Chapter 82

Chapter 82: Chapter 82

No one who had never fought a duel to the death could possibly understand—the state of mind it required, the resolve, or the emotions involved.

Resolving to kill someone by slashing or stabbing them with cold steel while also preparing oneself to die might only be possible if one became slightly insane.

Whether driven by noble justice or base greed, whatever the reason, everyone became equal before victory and defeat, life and death.

Rickart had fought more such duels than he could count, yet he had never trembled as he did now.

Perhaps it was because he had never had any particular reason before. Whenever he fought a duel, he had thought only of winning, surviving, and killing his opponent.

His concentration had risen to such an intense level that even the thunderous cheers sounded muffled. He forgot the place and the time, hearing only his own heartbeat and breathing with perfect clarity.

All he could see was the man dressed in blue. He could sense both tension and resolve in the man’s eyes. His opponent had clearly resolved to kill him as well.

Fine. Then neither you nor I need to feel guilty, whatever our reasons may be.

Rickart held his sword and confidently advanced, feeling the relaxation and tension of every muscle in his body and the strength flowing through them. His opponent retreated, attempting to maintain the distance between them.

Then, at a certain moment, Rickart abruptly closed the gap with a long stride, as though preparing to deliver a decisive blow.

An ordinary opponent would have panicked and swung his sword, but this man never relaxed his guard and refused to take Rickart’s bait.

He quickly circled to Rickart’s right to restore the distance, but Rickart pursued him with rapid steps. In an instant, a sword swung out to block Rickart’s path.

Rickart’s own sword flashed diagonally upward from left to right like a bolt of lightning.

Whoosh! Clang!

The blades met at an angle and slid past one another. That fleeting contact was enough for both men to gauge the other’s skill.

What would come next? A counterattack? A retreat? Another exchange?

The decision was made within an exceedingly brief instant, almost entirely on instinct. Yet within that tiny span of time, Rickart sensed something strange about his opponent. The man was certainly prepared to die, but something felt different.

Cling! Crack!

Their swords crossed again.

Rickart’s heavy meteoric-iron sword cut through his opponent’s skull, from the cheekbone into the brain.

At the same moment, the cord fastening his opponent’s sleeve came undone, scattering something like white powder through the air.

The match was already over, but Rickart hurriedly held his breath, covered his mouth, and retreated. Unfortunately, he had already inhaled one breath of it.

The thunderous cheering that had sounded muffled suddenly assaulted his ears. Rickart’s head spun, and he fell backward onto the ground.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaah!

"Cough! Cough!"

His opponent collapsed with half his skull split open and blood pouring from the wound. Rickart continued coughing, but the crowd cheered without caring about either man’s condition.

"The winner! Ricaaaaaart!"

"As expected! Ricky won!"

The Crown Prince jumped up and down in delight. Bellator’s eyes also shone after witnessing the brief but meaningful exchange between two experts.

So large weapons really aren’t easy to use.

Rickart tried to stand, but there was no strength in his arms or legs.

Perhaps because the match had ended, his concentration broke, and a wave of confusion crashed over him. He could not properly assess his own condition.

Sensing that something was wrong, Marie sprang from her seat, rushed to the railing, leaned over it, and shouted,

"Ricky! Are you all right?!"

"Cough! Cough! Ghk!"

Rickart kept his head lowered, covering his mouth and nose with one hand as he stared at the ground. He raised his other hand toward Marie, struggling to signal that he was fine.

His steps were already unsteady.

Something surged up his throat with a metallic smell. When he spat onto the ground, he saw blood. Blood was also streaming from his nose.

He had been poisoned.

Damn it...

Who was that man? Why had he done it? What grudge did he hold? Or had he simply wanted to win that badly?

There was no way to learn the answer now. Rickart forced himself to walk toward the waiting area.

An attendant approached him and asked,

"Are you all right?"

Still covering his nose and mouth, Rickart nodded. If he were disqualified, he would be unable to compete any further, and any hope of winning would disappear.

His vision spun. If he lost his focus for even a moment, he felt as though he would collapse on the spot.

He barely managed to return to the waiting area before dropping heavily into a seat.

"A towel. Get me a towel!"

Rickart shouted irritably. The tournament officials hurriedly brought him one, and Rickart pressed it over his nose and mouth with trembling hands.

The officials sensed that something was wrong, but they did not believe it was serious enough to prevent him from fighting his next match.

Meanwhile, Rickart realized that inhaling deeply would cause the poison to spread faster. Yet he could not simply stop breathing, leaving him trapped with no solution.

He had reacted quickly, which was fortunate. Had he inhaled even a little more poison, he might already have been dead.

It was an extraordinarily vicious poison.

Yet astonishingly, at that moment, Rickart did not resent his opponent.

He did not blame the world or fate, wondering why this had to happen now. Even less did he consider withdrawing from the tournament.

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

The winner of the preceding match had also been badly injured, which meant Rickart had received a bye. He needed to fight only one more match to become the champion.

How could he collapse or surrender now?

"Hff! Hff! Hff! Hff!"

Staring at the ground, Rickart devoted all his concentration to taking short, shallow breaths. Fortunately, the blood that had been pouring from his nose finally stopped, but his vision was still spinning.

The tournament continued. The spectators kept cheering, and the surrounding noise seemed to seize Rickart’s mind by the collar and violently shake it.

Rickart desperately tried not to waste his mental strength on a single unnecessary thought when someone called to him.

Hearing that voice nearly made his mind go blank.

"Ricky."

It was Marie.

As she entered the waiting area, everyone else stared at her with wide eyes.

"G-Go back. I’m fine."

"You were poisoned, weren’t you?"

"I’m telling you, I can still fight. Go."

Marie crouched in front of Rickart and looked up at him as he stared at the ground. The traces of blood he had wiped from around his nose and mouth were unmistakable.

Rickart saw Marie’s eyes sparkling like blue stars.

"Why don’t we just leave?" Marie asked.

"No. I can fight."

"You probably can. But what if you die?"

"I won’t."

"You really are a stubborn child. Then I have no choice either."

"What do you mean?"

"I’ll kill everyone and then kill myself."

Even in this dire situation, Rickart was so dumbfounded that a disbelieving laugh escaped him.

"Don’t do that."

"Being told not to sounds terribly cruel to me."

"I told you, I’m not going to die."

Marie stared silently at Rickart, appearing somewhat angry, before turning to her anxious maid.

"Bring me my sword."

"Pardon?"

"Now!"

Marie glared and shouted. The maid flinched, then hurried away to retrieve the sword.

Marie looked back at Rickart.

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

Rickart could not tell whether that was a plea, a warning, or a threat.

Boribori called her the female Ricky. His insight was frighteningly accurate.

Since Marie insisted that she would do it, Rickart could say nothing more. He nodded.

"Understood."

Only after hearing his answer did Marie rise.

Her heart was undoubtedly being torn apart, but Marie was unlike other women. She was a warrior—one who, according to Boribori, was even braver than Rickart.

Marie snatched the sword from the maid when she returned, then left the waiting area without looking back.

A woman in a dress carrying a sword...

Perhaps Rickart had not actually saved her when the Crown Prince and the princes were tormenting her. Perhaps Marie would have killed them, and Rickart’s intervention had ultimately saved them instead.

In any case, the tournament continued.

Some fights began impressively, only to devolve into ugly brawls. With their lives at stake, the contestants had no room to worry about whether they looked impressive or disgraceful.

In the end, only three of the eight contestants remained unharmed enough to continue.

Two of them would fight, and the victor would then face Rickart.

If the winner suffered a serious injury in the next match, Rickart would automatically become the champion after fighting only once.

However, perhaps even Lucky Ricky’s luck had finally run out. Rickart would have to fight the final match.

Worse still, his opponent was a Sword Master.

Their actual swordsmanship might have been similar, with only a slight difference in skill. However, a Sword Master’s blade could cut easily through iron, placing Rickart at an overwhelming disadvantage.

Still, being at a disadvantage did not necessarily mean defeat. Rickart had already proven that when he fought Steiner.

The herald called Rickart’s name, but Rickart did not hear him. His keen senses, normally his greatest strength, had grown dull.

"Sir, you have to go out now."

The other contestants were either receiving urgent treatment or dead, leaving Rickart alone in the waiting area when the attendant addressed him.

Rickart picked up his sword and rose from his seat. The ground seemed to spin beneath him like a great wheel.

But he clenched his teeth hard enough to shatter his jaw, composed himself, swept aside the tent flap, and walked out with confidence.

The crowd’s cheers seemed to reach him not as sound, but as vibrations. The ground truly felt as though it were heaving beneath him. Rickart reached the center of the arena, spread his feet, and stood firm.

No one noticed that he was in poor condition. Or rather, only a very small number of experts noticed that he was not his usual self.

Marie sat in her seat, tightly gripping her sword, Ricky.

This was an important moment for her as well. It would determine whether she became a mad sword demon or a noble swordswoman.

Rickart’s opponent looked extraordinary at a glance. He resembled a veteran soldier who had survived countless battles, and his eyes showed his determination to fight with all his strength, regardless of Rickart’s condition.

"Let the match begiiiiin!"

At the herald’s cry, Rickart’s opponent drew his sword and tossed the scabbard far aside.

When he gripped the longsword with both hands, its blade began radiating white light. The blade grew indistinct, making it difficult to distinguish from its surroundings.

As the Sword Master’s blade emitted its radiance, even the thunderous cheering subsided. It was not merely fascinating—the spectators felt as though they were witnessing a legend with their own eyes.

"I bear you no personal grudge. I merely wish to fight a match in which we both use our full strength. Even if I win, I will set the princess free."

The Nameless opponent addressed Rickart.

Was he already offering the mercy of a victor? Or was this a strategy intended to shake Rickart’s resolve?

Whatever the case, Rickart drew his own sword and threw the scabbard far away.

Then he thought,

I can’t move violently in my current condition. If I try, my head will be cut off in an instant. One or two steps are the most I can manage. I’ll settle everything within that distance.

At the moment, measuring the distance was impossible. His opponent appeared to sway and distort like a heat haze.

Rickart therefore planned to gauge the distance the instant their swords met and decide the match then and there.

But would that work?

His opponent was no amateur. Yet Rickart could think of no other method.

Then again, Rickart had never been someone who planned his fights in advance.

Perhaps that was why anxiety suddenly overwhelmed him.

Then he remembered something Armant had once told him.

What will happen must happen. Like the past that has already passed, the future might as well have happened already.

Then why hesitate?

If it was destined to happen regardless, all he could do was stand proudly before fate.

There was no reason to be anxious.

There was nothing to fear.

His head spun, and his vision continued to warp. His stomach churned, making him feel as though he might vomit. Strangely, however, neither his mind nor his heart wavered.

Seeing no uncertainty in Rickart’s eyes, his opponent attacked with all his strength.

His foot left the ground.

Would it end in a single instant, or would it turn into a desperate brawl?

A duel with real swords did not necessarily produce an impressive spectacle simply because the combatants were highly skilled.

His opponent’s sword, already transformed into a streak of light, slashed diagonally toward Rickart’s neck.

Rickart instinctively moved to meet it, but the distance was wrong. His action was neither a counterattack nor a defense. It was something inexplicable.

The instant the swords met, the meteoric-iron sword that had accompanied Rickart for so long was effortlessly severed.

Yet as though he could hear the sword’s death cry, Rickart felt the precise sensation of his blade being cut during that exceedingly brief instant.

That allowed him to determine the distance perfectly.

He instinctively twisted his body aside, evaded the blade, and seized his opponent’s wrist.

Despite his spinning head, Illiya’s monstrous strength erupted from within him. His grip crushed the man’s wrist.

His opponent displayed astonishing concentration as well. Ignoring the pain, he immediately released his sword and smoothly drew the dagger he carried as a secondary weapon.

Rickart drew his own dagger.

They were so close that distance had ceased to hold any meaning.

His opponent aimed for Rickart’s abdomen.

Rickart aimed for his opponent’s heart.

At the final moment, Rickart’s opponent relied upon the techniques ingrained in his body.

Rickart did not.

Ordinarily, Rickart’s blade would have been stopped by the man’s ribs. Instead, it cut straight through the bone and pierced his heart.

The man managed to plunge his dagger into Rickart’s abdomen, but his muscles immediately stiffened, and his body convulsed.

He needed to stab and then slash to spill Rickart’s intestines, but he could not complete the movement.

Rickart gritted his teeth and exerted every last ounce of strength.

The match had effectively already been decided, yet he shoved his opponent down and fell to the ground with him, driving the dagger even deeper.

His hand sank so far that it nearly entered the man’s body. The blade passed through the heart and even severed the spine.

"Gasp!"

Pinned beneath Rickart, the man drew a ragged breath and trembled.

Then he spoke his final words.

"A good match..."

Only then did Rickart pull out the dagger, which had been driven extraordinarily deep, and rise.

Blood poured from the wound in his abdomen, but he forced himself to remain standing on both feet, clearly showing the thousands of spectators who had won.

The arena was utterly silent.

Among the spectators, Hellauman felt a strange sense of déjà vu.

It looked as though he calculated the distance when his sword was cut. Did he plan that, or did he react in the moment?

It was similar to a question he had once asked himself—a question that had occurred to him more than a hundred years ago, when he first saw Ricky, the first Sword Master.

Regardless of Hellauman’s suspicions, the herald shouted,

"The champion! Rickart!"

A roar should have erupted like an exploding volcano.

And it would have.

But just before the cheers could burst forth, an ominous cry cut through the silent arena.

"God of Judgment! Open Your eyes!"

What was that supposed to mean?

The spectators stared in confusion.

But regardless of their bewilderment, servants and maids positioned throughout the stands suddenly drew daggers and began stabbing their masters repeatedly.

"God of Judgment! Open Your eyes!"

"Punish all those who persecute us!"

It happened simultaneously and so quickly that the victims could not even scream.

While Hellauman and the Emperor’s other champion were momentarily distracted, Daisy’s mother produced a dagger from somewhere and plunged it deep into the Emperor’s abdomen.

Then she slashed upward.

"Gaaasp!"

The Emperor inhaled sharply as a burning sensation spread through his abdomen.

But then another of his mistresses stabbed him in the throat.

Only then did screams erupt throughout the stands.

"Aaaaaaaaaah!"

The assassins who had murdered the nobles did not attempt to escape. Instead, they rampaged through the stands, trying to kill even more people.

They seemed to believe their own lives were already forfeit.

The arena descended into chaos in an instant. Nobles leaped en masse from the elevated stands into the fighting ground, shoving and trampling one another in their desperation to escape.

Then, with several sharp sounds, the heads of Daisy’s mother and the Emperor’s mistresses dropped from their shoulders with almost absurd ease.

It looked like some horrific magic trick.

The Emperor’s champion had killed them in an instant with nearly divine skill, but the Emperor was already dead. His mouth hung open as blood poured from his neck and abdomen.

"What...?"

Even though the champion had witnessed it with his own eyes, the sight was so unbelievable that his mind went blank.

Meanwhile, the assassins rushed toward the members of the imperial family.

"You fool! Protect the Crown Prince!"

Hellauman shouted urgently as he drew his own sword.

With a single swing, he cut down everyone before him, assassins and ordinary nobles alike. A tremendous amount of blood erupted in an instant as dismembered corpses collapsed.

"Stay away from me!"

He roared like a tiger.

But his actions only worsened the confusion, and the Emperor’s champion could not find the Crown Prince.

Where is he?

Regardless of what was happening around her, Marie tore away the hem of her dress, drew her sword, and leaped into the arena.

She hoisted the barely standing Rickart over her shoulder and ran out of the fighting ground.

Amid the chaos, however, there were also assassins who were unaffiliated with the religious order and interested only in killing Rickart.

They were the ones who had entered the tournament and released the poison.

They had no idea what was happening either, but this was an opportunity regardless.

"Stop right there, Red Cloak!"

"Do you remember Lorenz? Rubens never forgets a grudge!"

But Marie could no longer see or think clearly.

She placed the unconscious Rickart against a wall and stood guard before him.

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

All the emotions Marie had suppressed until now erupted at once.

An illegitimate child? The imperial family? I don’t care anymore. No one can stop me now. I’ve endured enough! I’ll kill anyone who stands in my way!

Marie was prepared to pay any price to protect Rickart.

Purple light erupted from the blade of the famed sword Ricky.

It was a light forged by fate, yet also a light created by severing the chains of fate.

It was truly contradictory and ironic.

But such were the workings of God—infinitely loving, even while sacrificing countless lives.

At long last, Marie obtained the freedom she had yearned for.

Not by severing herself from human compassion, but by becoming a Sword Master in the truest sense.

The assassins from the Rubens Guild were bewildered by the incomprehensible situation, and an uneasy feeling crept over them that something had gone terribly wrong.

But Marie’s sword now held no mercy whatsoever.

It cut through everything its blade touched—other weapons and human bodies alike.

The assassins died, spraying blood through the air, and Marie was drenched in it.

She stood before the corpses with her disheveled hair whipping around her and a sword of light in her hand. She looked like a witch or a vengeful spirit.

The scene was so chaotic, with people shoving one another as they fled, that she could not tell whether she had killed all the assassins.

So Marie killed everyone who approached her.

She swung her sword only a few times, yet corpses piled up to her waist in an instant.

The horrified crowd recoiled. Only then did Marie hoist Rickart onto her shoulder again and hurry away.

She had torn away the hem of her dress, leaving her long, pale legs completely exposed, but this was no time to worry about modesty.

Whatever happened next, Rickart and Marie might have accomplished what they wanted, but a gaping hole was opening in the world.

A vacuum of power.

Steiner’s death had caused tremendous upheaval. If the Emperor died...

Perhaps the powerless and the weak had also been suppressed until they finally exploded—just as Marie had, or perhaps even more severely.

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

Chapter 16: What Will Happen — End

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