Silence followed... then the two knights clashed.

Aura brightly colored each of their swords.

Clang!

"Woooooah!"

The crowd roared with excitement.

Among the cheers, many voices could be heard supporting the Count.

From what I could gather, some had started cheering for the Black Prince's side after witnessing Sir Walpole's desperate struggle in the previous fight.

Others seemed to have known Count Stavanger from before.

There were also mixed cheers supporting him as the head of the house where the Golden Flash, the captain of the Stavanger Knights, resided.

I listened to the crowd for a moment before turning my attention to the platform where the battle was in full swing.

The Count, true to his moniker "Ghostly Hermann," was unleashing bold and wild sword strikes as if possessed by a ghost.

Stefan, on the other hand, was fighting defensively, focusing on dodging or blocking the Count's sword.

He appeared even more cautious than when he had faced Walpole.

"...."

I watched them for a bit, then looked over at Lady Ashley, who had just come out of the waiting room.

"How is he?"

Ashley answered with a short breath. It was an exhale that seemed like a sigh of relief.

"He's safe."

"His arm?"

"They reattached it."

"Hmm."

"He won't be able to move it for now, but they say with consistent treatment and rehabilitation, he'll be able to move it like before."

I nodded.

"That's a relief."

"Yes, it is."

I remembered the sight of the brown aura flaring up as if it were exploding.

How could a dying candle flame suddenly burst into such a blaze?

Was it because of the Mana Breathing Technique?

Or was it simply that he broke through some internal wall, unleashing the potential that lay dormant within him?

It was impossible to know.

With those thoughts, I turned my gaze back to the platform.

The two knights were clashing swords.

The Count was on the offensive, swinging his sword in wide, sweeping motions that left him wide open.

Stefan seemed wary that these openings were traps. Naturally, he had no choice but to focus on defense.

The Count's aggressive demeanor was quite unfamiliar to me.

Seeing the man who had always seemed so benevolent now smiling so menacingly and swinging his sword as if he didn't care about death...

I could somewhat understand why people said he seemed possessed.

Add to that the eerie, blue sword ki, and it truly looked as if a ghost inhabiting the Count's body was wielding the sword.

The seemingly tense fight finally broke its balance when Stefan thrust his sword toward one of the Count's openings.

The cautious Stefan had calmly blocked and deflected the Count's attacks until he finally stabbed at his shoulder.

The Count's attacks had been growing larger in motion, and the openings wider. It seemed Stefan had calculated that even if it was a trap, the risk was worth it.

Honestly, even I would have found it hard to resist and would have thrust my sword. Of course, I wouldn't have waited that long and would have struck much earlier.

In any case, Stefan's decisive thrust met no resistance and pierced the Count's shoulder.

But the Count didn't panic.

No, it was as if he had been waiting for that very moment. Without hesitation, he kicked out, stomping hard on Stefan's thigh.

It was the same spot where Walpole's thrown sword had injured him.

"Keuk!"

Stefan's posture crumbled.

However, Stefan did not give up. He retrieved his sword and swung it with all his might, as if to push the Count away.

The Count met the blow head-on.

The demonic blue sword ki wrapped around his blade intensified for a moment, then forcefully struck Stefan's sword away.

Claaaang!

With that, the match was decided.

Stefan's sword flew through the air and landed some distance away.

The Count, blood dripping from his shoulder, placed his sword at Stefan's neck.

"Surrender. There won't be a second chance. I'm not as kind-hearted as you."

Stefan smiled bitterly and raised both hands.

"...I surrender."

Aron shouted.

"Waaaaaah!"

The audience, which had been holding its breath, erupted in cheers all at once.

"...."

I looked at the Count, who had achieved victory without inflicting any further injuries on Stefan.

A victor with a serious wound, and a loser with no significant injuries.

...What was this irony?

It seemed this had been his plan from the beginning.

He had boldly discarded any desire to win against Stefan without injury, willingly giving up a shoulder to seize victory.

A classic, daring strategy of giving up flesh to take the bone. A very dangerous method where a single misstep could cost him his own flesh and bone.

The Count... was he always this bold when he fought?

The Heavenly Demon explained.

[This is a strategy only possible for one who can view himself with complete objectivity.]

"Hmm."

[Of course, it also requires the insight to accurately gauge the opponent's skill. One must be able to objectively calculate the skill gap between oneself and the opponent, and then choose a method to close that gap... He is quite the veteran.]

Being stronger than your opponent doesn't guarantee victory.

Listening to the Heavenly Demon, it was a calculated boldness.

Come to think of it, all the openings he had shown seemed to be around his shoulder.

As a former Royal Knight, his pride must have been immense. It was impressive that he had humbly acknowledged his own shortcomings and chosen such a strategy.

Clap, clap, clap...

I applauded the Count with a sincere heart.

'Count. Please accept my respect.'

I found myself naturally wondering what he was like during his days as a Royal Knight.

Beside me, Lady Ashley followed my lead and clapped for the great head of the Stavanger family.

However, the victor's condition did not look good.

Look at all that blood pouring from his shoulder.

Stefan's sword ki was also incredibly sharp.

Despite having his shoulder pierced by such a sword, the Count stood tall on the stage.

As if there was no problem at all.

The Heavenly Demon spoke.

[Hmm. He doesn't seem the type to just step down like this. What do you think?]

"...You're right."

"Pardon?"

"Not you, Lady Ashley."

"Ah, yes."

Since the topic came up, I asked Lady Ashley.

"Do you think the Count will step down?"

"...."

"This time I'm asking you."

"Ah, me? What did you say?"

"I asked if you think our brave and valiant Count, despite not being in a state to fight properly, will forfeit the match and step down."

"Uh... I'm not sure."

Lady Ashley tilted his head, looking at the Count, then spoke with a tone of conviction.

"He has a look of firm resolve on his face. I don't think he will step down."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. The family head is usually gentle, but he has a stubborn streak where he pushes through with what he's decided. It seems like this is one of those times."

"I see."

He had sacrificed a shoulder to grasp victory even when he was in perfect condition.

I feared what he might give up in the next match, now in a much more disadvantageous state.

If he continues to fight like this...

In the worst-case scenario, might he not offer up his own life?

"Prince. Sir Fluffy. Come here."

I immediately summoned the Black Prince and Sir Fluffy.

***

Under the pouring cheers and applause, the two knights conversed calmly.

The Count, his usual benevolent face returned, extended a hand to the fallen Stefan.

"You fought well. You're more skilled than the rumors suggested."

Stefan looked at the outstretched hand, let out a small laugh, and took it to pull himself up.

"...I thought you were a toothless old tiger. Turns out you're a seasoned tiger who's been through it all. I've learned a great deal."

"You flatter me."

"Well then."

After a brief exchange, Stefan picked up his fallen sword and limped off the stage.

He stood before the waiting First Prince.

The First Prince looked at him with a stiff expression.

"Sir Stefan."

Stefan bowed his head.

"...I have no excuse."

The First Prince watched him for a moment before speaking.

"No. It's enough that you even took down Count Hermann. I thought he had given up the sword completely, but it seems that wasn't the case."

Muttering as if to himself, the First Prince patted Stefan's shoulder.

"There's nothing more pathetic than dwelling on what's already passed. Sir Stefan."

"Yes."

"You fought well enough. Go and get treated."

"...Yes."

.

.

.

The Count, left alone on the stage, dispersed the aura shimmering on his sword and sheathed it.

Then, he stared blankly at the sword stuck diagonally in the ground some distance away.

It was the mark left by Walpole's final, desperate throw.

The Count walked steadily toward the sword, then suddenly staggered, catching Walpole's sword as if he were falling forward.

Blood dripped from the shoulder pierced by Stefan's sword.

"Hoo..."

The Count let out a weary sigh.

"I suppose you can't beat time."

He knew there was no point in saying "if it were like the old days," but he couldn't help feeling a sense of regret.

Was this the cruelty of time? His body wasn't what it used to be.

"...It's exhausting trying to fight a talented young knight."

The Count caught his breath for a moment, holding onto the sword, then used it as a cane to push himself up before pulling Walpole's sword from the ground.

Aron approached him.

"You've worked hard, senior."

The Count looked at him with a profound gaze.

"Aron Hobas... was it?"

"Yes. I haven't been in the order for long."

The Count looked him over anew.

"Impressive for one so young."

Aron smiled.

"There are seniors who joined at a much younger age than me, you know."

"...That's true."

The Count looked toward the First Prince's side.

There, a knight of a particularly small build was watching him, helmet on.

When their eyes met, she gave a slight nod.

The Count smiled gently and nodded back.

A thought occurred to him.

'There are so many outstanding knights.'

One moment, a young prodigy joins the Royal Knights in his twenties, the youngest ever.

The next, a foolish oaf fights to the death in a battle he's sure to lose.

Then, a monster appears who defeats that Frost Knight with ease.

A new era was dawning. Brighter than ever before.

"...."

The fact that he was now too old to stand shoulder to shoulder with them struck him with a sudden sadness.

Seeing that he no longer felt a competitive spirit, the Count let out a hollow laugh.

"...I've gotten old, too."

There was a time when his heart burned as he clashed swords with the strong...

Regret clouded his face.

But he quickly shook his head, brushing the thought away.

His era had already set.

To not admit that would be the foolishness of an old man.

All he could do now was to pave the way for them.

"Senior." Aron asked, "Will you continue the match?"

The Count nodded without hesitation.

Even with an injured body, he could not step down now.

Already, in the distance, the next opposing knight was walking out.

His eyes were sharp; this one would not be an easy opponent either.

'Even if I can't win, I have to at least land a wound... to save face.'

The face of Walpole, who had volunteered for this mission, came to mind.

When the Count had told him to rest since he had just returned from a mission, he had replied with a determined face.

'I truly wish to participate.'

His eyes, as he said it, were clearly shining.

The metaphor was a bit strange, but his eyes shone just like the seed of a tree.

This was a man who would normally be relaxing with his comrades, drinking beer and boasting about his exploits on the mission.

What was the reason for his sudden motivation, to the point of refusing rest?

The Count could guess the reason without much difficulty.

Walpole's expression as he looked at the back of a man of similar age.

Shock. Fear. Awe. Reflection. Regret. Respect. Realization. Competitiveness.

He had seen countless emotions flash by in an instant.

He is breaking out of his shell, trying to be reborn.

He is trying to fly, even as he breaks and shatters.

Perhaps the one who will be the protagonist of the new era is writhing, pulsating with all his might.

It is the moment a great knight is about to be born.

If so, what he had to do was clear.

To prepare the ground for him.

If he loses here, that ground will be engulfed in flames.

The Count closed his eyes.

"Hoo..."

He took a long breath, calmed his breathing, and focused his mind.

He decided to forget the pain in his shoulder.

There was something more important.

Flash.

When the Count opened his eyes again, a demonic smile hung on his face.

Aron spoke to him.

"Senior. Please step down from the stage."

The Count looked at him.

"Did I not say I would continue?"

"You did."

"Then?"

Aron looked behind the Count and said.

"According to the rules, I have no choice."

When the Count turned around, a man with red eyes was already on the stage.

(End of Chapter)

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