The king twirled his crown around his finger and muttered,

“…What are they saying? I can’t hear a thing.”

His gaze was fixed downward, toward where the Black Prince stood.

He had already noticed that the Black Prince was glaring across at the First Prince’s side. But from this distance, he couldn’t catch a single word of their exchange.

His curiosity stirred.

“Sir Serkov.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Can you hear what they’re saying?”

“If I try, I can.”

“Then try.”

“Yes, sire.”

Serkov summoned mana within his body, channeling it into his hearing.

The thunderous roar of the audience filled his ears, but as his focus narrowed, all other noise faded away, leaving only the voices he sought.

It was a skillful use of mana—something none of the other knights could even attempt.

Becoming the king’s ears, he tuned in on the conversation below.

But what he heard soon left him uncharacteristically flustered.

—What are you staring at, you rude bastard?

Calling a prince a bastard?

Was he truly insane?

The king, noticing Serkov’s bewildered look, asked curiously, “What is it? What did he say?”

“Ah, no, it’s… um…”

For once, Serkov looked lost for words, unsure how to explain it to the king.

The king’s curiosity only grew.

“What could he have said to leave you looking like that?”

Before Serkov could answer, another set of words drifted up.

—Don’t touch my body.

—…You country bumpkin.

The king’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Oh? Look at those two!”

The Black Prince and the blind swordsman were now swinging fists at each other, their knights rushing in to separate them.

The king chuckled.

“No need to repeat it, Serkov. I think I get the picture.”

“…Yes, sire.”

The king laughed with satisfaction.

“Yes, this is what I wanted. None of that predictable, boring politicking. I was tired of that.”

“……”

“If that fellow takes the throne, whether for better or worse, the kingdom will change drastically.”

He chuckled for a while as he watched, then murmured softly, amusement lacing his tone,

“The stage is set. Devil, let’s see you run wild.”

“….”

His voice was so low that only Serkov heard it.

But even he couldn’t grasp what the king truly meant.

His duty was only to obey.

The king flicked his hand.

“Let’s begin.”

The Knight of Frost glanced backward, and a man who had been waiting there gave a nod. Clutching something in hand, he sprinted forward.

He darted past the throne, then leapt straight down into the arena.

The wind stirred violently as he passed, whipping at the king’s and Serkov’s hair.

The audience gasped, startled, then watched as the man fell like a shooting star into the arena.

Screams rang out here and there.

Boom!

He landed squarely in the center, completely unharmed, and swept his gaze around with a playful grin.

It was the grin of a prankster who had pulled off a successful trick.

Clad in gold-plated armor, the mischievous knight raised the item in his hand and shouted,

His voice, amplified by the object, boomed throughout the arena.

—Waaaaa!

The crowd’s frightened screams instantly turned into roaring cheers.

The king smiled faintly as he watched.

“The youngest is a clever one.”

The Knight of Frost nodded.

“A lively fellow.”

The man introduced himself as Royal Knight Aron Hobas, smiling broadly as he raised his arms with theatrical flourish.

—Waaaaaa!

I had been trading punches with the Black Prince but now turned to watch the man who had dropped like a star into the arena.

Judging by the gold-trimmed armor, he was clearly a Royal Knight.

He looked to be in his early thirties, with a bright, lively demeanor.

The short, club-like object he shouted into seemed to be some sort of magical amplifier.

—Waaaaa!

The Black Prince muttered grimly,

“This duel is turning out to be quite unorthodox.”

I asked,

“Wasn’t it like this before?”

“Usually, one of the Royal Knights is chosen to act as referee and announcer. Naturally, the way things are conducted varies with their personality.”

“Ah, I see.”

“I haven’t witnessed it myself, but from what I’ve heard, it has generally been carried out in a rather solemn atmosphere.”

“Got it.”

The cheerful referee-announcer-knight, Aron Hobas, began explaining the rules.

His words were as brisk and lively as his manner.

“That makes sense.”

“Indeed.”

A yawn crept up on me, and I let it out, only for the Black Prince to glare at me.

I took the hint, straightened up, and nodded solemnly.

It was a clear and tidy explanation.

I lifted my thumb in approval.

To my surprise, Aron grinned and raised his thumb back at me.

…Well, that was refreshing.

Feeling oddly pleased by his gesture, I turned to look at the Black Prince.

“Who’s going first?”

I vaguely remembered hearing the order before, but aside from the fact that I was last, the rest had completely slipped my mind.

The Black Prince’s gaze swept across his knights before settling on one.

“Sir Walpole.”

“Y-yes, sir!”

Walpole’s voice trembled with nerves.

“Go on, then.”

He drew in a deep breath, then replied with forced vigor,

“I’ll do my very best!”

But as he stepped forward, his left hand and left foot moved together.

…Clearly, he was nervous out of his wits.

He didn’t look reassuring at all. Count Stavanger, Lady Ashley, and even I hurried over to form a circle around him, showering him with encouragement.

The Count spoke first.

“Sir Walpole, don’t be nervous.”

“I-I’m not nervous!”

I cut in.

“Liar.”

The Count continued.

“I chose you for a reason. You still haven’t shown everything you have inside. I believe in your potential. And so, you must believe in me. Do you understand?”

“…Yes, sir!”

“Good. That’s the look I wanted to see.”

He patted Walpole’s shoulder with a gentle smile. He looked just like a father encouraging his son.

Then it was the turn of Walpole’s “mother”—no, his superior and commander, Lady Ashley.

She locked eyes with him.

“Sir Walpole.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“You know full well how great an honor this stage is.”

“Of course!”

“Pour everything you have into it.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

With only a few words, Lady Ashley lit a fire in him. No wonder she had taken over Sir Curtis’s position.

Finally, it was my turn.

What was I supposed to be? An uncle? A neighborhood big brother? I wasn’t sure.

Walpole, having been stirred up by the others, looked at me with sparkling eyes. He was clearly waiting, eager to hear what I’d say.

The Count and Lady Ashley were watching me the same way.

“……”

Suddenly, the pressure was unbearable.

“Ahem. Sir Walpole.”

“Yes!”

“Do your best.”

“…Pardon?”

“Give it your all.”

Walpole stared at me with disappointment written all over his face.

“…That’s it?”

I glared back.

“What more do you want? Hurry up and get out there.”

That finally loosened him up. He chuckled sheepishly and stepped onto the stage.

“Yes. Then, I’ll be going.”

“……”

I watched him go, then suddenly remembered something and shouted after him,

“Sir Walpole! Fighting is about momentum! Charge in like you’re ready to bite a dog’s balls off!”

He glanced back over his shoulder, then nodded seriously.

“Bite a dog’s balls… I’ll remember that.”

The Count and Lady Ashley looked at me with utterly baffled expressions, but I ignored them.

The Heavenly Demon snickered.

[Normally you never shut up, but in a serious moment, the best you can come up with is ‘bite a dog’s balls’?]

“What? There’s nothing deadlier than that.”

[…True enough.]

I crossed my arms and focused on the stage, where Walpole now faced his opponent.

The square platform in the center of the circular arena looked as though a square had grown inside the circle until it pressed against the edges.

That left four curved corners of the circle around it, one of which we occupied.

The stage was vast—large enough that stepping out of bounds seemed unlikely.

The two knights shook hands, then drew their swords, keeping a respectful distance between them.

Aron, the announcer-knight, called their names before giving a short pause.

At his word, the two knights charged headlong at each other.

And clashed.

Boom!

—Waaaaa!

The crowd’s roar cascaded down over the fighters.

Clang! Clang! Claaang!

The match was far more even than I had expected.

Walpole swung his sword with desperate ferocity, as though determined to leave nothing behind.

Was it thanks to the mana-breathing technique I’d taught him? He seemed stronger already.

His opponent’s face showed a flicker of surprise.

Though not true alarm—more like “Not bad.”

Clang-clang-clang-clang!

Steel rang ceaselessly as the two knights traded blows.

The audience roared louder and louder.

To their eyes, it must have looked like a dead-even fight, neither side giving an inch.

But to us—knights and warriors watching with trained eyes—our expressions hardened.

The gap between them was obvious.

The opponent was deliberately matching Walpole’s rhythm, calmly waiting for the perfect opening.

He had yielded initiative, yet defended with ease, parrying or dodging whenever he pleased.

Walpole surely believed he was pressing the advantage.

But in truth, his foe was experienced. Cautious. Not the type to ever underestimate an opponent—not even a novice.

That was why he had reached this stage.

Sir Stefan, was it? He was far stronger than expected.

Then, subtly, he revealed a false opening.

“Haaaah!”

Walpole seized the chance, his sword blazing with aura as he swung upward in a powerful diagonal slash.

But I caught the gleam in his opponent’s eyes.

Before I knew it, I was shouting,

“Dodge!”

Steel flashed.

A heartbeat later, Walpole’s arm was severed, blood spraying as it spun through the air before landing on the arena floor.

Thud.

(End of Chapter)

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