel guilty. Whatever their reasons.

Sword in hand, Ricard advanced confidently, feeling the muscles throughout his body relax and tighten, feeling their strength. His opponent backed away, trying to maintain his distance.

Then Ricard suddenly took a great stride toward him, as though about to deliver a decisive blow.

An ordinary opponent would have swung in alarm, but this man never let his vigilance slip or fell for Ricard's provocation.

He swiftly circled to Ricard's right to restore the distance between them. Ricard pursued him with quick steps, and a sword suddenly swept across his path.

Ricard's own sword flashed upward on a diagonal from left to right.

WHOOSH! SKREE!

Their blades met obliquely and slid past each other. That fleeting contact told each man the other's skill.

What now? A counterattack? A retreat? Another exchange?

The decision came in an instant, almost by instinct. Yet in that brief moment, Ricard sensed something strange about his opponent. The man was prepared to die, certainly, but something was different.

WHOOSH! THWACK!

Their swords crossed again. Ricard's heavy meteoric-iron sword cut through his opponent's skull, from cheekbone to brain.

But the cord securing the man's sleeve came undone, scattering something like white powder.

The fight was already over, yet Ricard hastily held his breath, covered his mouth, and retreated. He had already inhaled a breath of it.

The thunderous cheering that had sounded so distant suddenly battered his ears. His head reeled, and he fell onto his backside.

"Waaaaaah!"

THUD.

"Cough! Cough!"

His opponent lay with his skull half split, blood pouring out, while Ricard kept coughing. Oblivious to all that, the crowd cheered.

"The winner! Ricaaaard!"

"I knew it! Riki won!"

The Crown Prince jumped for joy. Bellator's eyes shone as well, having watched an exchange between experts that was brief but held so much. Long weapons certainly weren't easy to use.

Ricard tried to stand, but he could put no strength into his arms or legs.

Perhaps because the fight was over, his concentration broke and bewilderment overwhelmed him. He could not properly assess his own condition.

Sensing something wrong, Marie sprang to her feet, hurried to the railing, and leaned over it to shout.

"Riki! Are you all right?!"

"Cough! Cough! Ack!"

Head bowed, Ricard stared at the ground with one hand over his nose and mouth. With the other, he struggled to wave to Marie as though everything was fine. But he was already staggering.

Something surged up with a metallic smell. He spat onto the ground. Blood. Blood streamed from his nose, too. He had been poisoned. Damn...

Who was the man? Who could he be? What grudge could he have held? Or had he simply wanted to win?

There was no finding the answer by thinking about it now. Ricard forced himself toward the waiting tent. An attendant approached him.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Ricard nodded, still covering his nose and mouth. If he was eliminated, he could fight no more matches. His chance at the championship would be gone.

Everything spun before his eyes. The slightest lapse of consciousness felt as though it would send him crashing down.

He barely made it back to the waiting tent before dropping into his seat.

"A towel. A towel!"

At Ricard's irritable shout, the tournament staff hurried to bring him one. He pressed it over his nose and mouth with trembling hands.

They thought something was wrong, but not enough to prevent him from fighting his next match.

Even through this, Ricard realized that breathing in made the poison spread faster. Yet he could hardly stop breathing. He was trapped.

It was fortunate he had reacted so quickly. Had he inhaled even a little more, he might already have been dead. It was a truly vicious poison.

Amazingly, at that moment Ricard felt no resentment toward his opponent.

He did not blame the world or fate, asking why this had to happen now. Still less did he consider forfeiting.

It had already happened. His only thought, his only thought, was to remain conscious and fight the final.

The winner of the earlier match had also suffered a serious injury, giving Ricard a bye. One more victory would make him champion. How could he collapse or give up now?

"Hh! Hh! Hh! Hh!"

Staring at the ground, Ricard focused all his concentration on taking short, clipped breaths. Thankfully, his streaming nosebleed stopped. The trouble was that everything was still spinning.

The tournament continued. The crowd kept cheering. The noise around him seemed to seize his mind by the collar and shake it violently.

Ricard was desperately trying not to waste his mental strength on a single stray thought when someone called to him. That voice made his head reel.

"Riki."

It was none other than Marie. The others stared wide-eyed as she entered the waiting tent.

"G-go back. I'm fine."

"You've been poisoned, haven't you?"

"I'm telling you, I'm fit to fight. Go."

Marie crouched before him and looked up into his face as he stared at the floor. The traces of blood wiped from around his nose and mouth were unmistakable. Ricard saw her eyes glittering like blue stars.

"Why don't we just leave?" she asked.

"No. I can fight."

"I'm sure you can. But what if you die?"

"I won't."

"You really are a child, being this stubborn. Then you leave me no choice."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll kill everyone, then die myself."

Even in this dire situation, Ricard let out an incredulous laugh.

"Don't do that."

"Do you realize how cruel it sounds to me when you tell me not to?"

"I told you, I won't die."

Marie stared at him, looking somehow angry. Then she turned to her anxious attendant.

"Bring me my sword."

"Pardon?"

"Now!"

The attendant flinched at Marie's fierce glare and shout, then hurried away to fetch it. Marie turned back to Ricard.

"You won't run away. Fine, I understand. But don't you die. If you die, I die, and everyone dies. Understand?"

Was that a plea, a warning, or a threat? It was impossible to tell. A female Riki, Boribori had called her. His insight had been spot-on.

If that was what she intended to do, there was nothing more Ricard could say. He nodded.

"Understood."

Only after hearing his answer did Marie stand. Her heart was being torn apart, of course, but she was not like other women. She was a warrior. As Boribori had judged, she was braver than Ricard.

She all but snatched the sword her attendant brought her and left the tent without looking back. A sword in hand, clad in a dress.

Perhaps Ricard had not saved her when the Crown Prince and the imperial princes were tormenting her. Perhaps she might have killed them instead, and he had ultimately prevented that.

In any case, the tournament went on. Some fights began with a semblance of dignity only to degenerate into vicious brawls. With lives at stake, there was no time to care about looking impressive or ugly.

In the end, only three of the eight competitors remained intact after their matches. Two would fight, and the winner would face Ricard.

If that winner suffered a serious injury, Ricard would automatically become champion after fighting just one match.

But perhaps even Lucky Riki's luck had run out. Ricard had to enter the final match. Worse, his opponent was a Sword Master.

Their swordsmanship might be comparable, or only slightly different in level, but a Sword Master's blade could slice effortlessly through iron. Ricard was at an overwhelming disadvantage.

Yet a disadvantage did not necessarily mean defeat. He had already proved that against Steiner.

The herald called his name, but Ricard did not hear. His keen senses, his greatest strength, had dulled.

"Sir, you must go out."

An attendant spoke to Ricard, who remained alone in the waiting tent. The other competitors were absent, either dead or receiving urgent treatment.

Ricard rose with his sword. The ground seemed to spin beneath him like a turntable.

But he clenched his teeth hard enough to break his jaw, gathered his wits, and pushed through the tent flap to stride out proudly.

The crowd's cheers seemed to reach him as vibrations rather than sound. The earth truly seemed to heave. Ricard planted his feet wide and stood firm in the center of the arena.

No one noticed his poor condition. No—only a tiny handful of experts realized he was not himself.

In her seat, Marie clutched her sword, Riki. This was a decisive moment for her, too. Would she become a maddened sword demon or a noble swordswoman?

One glance told Ricard that his opponent was extraordinary. He looked like a veteran who had endured every hardship imaginable. Whatever was wrong with Ricard, his eyes held the resolve to give this fight everything he had.

"Let the match begiiiiin!"

At the herald's cry, his opponent drew his sword and flung the scabbard far away.

As he gripped the longsword in both hands, its blade shone white. It grew pale, hard to distinguish from its surroundings.

Even the thunderous cheering died away at the light pouring from the Sword Master's sword. It was wondrous, but it also felt like watching a legend come to life.

"I bear you no ill will. I merely wish to test myself in a fight where neither of us holds back. Even if I win, I will set the imperial princess free."

So said his nameless opponent. Was he already showing a victor's mercy? Or was it a ploy to distract him?

Whatever it was, Ricard drew his own sword and threw his scabbard far away. Then he thought:

'I can't move vigorously in this condition. If I do, I'll lose my head in an instant. One or two steps are the best I can manage. I'll settle it within those.'

Judging distance was out of the question. His opponent seemed to bend this way and that like a heat haze. Ricard therefore intended to gauge the distance at the instant their swords met and fight from there.

But would it work? His opponent was no novice. Yet no other method came to mind. Ricard had never been one to plan his fights in advance.

Perhaps that was why anxiety swept over him. Then, suddenly, he recalled Armand's words.

What would happen would happen. Like the past, the future might as well have happened already.

Then why hesitate? If it would happen anyway, all he could do was stand proudly before fate. There was nothing to be anxious about, nothing to fear.

His head spun. His vision kept warping, churning his stomach until he felt ready to vomit. Yet, strangely, his mind and heart remained steady.

Seeing that unwavering gaze, his opponent gave his all, too. His foot left the ground.

Would it end in an instant or become a brawl? High skill did not guarantee that every moment of a fight with live blades would be impressive.

His opponent's sword, now a flash of light in itself, swept diagonally toward Ricard's neck. Ricard reflexively moved to meet it, but the distance was wrong. It was a strange action, neither counterattack nor defense.

As their swords met, the meteoric-iron sword that had accompanied Ricard for so long was sheared effortlessly apart.

Yet for an infinitesimal instant, Ricard felt his sword being cut, as though sensing its death throes. That was enough to gauge the distance precisely.

He reflexively twisted aside to evade the sword and reached out to seize his opponent's wrist. Despite his dizziness, Ilya's monstrous strength surged forth, crushing the wrist in his grip.

But his opponent showed astonishing concentration. Ignoring the pain, he released his sword and smoothly drew his secondary weapon, a dagger. Ricard drew his own dagger as well.

Pressed so close together that distance no longer meant anything, his opponent aimed for Ricard's abdomen. Ricard aimed for his opponent's heart.

At the last instant, his opponent relied on technique ingrained in his body. Ricard did not. A blade that would ordinarily have stopped against the ribs cut straight through bone and pierced the heart.

The man's muscles locked and convulsed just as he drove his dagger into Ricard's abdomen. A thrust followed by a slash would have spilled his entrails, but he never managed the slash.

Ricard gritted his teeth and gave it everything he had. Though the fight might already have been decided, he shoved his opponent down and fell with him, driving his dagger in even harder.

His hand almost sank into the man's body. The blade passed through the heart and severed even the spine.

"Hah!"

Pinned beneath Ricard, his opponent gasped and shuddered. Then he uttered his last words.

"A good fight..."

Only then did Ricard pull out his deeply, deeply embedded dagger and rise. Blood streamed from his stabbed abdomen, but he forced himself to stand on both legs, showing the thousands watching unmistakably who had won.

The arena was silent, as though holding its breath. Among the spectators, Helauman felt a strange sense of déjà vu. He seemed to have calculated the distance as his sword was cut. Had he planned that, or reacted in the instant?

It resembled a question he had once asked himself—when he first saw Riki, the first Sword Master, over a hundred years ago.

Regardless of his misgivings, the herald shouted.

"The champion! Ricard!"

Then cheers erupted like an exploding volcano. No—that was what should have happened. Just before the cheering began, a deeply ominous cry rang across the silent arena.

"God of Judgment! Open your eyes!"

What was that? The crowd was bewildered. But regardless of their confusion, manservants and maids scattered throughout the stands suddenly began stabbing their masters over and over with daggers.

"God of Judgment! Open your eyes!"

"Punish all who oppress us!"

It happened everywhere at once, so swiftly that not even screams could escape.

In the instant Helauman and the Emperor's other champion were distracted, Daisy's mother, seated beside the Emperor, produced a dagger from somewhere and plunged it into his belly. Then she slashed upward.

"Haaagh!"

The Emperor gasped as searing pain spread through his abdomen. But another of his mistresses stabbed him in the neck.

Only then did screams erupt from the stands.

"Aaaaaaah!"

The nobles' assassins did not flee. Instead, they rampaged, intent on killing even one more person. They seemed to consider themselves dead already.

In an instant, the arena descended into chaos. Nobles leaped from the high stands into the fighting ground in droves, frantically shoving and trampling one another.

Then, with a sharp crack, the heads of Daisy's mother and the Emperor's mistresses fell with almost absurd ease. It was like some ghastly magic trick.

The Emperor's champion had killed them in an instant with near-miraculous skill, but the Emperor was already dead. His mouth hung wide open, blood streaming from his throat and belly.

"What...?"

The champion's mind went blank for an instant at a sight he could not believe despite seeing it with his own eyes. Meanwhile, assassins swarmed the imperial family.

"You fool! Protect the Crown Prince!"

Helauman shouted urgently, drawing his own sword. A single swing cut through everyone in its path, assassins and ordinary nobles alike. Blood sprayed in torrents as dismembered bodies fell.

"Stay back!"

He roared like a tiger. But that only intensified the chaos, and the Emperor's champion could not find the Crown Prince. Where was he?

Regardless of all that, Marie tore through the skirt of her dress and leaped down, sword in hand. She hoisted the barely standing Ricard over her shoulder and ran from the arena.

Amid the chaos, however, there were also assassins who had no connection to the church and sought only Ricard. It was one of their number who had entered the tournament and scattered the poison.

They, too, had no idea what was happening, but this was an opportunity nonetheless.

"Stop right there, Red Cloak!"

"Do you remember Lorenz? Rubens does not forget a grudge!"

But Marie was already beyond all restraint. She set the unconscious Ricard against a wall and stood guard before him.

"Did you think I stayed quiet because I couldn't fight?!"

All the emotions she had suppressed burst forth. A bastard? The imperial household? She didn't care anymore. No one could stop her. She had endured enough! She would kill anyone who stood in her way!

Marie was ready to pay any price to protect Ricard. And then purple light burst from the blade of her fine sword, Riki.

It was light forged by destiny, and yet, conversely, light born from breaking destiny's chains. Truly contradictory and ironic.

But such were the workings of God: sacrificing countless lives, yet loving without limit.

Marie had finally grasped the freedom she had longed for so desperately. Not by cutting away human compassion, but as a Sword Master in the truest sense.

The assassins from the Rubens Guild were dumbfounded by this turn of events, and an uneasy sense that something had gone wrong swept over them.

But there was not a trace of mercy in Marie's sword now. It cut through everything the blade touched—edged weapons and human bodies alike.

The assassins sprayed blood as they died, drenching Marie in it.

Standing before the corpses with a blade of light in her hand and her disheveled hair flying, she looked exactly like a witch or an evil spirit.

But with everyone pushing and shoving as they fled, the scene was so chaotic that she could not tell whether she had killed all the assassins.

So Marie killed everyone who came near. In barely a few swings, the corpses were piled waist-high.

Only when the terrified crowd recoiled did she hoist Ricard over her shoulder again and hurry away.

Her torn skirt left her long, pale legs fully exposed, but this was no time for modesty.

Whatever else might be said, Ricard and Marie might have achieved their goal, but a gaping hole was opening in the world. A power vacuum.

The death of Steiner the Mad Dog had caused such turmoil. If the Emperor died...

Perhaps the powerless had also been crushed under as much oppression as Marie—or even more—until they finally erupted.

And so an age of fire, steel, blood, and death began to descend upon the Empire.

Part 16 – What Will Happen. End.