Cold water seemed to have been poured over the arena. In an instant, silence fell.

“……”

I stared at the severed arm lying on the ground.

It felt strangely lifeless, almost unreal.

How… would I even officiate something like this…

Why that thought came to me just then, I had no idea.

I shifted my gaze to where the arm had been cut from.

There stood Walpole, keeping his distance from Stefan, trying to steady his breathing.

He must have leapt back the moment his arm was severed.

“Haa… haa…”

His right hand still gripped his sword, lowered and trembling at his side.

But there was a stubborn determination in his stance.

Blood dripped heavily from his shoulder.

“Urgh…!”

And yet, he didn’t fall.

Even Stefan, who had cut the arm off in a single stroke, looked taken aback by his defiance.

Walpole refused to yield.

He raised his sword with his remaining hand.

That hand shook uncontrollably.

Stefan spoke in a low, calm tone.

“Surrender.”

Walpole grinned.

“Never.”

Then he staggered forward.

“Uaaaaah!”

Whoosh!

The strike was wild and clumsy.

His blade wavered with every swing, the practiced precision of his swordsmanship utterly gone.

Losing one arm was that devastating—his balance ruined, his technique broken.

The only thing stranger would have been if his swordplay had stayed sharp.

“Graaaah!”

And yet, there was spirit in him.

Like a wounded beast still trying to sink its fangs into its foe.

It was desperate.

Watching him, I felt my chest grow hot.

Stefan, looking uneasy, dodged and blocked Walpole’s sloppy strikes until finally he drove a kick into his stomach.

Thud!

“Keugh!”

Walpole tumbled across the arena floor.

“Cough! Cough!”

Again Stefan spoke, his voice soft enough that only my extended Sense caught it.

“…Do not rise again.”

But Walpole, hacking up blood, used his sword as a crutch to push himself back to his feet.

—Ah…

A murmur of awe rippled from the stands.

Referee Aron approached.

“Will you yield?”

Walpole shook his head.

“…Then continue.”

Aron stepped back.

A solemn stillness settled over the arena.

The audience supported Walpole with silence alone.

I glanced to the side.

Count Stavanger was smiling as he watched.

But no—it wasn’t truly a smile.

From where I stood, the creases around his eyes looked crumpled like wadded paper, twisted into something eerie. Like a ghost wearing a grin.

I stared at that chilling glint of killing intent in his eyes, then turned back to the arena.

Walpole let out a long breath, raised his sword, and pointed it at Stefan.

“Come.”

“……”

Stefan studied him for a moment, then asked,

“You have no chance of victory. Why not surrender?”

Walpole smirked.

“Because I haven’t bitten off your balls yet.”

“…What?”

“Fighting… is spirit!”

He charged.

Clang-clang!

“Uaaaaah!”

He threw himself into it with all he had left.

But his aura was fading.

Aura required sharp, focused concentration, and Walpole was bleeding out, swinging wildly with one hand. It was a wonder he’d managed to maintain it at all.

Stefan parried, looking almost unsure what to do.

Then a shout came from the opposite side.

“Sir Stefan! What are you doing?!”

The First Prince’s voice.

Stefan bit his lip, then knocked Walpole’s sword aside.

Clang!

He pressed forward, blades locked, and whispered so only Walpole could hear,

“Surrender. If not, I will have no choice but to kill you.”

Walpole laughed.

“Then kill me. What are you hesitating for?”

“……”

“I am… a knight as well. I have my own chivalry.”

Stefan faltered.

And in that heartbeat—

Vwoom!

The faint, flickering aura on Walpole’s sword suddenly burst into a blazing brown light.

Like the final flare of a dying flame.

Thud!

He drove a kick straight into Stefan’s chest, the impact sending himself flying backward.

As he spun through the air, he hurled his sword.

“Hraaaaah!!”

The blade, engulfed in roaring brown aura, hurtled toward Stefan.

Whssshhh!

“What—!”

Startled, Stefan deflected it at the last moment, but the strike carried true weight.

The sword tore through the outside of his thigh before slamming into the ground.

Thud!

At the same time, Walpole crashed gracelessly onto the arena floor.

Thump!

Flat on his back, he muttered,

“Heh… Not your balls, but how’s that?”

From across the way came the First Prince’s furious voice.

“Stefan! What are you doing?!”

Stefan checked his wound, then tore a strip of cloth from his armor to bind his leg tightly.

Step by step, he approached Walpole and looked down at him.

“…Your name?”

Walpole grinned weakly.

“Walpole.”

“Sir Walpole. I will remember you.”

With a solemn expression, Stefan raised his sword and brought it down.

His blade, a streak of light, aimed for the neck of the fallen knight.

Clang!

Another streak of light intercepted it.

Count Stavanger had dashed in like a phantom, blocking Stefan’s strike.

The Count smiled that eerie, ghostlike smile of his.

“Sir Walpole. Well done.”

Walpole, his eyes glazed, looked up at his lord. His words came haltingly, as if the backlash of losing his arm had only just now hit him.

“M-my lord… forgive me… I failed… to fulfill… my duty…”

“Silence.”

The Count cut him off, then seized him by the scruff of the neck and, without even looking, hurled him backward.

Whoosh!

Walpole flew through the air at breakneck speed.

Lady Ashley leapt up gracefully, caught him as though he weighed nothing, and carried him swiftly off toward the waiting room.

The Black Prince immediately barked an order.

“Bring me the severed arm! It can be reattached!”

But because of the rules, no one could step onto the stage without forfeiting the Count’s match.

It was a stalemate.

Then, Aron, the referee, calmly stepped forward. He picked up Walpole’s severed arm and handed it to the Black Prince.

“Do you have a cleric on standby?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should still be able to save it.”

The Black Prince nodded firmly.

“Thank you.”

Aron, surprised by the gratitude, shook his head.

“It’s nothing.”

The Black Prince passed the arm to a Black Knight, who ran off at once toward the waiting room.

Watching this, Aron muttered under his breath,

“You have a fine knight under you.”

The Black Prince replied in a bitter tone.

“…More than I deserve.”

Only then did I realize I was still gripping my sword so tightly that my whole hand had gone white.

If the Count hadn’t stepped out, I would have.

[You held back well.]

I flexed my hand, clenching and releasing it, then gave a small nod.

My gaze swept over the crowd—bursts of gasps and murmurs—and finally lifted to the royal dais.

The king was smiling.

“Not bad.”

The king leaned lazily in his chair, stroking his chin with one hand.

“A rare knight indeed.”

The Knight of Frost glanced at the blind swordsman, who had just let go of his sword hilt.

“Yes.”

Below, the nobles were babbling noisily.

“Ha! How pathetically stubborn. He should have surrendered the moment his arm was cut.”

“He doesn’t even know his own limits? Tch, how foolish.”

“And what was Stefan thinking? To let his guard down and get injured—such incompetence.”

“Tsk tsk, so much for knights.”

At that, a younger noble seated opposite them spoke in a chill voice.

“Shut your mouths and watch.”

“What, what did you say?”

“What would swine who’ve never so much as drawn a blade know of such things?”

“Is he mad…?!”

Other nobles loyal to the Black Prince joined in.

“He lost, yes, but he is a knight worthy of respect.”

“You lot should watch your tongues.”

“Just because your mouth opens doesn’t mean you should let filth spill out of it. Haven’t you learned that yet? Tch.”

“You insolent—!”

The First Prince’s nobles went red with rage, but no one else paid them heed.

Across the arena, the First Prince himself glared at Stefan’s back with a sour expression.

“What is he doing? Didn’t I tell him not to grow complacent?”

He muttered to himself, full of dissatisfaction.

“He could have killed him instantly, yet he dragged it out like a fool and got himself injured. And in the end, he couldn’t even finish it properly.”

“……”

“Tch. The opening strike is the most important. He should have crushed his spirit right away.”

His knights, however, said nothing.

They were knights too. Having witnessed Walpole’s desperate struggle, none of them wished to tarnish it with harsh words.

Their silence was, in its own way, respect.

The First Prince clicked his tongue as he looked over them.

“Tch. Knights. Always that damned ‘honor.’”

“……”

But he pressed the matter no further.

Meanwhile, Van Dyke, arms folded, muttered quietly,

“That one… he may climb higher yet.”

Silent Victor gave a slight nod.

Rutie, intrigued, tilted her head toward him.

Van Dyke added in a low tone,

“He just broke through his limits.”

Rutie recalled the explosive surge of brown aura Walpole had unleashed in his final moment and gave a faint nod.

As the three Royal Knights pondered the young knight’s display, the First Prince’s sharp voice rang across the arena.

“Stefan! I will not tolerate another mistake!”

Aron raised his voice.

The two knights gave their answer by pointing their swords at each other.

Aron nodded.

The match began, but neither moved. They stood, watching each other.

Then Stefan asked,

“Why are you smiling?”

Hermann replied,

“An old habit. When I’m angry, I smile.”

“Is that so.”

“It is.”

“……”

“……”

“I won’t say I’m sorry. This was a duel fought with our lives at stake.”

Hermann shook his head.

“I expected no apology. I thank you, in fact. You treated me as an equal and fought me seriously, not as some green child.”

“Green child, you say. That’s an exaggeration.”

“From my perspective, you are still young. Lacking experience—especially in the battles of the mind.”

“You’re not wrong. But…”

Stefan paused, then said quietly,

“You are a fine knight.”

“That I am.”

Hermann’s smile deepened.

His eyes flicked to the cloth wrapped around Stefan’s thigh. Blood was seeping through.

“Is your wound bearable?”

“It is nothing worth your concern.”

Their gazes locked.

“Then, senior… teach me a lesson.”

“Very well. Let’s play.”

The two knights clashed.

(End of Chapter)

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