Translator: Nox

Chapter 23

Clang!

"Whoa!"

"Wheee-"

The sound of swords clashing was accompanied by a burst of loud cheers.

"Our Muriel isn't one to take lightly either..."

Her voice drowned out completely, Frida huffed and turned her head toward the Training Ground. Clang, clang, clang! Each time the swords collided, Frida's body twitched involuntarily. Not out of fear, but because the massive shockwaves emanating from every clash reached even her at a distance. Sensing the same energy, Dominic's mischievous expression soon turned serious. Muriel Rossivalt favored aggressive offense over defense. Watching her blade narrowly miss Daniel's shoulder, Dominic muttered lowly.

"As expected... perfect."

The five slashing motions derived from the four basic stances were straight out of a swordsmanship manual. The reputation of being the finest knight from the Rosivalt family was no empty rumor. Relentlessly targeting the opponent's weaknesses was impressive too. Aiming to utterly neutralize Daniel—who wasn't fully recovered—her attacks came one after another. The problem was that this exposed her own weaknesses just as clearly. Dominic smirked, knowing it would happen.

'Tsk tsk. Should've noticed when she kept losing to the Duchess. Cool-headed knight my ass.'

She pushed hard but always pulled back her blade at the end. Perhaps because it was sparring, not formal combat, or she assumed Daniel—still not fully recovered—would yield after that much.

'Fat chance.'

She must have heard endlessly from her family's men about what kind of man Duke Rihardt was, yet she was this complacent.

'This is why naturally kind people won't do.'

Watching the blade narrowly miss Daniel's armpit, Dominic shook his head.

"Ugh. Swinging that high, she'll poke an eye out!"

Unable to watch, Frida squeezed her eyes shut and hid behind Dominic's back, shouting. The blades that had clashed above Daniel and Muriel's heads grazed past each other perilously and fell.

'Right, there's one more here. A naturally kind person.'

Scared, yet wanting to watch. Dominic stared down at the white crown of her head, jutting out and receding in conflict. After three years, he ought to have a clear definition of what kind of person the Duchess was, but to Dominic, Frida remained a question mark. He knew the reason he couldn't put a period on it was himself—Dominic Molly—not Frida. His own prejudice insisting no such person could exist kept drawing question marks. Fine, no ambition. But living without greed? Was that possible? No, she had greed. Just not for herself—solely for others, even strangers.

"Imagine it, Dominic. Your children, their children living happily on the Utrecht lands we've cultivated. Doesn't your heart race?"

Not at all. Aside from the Duchess speaking those words shining just a tiny bit—very slightly—Dominic's heart had remained calm throughout. Just which part was supposed to make it race? Dominic's children? Their children? The very thought of offspring carrying his blood was horrifying. Just as Daniel loathed the bastard label, to Dominic it was being "the child abandoned by its mother." The woman who discarded her bloody infant because she hated her brutish mercenary husband, then waltzed into a noble's bedchamber on her own. Wearing expensive dresses bought with that brutish husband's war earnings, shamelessly powdering her pale face. While her husband went to the battlefield to feed them, she'd dumped their son—crying for his mother—into another woman's arms. Inheriting from such a venomous woman, he was told his heart was ice. Children for him? Hiding the disgust rising on his face, Dominic spoke up. He had to say something to endure it.

"Swords must clash from high stances to protect oneself. Low stances with low attacks leave you unable to attack or defend."

At that moment, Muriel caught the flat of the blade with her thumb and thrust upward powerfully from below. Dominic whistled "whew." Admiring murmurs rose from here and there. Clang, clang! The downslash and parry flashed like lightning. Muriel's strength gripping Koldar two-handed was astonishing. Combined with the sword's power, it could easily fell a tree trunk. Even Daniel—unrivaled in strength—had his feet sliding back on the dirt ground. Laughter erupted from those who bet on Muriel Rossivalt, the ones who predicted the knight's victory. Most gathered here had anyway.

"It'll end soon. The lord's strength is lacking for sure."

"Yeah. Holding out this long is impressive enough. Is Rosivalt some ordinary house?"

Hearing the whispers, Frida peeked out from behind Dominic.

"I-Is the Duke losing?"

Dominic nodded readily.

"For now, yeah."

Daniel knew well his sword couldn't withstand Koldar to the end. So he'd stake it all soon.

"But swordsmanship's goal isn't just matching strength—it's subduing and ultimately killing the opponent. Your husband knows and excels at that best in this empire."

"K-Killing? You mean the Duke will kill Muriel right now?"

Frida startled forward, but Dominic whistled sharply.

"Watch. Now."

Frida's eyes caught Muriel delivering a powered strike. Snap! Daniel's sword shattered cleanly.

"Waaah...!"

But the cheers died quickly. The crowd fell silent as if doused with cold water. Blood streamed from a thigh pierced by the broken sword half. And the one casually pressing a blade near Muriel's throat—both were Duke Daniel Rihardt.

"Choose, Lady Muriel Rossivalt. Surrender? Or shall I end your life here?"

*** It all happened in an instant. Despite countless witnesses, no one fully grasped what they'd seen.

"Hah, hah, whew..."

Each of Muriel's deep breaths made the blade tip at her jaw prick her skin. The Koldar she'd held moments ago was now in the Duke's hand, aimed at her throat. Her jumbled mind was chaos. Clearly, cracks had formed on the Duke's blade. That's why she'd used downward strikes deliberately. Duke Rihardt was famed for monstrous strength, fast precise swordplay, and unshakable calm amid fierce battles. The latter two seemed somewhat recovered, so she'd aimed to overpower with force. Even a monster like Duke Rihardt couldn't regain muscle in such short time—crush him with strength. His body and feet repeatedly pushed back confirmed her plan working. Modern swords couldn't withstand Koldar without the lost Damascus forging. Seeing cracks on the flat, she'd intensified downslashes. As expected, his sword snapped. But she hadn't anticipated the broken half embedding in his thigh. He could've dodged easily—why take it with his body? In that startled moment, Daniel deflected her attack with the remaining flat, slipped under her arm, twisted her wrist. With her weight shifted low and shocked by his wound, she lost grip as her arm bent, dropping Koldar. He caught it before it hit the ground. In a blink, the tables turned. Muriel couldn't believe the sequence until the blade touched her throat. But seeing the Duke's cool, unreadable reddish-brown eyes looking down, she realized. Even stabbed by his own sword fragment, his gaze was calm—as if he'd foreseen every step. He'd deliberately taken the blade in his thigh to create an opening.

'Insane. Even craving Koldar, throwing his body into a mere spar?'

She recalled her second brother's words when she'd once asked why Daniel Rihardt was invincible.

"Who knows. Maybe because you can't read him, no way to counter?"

Defeated. Accepting total loss, Muriel let the tension drain from her body.

"I surrender."

Thus their duel ended anticlimactically in a flash. As Dominic moved to wrap things up, white hair fluttered by.

"Anton."

Her voice calling the physician was remarkably calm and cold.

'Wait. C-Cold?'

Dominic halted mid-step. Then he watched Frida pass him, emanating an unfamiliar aura. Physician Anton hurried from the crowd at her call, and Frida issued orders.

"Anton. Tend to the Duke."

"Yes, ma'am. Oh! My lord!"

Anton clutched his neck seeing Daniel yank the blade from his thigh without waiting.

"First, extend your leg and sit. I'll apply medicine."

"No need. Wound's shallow—bandage it roughly so I can walk."

"No. Without ointment, the leg could rot."

Daniel grimaced irritably and strode to the Training Ground wall, leaning against it. Anton sighed deeply at the bloodied leg and chased after. Frida watched them leave briefly, then supported Muriel's still-dazed arm.

"You okay, Muriel?"

"Yes. I'm f—"

Muriel, staring at the sun nearing the ridge, snapped alert and grabbed Frida's arm.

"How can you stay out till now? Hurry inside. Sun will set soon."

"I know that much, don't worry. Come on, Muriel. Adel will make warm soup—it'll cheer you up."

"Fine, so get inside the inner castle. No—let me carry you. Sun might set midway."

As Muriel tried to scoop her up, Frida pulled her arm and led the way.

"No. You're drained. Just walk."

"Ah, miss. Fine, so let go of my arm and look straight ahead."

Thickening dusk dyed the sky before nightfall. Anton, having applied ointment and bound Daniel's thigh roughly, looked up at the reddening sky.

"Done. Emergency treatment's finished—I'll visit your room soon."

Daniel, not sparing him a glance while watching Frida vanish helping her guard knight, replied indifferently.

"Do that."

Frida tugging Muriel Rossivalt's arm—twice his forearm's girth—irritatingly nagged at him, twisting his eyes. *** Irritating. Midway down the stairs, Daniel stopped and squinted at his wife's retreating back heading down the hall to the door. Third day now. Since the duel ended, Frida hadn't spoken to him. Not just that—even brushing past like now, she'd avert her gaze. Today too. Their eyes met clearly enough to show her displeasure plainly. Yet she flipped on that cumbersome sunhat without acknowledgment—beyond doubt.

"Definitely... angry."

"Isn't she?"

Dominic, following, nodded slowly while eyeing Frida too.

"Must be mad at me over the last duel."

Daniel snorted and stepped down.

"Not you. Me."